Son of the Morning (51 page)

Joan hugged her boy. She was pleased to see her son safe – even though she’d known he’d gone at the centre of the world’s biggest army under the best generals imaginable, not the idiot John, but Mile de Noyers and the Counts of Alençon and Foix.

‘Philip is gone,’ she said.

‘I know. We met him on their way to join John. The men say the angel has gone to Sluys. Will our plan work if it’s not here?’

‘I don’t know. Nergal seems to think it will come to the chapel if the woman is presented there. Did you bring the woman?’

‘Then it will come to the chapel, mother. I am blessed. Please, there is someone I should like you to meet.’

He took his mother down the line of men to a gilded carriage painted in the green and white striped arms of the city of Escaudoeuvres.

‘The plunder of war, mother!’ said Charles.

‘I hope you haven’t brought me all the way down this street to view a merchant’s coach, Charles.’

‘No, mother, I have not. This coach is comfortable, but I do not think it worthy of a queen’s attention. What is behind it is what might please you. May I draw your attention to that cart?’

At the rear of the carriage, drawn by two good strong horses was a cart full of packed tents. On top of them sat a collection of disreputable-looking individuals – a strange dark boy, a fighting man, a gaudy merchant and another figure with its back to the queen, cloaked and hooded in blue.

‘Can fine things come in such poor packages?’

‘Oh, they can. Princes enter the world in blood and to the sounds of shrieks. So beautiful gems may be set in a base foil. Sariel!’

The figure in the cloak turned to face her. Sariel. She was the most beautiful woman Joan had ever seen. She was dark and pale and, when she threw back her hood, her uncovered hair shone like a black pard’s back in the morning sun.

‘She is bold to appear so licentiously before us,’ said Joan.

‘Oh, mama,’ said Charles, ‘don’t let’s talk so. We are royalty, not country prigs. Meet her. She is just the lady for our task; Bardi has delivered as Nergal said he would.’

Joan felt her heart skip. She had become used to the presence of the cardinal, as she called Charles’ devil and, in truth, was a little contemptuous of him. He was a violent and scheming creature but he lacked subtlety of thought or refinement of manners. He smelled vile and he was ugly – ugly as had been the cardinal she had given him so that he might take his face, but with a crudity to his features the cardinal had lacked. Villeins looked like that in those little villages where cousin married cousin for generation upon generation. Low, lumpen.

The woman, though, was beautiful and, as a beautiful daughter of a beautiful family, Joan could not but equate that with virtue.

‘We have Montagu,’ said Joan. ‘Have you heard?’ She spoke to her son but her eyes were on the lady.

‘Philip’s men said so. We ran into him on his way to join Prince John. I didn’t speak to the dry old stick himself.’ He drew his mother close. ‘With old lofty out of the way we could just let Montagu go. He’s a fair killer, so they say and could cause our Valois cousins a bit of bother. Errrgghh!’ He mimed sticking someone with a sword.

‘Let’s move more carefully,’ said Joan. ‘We may yet find some other use for the good earl.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like being blamed if an angel goes missing?’ she whispered.

‘Very good,’ said Charles. ‘These are Englishmen I have in tow here. Well, one Florentine besides and, the lady. Curious isn’t she?’

‘Very – so let’s get her out of sight before she excites comment. Couldn’t you have put her in the carriage to keep her from men’s gaze?’

‘She wouldn’t go, mama. She needs to be in the light; that’s very important to her,’ said Charles in a way that seemed to indicate he was becoming an authority on fallen angels.

Joan clicked her fingers and Chevalier D’Evreux came forward to take the lady’s hand and help her down from the cart.

‘You are very welcome, lady,’ said Queen Joan. ‘We have prepared a room for you and we would very much like you to take mass with us this evening. The light in the Haute Chapelle is wonderful then.’

‘I would like that very much,’ said Sariel. ‘There is beauty here, so much beauty. I would like to see the great cathedral too. Does it have an angel?’

‘Notre Dame does not, at the moment, lady, but it seems certain one will come to inhabit it when the works are completed.’

Sariel gazed around her in wonder at the bright summer street, the crowds and the colour.

‘An angel must want to live there.’

‘Sainte-Chapelle is where ours dwells,’ said Joan.

‘Is absolution there?’ said Sariel.

‘I very much expect so, my dear.’

Evreux, who held the lady’s hand, seemed enchanted by her. ‘To the chapel, without delay,’ said Joan.

The fighting man jumped down beside the lady and the chevalier’s hand went to his sword.

‘I have guarded the lady from London,’ said the fighting man, ‘I see no reason to stop now.’

‘Your service is noted, soldier,’ said Charles, ‘and you are dismissed.’

The fighting man stood uncertainly before the lady. Joan knew enough of fighting men to realise this might end badly. The soldier’s hand was not on his sword but it rested next to it, on the buckle of his belt, his fingers drumming and one foot was behind the other – a fighting stance if ever she saw one. The queen didn’t want some suicidal lovestruck mercenary hacking into her men. He could be removed later.

Joan put up her hand. She remembered Bardi had mentioned this man and praised his usefulness – even hinted he might be on a mission that would help their cause.

‘Son,’ said Joan, ‘let the lady have her servants. It is only meet. As I have the Seigneurs, she has this fellow to look out for her.’

‘You are Queen Joan?’ said the mercenary.

‘I am.’

He took a letter from his tunic and passed it to her. A lady-in-waiting came to take it, showing it to Joan. It bore Bardi’s seal.

Joan nodded, hardly acknowledging it. ‘Proceed,’ she said.

‘Very well,’ said Charles and the lady was led away, the dark figure of the mercenary behind her.

The merchant, the low fellow was waving to her. She ignored him but he got down from the cart. For an unpleasant moment, Joan found herself unattended by nobles, only three men-at-arms with her.

‘Queen Joan,’ said the pardoner, in appalling French, ‘I message to give you.’

‘Soldiers!’ called her guard.

‘From Hell,’ said the pardoner, ‘I must to meet cardinal – man fire breathes, is your friend.’

‘In the name of God, not in the street, man. Men of Navarre, commit this fool to Le Châtelet immediately.’

‘Madam!’

‘And if he won’t be silent, take out his tongue!’

The pardoner had enough French to understand that and immediately went quiet as he was marched away by two of the men-at-arms.

‘Bring the English boy,’ said Joan to the remaining man. ‘I would speak with him. And use my son’s guard to seal off the entrance to the palace. I want no one on this road or approaching for the rest of the afternoon.’

Perhaps the youth could work out a way to bring the angel to the chapel, thought Joan. And besides, she was interested to meet him. It’s not every day, she thought, that you get to face the Antichrist.

14

Montagu kissed Isabella’s letter before he went to sleep. Improper and wrong, but he could not stop himself. He wanted it with him in the bed but Joan was right, he needed to take better care of it. But if he left it next to the bed and they came for him suddenly, he would be parted from it. Should an opportunity to escape arise he would be forced to leave Paris without it.

In the end he pushed it inside one of his boots – they might hang him like a criminal but they wouldn’t send him to the gallows without his boots – and decent clothes. That would be a barbarity too far.

Sleep didn’t come easily, though he was very tired – in his mind as much as his body. The night sounds only gradually soothed him – the hour bells and the distant prayers of monks, the guards hailing each other with every change of sentry, even some shouted insults from far off telling him he would be dead by the morning. The people of Paris knew he was in Le Châtelet and some thought it proper to pour their scorn on him. Good. If the French hated him he was doing something right.

His mind drifted and he thought he had fallen to dreaming. The cell was full of smoke, it seemed. He lay on his bed, unable to command his limbs, to make himself get up and see where it was coming from.

Shouts came from further up the corridor.

‘William! William!’

It was Suffolk, shaking him awake.

‘What?’

‘Wake up, I think the place is on fire!’

Montagu got out of bed and immediately removed the letter from his boot. He put on his tunic and carefully placed it inside, pulling it tight about him.

‘Which way’s England?’ The voice was a low rumble, an animal growl that set his bones trembling.

I want to live. Dying in a prison fire is not a noble death.
Montagu put the coward thought out of his mind. The smoke was coalescing and condensing, plaiting almost, funnelling in to one point, taking shape as something like a man.

‘In the name of God!’ said Suffolk, crossing himself again and again.

‘Yes, in the name of God and of Satan who does his good works,’ said the voice. A wind sprang up in the cell, cold and strong. Montagu couldn’t tell where it was coming from – it seemed to swirl and twist. As the smoke cleared he saw the shape more clearly – a huge lion, ash-black with a stiff mane of metal spikes, standing on its hind legs. It was dressed quite splendidly in fashionable, tight clinging hose and a black silk doublet picked out in stars of silver thread. In its hand it carried a great axe of the sort Montagu associated with the Scots. Like him, it bore an eye patch on its right eye and its fur steamed like something newly cast. The creature watched as the paw on its left hand formed from the smoke, great talons taking shape. Montagu almost had to applaud. He saw it perfectly – Philip or that witch of a wife of his had called up this fiend to kill him. Then his mauled corpse would be displayed, the locked door examined and it declared that Montagu had tried to escape as Mortimer before him had escaped – by summoning a devil – but instead he had been devoured. That way Montagu suffered an ignoble death and Philip didn’t have to explain to his own nobles why he was endangering their lives by slaughtering one of the most powerful lords of England. Edward would want no revenge for a sorcerer, close friend and ally or not.

He saw all this in the space of a breath. Then he looked around for something to fight the creature with. The cell afforded nothing of use. He picked up the penknife and then threw it down again – the blade was no bigger than his thumbnail, good only for sharpening a quill. He laughed ruefully: if he’d had his sword and his shield he would have delighted to have fought this creature – it wasn’t quite St George’s dragon but it wasn’t far off. They’d make him a saint. He made a fist.
Here goes!

‘Don’t just stand there like you’ve been slapped – which way’s England?’ said the lion. It sniffed the air. ‘There are others here, for sure. I heard them scratching; that’s how I found the gate. Have you summoned them?’

Suffolk was on his knees.

‘We’ve summoned nothing!’ said Montagu. ‘You are an abomination, abhorred of God!’ Montagu took a pace back. His entire upbringing taught him to shout defiance in the fiend’s face but inside he trembled like a greyhound in the rain.

‘God likes me well enough,’ said the lion. ‘Now – for the last time – which way is England?’

Montagu’s thoughts cleared enough for him to realise the creature wasn’t about to attack him. ‘Through that door, for certain,’ said Montagu.

‘What’s going on?’ The gaoler’s voice was at the door. ‘Stop this commotion or me and a few of my boys will come in and stop it!’

‘You base dog!’ said Montagu. ‘Bring thirty of your men and I’ll chastise them with my bare fists!’ The unexpected presence of a devil in his cell was not enough to make Montagu stand for insults from the lower sort.

‘Right, I will!’

‘Through that door?’ said the lion.

‘Yes.’

It threw back its head, sucking in a huge gulp of air with a noise like the wind in a chimney and then snapped its head forward and roared hard at the door. The wood splintered as if hit by a battering ram, and low down a great hole appeared in it. The other side, Montagu saw the flash of a gaoler’s heel as he made a run for it.

‘North?’ said the lion.

‘Yes.’

‘Have no fear, Lord Montagu,’ said the lion, ‘great forces are coming to England’s aid. You have friends in Hell!’

It ducked through the shattered door into the corridor. A terrible stink drifted in to the room – brimstone, burning, along with a menagerie noise, cluckings and brayings.

‘Hail, friends,’ it said.

‘Lord Sloth, we offer you our obedience.’

Montagu poked his head through the door and withdrew it pretty quickly. In the corridor an upright grey mule with a huge steel grey peacock fan sprouting from its rump bent one knee.

‘Why are you here?’ The lion’s rumbling voice spoke again.

‘Free Hell has a standard bearer on earth. We are going to kill him.’

‘A noble task. Join me in England when it’s done.’

‘Yes, my lord. How shall we get there? We are in France.’

‘Well swim, you fools,’ said the lion.

Montagu watched as a procession of the legs of strange creatures ran past the door – the legs of an impossibly spindly man, the legs of a horse, those of a devil such as you might see carved in a church, the legs of a giant bird bounding by.

He needed to escape but he felt compelled to follow. Devils appearing on the streets of Paris was something Edward ought to know about.

Montagu heard a voice from outside.

‘Wait for me. I summoned you; now I command you!’

‘Who’s there?’ demanded Montagu.

A head popped through the hole in the door. It was the merchant he’d seen on his ship, that weaselly one with few airs and no graces.