Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  He fingered the vial inside his tunic. It was marvellous stuff. Just a touch could restore youth, a mere smear cover a whole magic circle. One of its most amazing uses was as a cure for drunkenness. You could get beyond smashed, take but the tiniest bit, and the body was all a-tingle leaving you sober as a statue and ready to do it all over again.

  He secreted himself in Pascal’s chamber – next to the king’s own. This was a tiny room with a good straw mattress on the floor, with a connecting door, should his majesty require anything during the night.

  There was no keyhole but the door had a good knot in it that allowed him a peek of the interior. He sniffed at the door. It smelled like a barn in there. Had no one emptied the stool in days? He looked through, hearing the familiar bonking noise. All he could see was a woman’s foot, which appeared to be at an unusual angle.

  The day grew dim and night fell and Osbert dozed.

  Osbert dreamt odd dreams where he was naked, pursuing Aude through a forest, asking for his armour back. He bore her no malice.

  He wasn’t above robbing someone who fell asleep himself. He awoke with a jolt. It was very dark, a thin moon shining through the vellum on the window. There was no noise from the other room. He looked through the knot again. Nothing. He would empty the pan. That’s it. If asked, he was emptying the pan. He took out his little vial and dabbed it to his eyes. The familiar tingle flushed through him. He felt a yard taller, full of energy. Yes, he could do it. Yes. He pushed back the door and looked inside. My God, what sort of devil was this? She was awake, sitting at the side of the king’s bed, her hand in his, gazing into his eyes. Now he could hear the king’s breathing, like a stag at bay, heavy, fast with a sawing rasp to it. Even with the protection of the angel’s blood, it was easy to see that Blanche was some sort of devil. She softly glowed in the darkness, as if lit with an inner, moony light. All her attention was on the king. Osbert kept a good grip on the vial. If the devil cut up rough, it was going to get it right between the eyes. The king groaned, like a man in a fever. He came closer. ‘Just going to empty the pan, My Lady,’ he said. It was as if he wasn’t there. She was transfixed by the king.

  Emboldened, Osbert stepped further within. God’s bouncing balls, the man looked like a corpse. He’d seen healthier looking men on a Plague barrow.

  ‘Wake,’ said Blanche.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ He smiled a servant’s smile.

  ‘Wake, my love, that we may join again in holy bliss. Man and wife, king and queen, blessed by God and releasing the ecstasies of Heaven.’

  Osbert moved the pan with his foot. It was full to overflowing and stank.

  ‘May I take this, ma’am?’

  No reply again.

  He went to the window – in luxurious glass. He removed the panel and then threw the contents of the pot through the open window. Then he replaced the panel. All the time Blanche did not move, but sat enraptured by the king. The king coughed, hard enough to lift him off the bed.

  Osbert went and looked down at him. For the first time, Blanche seemed to notice him.

  ‘Is he not beautiful?’ she said.

  Her attention came over him like the breaking of a wave. He felt weak-kneed, sick, fuzzy-headed and wanted to sit down. This despite the angel blood! This was a powerful devil indeed. Osbert had experienced them in their many forms, but never one so alluring. He had known the fallen angel Sariel and she had seemed as beautiful to him, but he wondered to see such perfection in a devil. Ah well, it was only inhabiting the body of Blanche of Navarre. Perhaps she was already so lovely. He caught himself falling under her spell. No. Time now to get on with his plan. ‘Would you mind?’ She did not reply.

  This was odd. Was she draining the king? He knew this was how succubuses worked – by swiving a man to death. The king had lasted longer than most. But could a devil touch a king without invitation? No time to reason that one out. Just get on with it. He took out his chalk and sketched a circle around her. ‘Mind your feet,’ he said, like a woman scrubbing the floor, as he crawled past her. She didn’t stir. In the devil’s own light he sketched the names of God and of the spirits of the winds. He added a few of the archangels too, for extra security. It might be possible to trap lesser devils by using holy water or crushed-up pieces of the communion host. Any devil that could enchant a king needed stronger measures. Carefully, he dabbed the angel’s blood around the cardinal points of the circle, then traced the full circumference. The lightest patina would suffice. The devil didn’t move. She sat staring at the king. He moved the vial of angel’s blood to the king’s lips to revive him, but thought better of it. No, it would profit him more to do things differently.

  Now for the show that would secure his place in history. Navarre would be undone. His rooms were on the other side of the lodge.

  Prince John’s were much nearer.

  ‘Ready,’ said Osbert. ‘Ready to ascend the ladder to favour again.’

  He crept out of the room and over to Prince John’s door. No guard here, either. The Plague had changed everything. He knocked lightly. No reply. He knocked harder.

  A great shout from within: ‘God’s dangling piles, what time is it?’ That was not the prince’s voice.

  ‘My Lord, come quick. Your father awakes. The enchantment on him is broken.’

  Stirring and grumbling, some cursing. The door opened. It was a groom, still half asleep, carrying a rush light.

  ‘What ?’

  ‘My Lord, tell the prince. It is I, Osbert the sorcerer, who has been working unseen to restore his father to health and break the enchantment he is under. The enchantment is broken and he is restored to health. Come and see!’

  The large figure of Prince John loomed behind the groom. ‘Can it be true?’

  ‘It surely is, sir. It is me, Osbert.’

  John squinted at Osbert. ‘I remember you. Perhaps. There was a fellow . . . What?’

  ‘Your father is free. The reign of Navarre is over. The succubus is defeated and I will restore your father to his full wits and competencies.’

  ‘His what-encies ?’

  ‘Please, My Great Lord. Follow me.’

  John and the grooms traipsed after Osbert to the king’s room. The devil still stared at the king.

  ‘My God,’ said John, ‘he’s worse than he was.’

  ‘But the devil is trapped and I shall restore him, sir.’ Osbert strode across the floor to stand beside the king. ‘What is going on?’ It was Navarre, pushing through the grooms. ‘You are undone, sir. It is I, Osbert, who did best you at Crécy, returned to restore the king to health and sanity.’

  Navarre tried to get into the room but the grooms held him back. Osbert, suddenly aware of the speed of the cat-like king, thought it best to hurry proceedings along. He reached into his tunic, pulled the stopper from the vial, and put it to the king’s lips. The king clutched his throat. Then he sat up and looked about him. ‘Restored!’ said Osbert.

  Philip put his hand to his throat again and coughed heavily.

  And again. Osbert smiled at him and bowed. The king coughed once more.

  ‘I cannot . . .’

  ‘Cannot what, sire?’ said Osbert.

  Later, of course, Osbert would realise the king’s attempted final word had been ‘breathe’.

  Osbert looked at the bottle in his hand and sniffed at it. The bitter perfume scent.

  ‘That was rosewater and belladonna,’ said Charles. ‘You’re not meant to drink it!’

  ‘An error of detail,’ said Osbert, addressing the throng of nobles but looking at the king. ‘I shall give him angel’s blood to restore him.’ He took out the correct vial and applied it to the king’s lips. Wide-eyed, Blanche stared at him.

  ‘Majesty defiled, love cast down. What fiend has done this?’ Osbert now had the correct vial in his hand, unplugged. Oh shit, at least she couldn’t get at him. He was utterly certain he’d dabbed that circle with the right vial, it had been the one he’d used on his eyes. He’d give Navarre a
faceful of that and then. Play it by ear. ‘He isn’t dead,’ said Osbert.

  ‘Here he is,’ said Blanche, ‘here he is! I see his soul departing.

  My love! My love.’

  She threw herself forward off the chair, onto the bed and, Osbert was alarmed to note, out of the magic circle.

  ‘Right,’ said Osbert. ‘Nobles, gentles all, I shall depart.’ He gave a deep bow and made towards the door of the dogsbody’s room, but Charles froze him to the spot with an outstretched finger. ‘Sorcerer! I see you now!’

  ‘My Lord, the devil has escaped!’ said Osbert.

  ‘What devil?’ said John.

  ‘That devil.’

  Blanche looked up at him, her eyes full of hate.

  ‘I am no devil. I am the angel Asbeel, fallen into Hell seeking a way back to God through the love of kings!’

  Osbert put his hand on the door to the dogsbody’s room but Blanche leapt for him with superhuman speed. He instinctively threw the vial of angel’s blood into her face and dived aside. She swiped at him as he moved, knocking him to the ground. When she rounded on him again, though, she stopped. She was splattered with the blood.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘What’s this?’

  She held up her hands.

  ‘Blood of the Archangel Jegudiel, at a guess,’ said Osbert. Blanche screamed, so hard that the men in the chamber covered their ears.

  ‘A sin!’ she said. ‘An abomination! I am contaminated. I am stained!’ She ran for the main door, skittling the men aside and then was gone.

  ‘You will die!’ Charles strode towards Osbert, but Osbert still had the vial and held it up.

  ‘There’s enough of this to scald you, Sir Cat!’ Charles backed away, hissing.

  ‘Shall I cut him down where he crawls?’ said a groom to John. ‘Peace!’ John held up his hand and the room fell quiet. He walked over to the bed where his father lay. Osbert, with his pardoner’s eye for relics, couldn’t help sizing the king up for his worth. If they made him a saint then his hair alone could be sold for a fortune. His teeth, too, were in excellent condition. ‘The king is dead,’ said John.

  Everyone in the room fell to their knees. Osbert, already on the floor, prostrated himself into a full grovel.

  ‘A new king rises.’ John stood tall, slightly ridiculous in just his hose and undershirt.

  Charles had composed himself. ‘Majesty, we must punish his murderer.’

  John turned his slow gaze to the king of Navarre. ‘Cousin,’ he said, ‘it is as if an enchantment has been lifted from me. Was your sister a sorceress?’

  ‘She was, Lord, I see it now. She bewitched me and made me forget the deep love I held for you.’

  ‘And my father, whose reign so blighted the kingdom, who brought us defeat at Crécy, who hated all I loved and loved all I hated, is now gone.’

  ‘Poisoned by this sorcerer!’ said Charles.

  ‘You said it was perfume!’ said Osbert.

  ‘Hold your tongue, you low dog.’

  ‘This man has done us great service,’ said John. ‘He has freed the court of a witch and, though my father died when the spell was broken, his soul is in Heaven and the earthly realm of France is mine.’

  ‘The king of Navarre helped me in this endeavour!’ Osbert thought he might get what favour he could from Charles – a quick death at least.

  ‘Then we are blessed in our friends,’ said John. ‘Long have I thought we should free this court of devils. Now our sorcerer who brought them here is returned to us. When the cathedrals are renewed, when new churches are built and devils and demons banished from the land, then the angels will return. How can we know if the fiends that surround us work for us or our enemies?

  They are not beautiful and they are not necessary. Let us be rid of all devils. Sorcerer, can you do it?’

  ‘With a king’s command and God’s will behind me, I’m sure I can.’

  ‘Let’s not be hasty,’ said Charles. ‘Might not some of these devils be thought to have given good service? Had we more on our side at Crécy, would we not have won?’

  ‘It surprises me you talk of Crécy, cousin,’ said John. ‘There were those who charged that day’s loss to your account.’ Charles audibly gulped.

  ‘I believe,’ said John, ‘that the dragon that tore the angels was a punishment from God because we associated with devils. I believe the pestilence affrighting the land has the same origin. We shall take steps to banish the devils from this court. A magic circle shall surround all our palaces. No devil shall cross it.’

  ‘The English will use devils,’ said Charles. ‘You can bet Lord Sloth will be licking his lips when he hears we have cast such help aside. And what of the demons of the poor who fight for Edward?

  What defence against them?’

  ‘Belief.’ John smiled. ‘Cousin, you are dear to us and have been so since you were a boy. We know you for a hot-tempered and difficult youth and understand that you are jealous of our love.

  You were enchanted and are now free. You shall have ample reward in due course.’

  ‘Make me constable!’ said Charles.

  John held up his hand. ‘My father’s corpse is still warm. Let us deal with things in the proper way. To each thing its own season.’ Charles smiled and bowed.

  ‘Now to work,’ said John. ‘My father’s funeral arrangements must be made. And we have had enough of hiding in Vincennes.

  Let us return to the city and our palaces there. Sorcerer, what do you need to work your magic?’

  ‘Money,’ said Osbert, gazing up with the continuing expectation of a kick in the face.

  ‘Then you shall have it.’

  ‘And access to relics, of course.’

  ‘Those too. This,’ said John, ‘is the day France is reborn. Today we rise again, full mighty in the eyes of God. To Notre Dame and to prayer. But first, send word to La Cerda that the enchantment is broken – the court is free and he may return.’

  ‘Amen!’ said Osbert, casting a sideways glance at Charles, who looked at him with the expression of a cat who has just caught a canary mocking it behind its back.

  John turned from the room and Osbert went scuttling after him, thinking that the closer he stayed to the new king, the safer he would be.

  15

  The count of Eu wrapped his cloak around him, sheltering from a November squall. His horse was tired, the animal blowing out its complaints as he moved towards the gates of Paris. So long hiding, dodging devils before he’d made it home on a ship whose captain had been made desperate by Plague. Those winter seas! What man who was not near starving ever chose to face them, no matter what the reward. An early snow lay thin on the rooftops and spires, even on the roads themselves. He shivered, though not with the cold. At this time of year the suburban tracks were usually too well used to allow any snow to settle. The city above the walls was beautiful but it was the beauty of a sepulchre, the whited bulk of Notre Dame rising up like a nation’s tombstone. He had loved this run in to Paris through the suburbs. This was life at its most vibrant: the tinkers and the labouring men around their fires; the smell of poached game on the wind; the ragged children shouting out to him to buy whatever they thought he might like – women, ale, food. Some would try to touch him for a cure, others would bow as if before God. He felt a sharp duty of care towards these people – they toiled, he fought. That was God’s bargain and he was pleased to bring them peace, if not a relief from poverty. He’d often dreamt of making this journey in his long captivity, but now the way through the hovels appeared as if in a dream – empty, cold and silent. A new land; a new king too, if the reports that had reached Guisnes were true. They were saying the old king had swived himself to death.

  The horse bowed its head, losing its struggle with the wind. He thought how surprising horses must find life. When they are saddled for the day, they have no idea if they are to be taken for a ride across three fields or three countries. Were men so different? Perhaps only in that they delude
d themselves they had some control over their destinies.

  ‘Not long now, old fellow,’ he said, patting the horse’s mane. ‘A nice stable at the court and a bag of oats to chew on.’

  ‘And a nice bed for us.’

  Auhert was at his side – one of six good men he had taken from his county of Guisnes on his way through. They’d been delighted to see their lord – though they’d be less delighted when he sent them home with the news that his freedom had been won by promising the county to English control. Still, that was only yet a promise. He hoped to enlist the help of the king in buying the county back. It was of vital strategic importance, but so was the information he was carrying, exposing Navarre’s plot. He had thought to send a letter with the man dispatched to alert the king to his approach but had decided that the greatest drama – John was a lover of drama – would be achieved by making the announcement himself.

  They waited before the gates of Paris for the king to be informed of their arrival. Not long, he was pleased to note. Trumpets sounded, a great clatter of hooves, and the gates opened to reveal forty Knights of the Star - France’s new answer to the Knights of the Garter - in all their bursting colours sent to receive him. At the front was a courtier. He didn’t recognise him – some middleranking comte in a surcoat of checked blue and gold. It was of good enough material, but not something you’d catch a duke wearing. Not a good sign that no one greater had been sent to meet him. Perhaps they were all dead. He bowed in the saddle.

  ‘My Lord Eu. Comte Dreux at your service. The king expects you.’

  ‘Then lead, sir.’

  The great throng engulfed them and led them at a clatter through the streets.

  He’d been looking forward to Paris – French voices, French language, French smells of garlic and fine cheese. None of that. The streets were not exactly empty but far from the normal bustle he’d expect. Still, he would begin to feel at home soon. Even the air was different here, not the cold, aching wind of England but a crisp cold with the smell of ash fires in the air.

  Much had changed since he had been away – the streets were sparser, the prices greater. The poor were fewer in number, while a mason’s house bore a crest in what looked like it might be gold leaf on the first floor. He tapped the purse at his belt. It was a finely made piece in calfskin, worth a year’s labour to most of the poor. And yet it was empty, while the toiling wretches – their skills made rare and therefore costly by the Plague – decked their homes in filigree. This was the new world, then – the world upside down, God absent or sleeping.