Son of the Morning (63 page)

‘Where is this beggar? I am in the mood to display largesse,’ said Philip.

‘This way, my lord. I hope the men haven’t killed him yet. Their blood was up and is seeking a way to come down.’

Philip was led to a group of jeering knights. In the centre stood an extraordinary figure – a merchant by his dress and a rich one. But his clothes were torn, his face bruised and he was bootless and hatless.

‘Great king!’ said the man in appalling French. ‘Great king, I have help for you!’

‘You mean you want help from me?’ said Philip. ‘What is your nationality, fellow? If you are an Englishman you can pay for the damage you’ve caused in this country or hang.’

‘I am a Scot, a good Scot; the Scots are your allies and friends,’ said the man.

Philip had met several Scots, but he couldn’t tell the difference between them and the English by their speech. The man’s accent sounded gravelly. Scots
were
gravelly, he’d noted.

‘He’s a liar,’ said a young knight. ‘He’s a usurious merchant who’s fallen on hard times and now wants us, the very people he exploits, to fish him out of the condition into which God has so justly decided to plunge him.’

‘What is your town, man?’ said Philip.

‘I am of Edinburgh, lord. I am Osbert the Scottish Scot of Edinburgh, Scottish Scotland, I am known. Do you have a haggis, sir? I long for a haggis, having not eaten one in the three years I have spent serving you.’

‘And how do you serve me? I don’t remember engaging you?’

‘I further your cause, sir. I was here spying on the English. Lord Dunbar of Dunbar, Scotland, charged me with this mission. They have a boy, a very dangerous boy, who is seeking to gain for England a mighty banner – the Drago. And to release England’s angels. You must know the English king has no angels.’

‘We just saw one,’ said Philip, ‘though I understand it was rented. He may have others.’

‘No. I swear. I travelled with Montagu over here. I know what his men are planning. May I speak privately?’

‘Approach,’ said the king, waving his men away.

Osbert whispered, ‘The old king Edward still lives. I heard Montagu say it to the angel. They’re going to kill him and then England will have her angels back and the mess they’ve made this time will seem a blessing by comparison.’

‘Rubbish, I saw him buried myself at Gloucester. What rot. I won’t listen to this a moment longer.’ He clicked his fingers at a knight, ‘Hubert, kick him up the arse and send him on his way.’

‘We could hang him, sir. It’d provide a diversion for the men,’ shouted Hubert from twenty paces away.

‘No, no, let him go. The English have cowered before us and gone home. Let’s offer some compassion for that, even to liars. Here.’

He flicked a silver gros tournois towards Osbert, which he caught as easily as a fish takes a fly.

‘Thank you, King,’ he said, ‘thank you.’

‘You’ve forgotten the kick up the arse,’ said Philip to the knight.

‘Sorry, sire.’ The knight ran up and planted a hefty boot into Osbert’s seat and the man was off, running through the camp.

‘Let’s move on to Tournai,’ said Philip. ‘We have our people to thank for their defiance in the siege.’

That night, it took many hours before Philip finally got to sleep inside the commander’s house at Tournai – the stink of a long siege did not fade in a day and had kept him awake into the small hours, that and the image of the flagstones of Sainte-Chapelle, stained with the blood of an angel. It had made the shape of the cross and Philip did not dare to have it cleaned away.

He dreamed he saw a light floating towards him – like a candle in strength but much whiter and purer, unwavering. He smelled something else too – a sweet, sticky smell. Wine – not the tart appetising note of a newly opened bottle, but the sour stab of drink on the breath – and on a man’s breath at that.

‘Forgive me.’ A voice was at his ear. The accent was vaguely familiar.

Someone was lifting his hand, looking at the ring on his finger. In his dream mind this just seemed odd rather than alarming.

‘That ring! My God, how even to price that?’

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend. I could find no other way to convince you what I said is true.’

Philip sat up, as awake as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. In front of him was the man he’d seen in the camp the day before: Osbert.

Osbert gestured to the ragged remains of his fine clothing. ‘I have seen what it is to walk in finery,’ said Osbert, ‘and I have known poverty as well. Of the two, I know which I prefer.’

Something was glowing inside the pardoner’s tunic.

‘What’s that?’ said the king, pointing.

‘Magic,’ said the pardoner. ‘I am a rare magician.’

‘You have no power over me, I have turned back to God.’

‘You have,’ said Osbert, ‘but you have been looking for God up there.’ He pointed to the heavens. ‘You’ve overlooked his many able servants who stand ready to help you from below.’ He pointed down. ‘What I told you before is true. I was there when the boy killed your angel.’

‘What boy?’

‘The Antichrist. A commoner. Now he’s on his way to unleash the power of Free Hell, set it against you. Send for some wine, if it so please your majesty!’

‘You are a demon.’

‘No. I am a man. But I’ve been to Hell and come back by my magic art. And there are those there who would be your friends.’

‘Such as who?’

‘The late Hugh Despenser,’ said Osbert. ‘I met him in Hell. You should talk to him – and I think I know how.’

‘I was responsible for his death. Indirectly, but nevertheless.’

‘I think it’s the Templars he’s after,’ said Osbert. ‘They were the ones who tricked him after all. In my short time with Lord Hugh I notice he has a hierarchy of hates. King, or rather queen, of those hatreds is Isabella. You helped Edward depose her. I should think Despenser regards you as a friend.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I’m a powerful sorcerer,’ said Osbert. ‘I learned my art from Bardi’s man, Edwin. I have walked through walls. I have been to Hell. I have turned lead into gold, though I’ve rather lost the knack.’

‘Bardi?’ The king propped himself up on his hands. ‘He
does
know some interesting people.’

‘None more interesting than me. I have harrowed Hell, which is a tough place to harrow, believe me.’

The king eyed the glowing thing in Osbert’s tunic. He could see it was a feather.

‘What good would Despenser do me?’

‘He may have a solution to the problem of the boy. The boy is a killer of holy things. He will kill the true English king – old Edward – and his angels will fly to his son.’

‘You still say he’s alive? There was a whisper from our spies at Avignon but I never trusted it. Mortimer was full of tricks.’

‘No. It is true. The Antichrist is on earth and searching for the old king.’

‘The angel did mention a boy. I thought it would be someone of my rank. Why are you so keen to see Despenser return from Hell?’

‘Well, he set me the task of killing the boy. That has proved a little beyond me. At the moment it seems to be beyond all the devils of Hell. However, I think it won’t be beyond Lord Hugh if he arrives here. He is a fine man for killing, I believe.’

‘Why should I trust you?’

‘Well, I know where the body of your angel is,’ said Osbert, ‘as a gesture of good faith I’m willing to tell you, if you swear not to harm me. The boy can be found, England pacified, at least until the old king dies a natural death.’

‘What’s stopping me just invading England now? Our angels may be cowering in their shrines but if Edward has none then we could overrun him.’

‘What
is
stopping you? I don’t know.’

‘The concern that God may favour him and not me. That and money. Our nobles have fallen in on their own concerns after Tournai. They will not follow me unless they can hear the rattle of Edward’s armour at the bottom of their lanes.’

‘So cripple the English king! Keep him from his angels, kill this Antichrist, this boy, this angel killer. Restore faith with God. You killed kings to take your throne. Save one, please God and prosper.’

Philip thought for a moment, his long finger touching his lip. ‘With the body of an angel the Templars cast a spell and brought down the Capetian kings appointed by God. What might be done with the body of another?’

‘Bring down one more?’ said the pardoner.

‘Can you summon Despenser, at least to speak to him?’

‘I can try,’ said Osbert, ‘for I have the secret,’ he lifted his tunic to show the circle scarred into his belly, two puffy red wounds disfiguring it, ‘and if you find the angel’s body, I will have some of the ingredients.’

‘Old Edward alive? Well, it could make sense. I had heard a rumour from Avignon but never believed it. And I won’t believe it until I hear it from the horse’s mouth. Can you summon this Despenser?’

‘I am a sorcerer supreme!’

The king took up a little bell. ‘I’ll send for your wine,’ he said.

27

Bardi’s mule was not of the first order of mules. Nor was it of the second or third order. It may once have belonged to the fourth degree of that put upon breed but, since it had gone a little lame in its hind leg, it could now only lay claim to be considered in the fifth rank of muledom. The sixth rank is generally dead, cut up and fed to dogs or the villeins if the dogs were feeling fussy. Bardi distracted himself with such thoughts as he made his way back to Florence. He’d used nearly the last of his cash getting an English ship to Genoa but the weather had been terrible, the captain an idiot and the ship had cracked its mast. They’d limped into Rochefort, still under control of the English, where his travelling companions – as foul a company of ruffians as had ever set sail from England, robbed him as he looked for an inn. He’d been lucky to escape in the clothes he stood up in, with the few coins he’d sewn into his underwear.

He’d made his way across the burning landscape of Aquitaine in the company of a bunch of English freebooters come over from Harwich to see what they could plunder. The answer: not much – everything was ruined, everything burned and smashed. It was as if one of the plagues of Egypt had come down upon the land. The freebooters had headed north and, though Bardi felt terribly vulnerable without them, he had felt scarcely more secure when he was with them. They were a murderous crew and had only protected him because he showed them certain letters of passage he’d received from the king many years before. Bardi had implied that if he lied and offered royal protection the letters might convince rich towns to open their gates to them.

‘He’s got the breeding to do that,’ said the freebooter chief, a thick-set toothless ruffian who owned a gentleman’s sword a man of his station could only have obtained one way.

Now Bardi travelled always by night – skirting any town or settlement, living as an itinerant. There were few towns or villages intact. Armies had been at war here and the people had paid dearly. The smell of ashes clung to him: the taste always in his mouth, the black soot on his fingers, sucking out all the moisture from his skin. There was no money in a war now, none at all. It should have come sooner and harder, Edward should have plundered this land down to every last villein’s penny to repay his debts. If only the Drago had been found, if only the king’s angels had been with him. Then, then, the French would know destruction, not this awful looting that seemed to do nothing but enrich the basest knaves.

He’d found the mule wandering by a river – an animal of such little value that it had managed to avoid being looted. He’d thought to ride it to save his feet but that was impossible. Though he had no property to carry he thought he might trade the mule for a meal if needs be, or even eat it. It also represented hope. Bardi was a man who judged his worth by his possessions. A mule was a possession, if the poorest sort.

He had no money for the first time in his life and did not like it. He was not used to living on the land and longed for Orsino, a practical man who could catch rabbits, fish, build a fire and protect him. Often he cried as he travelled and told the mule that it ate better than he. It did, too. There was no shortage of grass and thistles on their journey. Bardi had tried eating berries but, having no idea which ones were edible, had wasted two days at the side of the road leaking from both significant orifices.

His clothes wore through and his travelling boots, bought from an excellent cobbler in Florence, turned out to be fine for the gentleman who spends much of his time on horseback, less so for the footslogger. The tear in one seam gaped like a crocodile’s mouth. Always a fastidious man, Bardi began to spend more and more time close to the mule as they travelled, preferring its animal smell to his own.

The land was unyielding – no farm, no village remained unburned. The volcano of war had erupted here and burned everything to ashes. He began to starve. One night, when the moon was full, he saw thousands of little bats swarming in the sky – no, not bats, but little men and women with wings fluttering across the moon.

Famished and delirious, he appealed to them to save him, to take pity. Something tumbled from the sky in an irregular, halting flight of fits and starts. Bardi reached out his hand.

‘You are a poor man.’ It was the voice of a woman, or maybe a girl.

He looked around him. Flitting just above him, silhouetted against the moon, was a tiny figure, a winged woman, her skin white as ivory. In her hand she had a spear, on her arm a little shield.

‘Are you a devil come to tempt me?’

‘I am a demon come to rescue you. We are friends of the poor.’

Bardi nearly spat that he was not poor – simply inconvenienced – but he knew that was not true. The bank had collapsed, its property seized by creditors. Bardi had nothing now but the hope of charity from his friends in Florence. Yet what friends would a fallen banker have? Many fewer than a rich one, for sure. As the little woman hovered in front of him, Bardi’s tears returned.

‘Do your masters oppress you?’

‘They have cast me out, as I am no longer useful to them,’ lamented Bardi. ‘I have nothing in the world, nothing!’