Son of the Morning (95 page)

Screaming and crowing as a flight of gargoyles swept over him, arrowing into the English. Tendrils reached up from the English lines to snare them and then recoiled under a blaze of light. Philip was hammering his charger to the front of his line with the sun on a pole – the Oriflamme burning out its blood light.

Oh, God, oh God – the gargoyles slammed into other shapes floating in the air – monstrous birds, leaping devils with long legs like grasshoppers, springing up to fight the gargoyles in the sky. The English couldn’t break through could they? Not under four angels. Osbert couldn’t make the cart move; it was rutted deep in the clay soil.

‘Help me!’ he called out as there was a rumble from his right. The knights who had formed up had staged a charge. Those who had not formed up had staged a charge too, everyone from the lane leading to the battlefield putting his spurs into his horse – some spilling out on to the field of combat, others just careening into their fellows. Osbert ran back to see if he could get a loose horse to help pull out his cart. My Christ! The sky was black with arrows. Men were thrown, trampled, got up, waded on behind their shields. He’d never seen such bravery or such foolishness. Boar men charged from the English side and Despenser’s wasp devils flew down the hill to back up the French knights. The fighting was brutal and the knights quickly discovered whose swords bore the real teeth, hair and bones of saints and who had been sold something that came out of the back of a meat market. Again and again the arrows fell and Osbert saw the genius of it. The devils would not be harmed by ordinary arrow fire so the English archers could pour their venom down on the French knights. Why weren’t the French devils sent first to attack the archers? Music was all about him, the notes like cold fingers down his spine. Osbert looked above him. An angel had a pipe at its lips and was playing a dizzying tune. The reason the devils had been held back was plain – the French needed to give their own knights a chance to prove their bravery – to sacrifice themselves, to prove to God they were worthy of his aid.

Above the English a single angel replied to the piping with a flute of its own, the music equally as giddying. Smack! A fat gargoyle hit the dirt beside Osbert, not four paces away. That could have killed him! It was huge, solid, its stony skin pierced by a barbed spear. Another gargoyle spun away. How they told friend from foe, Osbert didn’t know. Philip rode the line, the Oriflamme burning in his hands, incinerating arrows fired from a cloud of tiny demons above him. What if Philip was killed? What if Edward was killed?

He tried to enlist a couple of foot soldiers to help him with his cart, but everyone was transfixed by the front. The knights charged and charged again, arrows raining down, horses dying, devils tearing off heads and themselves being torn – heroes sinking holy swords into diabolic flesh. How many times did the knights charge? Ten? Twelve? More. The floor was mountained with dead. A blink. The English angel disappeared and an angel from the cloud above stretched out a finger. A division of English archers disappeared beneath a tongue of fire. The knights had given enough, sacrificed enough. The angels had negotiated and come to France’s aid, which meant the main market for the Antichrist was about to go up in holy fire. Two hundred boar men, who had rallied having been dispersed by a charge of crow-headed devils were burned as they mustered for a charge. Osbert had a living to make. Dow was all he had – one Antichrist, slightly worn – a lifetime’s pension and a manor house to you, sir? Would Navarre buy him if the English lost? The French regarded him as their property.

A cry went up from the French line. ‘France! France! God is with France!’ A road of fire appeared, burning through the stakes the English had in place. Still the archers stood, pouring down death on the knights. The English men-at-arms charged into the stricken horses, the enmired men-at-arms.

‘See our valour! Come to our aid angels, we are as worthy as the French and as willing to die for God!’ Even at a distance of nearly six hundred paces, Osbert could hear the desperation in their voices.

Another phalanx of archers fried under the divine fire but still the main body of archers held and the men-at-arms fought. Osbert had seen enough. He had to get his only treasure away, the battle would be won soon and the men would begin to plunder. Without office, without protection, he would lose Dow.

He ran to Dow to get him off the cart, standing up on it.

A streak of fire on the horizon, a shimmering in the light. There was a big thump on the cart and there in front of him was an extraordinary sight. Wrapped in a badly-stitched cloak of angel feathers – actually a horse blanket with the feathers just stuck into it, was the man he had seen in the priest’s cellar – the little Italian banker. He was sitting on top of a long box marked with magical symbols and what Osbert guessed were the secret names of God – they looked like the stuff he carved onto his laminas.

Osbert looked up. Was this a gift from God?

‘I have wished to be with the chief sorcerer of the French court – he who procures relics and magical items.’

‘You’re looking at him, squire,’ said Osbert.

‘I have here a magical banner. I have come to bargain for …’ Bardi – that was his name – was heavily sick. He tried to stand but looked like a fly stuck in gum. ‘I’m sorry, I am stricken, by the manner of travel. The rags I have here are soaked in angels’ blood. Put one to my lips.’

An arrow smacked off the back of Osbert’s angel helm.

‘Are you having a laugh?’ said the pardoner. He stripped Bardi of absolutely everything he had on him – including his rather well-tailored monk’s habit – and slung him naked into the mud.

‘That’s mine!’ shouted Bardi. He rolled over and screamed as an arrow fell limply from the sky to stick into his arse.

‘Don’t look like it from where I’m standing, son!’ said Osbert. Bardi tried to reach up but he was too weak.

The banner! The one all the fuss had been about!
Thank you, Jesus
! But how to move it? He just couldn’t lift it from the cart. The chest was too heavy. But it was only supposed to be a banner. That, by definition, had to be portable. He used his devil knife to cut away the dead briars that were wound around the lid. Men were all about him, screaming, cheering, goading on the angels. There was a great roar and an angel came forward on a horse that seemed half smoke, all colour, cracking the sky with light. Osbert banged the knife into the line between the body of the chest and the lid, working it free.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ A fish-headed devil faced him, along with three foot soldiers.

‘Just some worthless things, friends. I am a pardoner and hope to sell a few trinkets so our brave Frenchmen may have something to bless and thank God for the victory.’

‘There’s trinkets in there?’

‘Nothing. The teeth of pigs, the hair of dogs. I am a pardoner, friends, you know our trade. A little comfort for a little money.’

Another roar of fire from above. Osbert felt himself flinch, though he tried to look brave.

‘I want to see,’ said a foot soldier. ‘I reckon you’re a plunderer and an English plunderer at that. You don’t sound French. And you don’t look like a pardoner. You’re an English knight, you bastard! Where are you from? A Breton?’

‘It’s a banner, nothing more than a tattered old banner that I had knocked up on the Rue De St Denis.’

‘So it was teeth and now it’s a banner. Show me,’ said the foot soldier.

The angels above swayed and turned, their hands trailing fire. On the field men screamed – some exultant, some dying. Osbert wanted away desperately and feared the soldiers would snatch his prize from him. But holy banners never looked in top condition. He was sure it would be a moth-eaten old thing and that he could convince the soldiers it was worthless.

‘Look,’ he said and pried off the lid.

17

Montagu told his men to hold firm, to keep slinging in their arrows.

‘The angels will not support dead men. Keep killing! Kill until you are killed’

Fire was everywhere, among the men-at-arms, among the archers. The bombards on the right flank had ceased firing, consumed in smoke and the windmill where Edward had been was ablaze. Edward charged down the hill, his guard around him, holding up his sword and screaming at the angels.

‘I am Edward, chosen of God! Rightful king of the English and a good man. I have built chapels, I have given greatly to the poor, I am here now to strike at my enemies and defend my churches where God dwells! Abate your fire!’

Still tongues of flame poured down but none touched the king. Men crowded to be near him, a rank of archers almost overwhelming the horses. Nobles took the line, calling out their family names, telling the angels they were appointed by God, begging them to cease the fire. Cobham got in among the archers on the right, his men swinging their pennants up at the angels to get them to recognise their nobility, to give them pause. The fire faltered but, if France’s divine powers were uncertain, its worldly ones were not.

To Montagu’s left he saw the blue and yellow colours of Alençon go steaming in to the Prince of Wales’s division, five hundred charging men-at-arms aimed straight at the prince’s standard, the horses’ caparisons billowing.

Still it rained but the English angel was long gone. Devils were overwhelming the English lines. He leapt to the defence of his archers, cutting down a huge crow devil as it tried to rip one from the ground to carry him into the sky.

In the middle of the battlefield a wedge of steaming devils – like those from a painting, goat-legged, horn-headed and red – pushed towards the king’s position. The Drago snapped and whipped at gargoyles in the sky but it seemed to Montagu that it was taking devils indiscriminately, tearing down French crows, English gargoyles, English gargoyles and French crows.

Fire swept through Montagu’s men again and he held up Arondight to deflect it. The angels would recognise someone carrying a weapon like that as blessed of God and the fire would not harm them.

Lord Sloth had taken up the Prince of Wales’s banner. The Iron Lion had a pawful of arrows and he bit off their heads to spit them into the charging French. Five men went down under his blast. He roared and roared again, felling horses, felling men. The Prince of Wales was close by him, hemmed in, fighting off enemies on all sides. A jackal-headed devil, its body that of a lizard, leapt towards him but the prince skewered it with his sword. He lost the weapon in the creature’s body and drew his misericord, the dagger his only weapon now.

Montagu charged in, hacking all around him. Alençon himself had his hands on the banner. If that went down, the whole flank would panic and run. More fire, more screams. The angels poured down death on the English. Montagu cut his way through a thicket of men to reach Alençon, Arondight shining white as it cut arcs of crimson.

Alençon threw the banner down but Montagu ran him through, the magic sword cutting easily through the mail. As he died, the Count recognised his killer.

‘I thought you were dead.’

‘No, that’s you, old boy.’

‘Then please give my regards to your wife,’ said Alençon, clutching the sword in his belly. ‘My daughters appreciated her kindness on our last stay.’

‘I shall if I see her,’ said Montagu. ‘You die a true and chivalrous knight.’

‘I must say, Montagu, I’d have hoped you’d have put on your Sunday best to kill me.’

‘Needs must, old boy, needs must.’

He shoved Alençon off his sword and picked the banner off the floor.

‘Montagu! Montagu!’ he shouted. It was just reflex, just what he had always done, rallied his troops, shown them he was in the thick of the fight.

The Prince of Wales grabbed a sword. How many enemies about them now? The angels would not use their fire against a royal banner and Montagu knew they must now stand or die on their own fighting skills.

A blast from the bombards as the smoke cleared. French horses screamed and whinnied. The horsemen wheeled and charged the archers again, and again. How many charges now? Seven? Eight? If the angels eliminated all the archers then surely they would get through. Nine charges, ten – and the arrows still vomited forth. The angels’ fire ceased – why he didn’t know. Angels were unfathomable – likely the death of so many Frenchmen under the arrows had only bought so many favours. They must want to see more. They got more. The horsemen charged again and again. Fourteen charges, fifteen.

The Prince of Wales was coming towards him. ‘You’ve been named a traitor, uncle.’ He pointed his sword towards Montagu.

More French, men-at-arms on foot – ten of them.

‘Montagu! Montagu!’ Montagu screamed into the faces of the Frenchmen. Montagu was not a conceited man, but he knew his presence on the field was worth a little courage to his own men, a little fear to the enemy.

‘The boar! The boar!’ Little Edward screamed his father’s nickname as they closed with the enemy. Montagu was hampered by the standard but he used it in place of his shield, to turn and block blows. One Frenchman came running in with a greatsword above his head. Montagu dispatched him with a thrust to the throat, turning aside to avoid the swipe of the blade and to avoid Arondight getting stuck in his opponent. Another attacker behind him bore a lance, but Montagu flicked the standard towards him, obscuring his vision, before dropping to stab up underneath the hauberk into the man’s groin. Little Edward flung away two men with prodigious strength, ran another through but lost his sword once more. A third bearing a surcoat of a golden rabbits ran at Montagu, slicing into his fingers. Arondight fell to the mud but the Frenchman signalled his next attack too clearly, drawing back his sword to strike overhead at Montagu. Montagu stepped under the blow, rolling the man across his shoulders to throw him high into the air and land on him, one knee in the ribs, one to break the neck, the arm still grasped to tear it from its socket.

Four French were on the Prince of Wales. The Oriflamme had cast its blood light over the field. No prisoners were supposed to be taken, but these men weren’t going to worry about that. They wanted young Edward alive – great fortunes could be made that way. Montagu’s right hand was useless but he planted the standard and drew his misericord with his left and leapt at a man, punching it into his unprotected face. The man screamed, the prince got a kick in at another. The prince stood. Montagu felt all the breath leave him. Something had hit him. He fell to one knee, supporting himself on the standard.