Son of the Morning (57 page)

‘There’s no need to clear it. It’s dark out here,’ said Joan. ‘Like night! The commoners are running for their burrows like rabbits from a hawk.’

‘Just clear people from the street, mother. No one must see us come out. Tell the guards to kill any who do!’

‘Yes, son!’

‘Glad to see you alive, Orsino,’ said the pardoner. He had the crown of thorns down from the altar and was trying to look for somewhere to stuff it that wouldn’t prick him.

‘Thank you, pardoner.’ The soldier glanced to the tear in his tunic.

‘Angel’s blood,’ said the pardoner, taking off his borrowed surcoat to wrap the crown. ‘It’s a great healer. I know; I sell it for tuppence a bottle. Can heal the body but not the soul, eh Florentine?’

‘Why isn’t the angel healed then?’ said Charles.

‘The lance killed Christ,’ said the pardoner. ‘It is a bane to divine things. Probably why it didn’t do you much harm, eh Orsino? An angel killer, imagine that! And I thought I had some sins to answer for!’

Orsino’s stare was empty. Montagu had seen that look before – siege madness, when men had been under assault for too long. They were there in body but not in mind. You never really recovered from it, in his experience.

Orsino and Montagu carried the angel out into the street. The guards had done a reasonable job of clearing the area – aided by the suddenly dark sky. It was as if twilight had come at noon – the sky was cloudless but the sun unaccountably dim, no more than a silver disk, the morning star visible beside it. Men had made themselves scarce.

‘There’s no cart!’ said Charles.

‘I found a boat,’ said the pardoner. ‘Harder for people to poke their noses under our blanket that way and more private.’

‘Very well,’ said Charles, ‘we’ll head for my cog
Esperanza
and ship this off to Navarre where it belongs. And you can rejoin your army, Montagu – if they’ll have you in those rags.’

‘Indeed,’ said Montagu.

He thought of the letter which he so wished to give to King Edward. But France had suffered a blow in the Sainte-Chapelle. If England could recoup all its angels, it might deliver a decisive blow. He had to find Good Jacques, to discover where the old king had gone.

They carried the angel down to the boat – just a small river barge. It had one man on board, an old countryman who repeatedly crossed himself as he looked up at the dark sky. Chevalier Evreux and Count Ramon came running to Charles’ side as Orsino went back to fetch Dow.

‘We must go with you, lord.’

‘I will be perfectly well on my own. We have an excuse. Say these men kidnapped me.’

‘Are you sure, son?’ Queen Joan was behind her nobles.

‘Perfectly sure, mother,’ said the boy, ‘you just stay here and concentrate on explaining all this to our Valois cousins. Uncle John and Uncle Philip will need some sort of letter describing this lamentable Satanic attack upon their angel, and before any other interpretations can reach them.’

Montagu stared in wonder at the precocious child. He turned his eyes to Joan. He knew what was said of the Capetian queens. Had she bought blessings on her son through sorcery?

‘Montagu, I want your word you will protect my son,’ said Joan.

‘You have it, madam,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Joan. She reached into the folds of her dress, took out a small purse and threw it to the earl. ‘Recompense for whatever they took from you when they put you in the prison,’ she said, ‘and funds for our ally.’

Montagu was too practical a man to object. He simply bowed and said, ‘I shall return the favour at my earliest convenience.’

Joan waved in dismissal. ‘Think nothing of it, William. It’s good to have dealings with men of true breeding after so long in the company of these merchant-mannered Valois.’

Again, Montagu bowed. He glanced towards Orsino, towards Dow. Charles ordered the boat pushed off and it slipped into the main course of the river.

20

They bled the angel in the barn, like a pig. The farmer left the buckets at the door, forbidden from entering by the men of the
Esperanza
who were, in turn, forbidden from entering by Charles. Every bottle in the Navarrese fleet had been requisitioned for the angel’s blood. Montagu had guarded the angel every inch of the way down the river but, as the pardoner helped carry the angel into the barn, he put his finger into the wound at its throat. Then he went to the youth and rubbed the blood onto his lips.

The first thing Dow knew was a cold, prickling sensation. He opened his eyes to see the great body stretched out before him, its wings spread. In the dark of the barn it glowed faintly like a hoard of treasure in a fireside tale, its symmetry, its perfection, even more striking in death. Dow felt sorry for it. It was a thing of great beauty but it had been rotten. Why could it not rejoice in its own perfection without scorning others less lucky than itself?

‘I did that?’

‘I did,’ said Orsino. He crossed himself.

‘Sariel?’

‘Dead.’

Orsino took Dow’s hand and the boy let him. For the first time since Orsino had known him, he saw tears in the young man’s eyes.

‘She will go to Heaven,’ said Orsino.

‘Or to eternal torment,’ said Dow. ‘For that is where God will send her.’

Orsino let go of Dow’s hand. ‘You are cruel.’

‘God is cruel. Orsino. Read your Bible.’ Dow thought of the dead angel. Others would need to die if Free Hell was to come to earth. The banner, the banner could answer all those problems. But would he have the strength to carry on if he let go of his hate? Sariel had asked him to do so. In honour of her, he must try.

‘Help me open the gates of Hell and you may see her again,’ he said.

‘You think she will live again?’

‘When Hell is opened there will be a resurrection, but it will be God who is judged, not he who does the judging.’

‘We should atone.’

‘There is no atonement for what we have done,’ said Dow. ‘Our hope lies in Lucifer.’

Montagu looked up from examining the angel. ‘You follow Lucifer?’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you, high man.’

‘I should kill you,’ said Montagu.

‘Then you’ll need to kill me first,’ said Orsino.

‘Thank you. I’ll remember that,’ said Montagu.

Outside the light was growing. Osbert put his eye to a crack in the boards. ‘Day’s coming back,’ he said, ‘just in time for dusk. Story of my life. What caused that darkness do you reckon?’

‘The angel’s death,’ said Montagu. ‘I heard of such a thing happening before.’ He bent over the body.

The pardoner nodded, seemingly impressed by Montagu’s wisdom.

Montagu ran his fingers over the creature’s feathers, while the pardoner hunted the barn.

‘What are you looking for?’ said Montagu.

‘A sack.’

‘For what?’

‘The crown of thorns.’

‘Good. Find one, then give the crown to me.’

‘Er, it’s mine. I took it.’

Montagu tapped the sword at his side. ‘And this is mine.’

‘I’ll get you a sack,’ said Osbert.

Orsino sat with his head in his hands. ‘Sariel was so like my wife,’ said Orsino. ‘I was always a fool for jealousy. I must atone.’

‘I could probably help with that,’ said Osbert, from the back of the barn. ‘Anything can be forgiven for the right price. I mean anything. St Julian the Hospitaller stabbed his parents to death, gave the church a load of cash to build hospitals and, before you know it, his face is turning up on pilgrim’s medals. That shows how forgiving the Lord is to those who have the cash to pay. Absolution’s my game. I’d be prepared to try to arrange a donation, for a reasonable cut of course.’

‘I killed an angel.’

‘You could kill him,’ said the pardoner nodding to Dow. ‘He’s a morally repulsive heretic. That’s got to be worth a few years off eternal torment.’

Orsino stared at the angel. ‘There’s been enough killing,’ he said.

‘How many have the angels killed?’ said Dow, ‘how many will they kill according to your holy book? You acted as God acts, that is all.’

‘And that in itself will see me in Hell.’

Dow put his hand on Orsino’s shoulder. ‘I killed it,’ he said. ‘I struck the last blow.’

‘But I struck at it. I am damned’

‘Oh, don’t be so glum,’ said the pardoner. ‘Absolution’s an easy thing! Gold here, deeds there. Gold and deeds, that’s what God likes. Try bringing Dow back to God’s purpose if you’re not going to kill him. Convert one such as he and surely God would love you.’

‘There is no way back for me,’ said Orsino.

‘Is your God so unforgiving?’ asked Dow.

‘Yes,’ said Orsino.

‘No!’ said the pardoner. ‘Raising your hand against an angel and surviving shows God must be on your side. He might not have liked that angel. It probably had a sarcastic tone when it was praising him or something.’

‘Oh my word, this is tiresome,’ said Charles. ‘Men, this is all very well, but we have a task here. If it is to be hid it will need to be cut up.’

Dow looked down at the glowing corpse.

‘Who will do the work?’ said Charles. ‘A good purse for any who say yes.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Dow. Money would be useful for wherever he went next, and it pleased him to see such a being bled, plucked and skinned. Great men had built palaces in its name, using wealth that could have fed a nation. Now the poor would reap some return on the investment – he would make sure of that.

‘This is sacrilege,’ said Orsino.

‘They hack to bits every saint they ever find. How’s this any different?’ said the pardoner.

‘Can it be cut by normal knives?’ said Charles.

‘This isn’t a normal knife,’ said Dow, producing the long thin boning blade he had taken from the cardinal devil.

‘How far shall we render it?’ said Charles. ‘Do we just bleed it or pluck it or chop it up? We could put a tooth in the pommel of all our best knights’ swords. Chop, chop, chop, so goes the sound of the cutting block!’

‘Just make sure people can’t know what it is. If your men found out they were transporting the body of a murdered angel, God knows what effect it would have on their morale.’ said Montagu.

‘Send for barrels,’ said Charles to the pardoner.

‘Do you not have a coffin?’

‘They don’t need them at sea,’ said Charles, ‘and besides, where would we get one big enough? Cut it up for transport and drain the blood if we can – that is full of holy power as we saw by what happened to these low men.’ He nodded to Dow and Orsino.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Montagu. ‘Wrap it in cerecloth as if it were embalmed. Then we can carry it to the boat ourselves and have it hidden in the hold. You can’t chop it up like a bit of mutton.’

‘Although you can pluck it like a goose,’ said Osbert, pulling another feather from the angel’s wings.

‘Don’t you defile it, common man,’ said Charles. ‘Go and communicate our message to our men. Bring cerecloth.’

Osbert stuck his head around the barn door and spent some time trying to get his point across to the Navarrese. Eventually, the cloth was brought.

First they took the angel’s armour. The mail was marvellously light, more like tight woven wool than metal. Like the angel’s corpse, it too faintly glowed in the barn’s dark. Montagu put it on. It was too long by far for him, more like a gown than a hauberk, but it was so light that it didn’t matter. It was no encumbrance at all. The breastplate was enormous, covering all the angel’s chest. Dow went to take the great sword, but Montagu got there first.

‘This isn’t a knave’s weapon,’ said Montagu. ‘Angels are the nobility of Heaven and their artefacts by right belong to the nobility of earth.’

If Dow hadn’t been hoping that Montagu had information about the king, he would have stabbed him there and then. Instead, he let the noble take the sword.

‘It’s as light as a reed in the hand,’ said Montagu. He tried it against a log in a woodpile. A lazy swing was all it took to split it.

‘Those things are rightfully mine,’ said Charles.

‘You cannot use them,’ said Montagu, ‘and if France is your enemy it is best that they go to a man who will split French skulls with them.’ He picked up the shield.

‘Recognise my royalty and pass it to me,’ said Charles.

‘I recognise you’re a little boy, though a precocious and forward one,’ said Montagu.

Charles stood up tall. ‘You have no right to snatch it for yourself. Does rank and propriety mean nothing to you, Montagu?’

‘They mean everything,’ said Montagu. ‘But I am a practical man. And it’s not even for me. You – Florentine.’

Orsino lifted his eyes from his boots.

‘I know your master. I know your purpose. Take the sword and the armour. You’ll need to buy horses for where you’re going. The knights won’t take you seriously without one.’

He passed Orsino the sword and shield. ‘Take the mail, too,’ said Montagu, taking it off.

‘Why not give him the holy lance of Christ while you’re at it?’ said Charles.

‘I’ll take that myself.’

Charles was too well bred to make any great demonstration of disapproval. ‘Am I to have nothing?’

‘You get the body,’ said Montagu. ‘Care for it well.’

This brought a smile to the boy’s lips.

‘How about me?’ said the pardoner, ‘without me you wouldn’t have escaped.’

‘You,’ said Montagu, ‘were consorting with devils. You are lucky not to be killed where you stand.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Charles. ‘Did you know devils serve God, Montagu?’

‘Heresy,’ said Montagu.

‘The truth,’ said Charles.

‘Devils have whispered in your ear, and I won’t listen to their lies.’

‘But you will strip and gut an angel?’ said Charles.

‘These artefacts will still do God’s work,’ said Montagu.

‘They certainly will,’ said Charles, ‘as interpreted by his devils.’

When the angel was naked Dow threw a rope over the rafters and hoisted it up by its feet. Orsino just sat in the corner of the barn, rocking back and forth, crossing himself and muttering prayers.

‘Will the blood flow now?’ said the pardoner ‘This wouldn’t work with a pig – it would be clotted.’

‘It may surprise you,’ said Montagu, ‘but I have no experience of bleeding an angel.’