Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  ‘She has arrived late,’ said Charles.

  ‘She fears you, brother.’

  ‘A dutiful sister has nothing to fear from me.’

  Longueville smiled. ‘Perhaps it is the duty she fears.’

  ‘She certainly hasn’t done it with Peter of Castile.’

  ‘He had a say in the matter.’

  ‘Only because his father indulges him.’

  ‘We should press him more greatly now the English girl has been dealt with.’

  ‘I have bigger ambitions for her.’

  Into the square before the cathedral came two tall outriders on coal-black horses, sporting the golden castle of Castile on their red surcoats. Clattering behind them, his sister’s coach, accompanied by six more riders, red and gold pennants streaming from their lances. Behind that came the coaches of her ladies, pack mules and servants bringing up the rear.

  Blanche had come from Castile, where she was at the court of Alfonso, trying to flutter her eyelashes at his oldest son, Peter. It had met with failure. Peter was not to Blanche’s liking, nor, it seemed, she to his. He had developed an affection for blonde women, whereas her hair was as dark and deep as sable fur, like her father’s. Beside that, he had the violent temper of many of the Burgundian kings.

  She had managed to wriggle free of her obligations by a combination of wit and charm, and then Joan of England had come along to save her. Blanche Sagesse – Blanche the Wise – was what her friends called her. Blanche the bloody awkward, Charles called her. With a little more effort, a little more willingness to get on her back, she could have won him, he was sure. He needed Castile on his side as leverage against La Cerda. She could have taken a few bruises and kicks up the arse for that. Still, now there were bigger fish to fry. A knight opened the door of her carriage and she stepped down.

  The mob in the square would later say it was as if the sun had emerged from behind a cloud, as if a base cloth had been removed to reveal a priceless jewel beneath. The mob were never much for poetry but, when he looked back in future years, Charles would be forced to agree with them. All the women of his family were beautiful but some seemed possessed of a deeper allure. Like his aunt Isabella, here was a woman who could make a country fall in love with her.

  But unlike his aunt, she was his subject. She would be useful. Blanche bowed to Charles. ‘King. Brother. My dearest Charles.’ She was a vision – two years older than him at nineteen, dressed in a long blue cote-hardie tailored tight to her body in the latest style. ‘Do you have Peter yet?’ He, of course, knew that she did not. She gave a little moué with her mouth. ‘He’s not interested in plain old me.’

  ‘You don’t look that plain to me. You are going to have to land me a king sooner or later, you know. If you need instruction in womanly tricks, half my mother’s ladies were old sluts, I’m sure they could offer some pointers.’

  ‘There are strumpets enough in Castile, if I should ever need such advice, which I’m sure I should not, being a lady of high virtue.’

  ‘The point is to remain of high virtue while suggesting that, should he marry you, you will perform deeds to make the whore of Babylon blush.’

  ‘Thank you for that, brother. You have developed the customary kingly bluntness rather quickly, I see.’

  Charles smiled. He hardly knew his sister, really. She’d gone to Castile at twelve, and before that had largely been at the family estates in Normandy. Still, he liked her. No spaniel, to flip onto her back in submission. He looked hard at Blanche. Did he recognise something of himself in her? Her eyes, her manner of tilting her head. Catlike? Had his mother, who had lain with a devil to sire him, lain with one to beget her too? He hoped not. It would make his plans for her difficult. He concluded he was being overly worrisome. All the women of the family had a bit of bite about them. None more so than the one now arriving.

  It was his aunt Isabella – dressed as a poor sister and carried on the back of a donkey. She was attended by five nuns and only one knight. Overdoing the penitent thing, he thought, but then there were always spies around. He’d seen a stoneskin flapping to the roof of the castle. At whose command? Perhaps the Pope or Edward would hear of her lowly state and do – what? Her motivations were opaque to him.

  ‘Now here’s a woman who gets what she wants.’

  Isabella dismounted the donkey. No nun ever dismounted like that – more like a squire trying to show off at a tournament than a bride of Christ.

  Charles kissed his aunt’s hand. He felt no thrill like other men said they felt when they saw her, let alone touched her. His mouth was dry. Did his devilish nature help him resist her? Or was it something else ?

  ‘Your convent is comfortable?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But that’s rather the point. Penitence and all that.’ She smiled briefly.

  ‘I have what we need,’ he whispered.

  ‘I guessed you might. Did your mother pass by fortune or design?’

  ‘God blesses me.’

  ‘Well, we’re about to see, aren’t we?’ She crossed herself. The gesture irritated Charles. There was a slight nervousness to it. He liked to think of her as bold and fearless.

  ‘The angel has received me before.’

  ‘In a half-hearted way, if the stories I heard were true. Things may be clearer now you are unambiguously the king.’

  ‘I was unambiguously the king before!’

  She put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Then perhaps you should have dug old Richard’s heart up and left your mother to her sewing,’ she said quietly.

  A stoneskin settled on the spire of the cathedral, black against the cerulean blue of the sky.

  ‘Is that yours?’ Charles asked.

  ‘I need some protection.’

  ‘I wish you would keep it away. It frightens the people. This is little Pamplona, not London where devils are everyday sights.’

  ‘It is a servant of God.’

  ‘A point that is largely lost on the mob.’

  ‘What do you care what the mob think?’

  ‘They are useful. Aunt, tell it to leave. No, don’t. You cannot be seen to command it.’

  ‘My stoneskins are useful too. I hear tell of La Cerda. Strange news from the south.’

  ‘What news ?’

  ‘He has taken some southern fortress, no more than a pile of rocks, and is brewing foul sorceries there.’ She sounded like a grand lady pretending to be shocked by some minor court scandal. ‘Then let us brew a sorcery of our own.’ The stoneskin flapped and readjusted itself. ‘After the angel is summoned, I’ll blast it to atoms.’

  ‘It will appear when you are crowned?’

  ‘It should.’

  His aunt was disturbing to him now. So like his mother – blonde and pale, delicate hands. He had never seen Isabella’s power to move men before. Now he understood it more. Her eyes were like a cat’s, though not in the way his were. They had the slink and slide of a cat winding at your feet – pulling you on, pushing you away. ‘You have the heart?’

  ‘In a vase by her body.’

  ‘You are truly a resourceful boy. I will need to watch you.’

  ‘We will guard you from night prowlers, from demons and beasts, for as long as we are friends.’

  ‘Then let us always be friends.’

  Was that, thought Charles, a declaration of war? No. His aunt needed him.

  They entered through the high doors, into the massive interior, cool after the sun of the hot day. Already priests were awaiting them, his mother’s body laid out in front of the high altar, draped in a sparkling cloth of gold. The angel wasn’t there, it seemed, though it could not fail to appear with so much royalty present. Could it?

  There were two people notably missing. His uncle John, prince of France. John’s father too, Philip, the king. He had not expected him to come, but Charles had high hopes John would have made the effort. They had sent a message and he would have delayed the coronation, if only there had been a reply. But there was no
reply. The nobles filed in behind him, the gentry behind them, and the lower folk who could shove and squeeze their way through the doors behind them. Charles felt his eyes fill with tears as he approached his mother to kiss her. She smelled of frankincense and the bitter herbs she had been stuffed with to preserve her in the southern summer. If only she hadn’t been so . . . So there.

  Always in the way.

  He turned to the congregation.

  ‘We know well who did this. The demons of the poor, flying by night. My mother was a good and kindly woman who did not deserve this fate. I pray to God that they send such a demon for me so I may send it back to Hell.’

  He drew his sword.

  ‘Too long has Navarre knelt, been bullied by Castile, gone begging when it might have gone armed for war with demands and threats. I will make this country great again. I will avenge, with my own hands, the death of my mother, the . . .’ The Norman girl was standing to his right, he noticed, her eyes red with tears.

  He stalled, his breath catching. Then he said, ‘We will cry no more. If there are to be tears in our lands they will be those of our enemies, brought here in chains. I am the end of tears. I am the beginning of light, of glory, of riches beyond imagining.’ As if on cue the angel inhabited the angled sunbeams of the church, turning them to the appearance of flowing silver water. ‘We are blessed by God!’ shouted Charles.

  ‘Amen!’ said the congregation ‘Welcome, Asbeel!’ said Charles. ‘Come and dwell in the beauty of our church, of our crown.’

  A shitty church, a shitty crown. No wonder the archangels dwelt in the beauty of St Denis or the Sainte-Chapelle. This scraggy little angel was the best they could attract in Navarre. And yet it was more than all of France and England had for the moment. ‘There is blood.’ The voice was like the shifting of sand in a rattle, like the stirring of the sea. The beams of light turned red.

  The congregation breathed in, as if in echo.

  ‘The blood of kings that flows in my veins,’ said Charles. The light deepened to purple, as if his royalty had been respected by the angel and it had answered with the best of colours. ‘Not all royal blood flows here.’

  God’s cobs, the thing had chosen the moment of his coronation to start making sense, and the worst sort.

  ‘Respect us,’ said Isabella. ‘Respect me, scion of so many royal houses; respect Charles who God has raised to this position.’ Now the light split into glittering silver snowflakes that filled the church but never settled on the body. A beautiful chill came into the room, the sound of chimes and music.

  ‘God has work for you,’ said the angel.

  Charles raised his sword again and the congregation applauded. ‘God raises you up.’

  Wild applause.

  ‘High is the precipice. Would you throw yourself down?’ Isabella was on her knees, the congregation following suit. She mouthed prayers and crossed herself.

  ‘Will you lead our armies?’ Charles asked.

  ‘We will deal with you. Lady, the leader is near. He is shaping the light. He is taking form.’

  The thing had stopped making sense again. Charles liked it better like that.

  ‘How shall we go on, how shall we proceed?’

  ‘The poor,’ said the angel. ‘Use the poor. A time of trial. A time of darkness. You have something.’

  ‘I have the heart of a queen,’ said Charles, under his breath. ‘And what would you have for that?’

  ‘A weapon against my enemy.’

  ‘A bribe to the jailers of Hell,’ said the angel. ‘For a time I would be free of the struggle, of the stink.’

  What was it on about? This angel had long been perplexing. Blanche walked out of the congregation, up to her brother. Her eyes were on the shifting light, her hands raised. ‘For a while. Friend, free me,’ said the angel.

  ‘You are mad and cannot be allowed through.’ Where did that voice come from? Rasping, like a devil’s.

  This was not going the way Charles had expected. ‘In here?’ His sister pointed to the silver vase containing the heart. ‘In there.’

  ‘Sister!’ Charles went to stop her, but she had picked up the vase. ‘Free me !’

  Why did an angel need freeing? They could be everywhere. Blanche pulled the stopper from the vase and raised it up to the shifting light.

  ‘Free me.’

  She upended the vase and took out the heart.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Here.’

  The blood coursed down her arm. Dark clouds boiled in the vault of the church. The people fell to the floor, abasing themselves. A voice, like the moan of the wind.

  ‘You will undo all our schemes, sister, you will undo them all,’ said Charles.

  ‘I will fulfil them!’ said Blanche.

  The great cloud descended on her like a vortex. Lightning flashed and the air turned to ozone. Charles felt the hair stand up all over his body. Thunder, and his sister fell to the floor. The lower people panicked and ran, the nobles remained gawping. Only the Norman girl came forward to help his sister. Isabella seemed dumbstruck, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘All is beauty. All is beauty!’ said Blanche.

  ‘Blanche! Blanche!’ said Charles.

  ‘I am Asbeel,’ said his sister. ‘Trapped in Hell when the gates shut on the bright enemy Lucifer. I have been a long time shining in the darkness.’

  Her beauty was the beauty of the heart of a jewel, and all men who saw her fell in love with her so they were as stone statues, rooted where they stood.

  Isabella smiled.

  ‘You will need,’ she said to Charles, ‘to keep her in a veil.’

  7

  Philippa stood from where she knelt, her knees stiff despite the prayer cushion. These days, she was hardly ever not at prayer and her knees were not thanking her for it. She looked out from her chamber window over the fields of Windsor, the river silver under a clipped coin moon. She had spent many such nights here since the death of Joanna, restless, tired, praying for an answer from God, fearing to receive one.

  She felt cooped up at Windsor, though she was glad of the protection its walls gave from the blue sickness that was ravaging the country like the angel of death. Worse than the angel of death. In Egypt that had only taken the firstborn son. This affliction took everyone. They had suffered at Windsor, but nothing like what had gone on in the wider country. She heard tell of towns where everyone and everything died, down to the dogs in the street. Edward told her it had even hit Scotland now – the Scots swooping down over the border to plunder the dying English and laugh at God’s judgement on them. Most of the clansmen hadn’t even made it home, and those who had brought pestilence trailing with them. A grim loot indeed. This was the puzzling thing about the Pestilence – it made no distinction for rank, for country or family. If God had sent a plague to punish the English then why punish the Scots too?

  She had thought that the Plague had visited those who had made pacts with devils – as England had done – but the Scots had no such pact. No devil had accompanied them on their raids; no demon either. It made no sense at all. She crossed herself. Was it true, what they said? God had made Satan to keep Lucifer, the rebellious angel, in Hell? That devils were the jailers of Hell, demons the lost souls and fallen angels that were imprisoned there. It seemed to be so, and now the English court was thick with the creatures – most notably the hideous Lord Sloth, the Iron Lion. She had seen him eat a three year old bullock at one sitting, uncooked.

  At her back, her ladies dozed. She crossed herself, said a prayer for the living and the dead. Old Goedelle, who had come with her when she had married Edward, snuffled and turned, her snores like someone dragging a table. She had thought many times to have her removed from her bedchamber, but Goedelle had been with her so long and served so loyally that it would seem too great a slight. And at least she had survived. So many had not.

  Her daughter’s costume from the Round Table Tourney still lay across a chair, as if it might stand and magically fill with th
e living Joanna. She kept that in her memory in favour of any more ladylike dress. She remembered her on that day, dressed as Lancelot. The older folk were scandalised to see women dressed as men, but surely a little colour and adventure was allowable. She wished the old folk were still alive to be scandalised, the young who had shocked them, too.

  The night was warm for April and the smell of the fields and woods was sweet in her nose. Some old smell of fern suddenly recalled home – Hainault, all those years ago – and she had a longing for the foods of her youth. Her cooks had never got the hang of eels in green, nor rabbit in beer, nor any of the other dishes in which she had delighted as a girl.

  Joanna would not leave her mind. It was as if she stood beside her, bright, lively, lovely Joanna. She had never liked Prince Edward, though she had been raised with him at Marie de St Pol’s manor in Cambridge. She crossed herself again. That lady had been suggested by Queen Isabella, the king’s sorcerous mother, and accepted without protest by her son. Was St Pol chosen for a reason? Such thoughts have a life at midnight and scuttle like rats in the attic of the brain.

  She knelt to pray again. But she did not know what to pray.

  The air was very still, she thought; even old Goedelle her maid had stopped her snoring.

  ‘God Almighty, I am your servant Philippa. I . . .’

  She thought of all the other people like her, pious souls on their knees for God, begging Him to relent in His persecution of the world. Kings and queens, priests and, no doubt, the Pope had prayed for remission of the Pestilence. And yet nothing.

  She knelt for a long time, as if the pain in her knees would in some way please God and make Him take the Plague away. She felt hot tears on her face as she murmured her daughter’s name. Even this felt selfish, full of pride. Why was her loss so much more important to her than that of the rest of humanity? England was a country of the dead and she, a royal, whose God-appointed task it was to protect the people, had been powerless.

  ‘Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me. Forgive us.’

  Goedelle stirred in her sleep. ‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘He’s here.’