Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  ‘Is he a fool?’

  ‘A man who has been taught to ape a few lines of his betters.

  You will suffer, man, when your tricks are exposed.’ Jean spoke :Et in misericordia tua disperdes inimicos meos et perdes omnes qui tribulant animam meam quoniam ego servus tuus sum.

  ‘What, what?’ said Gâtinais.

  The priest crossed himself.

  ‘A psalm,’ he said.

  ‘What the devil does it mean?’

  ‘Do you not know Latin?’

  ‘About as well as you know the use of lance and sword. Of course I don’t know Latin – what’s the use of you lot if the nobility are going to stick their heads into books?’

  ‘“And in thy loving kindness cut off mine enemies, And destroy all them that afflict my soul; For I am thy servant.”’

  The idiot nodded and pointed. Clearly he didn’t mind making enemies of churchmen, which marked him out as an idiot indeed.

  ‘He has learned these things for the benefit of clergy,’ said the priest. ‘He seeks to be tried by a Church court rather than face the punishment due to him as a common man.’

  ‘Well, that alone means he’s not as green as he is cabbage-looking,’ said Gâtinais. ‘Let him try, priest. The country is full of devils, called by kings. Then there are the demons that whisper treachery in the ears of the poor. We have been lucky not to see these things amongst us. The window is a blessed object and would provide protection. Even word that it was being restored might keep dark forces away.’ The priest took up the piece of glass. ‘How long would this take?’

  ‘No more than five years, sir,’ said Tancré. ‘He is a marvellous fast worker.’

  ‘A blink,’ said Gâtinais, ‘a blink in the life of this great church. Let him try.’

  ‘How much does this rogue want paying?’

  ‘Food only, sir. I have come to a financial arrangement with the count. Food only. He will sleep in the church or where you tell him, it’s a more comfortable spot than any he has known.’

  ‘We’ll have to move good brick.’

  ‘He will screen the gap, sir.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Gâtinais. ‘If an angel dwelt in that window once, perhaps it could again.’

  The priest handed the glass back to Gâtinais.

  ‘Very well, though it’s against my best instincts. I’ve seen enough marketplace conjurers and charlatans in my time. But if it’s only going to cost me some bread and ale, then let’s try. And if he doesn’t restore it, I have your permission to punish him?’

  ‘You churchmen are zealots for pruning a fellow, aren’t you?. Yes. Clip away if you must but give him a fair chance. Nothing before I return from the wars.’

  ‘And if you do not return?’

  ‘Then it shall fall to my sons to take my place.’

  ‘And if they do not return?’

  ‘Then God is gone from the world and we are all damned. Now let’s get back into the light. I have a useless king to follow.’

  So saying, he turned to the steps, to lead his sons to war and all of their deaths on Crécy field.

  2

  The count of Eu pulled up the visor on his pig-faced helmet, wiped the smoke from his eyes and surveyed the disaster unfolding before him at Caen.

  The English were massing all around the island town. He steadied his horse as a flight of ympes, tiny winged men no bigger than crows, swept over him, their swords and arrows like a glint of rain. By God, he was facing a strange alliance. The English, with their angel Chamuel, their hordes of devils under God and their swooping demons, the damned of Hell, servants of Lucifer. He thanked Christ he was French. Their army only contained angels and devils, who bowed the knee to God on high. But where were they? King Philip had to send an angel or a flight of stoneskins or something to help him. It was the king who had engineered this catastrophe in waiting.

  Eu’s footmen massed against the barricade on the bridge, mail clashing against mail, lances bristling. Behind them priests sang blessings, swung incense burners, flicked holy water over the troops. A formidable force, but the bridge would not hold. None of the bridges would hold. The barricades had been built too hastily, too few and not substantial enough. He had two hundred men on every barricade and a further nine hundred spread along the banks of Caen. Not enough, not enough.

  Over the broken body of a cart on top of the barricade rose a grinning skull atop a man’s body. The body was waving a sword. Later, he would know this to be one of the bone-faced men, 3rd Legion of the Devils of Gehenna. One of the many. His men jeered and jabbed at it but it was safely above their spears.

  Soon, though, the barricades would be rendered useless. They’d had no time to remove the boats from the river banks. The English archers and men-at-arms were swarming into them, loosing arrows as they went, ducking beneath shields to avoid the returning fire. This was going to be a test.

  He drew his own sword, Joyeuse, letting the blessed weapon’s light shine out. The sacred king Charlemagne had wielded that sword to build the empire of the Franks and to wet the desert with unbelievers’ blood and every Constable of France had borne it since. That gave the bone-faced man pause for thought and he ducked back behind the cart.

  Robert Bertrand drew up beside Eu, magnificent on his white horse, his armour polished to brilliance, his surcoat embroidered with golden stars – almost an angel himself, he appeared.

  ‘Not good, Raoul,’ he said.

  ‘Not good,’ said Eu. ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Nine, ten thousand, excluding the diaboliques.’

  ‘Six to one.’

  ‘In the castle we could have held them.’

  ‘If my aunt had a dick, she’d be my uncle.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be on this island. Are we throwing away France to protect the plate of a few hundred grubby buyers and sellers?

  Men of trade? My God, what a pass we have come to?’

  ‘Apparently it’s God’s will.’

  ‘The will of Prince John!’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Eu.

  He meant it, too. Given his choice Eu would have knocked down a few of the city’s houses and used the rubble to block the way. But no, strings had been pulled, favours called in. The town was to be defended unscathed. So instead of bogging the English down in a protracted siege, thumbing his nose at them from the island castle walls, that idiot Prince John had insisted he defend the second island of the town, to protect the merchants and their houses. He had told the messenger that he could protect the merchants but could not protect their houses. The prince had said that he could. Still, the prince was divinely appointed, his army backed by angels. To disobey him was to disobey God. So do and be damned, don’t do and actually be damned. The castle was now crammed with the rich and influential of Caen, while anyone who had any idea at all about how to actually conduct a siege was out in the streets waiting for the English to destroy them.

  As constable, he had the right to be in the tower. He had given it up. If his men were to stand any chance at all he needed to be with them. The English angel had recognised his royal blood, agreed to hold back its fire until God made His will known in the direction of the battle. It was strange indeed to talk to that thing, an enormous shining man, armoured and shielded, floating above the parapets, its voice intoxicating, sending Eu’s head spinning. Eu had done his job, though, convinced it of his piety, or the sacrifices and godliness of the people of Caen, had asked it to look at the churches they had built, the art they had commissioned to God’s glory. It had lost interest in raining fire down on his men.

  Where were his angels? Where were his devils? All with the main army. Couldn’t angels be anywhere? He’d heard it said. Well, if they could, they chose not to be at Caen.

  An awful roar and the warhorse beneath him shivered. The English were discharging their cannon. Good. Those things were more of a peril to the men operating them than to his troops.

  ‘If I should die . . .’ said Bertrand.

  ‘Wha
t ?’

  Bertrand shrugged, his armour so well made that it moved on his shoulders as easy as a cloak.

  ‘It’s a possibility. Devils. These low men, these servants of Lucifer who travel with the English king. They cannot be relied upon.’

  ‘You’re not going to die, Robert, my God, you’re a marshal of France. Do you think the English have taken leave of their senses?’

  ‘I think some of them may never have had any. These are new times, Raoul. The old certainties of battle do not apply.’ A great cry from the bank. Their troops were showering arrows on the English, the English returning fire from the bank. A thud as an arrow glanced off Eu’s breastplate. He paid it no notice. There was no way an English bodkin would get through his armour at ten paces. At a hundred the arrows were but summer midges. A great cry and a bristling mass of men came streaming into the barricade.

  ‘There’s one certainty,’ said Eu. ‘French knights fight harder than any devil. Your sword is blessed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then let’s cry havoc and stain these streets with our enemies’ blood !’

  Bertrand smiled. ‘I’ll see you in Heaven.’

  ‘More likely England,’ said Eu. ‘Though we may be in irons.

  Squires, attend me!’

  His young knights closed in, his page Marcel running behind carrying a teeter-tottering lance so much bigger than him it was a wonder the boy could lift it. He was no more than nine years old. ‘Cheaper to get killed than pay your ransom!’ said Bertrand. ‘I’ll remember that when the English come for me! Hold the barricades ! Hold them !’

  Swarms of devils hit the bridges. Giant beetles winging in, bone-faced men crawling over the piled barricades, streams of stoneskins dropping boulders and logs. A volley of blessed arrows from his own men saw the flight of gargoyles turn. Over the river he could hear a terrible roaring. That was no cannon. He told his squires to stand where they were. He wheeled his horse down to the waterfront to see on the other bank a monstrous lion, erect like a man on its back paws. It wore dull grey armour and its mane was like a brush of steel rods. Lord Sloth, Satan’s ambassador. Eu had heard that good servant of God had thrown his lot in with the English.

  His men were exchanging bow fire with the enemy, so he left his horse behind a house. Its caparison was thick but, at such range, the arrows might get through. He, however, was impervious in his armour.

  He held up Joyeuse for the lion to see. Sloth roared again, its breath almost palpable across the river.

  ‘God’s sword!’ shouted Eu. ‘God’s wrath for you, Sloth!’

  ‘I serve Satan, and he serves God.’

  ‘We all say we serve God nowadays. Perhaps this battle will see who the Almighty favours.’

  Arrows peppered the bank. ‘Your angel hasn’t engaged, Sloth.

  It seems it thinks the day is in question.’

  ‘I’ll give you question!’ roared the lion. ‘I’ll—’

  A mighty noise, like a great sigh from behind him. ‘The East Bridge is lost!’ came a cry.

  The lion turned away and ran along the riverbank. Eu ran back, mounted and spurred his horse towards the fray. His men were in flight, the low bowmen of Lucifer at their backs.

  The town was falling. He felt a delicious shiver go through him, like the first kiss of wine on a summer’s afternoon. Men like him were born for days like these. He held high his sword and trotted towards the foe, his knights falling in beside him, the fleur-de-lys fluttering from their pennants.

  ‘France! France!’ he screamed.

  Men stopped, turned, their courage renewed by the sight of such a leader. How many English? It didn’t matter. The bridge was narrow, packed like a marketplace, the invaders disordered, bowmen, bone-faces and men-at-arms, not a lance among them. He levelled his sword and charged, six knights behind him, lances fixed. Panic, utter and complete, as they hit the English line at the trot.

  Such a crush, such a glorious crush. My God, he caused his share of havoc but the English did the rest themselves, panicking, turning, trying to run over the barricade they had so recently overwhelmed, stamping down the fallen, tripping and being stamped. Such terror gripped them that they forgot to fight. His horse reared, but not in panic. Like him, it was trained for this. Its hoof came crashing down on a bone face’s skull, reducing it to powder. He’d had the animal’s shoes rubbed with the blood of St Cuthbert, an anathema to things of Hell. Men hit the water, leaping for their lives. He cut and slashed, not really seeing who he hit, registering success by the judder of his sword. The charge had done its job, numbed minds, broken wills. The enemy didn’t even bother to fight. Yes, you can kill a warhorse if you hold your nerve and present your sword, but say your prayers, for they will be your last. The mind may cry hold but the heart screams run. Weapons were flung down, shields cast aside in the panic to be away.

  ‘To me, France! To me!’

  His men followed his standard into the rabble, casting the English down, forcing them scrambling back across the barricades. ‘Reform the picket!’ shouted Eu. ‘They’ll not come so boldly again !’

  Screams from behind. He wheeled. The shiny black beetle devils were engaging his men on the West Bridge, Bertrand’s white horse among them, death in a circle around it. Another roar from the East Bridge. Oh God, Sloth! He’d forgotten about him. And then a sound he had heard before but hoped never to hear again. People shut in burning buildings screamed like that, men on sinking ships. Something was coming across the North Bridge and his men, veterans of the English wars, were crying like children. He spurred his horse towards the noise to find his troops in a mad flight. A noise like a monstrous drum. The shaking of the earth. A cry in an English voice:

  ‘“He moveth his tail like a cedar: the sinews of his stones are wrapped together. His bones are as strong pieces of brass; his bones are like bars of iron.”’

  Eu lifted his visor to address the fleeing men.

  ‘What ? What ?’

  No sense, just panic. Why were they running? There was nowhere to run to.

  He rode on to the North Bridge. A shiny black beetle flew before him, big as a dog, flapping and biting but Joyeuse cut it down, its body smacking to the stones.

  And then there it was, lumbering on, accompanied by priests, who chanted and sang. It was like an enormous man, four times taller than the biggest knight, fat as the elephant of legend and wielding a headsman’s sword, a long triangle, thick at the end.

  What strength did it need to swing that as a weapon? Its belly was huge and distended but ridged with muscle and a monstrous cock swung beneath its legs. Its upper body was bloated too – long arms as thick as trees. Its head was like a turnip, purple and yellow, a wide mouth full of cruel teeth. Behind it, cautious and creeping, was a mass of men-at-arms. Eu guessed the devil might not be too careful about who it swiped with that great sword.

  ‘Behemoth!’ it shrieked, its voice like the scream of a thousand birds. ‘Behemoth! I am sin’s reward!’

  There were no defenders around it, all had fled.

  Eu’s throat went dry; he steadied himself on his horse, though he did not need steadying. It was as if he stood alone on a mummers’ stage, he the knight, it the monster, acting out the old story. He crossed himself. The thing stank of sulphur and in one hand it carried the body of a knight. It bit off his head like a man might bite the top off a carrot.

  He wanted to turn his horse and run but that was not part of the bargain. Serfs toil, churchmen pray, nobles fight. That was the deal and the higher the noble, the bigger the fight. He felt a tap at his leg. Marcel, his little page, had his lance. He took it. ‘Thank you, Marcel. Retreat to the castle if you can.’

  ‘My place is with you, sir.’

  ‘Not here, boy. Tell my story.’

  ‘I can’t if I don’t watch.’

  ‘Make it up. That’s what you do with knights’ stories.’

  ‘I must fetch more lances.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’
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  ‘They’ll make you a saint for this.’

  ‘No. They’ll make me a saint for the deeds I do after I’ve killed it.’

  ‘Then you will live to tell your own story!’

  ‘That’s not the way it’s done. I would be compelled to be honest.

  Go. Now !’

  ‘Behemoth! Sinners beware! Lord Satan punishes those who break God’s law!’

  The priests before the creature stopped as they saw Eu. They crossed themselves, one dropping his incense burner. A fully armoured knight on a warhorse could do that to an unwarlike man – scare him so much he couldn’t think. Eu had done it to a few warlike men in his time, too. In his plumes and his surcoat, his great shield and his shining armour, he knew what he looked like. Death. Good. He was creating the intended impression. A moment of silence, as sometimes happens even among the fury of battle. In an instant Eu was somewhere else – at home in his lands in Champagne, the summer evening and the honey bee lazy on the violets.

  A wet smack on the stones next to him. The creature had thrown the corpse of the knight at him.

  ‘Behemoth ! Behemoth ! Behemoth !’

  ‘For God, St Denis and for France!’ shouted Eu. He fixed his lance and charged, swiping in at an angle.

  The creature screamed and raised its great sword, but Eu drove the lance into its armpit, releasing it as he went. The point stuck and went in but the creature seemed unfazed, wheeling to strike Eu’s horse across the rump with the headsman’s sword. The animal didn’t even cry out, though Eu felt it stagger and collapse. He’d had enough horses killed under him to know when it was time to dismount and he stepped neatly out of the saddle, light as a dancer, as the horse collapsed to the floor, its back legs severed. He drew Joyeuse, and turned to face Behemoth, the horse’s blood washing over his ankles.

  Two English men-at-arms had rounded the great devil, leaping in with spears to stab at him but one slipped in the horse’s blood and fell, Joyeuse dispatching him quickly. But Eu too slipped and the other man jabbed his spear into him. It bounced uselessly off his breastplate and Eu cut his opponent down at the leg from his position on his arse. On his feet again, quick! A shadow like a bird above him and he threw up his shield. The blow was so hard it collapsed him to his knees. Again, that boiling shriek, like pigs in a barn fire but incomparably louder. Eu rolled, turned. The sword came down once more, sparking off the cobbles beside him.