Son of the Morning (39 page)

Philip put his hand to his brow to shield his eyes as he gazed to the distance. There on the horizon, beyond the brooding copses, shone something like a sun. The English angel. It sat above a wide area of smoking land. The English were excellent wreckers and they burned everything for roughly fifteen miles around anywhere their army marched. The people were suffering terribly.

No matter Edward had bought the damn thing from the Holy Roman Empire – it was still there. Could he win the battle? Yes. The angel wouldn’t strike against the appointed king of France. Would it?

‘What of the angel?’ said Philip.

‘No need to worry about that, majesty.’ The Constable was at his sleeve.

‘No, Eu?’

‘No, lord. We harried the English this morning. It just turns in the air, all eyes and fire, no action. It won’t attack France. Our angels may not be convinced out of their shrines, but I feel sure it’s because they think we can win this on our own.’

‘Really?’

The chase had been on for over a year now, Edward stamping about the countryside looting and burning, Philip drawing up plans, redrawing plans, summoning armies, dismissing them. Nothing had gone quite right. The Genoese mercenaries, for instance. Some talk had broken out in Genoa, some strange sect on the rise, worshippers of Lucifer. The ruling families had been overthrown and now the availability of mercenaries had declined sharply, in the short term at least. Who could have predicted that?

All this gave him the distinct and sharp feeling that God was not with him. He wanted to see some angels before he would feel safe, but none would come. They talked, they spun in the air but something had rattled them. An Antichrist. Was it Edward? The angel had said the boy Charles would never be king, so it couldn’t be him.

‘Give me reports of the enemy.’

‘Dug in, sir, archers deployed behind stakes, men-at-arms dismounted and ready to fight. We outnumber them four to one, though. I’d be confident of winning.’

‘How’s his finances?’

‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with it, sir.’

‘No, you don’t, do you, Eu? Flambard?’

A noble stepped forward, his surcoat displaying a prancing white horse on a blue background.

Philip turned to him. ‘What are our spies saying about Edward’s readiness to face us?’

‘The new baby is not dressed in the finest of clothes, sir, and his wife keeps fewer ladies around her in her latest pregnancy. The crown and jewels are pawned and Edward is feeding his allies from his own supplies.’ Philip made Flambard report the situation so that Eu might be reminded of a few realities.

‘He has Germans with him, Flemish weavers, the Duke of Brabant, Nevers and a few others. Tell me, Constable, why did William of Hainault come begging to us this year, having deserted the English pirates?’

‘Lack of pay, largely sir. And because he is a treacherous dog.’

‘Indeed. All men are treacherous dogs if you don’t pay them. Dig in.’

‘What sir? Look at our array of knights. We have ten thousand mounted. We don’t need to dig in.’

Philip rarely got angry but he did now. ‘Dig in,’ he said. ‘And let’s see if he can afford to fight in France. He’ll never dare to attack so many men in a well-fortified position. His only hope is that I charge into the trap he’s set – which I won’t. My bet is that Edward’ll up sticks and be scuttling back to the Low Countries before the first frost.’

‘Sir, men have mustered from all over France. How will I explain this to them?’

‘Pay them,’ said Philip. ‘I find that’s usually explanation enough. When Edward can raise a force to make our angels stir, then we’ll fight him. Until then, if God cannot be bothered to face him, neither can I.’

The nobles muttered, a few cursed, but they dispersed to organise digging the defensive works.

Philip went to bed. The next day he sat in a chair watching the English angel again. Just before dusk it reddened like the sun. Then it too dipped below the horizon. He heard the anguish of the English as a murmur on the breeze.

Eu came striding up. ‘The spies report the Flemings have gone home on report of your refusal to give battle, for want of pay. The Germans and Hainault too. The angel is quite a lowly one. Our churchmen are sure it won’t move against an army led by a king on his own land, well, not until the English have bled enough into the soil to make its intervention useless. He is alone in the field, sir. If we attack now, England will have a new king by tomorrow. Edward will be dead.’

‘And why would I want that, when this one proves so inadequate? Why would I want to relieve Edward of his debts to man and God?’ said Philip. ‘We’ll sit here for a few days to make sure he doesn’t attack us in retreat, and then disperse when he’s gone. Try the local cider; it’s wonderful. We should rejoice that
we
can afford to buy it. Edward can’t.’

‘It’s no sort of victory I recognise, sir.’

‘Well,’ said Philip, ‘I suggest you learn to, for you’ll be seeing a lot of it in the future. Edward is writhing and in agony. I’m not going to put him out of his misery.’

The Constable bowed and Philip drained his cup. When he put it down, he had a large smile on his face. The English king, he thought, would head back to Antwerp, bankrupt – owing his enemies thousands. He wondered if his creditors would let him go home. In the meantime, Philip would work out a way to engage his own angels and take the Oriflamme that would lead them. Then Edward’s current sufferings would be as the bite of a fly compared to a swarm of locusts, or some such Biblical analogy.

‘More cider,’ he said. ‘More cider!’

11

‘Can you read?’

Despenser had his back to the pardoner, very much tempting Osbert to make rude signs. However, he didn’t want to risk the lord turning round and catching him. Any man who could have his head cut off and restitched with twine was obviously a tough sort.

‘Yes, I was educated at …’

Despenser turned on his heel. ‘Concentrate on answering the questions you’re asked and no more.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How did you manage to get down here?’

‘I was trapped in a magic circle by a devil who looked like a cardinal. And then a boy cast a spell and suddenly I was here.’

‘Nergal,’ said Despenser to Pole. Pole lowered his head, half nod, half bow, as if awed by Despenser’s deep sagacity. The merchant was afraid of the noble, then.

‘What’s Nergal?’

‘He’s a devil Satan sent to do his work,’ said Pole. ‘We’d like to send some of our own.’

‘You get to command devils?’

‘I’m a great lord. Do you think my God-given rights cease when I get to Hell?’

‘Yes, I’d sort of counted on it. I’d hoped you’d burn. Like a bunch of right bastards,’ Osbert didn’t say.

‘I suffer the most of anyone here,’ said Despenser, ‘so close to base men for so long. My food is poor, my clothes no more than a successful merchant would wear. I lack the means to impose my will. When I lived I could send a thousand men to death with a wave of my hand. But, when I arrived here, they were all waiting for me.’

‘They attacked you?’

‘No, they ran away. You give a dog the right kind of beating and it never comes crawling back to your table. So the boy who opened the gate, who was he?’

‘Dowzabel. Not a lot of laughs, that one.’

Despenser and Pole nodded.

‘The abhorred of God,’ said Despenser. ‘The Antichrist.’

‘I don’t like him much but I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Osbert.

‘He’s the only one who can open the big gates. God doesn’t move against him for some reason,’ said Pole.

‘Then how did your Nergal get to leave Hell?’

‘Dowzabel can open the gate to demons and the souls of the damned!’ said Despenser. ‘Devils can get through at postern gates if they have the right passes. Not that the passes are easy to come by, God having set us each in his realm, nor is there a great rush to take them. Angels dislike the presence of devils.’

‘Though you’re on the same side.’

‘Nobles dislike the presence of low men, though they often fight together.’

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘Your help,’ said Pole.

Despenser took on an expression of lofty disgust. ‘Don’t say such things, Pole! My God, you merchants! That a man like me must suffer your company. Base man, you—’ he pointed at Osbert. ‘We demand your service.’

Osbert nodded. ‘Good. How much do you demand it? In terms of pay? Because, my lord, it doesn’t look to me like you’re in much of a position to be demanding anything.’ Osbert regretted speaking so freely the moment the words were out of his mouth.

Despenser smiled. Then he walked up to Osbert and struck him hard across the face with his riding whip. Osbert cried out, putting his right hand up to the cut as Despenser hit him again in the same place, this time lacerating his hand. Osbert put his left hand up to cover the right and Despenser hit him a third time.

‘Lord Despenser, we need this man!’

‘Don’t talk to me of practicalities when I’m faced with open contempt! I’d rather lose everything we’re struggling towards than tolerate this beggar’s sneers!’ shouted Despenser. He drove his boot hard into Osbert’s groin. The pardoner fell forward and hit the floor like a sack of sand.

Now Despenser kicked Osbert hard in the head and the pardoner raised his hands to shield his face.

‘Sir, sir!’ cried Pole. ‘I’m all for whippings, sir, but leave him alive! We need him to go back to do our work. Our future prosperity depends on it!’

‘Prosperity, Pole? We’re talking about honour here!’ He kicked Osbert again. ‘If I kill him do you think he’ll reappear here so I can kill him again?’

‘Sir, sir, he is our way to greater preferment!’

Despenser paused, his boot hovering in mid-air. He placed it down on the floor again and said, quite calmly, ‘Discuss terms with him, Pole. I don’t do trade.’

‘I can offer you £10,’ said Pole, ‘or rather, tell you where to go to get it. And if you do as we ask, you’ll get remission from Hell – which means you won’t have to spend eternity with Lord Despenser here explaining the error of your ways to you.’

The pardoner looked out from behind his bleeding and bruised fingers. ‘Would it be presumptuous to ask what service you demand?’ he said.

‘You see, Pole,’ said Despenser, ‘politeness itself, when properly chastised.’

‘We want you to kill the boy Dowzabel,’ said Pole.

‘Well, that should be straightforward.’ Osbert wasn’t sure he wanted to kill anyone, but his hands were agony and he didn’t want to antagonise Despenser further. That said, Despenser was one of those men, if you’d call him one, who was born antagonised, it seemed to Osbert. Murder wasn’t the pardoner’s line; he hadn’t the stomach to do it in hot blood, nor the spite to do it coldly. He, of course, knew men who were useful in that way, but he preferred to steer clear of them. Mind you, if anyone deserved to die it was that idiot priest and his morose little sidekick.

‘Not straightforward, lout!’ said Despenser, finding a little of his temper again, ‘because if it were he’d already be dead!’

‘Right.’

‘A direct attempt on his life by mortals won’t work. We’re fairly sure of that. He has some powerful protection now. May always have had it.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. To be honest I’m not much of a killer. Can I ask why you don’t come out yourself and kill him?’

‘I am an angel sent to the realm of men, made flesh to steer the hand of a king,’ said Despenser, ‘And then I fell again. I would need a bodily form on earth to inhabit and no mortal flesh could hold my soul.’ He looked almost proud.

‘We want you to conspire with devils to lead them to him and then help them rip him to bits,’ said Pole.

‘Right. Er. Very well …’

‘Satan has made this boy his particular focus and instructed the dukes of Hell to do their best to kill him,’ said Pole. ‘We would like to please the Lord of Hell by eliminating the boy ourselves.’

‘If Satan can only get one devil to earth, how can
you
get more there?’

‘Satan gets many devils to earth but he likes to see them compete. He believes it’s more efficient than having them co-operate. Also I know more of the earth and, let us say, think more strategically. I’m afraid Satan’s reputation for cunning has been lamentably oversold,’ said Pole. ‘He relies on dead men like me and the lord here too …’

‘How dare you?’ Despenser lifted his whip and Pole put his hand up to shield himself. The blow never came.

‘He relies on lords such as Hugh Despenser to do his planning for him. While more humble knights like myself are left to the details.’

‘Better,’ said Hugh. ‘If you ever couple your name with mine in the same sentence again, you’ll feel the taste of my whip,’ said Despenser, ‘and don’t think I didn’t notice that you put yourself first, either.’

‘Sir.’ Pole looked to his boots.

The pardoner rose warily to his feet. ‘So what do I do?’

‘One way to have the boy killed would be to put him in front of an angel. But that is no guarantee of success and even may be one of failure.’

‘How so?’

‘It’s not entirely clear what God wants to do with him.’

‘If he’s the Antichrist, surely he wants him dead.’

‘So why isn’t he dead? Do you know your Bible?’

‘Those bits that profit me.’

‘Well, you’d know that anyone who crosses God has a rather limited life expectancy. Remember Noah?’

‘Something about an ark,’ said Osbert.

‘Don’t be sarcastic with me, you churl. Everyone but Noah displeased God. So God killed everyone. Consider Sodom. If God will blow your city to smithereens for having your squire toss you off so you can fit into your trousers in the morning, what do you think he would do to the Antichrist?’

This was too much for Osbert to take in. The fumes were getting to his head. ‘Kill him?’

‘What a wondrous philosopher you are. Indeed. And he’s not dead. So …’

‘So?’ Osbert had that feeling that had overcome him during geometry at Oxford, as if his head had been replaced by an enormous cheese.

‘God must have some reason for keeping him alive. Therefore God does not want him dead, therefore angels may not want him dead, therefore he might stay alive in front of an angel. Might.’