Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  ‘The boundary is complete, ma’am.’ He gave a flourishing little bow. ‘Then let us prepare for our journey.’

  She opened the casket. Within was her husband’s heart, the heart of a king, tuberous, meaty, still wet with blood. The heart of a king. Carrying such a thing, they could not forbid her entrance. Such a sin against God that they must open the gates of Hell.

  Isabella held the heart above the open grave.

  ‘By the secret names of God, by the suffering of Christ, by my right as a queen of the holy line of Capet, who God blessed to call the spirits of the air and of the land and of the sea and of the ether, admit me to the lands of the damned.’

  She squeezed the heart and its blood spilled into the open grave. Nothing happened. She glanced at the priest. He was fixed in his attention on her, his lips licking at his dry mouth.

  ‘By the secret names of God, by . . .’

  A sensation of standing at a great height overcame her. The mouth of the grave seemed darker.

  ‘Admit me to the plains of Gehenna, to the starless chambers of Caïna, the brass city of Dis, the island of Judecca and the valley of the Wailing River, admit me. Recognise my sin.’

  A sound, a deep bell. Then the buzzing of a fly, the cold metal sound of a drop of water and the hissing of a snake. A smell like burning hair filled the circle. The air was heavy and a gust of heat and cinders blew from the mouth of the grave.

  The friar sank to his knees and vomited into his hands. The gargoyles chattered and squawked like caged birds at feeding time.

  ‘What sinner do you bring, brothers?’ A strange voice, sweet and melodious.

  More cheeping and flapping from the gargoyles.

  ‘Admit her.’

  Isabella knew what to do. She stepped forward into the grave and then she was falling fast, from a brass sky towards a land of fire. Tiny claws seized her, bit at her. She was engulfed by a swarm of tiny devils, each no bigger than a bee, all stabbing at her, hissing like water on a fire.

  ‘I am a queen! I am a queen!’

  They fell away from her, swarming down through the burning air. So hot, so intolerably hot. Even the wind of her fall did not cool her but Isabella steeled herself, forced herself to breathe and be calm. She was falling towards a wide land of fire. Hell was beautiful, burning with colours she had never seen in life, or only in the heart of a jewel – emeralds, rubies, shifting plains of flame, amber smoke drifting towards mountains of steel.

  She might die, might well die. What would happen to her then? A shape drifted in front of her, fell with her. One of her gargoyles? No. It was a great figure, twice her height, shadows flickering around it. A burnt angel with ragged wings, its body fireblack, withered like burnt wood.

  ‘I would speak to the Lord of Hell,’ she shouted. ‘Take me to Satan !’

  The creature extended a finger to the bloody heart she grasped to her chest. It smiled a bone-white grin.

  ‘Yes,’ it said, and caught her.

  6

  They dragged Osbert up towards the light with slaps and kicks, his eyes burning as they adjusted in turn to the flaring torches that spun dancing shadows on the stairwell and then to the dawn pouring through a great open window. His head hurt, his mouth was parched, his belly was rumbling, his hose were heavy with shit. All in all, he felt better than he did most mornings, the presence of the manacles at hand and foot excepted.

  He was up high, on a rampart, hurried along beneath a wooden canopy. Cheers from down below in the courtyard, a mob just glimpsed – dowdy browns and greys shot through with flashes of scarlets and blues. All ranks of society had turned out for this one. This did not bode well – the combination of a mob and an accused man being, in Osbert’s experience, bad news for the accused man. Baying masses generally did not demand that scrupulous justice be done.

  At the end of the rampart, where the walls and the canopy ended, stood de Baux, a knot of four squires in full armour behind him. Osbert’s guards shoved him on towards the lord.

  ‘This is illegal!’ shouted Osbert. ‘I am a man of the Church and have the right to be tried in a Church court!’

  ‘Try this for a learned point of view,’ said a voice behind him. A splitting pain went through his head, the flash of a white light. His ears rang and his vision swam. He sank to his knees but was pulled quickly back to standing.

  ‘Here is the champion of the poor!’ shouted a guard. ‘Here is the King of Shit in his filthy rags!’

  A thump caught Osbert in the middle of the back and he fell forwards onto his face.

  ‘See how he grovels!’

  Osbert gave up. There was no point in standing just to be knocked down again, no point in doing anything. His fate was set.

  ‘Who are you?’ De Baux spoke, loudly to be heard by the crowd.

  ‘I am Osbert of Paris.’

  ‘You don’t sound of Paris.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Another kick to the guts. That one really hurt.

  ‘Tell us the truth. Who did you rob to take the weapons by which you defeated us?’

  No point in lying here.

  ‘An angel.’

  ‘Liar !’

  Smack, a kick right on the tail. It set his spine humming.

  ‘I killed the angel at the Sainte-Chapelle. I used its armour and sword for profit, monetary and carnal.’

  ‘What ?’

  ‘Gold and whores.’

  ‘How did a man like you kill an angel?’

  ‘I was with some others. They stuck the Lance of Christ through it. The sky went black.’

  The mob caught its breath to hear such blasphemy.

  De Baux coughed.

  ‘I have heard such rumours, which is all you have managed. A low man like you couldn’t kill an angel.’

  ‘A low man like me couldn’t kill your knights either, but I did.’

  ‘Through sorcery.’

  ‘No. Though I am a sorcerer.’

  Again the crowd sighed.

  ‘So you admit it.’

  ‘Look, mate,’ said Osbert. ‘That may be seen as a bad thing down here but up in Paris I serve the king. Where do you think the devils that strengthen our armies against the enemies of God came from? From me.’

  ‘Hugh Despenser summoned those.’

  ‘He summoned nothing. I summoned him and all his helpers.’

  ‘If this is the case, why aren’t you the head of a mighty army of devils ?’

  Osbert didn’t really have an answer for that. ‘It’s not my station. I do not command, I follow. I am a loyal servant of the king. I . . .’ Why wasn’t he the head of a mighty army of devils? It had never occurred to him.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, I was court sorcerer to Philip.’

  De Baux smiled. ‘So you are a lucky man. All you need to do is to summon a devil here and it will rescue you.’

  ‘I haven’t the ingredients.’

  ‘How very convenient. The trial is over – throw this fool into the moat.’

  They dragged him down to the unwalled section of parapet. He had always had a fear of drowning but, as they pushed him nearer the edge, he saw his fears were unfounded. The moat was dry. They planned to kill him with the fall. This did not concern him, as he was fairly sure he had the means to survive a drop on to a dry landing. It was what happened when he hit the ground he was worried about. How long would it take de Baux’s men to find a crossbow? Not long, he guessed, and he was in no fit state to run after such rough treatment in the dungeon.

  ‘Will you not save me? People of this castle, will you not save me, protect me as I protected you from your masters? Protect me—’

  A horn sounded in the distance. Osbert lifted his eyes. Dust rose above a copse, halfway to the horizon. A ribbon of riders flowed from the wood.

  ‘Strangers!’ a shout went up.

  ‘Banners !’ Another.

  Momentarily they forget about Osbert.

  ‘Friend or foe?’ said de Baux.

&n
bsp; ‘Not the English!’ A peasant voice, full of panic.

  ‘If it is, then you should know I have acted as their spy!’ shouted Osbert. ‘I have traded court secrets with Edward himself. They will pay handsomely for me!’

  ‘It’s not the English!’ A guard had his hand to his eyes shielding the sun. ‘Those are royal banners!’

  Osbert’s knees trembled. The drop beneath him was steep, the expanse of land in front of the walls vast and with no cover if he tried to run. If anyone had paid attention to what he had said, he would do well to jump. The fate of spies was not a pleasant one – torture.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The king’s constable’s banner. And a white stag on a blue field!’

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ said de Baux.

  ‘La Cerda,’ said Osbert. ‘Favourite of the king. A friend of mine.’

  ‘A friend of yours, you shit-soiled Saracen?’

  ‘Even a king stinks if you don’t let him take off his hose for a week! I told you, I’m the court sorcerer. I killed Hugh Despenser! He hated La Cerda.’ This did not put La Cerda in a very exclusive club, as Despenser had tended to hate anyone who vied with him for royal favour.

  ‘You struck down an God-appointed lord.’

  ‘Believe me, mate, Despenser was far from that by the time I killed him.’

  De Baux looked at Osbert with new eyes.

  The riders from the copse trotted on and two knights from the castle rode out to meet them.

  Banners were dipped, vows exchanged and the riders wheeled back to the keep, the throng behind them.

  ‘Charles de la Cerda, appointed by God-blessed King John!’ shouted a knight.

  ‘Told you,’ said Osbert. ‘Refer me to him, they must fear me lost at Crécy. I will reward you when I return to the king.’

  ‘You will reward me ?’

  ‘Yes. Handsomely.’ Handsomely meaning by intimating to King Philip that de Baux had received English emissaries and should be hanged.

  Two trumpets blew.

  ‘Open your gates in the name of the king of France.’

  ‘You truly can summon devils?’

  ‘Yes, given the right ingredients.’

  ‘What are the right ingredients?’

  ‘Angels’ blood. The relics of saints.’

  ‘We don’t have any of those.’

  ‘Then the dragon?’

  ‘What ?’

  ‘The dragon, that tore the angels at Crécy. I have it. I have it.’

  ‘Where ?’

  ‘It’s in a box!’

  ‘Oh, be quiet, you wretch!’ De Baux put his boot into the middle of Osbert’s back, shoving him from the parapet.

  7

  She had expected that she would be able to fly over the walls of Hell, but no. They extended ever upwards, harsh red clay the colour of old blood towering into invisibility. The angel soared along the length of the wall, and she saw that it was not as solid as she had thought but had the consistency of a wet river-bank, oozing mud. Within it she saw what she had first taken for worms writhing along its surface, but she now recognised them for human arms, reaching out, imploring. As wide as the wall stretched, which was very wide, and as high as it grew, which was for ever, faces and hands broke free of the towering slime, as if on the edge of freedom before being sucked back into the mire.

  ‘The ambitious,’ said the angel. ‘Those who sought to rise above the place God had granted them.’

  Isabella, who was one of the long line of Capetian queens so noted for their skill with devils, who had ordered her husband’s heart torn living from his body to work the magic to be admitted to Hell, who had gazed upon a thousand horrors fondly, now blanched.

  ‘Mortimer.’ How high had he tried to rise?

  ‘Is he there?’ She had to shout, the wind roaring in her ears from the speed of the angel’s flight.

  ‘I do not keep the records,’ said the angel.

  It hugged her tightly, though its claws were gentle on her flesh. She did not fear it would drop her but she felt a mild bite of anxiety that it could deliver what it promised. If it was some wandering fiend simply looking to torment her then everything might come to nothing. No. It would not dare to move against a queen.

  It flew her to where an enormous flow like a waterfall of blood plunged down the wall, falling into nothing, a slope of drier clay on the approach to the flood. The slope bubbled with life, a slaughterhouse cacophony rising up from it. The forms of flayed men pushed against giant wingless flies, bald horses dragged ropes to which were fastened the twitching bodies of broken-winged bird men, of pig-faced men, their throats cut, twitching in the throes of death, though not – as she could see – dying.

  ‘The wall is ever building,’ said the angel, as they dropped towards the bubbling gate.

  Isabella clutched the heart.

  Above the Falls of Blood was a stone lintel, with an inscription: Hic Ego Non. Isabella translated tentatively. Latin had never been a joy to her. ‘I am not here’.

  ‘Who is “I”?’

  ‘Death,’ said the angel.

  ‘Is Death in the rest of Hell?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘If you don’t, then who does?’

  ‘No one. Or perhaps Satan. In the outer circles of Hell there is always hope. It is the tree to which the fungus of despair can cling. Beyond this gate lie terrors unimagined by men. There is no hope of them ending.’

  Isabella swallowed. Would they release Mortimer for the price she was offering?

  They fluttered down to the ground.

  ‘This is the Martyrs’ Gate,’ said the angel. ‘It is made from the blood of those who have died for God.’

  ‘So many,’ said Isabella.

  ‘It is but a splash. We could build a thousand such gates, such has been the suffering of God’s people.’

  The angel released her. The gate towered above her, twenty times her height. The heat was horrid and sweat soaked her.

  ‘New souls for Hell, new souls for Hell!’ the flayed men cried out. ‘Open the inner gate.’

  This was too much for Isabella.

  ‘I am Isabella, queen of the English, daughter of France, of royal blood, appointed by God. Bow to my superiority. I enter first.’

  The ragged angel spread wide its wings. ‘And I am Gader’el, who brought the instruments of war to man, so kings may be kings and those beneath them learn to serve. Open the gate!’

  ‘Only the damned may pass through here. A queen cannot be easily damned.’ A disembodied voice, high and pompous.

  ‘I have killed my husband the king, God’s representative. I have his heart, bloody in my hands. The heart of a king, crowned at Westminster in the sight of God and His angels.’

  ‘Then you have sought damnation,’ said the voice. ‘And the heart of a king is powerful in magic.’

  ‘I have sought it. I bring this bloody gift for Satan. Let me through.’

  ‘Once you have entered there is no guarantee that you can leave.’

  ‘I accept that. There is no worse torment than life without my love.’

  ‘Oh, there is, yes there is. Step through. Take the road to the inmost gate.’

  Isabella didn’t know what to do. She had expected the bloody bloodfall to part or for some road to open but the blood continued its tumult, the damned souls screamed and the angel stood at her side, its wings jittering, insecty and ragged.

  Have faith, Isabella. Have faith in yourself, in your royalty, in your strength and the strength of your love.

  She made her way up the slope, peering through the crashing waters. She could see nothing but the foaming blood, hear nothing but its roar as it fell away into nothing.

  She stepped within.

  This time she did not fall. It was as if a veil of blood passed over her eyes, a flash of scarlet light. Before her was a tiny door within a huge gate, wet with blood. She bent and squeezed herself through it. As she wriggled through, she saw she was emerging into a sunny
glade of cool oaks. Sunlight turned the leaves to filigree. She was in a sort of walled garden, roses all around. She walked through the glade towards a clearing. Here a table was set with a magnificent feast. Stuffed swans, gaping boars’ heads, shiny in their gravy, a striped horse, more fruit and vegetables than she had ever seen, gaudy in greens, yellows and reds swamped the table.

  On top of the table squatted a monstrous ape, pot-bellied and bigger than she was by far. It had patchy, mottled fur. On its head it wore a crown and in its hand it carried a splendid sceptre. It watched her with suspicious eyes before letting out a plaintive caw. With its free hand it picked up a hock of ham and bit in.

  Isabella approached the table. She had expected to see the food crawling with maggots but it looked wholesome and good. The ape gnawed at the ham.

  ‘I am looking for the jailer of Hell,’ she said.

  The ape just gave another great caw, its sharp teeth flashing yellow in its mouth.

  She walked on around the garden. There were eight more tiny doors, as if built to amuse a child, all in weathered wood but strong and solid. Should she take one? She put her ear to a door. She could hear nothing.

  The ape watched her with its slow eyes. She did not know what to do so she sat at the table. Should she wait to be served? Even in Hell they could not expect a queen to carry food from one end of a table to another. It grew dark, the sky above her lit at the furthest extremity of her vision by shining, stormy clouds. No stars but a purple glow in the sky. The ape munched on.

  She got hungry. If no servant appeared soon she would have to take some of the food herself. She feared it, though. What foul tastes, what poisons were steeped in that appealing flesh? Dawn came, her hands wrinkled from holding the blood-slick heart, as if they had been in water too long. Her stomach rumbled. Poison or not, she was going to have to eat the food.

  She reached for an apple. The ape gave a great cry and leapt across the table, shoving her back into her seat, raining blows hard upon her. She shrank down, covering her husband’s heart, fearful the creature might snatch it.

  It retreated and went back to sitting on the table, stuffing itself.