Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  ‘You had a good trip from England?’ Dreux was at his side.

  ‘Passable, sir, passable.’

  It had taken him an age to get back to Paris. The Norman lords were vacillating between England and France – or so it was said. He had no doubt that they had come out for England, following the lead of Charles of Navarre. He had no doubt now that the boy was wildly ambitious. He cherished the constableship and the risk of Eu falling into his hands – or worse, those of his thuggish brother – was too great. He could not risk Dieppe, could not risk Caen. Calais was under Luciferian control under the woman Greatbelly. Anglo-Gascon mercenaries were burning half the south. In the end it had been Sluys and a trip through Flanders in disguise. The count of Flanders would have snared him in an instant if he had known, but he was currently closer to France than England, so less likely to get word of Eu’s passage through his lands.

  God, the winter sea. It had cost a fortune he didn’t possess to get a captain to take him in November. Luckily the man would sail on a promise.

  ‘Not going to the Louvre?’ said Eu.

  ‘King John prefers the Tour de Nesle,’ said Dreux. ‘He finds the air sweeter. He has a mind that the Plague is carried by low vapours, so prefers to spend time as high as he can.’

  ‘As good a theory as any I’ve heard.’

  ‘My view is that it’s a punishment from God.’

  ‘Whatever for? We can’t all be guilty – French, English, Florentines, Romans, Castilians and the rest of the world.’

  ‘God is offended everywhere,’ said Dreux. ‘I blame the devils. We should never have allowed them.’

  ‘John has done well to banish them.’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘Navarre ?’

  ‘Still hanging around like a bad smell. It’s good to see you, Constable. We’ve missed your wisdom.’

  ‘And I yours,’ said Eu, though he couldn’t recall ever seeing the man in his life.

  They neared the Tour de Nesle where John had set up his court. A strange place to choose – more of an extended fort on the left bank of the river. All along the bridge to the tower, John’s banners stood, gaudy and limp in the cold air, a shivering man-at-arms beneath each – the handsome braziers at their backs doing little to drive away the cold, it seemed. His own flag was missing, he noted, those of La Cerda in the prominent position next to the king’s own on the steps. Well, he’d always had to contend with favourites; it would be no different now.

  Eu wondered about the cost of all this. The country was crippled, it was well known – bandits, Englishmen, Gascons, Normans, every sort of pillager on the prowl. And now it was facing invasion. Despite his misgivings, Eu had to concede, this was a more kingly display than Philip had ever bothered to put on. And perhaps John was right to offer a little pomp, a little show after the dour Plague years. The count himself thought he might add substance to the appearance of joy with the news he was bringing. A traitor unmasked, an invasion undone. He was pleased to bring the news – to prove his value so quickly again.

  A gaggle of pages came forward to meet them and Eu slipped down from his horse. He looked up at the tower. He remembered what had gone on here – the Valois women up to their old devilsummoning tricks again. Was that why John was here? Did he use their summoning chambers? Or did he think protection was possible there – some circle or device to keep away the Plague and assault by demons? God, if the angels could come back . . .

  So much to tell John, so much to do to set the realm back on its feet again.

  Up the stairs to the tower and the doors were flung open. Two Navarrese footmen on duty. He steeled himself. Now to face Navarre.

  ‘God,’ he offered up a prayer, ‘let right prevail. Give me the words I need.’

  More trumpets sounded and he went within the tower, where the first devils had been said to come to France and where he now hoped to drive the devil Navarre from it.

  The interior of the Tour de Nesle was not as Eu remembered it. It had always been opulent – a resting place for royalty and aristocracy – but now its walls glittered with rich tapestries in cloth of gold, candlesticks and rich plates. Carpets adorned the entrance hall, a filthy affectation in Eu’s opinion – dirt from the street had already rendered them a dirty brown. Glitter and shit, thought Eu, like a dragon’s cave.

  A strange figure greeted him at the top of the stairs – he recognised it as that court sorcerer, the one who had summoned the French devils.

  ‘Ah, My Lord Eu,’ said the sorcerer, with a deep bow.

  He had a flame-red pointed hat on his head adorned with circles and symbols like a wizard from a story, and wore a pale yellow cape that looked as though it had been made for a man twice his height. To Eu, the man resembled nothing so much as an enormous melting candle. At the sorcerer’s back were two extravagantly dressed knights, surcoats of stars picked out in silver. These must be the vaunted Knights of the Star – a body set up by John in response to Edward’s ridiculously named Knights of the Garter. How they had suddenly become the flower of European chivalry, Eu did not know. One of them he recognised, Geoffrey Bellerose. The man was no lion of the lists, that was for sure – a very mediocre fighter who was given to passing out after the first decent blow to the helm. His boots, Eu noticed, were adorned with little stars too.

  ‘Does the king send common men to greet the constable on his return?’ said Eu.

  ‘These are strange times, sir,’ said the sorcerer. ‘The Plague, the depredations of the English and their godless horde, nobility possessed and struck down by all manner of infernal spirits. We need to simply ensure no malign force attends you with a small, discreet banishing ritual.’

  ‘I’m the count of Eu!’ said Eu, ‘Constable of France. By Satan’s boiling piss, no infernal force would dare!’ He thumped the constable’s chain at his neck for emphasis.

  ‘No, sir, no,’ said the sorcerer, shaking beneath the huge robe and giving the impression of an oversized chicken blancmange. ‘Even the sister of the great king of Navarre was afflicted. The demonic forces know no bounds.’

  ‘I will not submit to it!’ said Eu. ‘Such an indignity.’

  ‘Suit yourself, squire, but you ain’t getting in to see the king without it.’

  Eu’s hand went to his sword hilt. A tap on the shoulder. Dreux.

  ‘We all have to submit to this nowadays, Lord. The king is afraid of contagion, of devils, of . . .’ He drew breath. ‘The king is afraid.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Eu. ‘Get it done and then get out of my sight.’

  The sorcerer bowed again and approached down the steps, tripping for an instant on his long cloak before regaining his balance and completing his descent in high steps, like a May dancer.

  He waved his hand into Eu’s face, muttered a few phrases in Latin, and then fumbled in his cloak to produce a small bottle. He withdrew the cloth stopper and sprinkled it over Eu.

  ‘Safe!’ he said.

  The two knights bowed and gestured for Eu to come up.

  He strode up the stairs and into a throne room. Here the opulence was stunning: rich tapestries showing hunting scenes; a handsome fireplace decked out in carvings of stags, all adorned in gold leaf; a great throne on which sat the imposing figure of John. He was in good shape for a king, tall and broad, and Eu knew him for a brave warrior. A shame his brains were not as formidable as his appearance. To his left was the shit Navarre, to his right La Cerda, shining like the night sky, so many jewels adorned him. Around them the rest of the council. He knew them by name. Blissy and Beaupoil, Armagnac and Laval. Friends, or as close to friends as you can have at court. They eyed him shyly. He didn’t like this. Shouldn’t they be cheering his reappearance? He glanced at La Cerda, at Navarre. Had one of them been made constable in his absence?

  ‘Cousin,’ said John. ‘You are home.’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’ He sank to his knees.

  ‘Why do you do me such honour?’

  ‘You are my Lord.’


  ‘Not so, not so.’

  ‘Why do you say this, sir?’

  ‘Edward, across the sea in England, is your Lord.’

  ‘I have not been so long in England that I have become an Englishman. All the time I was there, I worked for your interests, sir, I—’

  John leapt to his feet. ‘Must I be subject to such lies! Dare you say these things to my face?’

  Eu’s mouth went dry, he felt his head pounding.

  ‘Who has spoken against me, sir, who has slurred my name? Allow me to defend myself!’

  John clicked his fingers at Navarre. The youth smiled and stepped forward to hand the king a letter.

  He snatched it and threw it at Eu.

  ‘Do you deny this is yours, in your hand, written in a code known by you and the king of Navarre? He has explained your subtle cypher, sir, laid it bare before me. You have intrigued against me and you have attempted to steal away the source of our magical defences against the evil of the English, our perfidious cousins.’

  ‘I have not!’ said Eu.

  Navarre stepped forward and picked up the letter.

  He read :

  ‘Send the court sorcerer who was at Crécy. The work is of a nature I cannot disclose, and he must travel here without notice.’

  ‘You cannot trust Navarre, he himself has been intriguing with the English. I have the evidence!’

  Eu produced the letter that had been delivered to him from the Black Prince.

  John took it from him and opened it.

  ‘Do you take me for an idiot?’

  ‘Sire ?’

  ‘No seal, no writing, nothing.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘The paper is blank, sir!’

  He held it for Eu to see. The count felt his stomach fall into his boots as he realised it was true. There was no writing on the paper at all.

  ‘I have been robbed! The letter has been replaced.’

  He took it from the king’s outstretched hand. But no. It was the same vellum, the same little drawing of a cat in the corner.

  ‘This is sorcery,’ said Eu. ‘I am the victim of sorcery.’ He pointed to Navarre. ‘He has worked magic against me.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said John. ‘The court is surrounded by powerful wards.’

  Eu swallowed.

  ‘Yes, well you might pale, My Lord. We have banished sorcery from Paris. No devil flies here, no magic can be worked.’ Navarre coughed his little cat’s cough. ‘I have a letter of my own, from my spy at the English court. Do you deny that you have signed away the county of Guisnes? Have you not signed away your castle there to our enemies, giving them a foothold?’

  ‘The castle lies behind Navarre’s lands in Normandy. Navarre is conspiring with the English and the castle would have been valueless. I only gave them what was already lost!’

  ‘A surprise they wanted it, then,’ said Navarre.

  ‘La Cerda,’ said Eu. ‘Back me here. Is this not a dangerous man, is this not a devious man?’ He pointed to Navarre.

  ‘He has strengthened France while you have sold its territories to its enemies.’

  Eu should have known. No matter how La Cerda hated Navarre, he had too much to gain by the fall of the Constable of France.

  He straightened. ‘Well, My Lords, congratulations. You have killed me. Which one of you will have my lands, I wonder? Which one my office? I am a true servant of France. I have honoured my king, I have fought bravely and never wavered in my loyalty. My king!’ He turned to John. ‘I will not beg for my life nor try to stay your hand. Know only that I will serve you, in Heaven as I hope or in Hell if I must.’

  ‘Get him away,’ said John, ‘We’ll hang him in the morning.’

  Eu was seized, his constable’s chain stripped from him. Eu saw Navarre’s little hand shoot forward to take it but John took it himself.

  ‘La Cerda!’ he said.

  La Cerda knelt.

  ‘No!’ said Navarre. ‘Not him! I should be constable. So much was promised !’

  John smiled. ‘You are still not much more than a boy, Charles. When you are grown, you may come to such high office.’

  ‘He is without connection. He is, he is mere . . .’ He searched for the word before spitting it out like a cat in a bate. ‘Nobility. We are royal. We are appointed of God!’

  ‘He is connected,’ said John. ‘For we have some more good news. I am to be married to our dear La Cerda’s cousin, Countess Joan of Auvergne, widow of the late Philip who died at our side when we took Aiguillon back from the English.’

  ‘That is a preposterous match!’ said Charles. ‘She’s got a son already. You’ve got eight children, the place will be overrun.’

  ‘Remember to whom you speak, cousin.’John mellowed, smiling as he had often smiled on Charles in their younger days at courts.

  ‘She brings a great dowry. What do you expect? I should marry your poor sister, so lately my father’s bride, and provide my own dowry !’

  The court burst out laughing at such great wit.

  ‘She’s wandering the streets mad, they say,’ said John. ‘And may she take her witchcraft with her.’

  Navarre gaped like a decked fish.

  ‘We are now surrounded by loyal men. France will retain her greatness now the viper is driven from her garden. You, La Cerda, will be our constable, our right hand, scourge of the English and defender of our right. With this badge, I give you the lands of Champagne, Brie and Angoulême!’

  Navarre looked fit to collapse.

  ‘Those counties were my mother’s,’ he said.

  ‘Oh Charles,’ said John. ‘The whole of France was your mother’s, if we were to listen to you. I wouldn’t have you angry at me, cousin. Marry my sister Joan! She’s pretty enough.’

  ‘She is pretty indeed. But what lands does she bring with her, Lord?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve lands enough in Normandy. Have Guisnes.’

  ‘That is pledged to the English, sir, it will bring great troubles to my door.’

  ‘Something to keep you busy. Take Joan back there, knock up a few babies and knock a few English heads.’

  Eu spoke, ‘Thought you’d be made constable, did you, Navarre? Bad luck. Back to the plots and schemes. Maybe they’ll make you constable of England if your treachery rewards you! He’ll have the English upon you, sir, do not mistake that.’ A man restraining him dug Eu hard in the ribs. Eu headbutted him, sending him crashing to the floor. The second man took a stamp to the knee and collapsed likewise.

  ‘Take him!’ shouted John, but Eu drew his sword and neither guards nor courtiers appeared to much relish the idea of putting hands on such a formidable knight.

  Eu pointed his sword at the little Dauphin – as Prince Charles was now rather strangely being called, after his father inherited somewhere in the east. The boy, no more than twelve years old, instinctively stepped backwards. ‘Your father is beset by false friends,’ he said. ‘Take care to protect him from them.’

  ‘Father,’ said the Dauphin. ‘The count has many, many friends in France. Might it not be better to hear more fully the case against him, to allow him to make defence and call witnesses? We may indeed send him to meet divine judgement, but after men have heard his crimes and been able to assess them for themselves. This risks civil war.’

  John stood off his throne – a tall and magnificent idiot, thought Eu. His son should be king. The Dauphin Charles was mocked by some for his lack of courage and skill in the tilt yard and comparisons made to his father who, docile as a greyhound at table, could be as fierce as a leopard in battle. But if the Dauphin had been king, if he had been king, if . . .

  ‘Am I not loved?’ John roared.

  ‘You are loved, sir,’ said La Cerda, leading a chorus of approving voices.

  ‘And does he not condemn himself by drawing steel in our most sacred and inviolable court?’

  The courtiers brayed their consent.

  Some spangled knight stepped towards Eu, his courage – or rath
er his wish for favour and advancement – pushing him to risk his life. He had no sword, afraid to draw it in the presence of the king. Eu turned his own weapon around and offered it to the man.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Joyeuse. Charlemagne’s blade. Give it to the constable, I feel he’ll have need of it in days to come.’ The knight took the weapon and the guards advanced but Eu stopped them in their tracks as he turned to face them.

  ‘No need to force me. I only need the command of my king to go to my death. How many of you cowards could say the same?’

  John gestured for them to back off.

  ‘Now show me to my cell and send me a priest.’

  16

  ‘I know,’ said Osbert to Gilette, ‘that we’ve had the Plague, the huge defeat of our armies, Hell has spilt devils and demons upon the land, so many are dead and the king who was our rock for so many years is also dead. But, to the man of cheerful outlook, these things present themselves not as problems but as open doors that may—’

  Charles of Navarre appeared from nowhere, causing Gilette to scream and run off, while the little king pinned Osbert to the wall at the point of a dagger.

  ‘Lord, do not kill me, I am a useful man!’

  Charles drew back his lips to show his spiky little teeth. ‘I am not going to kill you this time, sorcerer,’ he said. ‘But some time, and it will be soon, I may prick you or cut you a little and eventually I will kill you. Wait for it. Any shadow, any recess or doorway, I may be waiting. You have taken the sceptre of France from my hands and placed it in those of my enemies.’

  Charles withdrew and, in his cat-like way, vanished. Osbert felt sweat running down his legs, or at least he hoped it was sweat. He could banish Charles, complete the circle around the court, refuse him entry. But then one of his men would come for him, abduct him, torture him, cut off his most tender parts and feed them to him. Boiled, perhaps. Osbert, a man given to flights of thought, wondered if it would be a kindness or a cruelty to serve a man his own tadger boiled. Presumably it would be easier to munch on. The thought made him ill. There was no end to the barbarities a man like Navarre could dream up. Perhaps he would boil his bollocks while they were still attached. For a few moments Osbert pondered on this. A coward is an imaginative man.