Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  The piper pursed his lips. He looked at Dow sideways like a dog trying to work out a strange squeak. He laughed, a high, idiot giggle.

  Dow killed him too, taking his head straight from his shoulders with a swing of the heavy falchion. Only afterwards did the rage that had risen in him register in his mind. As the weapon swung he was only an observer of his own actions.

  He sank to his knees among the blood and the gold, the bodies of the French poor and the English poor. No, not the bodies. One bowman was still alive, the one with the severed hand. Dow went to him.

  ‘I am sorry, brother. Let me tend to you!’

  He knelt beside him. The man was whispering and Dow leant in to hear his words.

  ‘Gold,’ said the man. ‘Give me gold.’

  Other voices, more men of Lucifer coming in from the street.

  ‘Help me,’ said Dow. ‘Help me here.’

  But they ignored him, diving in among the gore to pick out the fallen coins.

  14

  This , thought Osbert, could be quite a comfortable little nook. Back in the castle, he was shown to a little room in the main keep overlooking the courtyard. He saw how it would all pan out. In the morning he would close the door, burn incense, intone meaninglessly for a while, draw circles in chalk on the floor and pretend, loudly, to be trying to summon Charles of Navarre. He didn’t even know if that was possible, but he was fairly sure it wasn’t possible for him – particularly given the materials at his disposal which amounted to chalk, candles, incense and not a lot else. After an hour or so of chanting, he’d put a chair against the door, wrap himself in a rug and return to sleep.

  This happy fantasy had seemed like reality until the first night.

  He’d even managed to find a bottle of brandy. Drinking alone with only the light of the moon cutting through the slit windows to see by, there had been an attempt to open the door. As he had wedged a chair against it, it was impossible to open. A knock followed. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Open the door.’ It was La Cerda’s voice, thick and low. Osbert hurriedly removed the chair and did as he was bid. In the gloom of the keep, La Cerda’s olive skin almost shone gold. There was a radiance to him and Osbert would have sworn the chamber was lighter for his presence.

  The lord was unaccompanied. He came in and closed the door behind him.

  Osbert made the sign of the Cross and bowed his knee. ‘What are you, Lord?’

  ‘A lover of God,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘You are surely a saint.’

  ‘Not yet. It’s said my line is holy and I hope to be one.’

  ‘Offspring of angels!’

  ‘Of Abel, who was Adam and Eve’s son, slain by the hand of his brother, the first martyr.’

  ‘Oh, bad luck!’ said Osbert, for want of anything else to say.

  That story had always confused him. God made Adam and Eve, yes. They begot, or begat – he couldn’t remember which – Cain and Abel. The next thing you know humanity is all over the place begging the question of what went on in the Garden of Eden.

  On the other hand, did it not say in the Bible that God made a whole lot of humans on day six? It was a long time ago; things got confused.

  La Cerda said nothing. He simply reached inside his coat to produce a small box.

  He passed it to Osbert. ‘You want me to . . . open it?’ asked Osbert. ‘Well, I don’t want you to swallow it, by Christ’s cullions.

  Open it.’

  The box was good dark wood, perhaps walnut, inlaid with silver clasps, finely worked. Osbert undid the clasp and tipped back the lid. He gasped. Inside was a key, but a key the like of which he had never seen. It seemed to hover above the cushion of the box.

  It was made of fragments of tiny emeralds, all hanging in a little cloud. Then, in a breath, the emeralds turned like starlings and were a mist of blood, still in the shape of the key.

  ‘The Key of Emerald and Ruby,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘What strange door does this fit?’

  ‘It is a key to Hell. I want you to use it to lock Navarre away where he belongs.’

  Osbert felt a chill come over him. He had been to Hell before, stood before the first gate when Dow had opened it. He had no wish to go back there or to open a gate himself.

  ‘Where did you come by such a thing?’

  ‘I told you that my line is descended of Abel, the first martyr.

  We have custody of the Cave of Treasures where his body was laid. This key, God himself made from his blood.’

  Osbert trembled. ‘That’s Abel’s blood swimming about there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you would simply pass it to me?’

  ‘You must use it.’

  ‘But the key for which gate?’ He knew the Antichrist Dow had the key to the first gate. Montagu had another which he had taken at Caesar’s Tower in the old Temple of the Hospitallers. So this was two, three or four. Whatever, it couldn’t be used without at least Dow’s key. And, from what he knew of that miserable, slightly crazy boy, he was unlikely just to hand it over with a ‘God bless you, Lordling.’

  ‘Why trust me with it?’

  La Cerda drew him close, far too close. He spoke no more than a span from nose to nose.

  ‘I have consulted a thousand learned men. I have seen men call shapes from the air. I have heard the rattle of demons within magic circles. All these things. But you, you, with your drink and your coarse talk, you have raised armies of devils. I have heard it said you went to Hell yourself.’

  ‘I have travelled there but, in truth, Lord, did not much like the weather.’

  ‘You will do as I say, you will achieve what I want, or you will suffer under those skies eternally. You are as sure of damnation as any man I have known.’

  ‘Why not just kill Navarre, Lord?’

  ‘Not so easy. He still retains Prince John’s favour, enough at least to protect him. If he could be banished to Hell then no one could complain that it was other than the will of God.’

  ‘Why do you bear him malice, Lord, if I might make so bold?

  Which I just have.’ Osbert watched the little key turning its colours, glowing in the dark of the room.

  ‘I sense what he is.’

  ‘A devil ?’

  ‘Worse. A devil who does not know his place. A thing out of nature. He should bow before kings but he plots against them.’ The key turned, dissolved and reformed in front of him. Osbert felt sick.

  ‘This is great magic, Lord. This . . .’ He ran out of words and then heard himself say, ‘Do you have a right to use this?’

  ‘You are impertinent,’ said La Cerda. ‘But I will answer you, hoping it will help you in your efforts. It has been in my family for generations after Abel. I am descended from Saint Louis, king of France. It’s said he took it on crusade.’

  ‘Louis was of the Capetian line of kings?’ The inference was clear. So was Charles of Navarre. Shouldn’t he be La Cerda’s ally? ‘And God willed that the Capetians fell. The Valois are God’s appointed kings and I will serve them. But if God wills that they fall . . .’

  Osbert did not need the rest explaining to him. If the Capetians staked a claim to the throne again, it would be through La Cerda, or his allies, not through the wild King of Navarre.

  Carefully, Osbert closed the lid of the box.

  ‘Will this help your magic?’ said La Cerda.

  Osbert wanted to reply honestly, ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’

  However, great men don’t wish to hear such things. ‘Yes, Lord,’ he said. ‘Yes. One other thing might help, though.’

  ‘Yes ?’

  ‘You have angel’s blood in your veins, however weak. It might . . .’ La Cerda snatched the brandy cup from Osbert’s hand and emptied the little liquid that still remained in it onto the floor. He drew his knife, rolled up his sleeve and cut into his forearm, just where the barber makes his cut. When he had squeezed out half a cupful, he held his arm up.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Fo
r what good it might do you.’ He tore a strip off his shirt sleeve and, before Osbert could stop him, reached over to take the bottle of brandy from the table. He doused the wound in the precious liquid, then applied what remained to the cloth and bound it about his arm, enlisting Osbert to tie it off. ‘Brandy for wounds?’

  ‘My physician recommends it and we’ve found it stops swelling and putrefaction.’

  ‘Modern times!’ said Osbert, looking at the empty bottle, secretly wishing this wasteful practice would not catch on.

  When La Cerda had gone, Osbert sat looking at the little box on his table. He had seen Dow use such a thing but he doubted he could. First, to know the way to proceed, he would have to summon his familiar.

  * The next morning, he set about the task, drawing a magic circle in imitation of the one carved on his belly, marking it with La Cerda’s blood. Whatever the nobleman had in his veins, it was not angel’s blood or, if it was, then a very weak imitation of it. It did not tingle on his fingers nor did it alleviate his hangover when he licked at it.

  Still, he drew the circle, called the names of the spirits of the compass, invoked the archangel and called out the name of his familiar – Gressil.

  The creature popped up, wriggling through the slit of the window. It was like a rat only much larger.

  ‘Ah, my familiar,’ said Osbert, as the little creature appeared at his window.

  ‘Ah, my familiar,’ it said, hopping into his room.

  ‘We’ve had this before,’ said Osbert. ‘You are my familiar, not I yours.’

  ‘I called you here.’

  ‘No you didn’t, I was dragged here in chains.’

  The creature raised its eyebrows. ‘Almost as if you were summoned.’

  ‘I summoned you! Look – the circle, the candles, the blood.’

  The creature shrugged. ‘I was on my way here anyway.’

  ‘You were on your way here! Look. I need your help. But first I need to bind you to silence.’

  He went to the circle and hummed a spell of control. ‘By the four humours of man, by the power of the Holy Spirit, by Christ’s blood which . . .’

  ‘You could just ask me to keep a secret,’ said Gressil.

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  The rat said nothing, illustrating, thought Osbert, his remarkable powers of silence.

  ‘All right. You will promise on Christ’s blood not to divulge what I am about to tell you.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Gressil.

  Osbert picked up the little box and opened it in front of the rat.

  Its eyes bulged in its head.

  ‘How do I use this?’

  The rat visibly gulped. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘I’m a magician, not a mind-reader. How do I know what you think it is?’

  ‘It’s a key to Hell. The Key of Emerald and Ruby.’

  ‘Then it is what you think it is. I need it to open the gates of Hell. To throw someone in.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gressil. ‘That will be a problem.’

  ‘Why ?’

  ‘Because to use that key, you’ll need to already be in Hell.’

  ‘How so? I have seen such keys used.’

  ‘You have seen one such key used. The key to the first gate. That is the key to the third. And who knows what terrors await in there ?’

  ‘So who has the key to the second gate?’ wondered Osbert.

  Actually, that was pretty much his second thought, after I wonder how long I can stall La Cerda on this one. La Cerda was descended from a line of saints but he doubted the nobleman possessed their patience. High men didn’t like to be burdened with details such as ‘There are two gates, erected and sanctioned by God himself, between me and using the key you have so generously bestowed upon me. That, and an army of fiends, tormented souls and God knows what.’

  If Osbert obtained the first key from Dow then he could lock Navarre in the first layer. But would that be enough? He would not at all put it past the king of Navarre to bargain his way out. And he knew there were little cracks in the walls of the first two layers, as well as postern gates to release the lesser devils. The fact that he had never encountered anything from the third told him that such gates and cracks were fewer there.

  However, there were problems. He would need the key from Dow and then he would have to find who had the second key. He had his plan.

  ‘You can talk to the ympes of the air,’ said Osbert, flapping back his arms and suddenly feeling rather important.

  ‘No. I’m a devil, not a demon,’ said Gressil.

  ‘Oh, that’s that plan swived then. I need to find the Antichrist.’

  ‘He was at Calais the last I heard.’

  ‘Then find him. Get that key to Hell. If you can’t steal it, bargain for it.’

  ‘What shall I tell him?’

  Osbert thought for an instant.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Some old cullions. Tell him I have the third key. If he gets me the first and second, he’ll only need the fourth and he can let Lucifer out.’

  The rat ducked, as if someone had taken aim at his head.

  ‘Well, go on,’ said Osbert.

  The rat pulled back its lips over its teeth, crossed itself and squeezed out through the slit of the window.

  ‘Now,’ said Osbert, rubbing his hands. ‘On to another ritual. This one, I think, requires wine and a harlot.’

  15

  Eu lay on a couch in his pavilion, Marcel the page before him, two shards of Eu’s lances under his arm. It was night and a beeswax candle cast its uncertain, wavering light against the cloth of the tent, making Eu wonder if he was still suffering the effects of the knocks the prince had dealt him. His whole body hummed with the force of the blows he had taken. Still, the Black Prince was in a worse condition, it was said. His wound had bled heavily and, though it had been bound, he had lost consciousness.

  If this had happened at Crécy, Eu would have been delighted. However, it was simply not the form to deal your hosts a mortal blow – even if those hosts would not let him leave.

  ‘You have scoured the entire ground?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Lay out the shards before me.’

  The shards were blue, tipped with black.

  ‘And the lances I was provided with were just like this?’

  ‘Yes, sir. What difference would it make if they were not? A lance is a lance, isn’t it?’

  Eu smiled. He liked this boy for his boldness. Some men expected their pages to be no more than mute servants, but Eu thought that boys who would grow to lead armies in war needed to learn to question and reason, rather than unthinkingly obey.

  ‘There are essentially only two sorts of lance,’ said Eu. ‘Blunt and sharp. Blunt ones, on the whole, do not go through the best German armour like – as the Prince said – “a finger through the crust of a pie”. In fact, it would take an uncommonly good sharp lance to do that.’

  He thought about the prince’s jousting armour. He had worn a breastplate with an extra layer of iron over the unshielded right side. There was a small lip where the plate protruded, exactly where the breach in the armour had occurred. A blunt lance would shatter against that. A good, sharp lance might stick. But that didn’t matter, because the armour wasn’t designed to be used against sharp lances.

  The page looked pale.

  ‘What is it, Marcel?’

  ‘Sir, this was my first tournament, and in a foreign land.’

  ‘Yes ?’

  The boy drew in a deep breath.

  ‘Another page approached me and tried to offer me help.’

  ‘What other page?’

  ‘I don’t know. Everyone here is strange to me.’

  ‘Did he bear the livery of any great house?’

  ‘He bore a fleur-de-lys on his tunic. I thought it strange. An English boy – real English, I mean, not from the court, I think. He did not speak well in French.’

  A fleur-de-lys? The royal sign of France.
That didn’t mean much – Edward had added the symbol to his arms as a statement of his claim to France. Eu’s own arms, as constable, bore it. The two countries were so entwined that it could belong to anyone. And would someone seeking to provide him with a sharp lance really be so bold as to announce who they were?

  ‘How did he help you?’

  ‘He didn’t. I wouldn’t let him. You are my responsibility, no one else’s. I have that honour.’

  ‘So you told him to be on his way?’

  ‘Yes, but he wouldn’t go.’

  ‘So you fought?’ Eu knew what happened when pages disagreed. Boys being schooled for battle were rarely shy with their fists.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And ?’

  ‘Another page called me “Frenchy” and ran away with your lances. You were about to enter the lists! I thought I would die.’

  ‘So you chased him and retrieved them?’

  ‘Yes, by our pavilion. The trumpets were sounding.’

  Eu saw easily what had happened now. The lances had been swapped. Marcel had been distracted and a sharp lance substituted for his blunt one. How had anyone not noticed? Perhaps the sharp point was coloured black. Perhaps it was cleverly disguised with a light foil of wood, a bung of wood with a core of metal. Anything could be done; he had heard of such tricks played before – or rather, he’d heard rumours of them. But, if the lance had been sharp enough and strong enough to pierce the prince’s breastplate, surely it would not have broken. It would have gone straight through his chest and come out the other side. Eu had felt lances torn from his hand in battle in just such a way. If you were going to go to the trouble of providing a lance with a sharp point, surely you would bother to make sure the lance was a proper, solid war lance and not a weakened jousting weapon.

  He tasted blood in his mouth. His head ached. He really needed to go to sleep. But what was going on? Had there been an attempt to have him murder the Prince of Wales? There were easier ways of killing the prince than that – though if you started assassinating the heirs of major European thrones, where would you end up? Italy, probably. The thought made him smile momentarily.