Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  Next to the cross of St George flew the barbed whip symbol of Satan, its design and manufacture personally overseen by the Iron Lion himself. He stood gazing up at it from the deck of the Christopher, the latest ship to bear that name, clearly proud to see such a day come to earth.

  Philippa was beside them, ready to travel with her husband, to fight with him if need be. She was going for a purpose. If a dialogue could be achieved with King John – if Edward could be made to bow the knee, to accept his role as a vassal king – then perhaps his position on the throne would not be such an affront to God. Perhaps John could banish the hideous thing she had taken for her son. She was desperate, she knew, her whole world shaken to its core.

  ‘Not as many devils as when my mother was with us,’ said Edward to Philippa. ‘But a fair show.’

  Philippa shivered. She hated to see these things.

  ‘Your army of men is a mighty one.’

  ‘Since we won Crécy and Calais it is easier to get men to answer my call,’ said Edward. Indeed, there was a formidable fleet of ships. The ports from Hull to the Solent had been stripped to provide the navy.

  ‘Where will you land?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Am I to have you burnt as a spy?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I never get used to this need for secrecy. There have never been secrets between us.’

  ‘Some must be kept. For habit. If I tell you, I might tell a baron and he a knight, and he might reveal our secret to whatever French spy is sitting next to him across a cup of ale.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Am I now your enemy? she thought. Are we to believe that Satan is God’s servant? Does the blood of devils truly run in your veins? Have I carried devils in me? All my pretty children, reeking with the stench of Hell.

  And yet, if devils were God’s servants could they truly be said to be evil? Perhaps it was worse than being evil. They were things meant to serve and to obey, not to rule. It would be a violation of the holy order of God to set them on the throne. And yet here was one, her husband, her beloved husband, in the crown of a king, ready to throw down a true king, a man who was surely appointed by God. She loved him beyond question, but could she follow where he was leading? To Hell!

  She thought of the glass the man Tancré had brought her. She had feared to look in that again for what it might show, and had thought to bury it. But no, it was with her, in the bottom of her sewing bag where no one but she would ever look, or have reason to look.

  ‘Those things make me shiver,’ said Philippa, nodding towards the thin man that stood on the deck.

  ‘They are windbags,’ said Edward. ‘In Hell they blow their rancid breath for ever into the faces of the over-talkative, the chatterbox and the gossip.’

  ‘Such small sins,’ said Philippa.

  ‘When this war is won, perhaps we will pray that such are not punished. God may answer.’

  ‘Will he ?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I do know we have no choice in this. We take France, we impose order or the world will fall to chaos. Already God has chastised us with a plague. What will come next if we allow weakness and uproar to own the land?’

  ‘What will come next when the devils are king?’

  ‘We have declared for Satan,’ said Edward. ‘But Satan’s appointed realm is Hell. Once God’s order is restored under me, he will have no choice but to go back.’

  ‘You know devils so?’

  Edward pursed his lips, set his jaw. ‘Let me tell you, my queen. All men are devils. Is this not so? How long have the kings and princes, the queens and princesses of our lands mixed their blood with creatures of the Pit, in hope of preferment, in hope of power? The boy Navarre who waits for us in Normandy, he . . .’

  Edward had said too much.

  ‘You put your faith in him?’

  ‘He has a similar interest to me. What angels will come for him? Will stone saints sing for him? Perhaps, but grudgingly. He is not born in God’s favour so, like me, he must work his way there.’

  ‘Angels came for you once.’

  ‘And they will again. When order is on the earth, when low men kneel and high men rule justly, when the rightful king, which is me, rules France. Then God will come and the angels will burst with song.’

  Philippa looked into his eyes. Did he believe it? She thought he was taking a big risk. Last time, holding France had proved beyond them. Calais had been militarily useless, bottled in to the marshes and there was no base within the country to fall back to, on which to build supply lines. With the Norman castles open to the English army, conquest might be possible. But then what?

  Her son came on deck next to her. He looked magnificent, a head taller than other men, clad in his black robes embroidered with silver garters. The badge that held his cloak was a red cross circled in blue – the sign of the Order of the Garter.

  ‘Any word from Hell’s walls?’ said Edward.

  ‘We have messengers crawling as far as the Falls of Blood. The captains of Hell are sympathetic to our cause.’

  ‘But no word from Satan himself.’

  We have no resistance so far. And these devils are sent. Take that as a good sign, Father.’

  ‘I do, son.’ Edward hugged the boy. Once Philippa would have simply felt aggrieved that her son would allow his father an intimacy he forbade her. But now she knew. The prince could touch his father easily because his father carried devil’s blood too.

  ‘Set sail ?’

  ‘Set sail.’

  The prince raised his hand and the sails were raised. There was a light offshore breeze that might have carried them well enough, but the windbags sucked in, inflating hugely, gigantic bladders of air. As one they blew, filling the sails, driving the ships forward across the sea, the boar men of Gehenna pouring into the water behind them, the floating jellyfish serenely following.

  It was a good crossing, the sea as flat and unruffled as a sheepbitten field. Once at sea, Edward summoned the girl Alice to him.

  ‘You are sure of the loyalty of these fiends?’ he said, jabbing a finger at the gigantic jellyfish that floated above them.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I announce our landing spot. Queen, Princes, Lords, knights, freemen, and devils. Know that we shall be landing by Mont-Saint-Michel. The monastery has been turned over to our good offices by the King of Navarre, who commands the Norman lands. This shall be our base and our impregnable fallback position. From it we shall move to conquer France, and claim our right.’

  A great cheer went up from the ship, and the cheer caught as the news was relayed from ship to ship in the mighty fleet.

  ‘Will we meet resistance?’ said Sloth, licking his lips, his great jumble of teeth spreading wide, as dull as boat nails and just as big.

  ‘No. Navarre has given me his word.’

  ‘You can trust him?’ said Philippa. ‘He has led us a dance in the past.’

  ‘This time he has more to lose. He has played for the highest stakes. My man was there when he murdered the Constable of France.’

  ‘Bold but ungodly,’ said Sloth.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Edward, ‘God is served through sin, just as masters are sometimes best served by disobedience.’

  The lion looked shocked and rattled its mane. ‘You are a king,’ it said. ‘And so I must defer.’

  The windbags blew their stinking breath and before long the Norman coast appeared. Every time she made the journey in good weather, Philippa was struck by how near France was to England, how slender and slight a barrier seemed the sea. Every time she made it in bad weather, though, she thought it an impenetrable moat, a protection to rival the walls of heaven.

  They had set off at dawn and, by the time the fleet assembled for landing and the tides made it possible, it was mid-afternoon. Mont-Saint-Michel rose from the water like a little England, like an image of God’s design for the world – a broad base tapering up to a narrow spire that pointed like a needle to Heaven, a cross on top for anyone who had mi
ssed the message.

  ‘It’s like a castle from a romance,’ said Philippa.

  ‘It’s a stronghold,’ said Edward, ‘and we shall have it. Sloth?’

  ‘My King. Give the order to— In the name of Christ’s blood, what is that?’

  Something was happening on the spire of the monastery. The flag of Navarre which flew above it was coming down, its distinctive red lowering and disappearing.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Edward.

  Above the island monastery the air itself sparkled and shone, silver, gold. For an instant Philippa thought it might just be some trick of the sun catching a rain-cloud. But no, the light took shape – great shining beings that spilt rainbows from their forms. They towered over the monastery, as tall again above its spire as it was from the water.

  ‘Angels!’ someone said.

  She counted five. Five! Had ever so many been in a battle before? France has angels? No, it did not! The angels had fled at Crécy, yet here they were. A wind blew from the shore, cold and full of grit.

  ‘Pray, Edward,’ said Philippa. ‘Pray for forgiveness. Pray to know God’s mind.’

  She sank to her knees herself. The wind blew harder. The ship lurched violently. The windbag on their deck struggled to hold on to the rail of the ship, his great flesh folds flapping. The wind blew harder and he was gone, whipped over the side of the ship and cast in to the sea.

  ‘I am a queen,’ prayed Philippa. ‘Appointed by God. Hear me, angels, hear my plea and my petition.’

  The wind did not abate. Devils and men clung at ropes. A boar man, who had been swimming in the water alongside the ship, was tossed on to the deck and landed with a crash, splintering the boards. She was thrown violently sideways, knocking Edward clean from his feet. She grabbed at him, imploring.

  ‘Pray, Edward, pray! Whatever you are, you are a king, crowned and anointed. Pray!’

  Edward put his hands together.

  ‘Great angels, great angels!’ he screamed. She did not hear the rest but mouthed her own prayer, reminding the angels of all the good works she had done, all the contributions she had made, the churches she had invested, the priests she had sponsored.

  The storm grew quieter, though the swell was still heavy, the wind full of grit.

  She wiped her eyes, looked out above the monastery.

  The great figure of a woman floated in the sky, her dress shining with jewels of every colour. In her hand she bore a spear. She raised her other hand and pointed, back across the sea to Dover.

  ‘Bargain with it!’ said Edward to Philippa. ‘We can go to our own lands in Calais and in Aquitaine. I am rightful king there, I should be allowed there!’

  ‘Dear angel, whose name I do not know, but whose divinity I recognise and adore. I am Philippa, Queen under God of England, of Calais and Aquitaine. Acknowledge our right to pass to these lands.’

  The woman’s colours deepened, the jewels of her dress sparkling red and green. Then she flickered and faded to nothing.

  On the spire of the monastery now flew the blue and gold of France.

  Edward got to his feet and embraced Philippa.

  ‘You have saved us. You have saved us.’

  ‘But Navarre has betrayed us,’ said Philippa. ‘And now France has its angels back.’

  ‘Then now what?’ said the Black Prince.

  ‘We do what we always did,’ said Edward. ‘Though we cannot overthrow France, we can destroy it, show God that its king cannot care for it. My son – go south to Aquitaine and await our instructions. We will go to Calais.’

  ‘What for ?’

  Edward said nothing.

  ‘You cannot trade with the men of Lucifer again,’ she said. ‘We should be seeking a way back to God!’

  ‘God is gone. Or sleeping.’ He turned to his son. ‘Rip the guts out of France. We’ll force John to meet us in battle and we’ll have another Crécy !’

  Philippa’s heart leaped in her chest.

  ‘Crécy was nearly lost if it hadn’t been for the dragon that ate the angels.’

  ‘It came once,’ said Edward. ‘It will come again. Faith. Sacrifice. Courage. The piety of kings.’

  Philippa crossed herself.

  ‘It is a thing of Hell!’

  Edward looked up into the sky, where the angels had been.

  ‘So am I,’ he said. ‘So am I. Honi soit qui mal y pense! It is as it is!’

  9

  Charles rode into the city with his banners streaming – the golden chains of Navarre bright in the summer sun. As he had expected, he met no resistance and the gates were thrown open to him. His brother, big Philip, rode beside him. My God, he’d seen those bull devils riding their great beetles before but Philip had a neck as thick as any of them.

  If there was meant to be some sort of magical edict on devils entering France now, it hadn’t worked against Charles. He had a creeping sense of unease, true, but his human and kingly half rightly commanded his catty and devilish side, which enabled him to progress.

  ‘You’re sure about this, brother?’ said Philip.

  ‘As ever I was about anything. Our Dauphin will prevail upon the king to see wisdom. We may have to throw him a couple of freezing castles here and there, or some shit pit of a county, but he has to see sense. He has no one but me to advise him and no one who has ever shown their love so well.’

  ‘If you are wrong?’

  ‘I’ve sent word to the English. Our invasion is back on.’

  ‘You might be dead by then.’

  ‘I command the loyalty of Normandy. If the king wants me to betray the English, he has to do business.’

  ‘There are a lot of men-at-arms in the city,’ said Philip.

  And indeed there were. Throngs of them. For the first time, Charles felt a little nervous. He put his finger inside his stiff collar – between the metal and the fur of his left-hand side. Philip, he suspected, was inwardly smiling to see his scratching but said nothing. Anyone, even his brother, who said ‘fleas’ would be in for an inventive punishment.

  On they went through the streets. He was popular still, he was pleased to see. People thrust babies at him, withered old men tried to touch him. It did not seem to matter that he was half cat but he understood why. To these people, the nobility were like creatures of another race anyway. They looked so different, with their pale skin, their bodies tall and well fed, their rich clothes. The worth of the cloth of his nosegay would keep a poor man for a decade, the incense inside it his entire life. As was right in any ordered world. But Charles did not want an ordered world quite yet, if at all. If he could be king of France, then fine. If not, chaos. These merchants, always grumbling, these low men – whispering of Lucifer in the shadows – needed encouragement. Perhaps one day they might even revolt.

  Trade was not doing so well, he noticed. The big market at Les Halles was threadbare. The remnants of the Pestilence, war, harvests left to rot in the fields – what could you do? Well, something.

  A voice cried out, ‘Lord Navarre, tell the king to save us from the English.’

  ‘My first task!’ shouted Charles. ‘Paris is dear to me and we will drive the scum from our lands!’ He recalled his letter to the Black Prince :

  ‘You will land in Normandy and muster men there. I will secure the people of Paris and the invasion will be over quickly.’

  He stopped at a market stall and had his men buy some leatherwork. He didn’t need it, but it stood him in good stead to be in the good books of these people. A monarch has two ways of sitting secure among his people – generosity and tyranny. King John was incapable of either. Charles, who had studied the Romans as part of his upbringing, knew well the power of the mob.

  ‘How much?’ His man Sangiz had been buying a belt. He now looked as though it had been tied around his neck, so red was he in the face.

  ‘That is the price now, sir.’ The leatherworker looked the knight straight in the eye. My word, here was a saucy fellow. Charles was sure Sangiz would s
trike the greedy merchant down, which would have defeated Charles’s attempts to build goodwill.

  ‘I will pay, I will pay,’ he said.

  The leatherworker smiled.

  ‘Your man is welcome to try any other leatherworker in the market, if he thinks he can get a better price.’

  Charles looked around. The market was sparse enough for him to see nearly every stall.

  ‘I see no other.’

  ‘My point exactly. You are a good king, sir, and we respect you. But I see what is in your knight’s eyes. He would strike my head from my shoulders. Well good. Let him. But I say then that the court will want of repair for its saddles, no fine leather will be prepared to make the gloves you wear, no belts cut, no buckles fitted. He would be an unpopular man with his fellows.’

  ‘There must be some other leatherworkers left alive.’

  ‘There are twenty in the city, and we are guildsmen whose bond has been strengthened by Plague. Strike my head from my shoulders and you may as well strike all for all the work you will get.’

  Charles doubled the amount he was about to pay for the belt.

  ‘You are right to think so,’ he said. ‘For too long lords have ignored the worth of the toiling man. Increase your prices further, is my advice.’

  ‘We cannot,’ said the leatherworker. ‘We are under sharp edict from the king, who has banned further price rises. He says they are ungodly.’

  ‘The king is poorly advised. Let it be known that, to free the people from his yoke, I have struck the head from the shoulders of the tyrant La Cerda. I will be constable within the hour. Put up your prices as you so wish. These are new times and we must find new ways.’