by Mark Alder
Edward snorted. ‘And what do you get out of it?’
‘Eternal torment, more than likely,’ said Jacques.
‘What ?’
Jacques picked up the little candle, turned it around in his finger. Then he replaced it.
‘I will not play you false, King. Remember that at Nottingham I set you on your throne when I opened the way to Mortimer’s chamber. I am offering to secure that throne now.’
‘For what reason? What do you get?’
‘I get to take part in a race.’ His voice was flat.
‘Who against ?’
‘You. I will tell you plainly what I am planning. My men will lead an army against the walls of the Night City on Gehenna plain, where lies the last gate of Hell. I try to release Lucifer while Satan skips to your command here in the realm of men.’
Philippa crossed herself.
‘You have three keys?’ said Edward.
‘Yes. The fourth remains lost.’
Edward glanced at Philippa. She knew that look. He was not looking for encouragement, not at all. But he feared she might hold him back.
‘Cannot peace be made?’ she said.
‘You know what our spies tell us. She means to clear out England, root and branch. What if she persuades the angels to do that?’
‘They would never agree. God has already taken the unholy in the Plague. That is what it was sent for.’
‘It took the good and the bad alike,’ said Edward. Philippa saw Jacques shift in his seat. She sensed deep discomfort.
‘Our souls will be in peril.’
‘My soul is damned,’ he said. ‘I was born damned. I see that now.’
‘And so England will be damned with you?’
‘God will receive the good into His heaven. And this is a good we do. Order will come back here. England will be protected. These . . .’ He gestured to Jacques, ‘will be in Hell. If Lucifer cannot break out, how can these break in?’
‘And if it goes wrong you have made the world a hell.’
‘I have cast myself into the hazard all my life. This is no different.’
Philippa despaired. But what could be done? Her husband saw no difference between his own interests and those of the state – those of the world.
‘I will pray for you,’ she said. ‘Have faith now in my piety. I am your protection against angels. I am your bulwark. Through me find a way back to God. Renounce the banner of Satan.’
Edward shook, such a physical man, his body trembling with his inner turmoil.
‘You kept the angels away once,’ he said. ‘You must be able to do it again.’
‘Or persuade them to your cause,’ said Philippa. ‘Your mother is a vile woman who has done vile things. I have kept myself in virtue because it is my nature to do so, but I see now that I served God’s purpose. You cannot give the world over to Hell – you cannot!’
Edward sank to his knees, took both her hands in his.
‘I have faith in you,’ he said.
‘And I in you.’
Edward kissed her hands. Then he stood.
‘Keep your deal, Templar. My wife’s holy nature will preserve us. England will use devils but it will not turn earth to Hell.’
‘André!’ Jacques called out. The door opened.
Philippa breathed out deeply. At last he had seen sense. At last come directly to God rather than fall down before some sulphurous imposter.
Jacques moved his hand. For an instant alarm gripped her. No, they were not going to attack Edward. In such a small space, it would be suicide. The king was worth thirty Luciferians in a fight.
‘Stay a moment,’ said Jacques. ‘I promised that I would return something to you. You fulfilled a bargain, Edward. For the help I gave you to take the throne, you promised Lucifer a place in France to establish New Eden.’
‘I did.’
‘But you also agreed something else – a clause I included to speed you on your way.’
‘What clause?’ said Philippa.
‘If the deal was not done in seven years, a child. Then another three and a half, another child. And so on. King, Queen, let me introduce you to your children – William of Hatfield, Blanche of London.’
Into the room came a young man of about eighteen, dressed in the poor garb of a Luciferian. Behind him was a girl a few years younger, also in plain attire. Unmistakably, they were Edward’s children. The boy could have been him.
‘What have you done?’ said Philippa.
‘What I needed to! It is as it is!’
Philippa thought she would collapse. Her children. She had seen the bodies !
‘What cruelty is this?’ She went towards the boy, to the girl, to touch them, but the boy drew back.
‘I do not know you, madam,’ he said.
‘William, Blanche,’ said Jacques, ‘meet your mother and father.’
‘I saw them dead!’ said Philippa. ‘I wept tears over their little bodies. I saw them buried.’
‘Your husband is a marvellous deceiver,’ said Jacques.
Now Philippa did embrace the pair and they accepted her, however stiffly.
‘No wonder you ally with monsters,’ said Philippa. ‘You are one! You bargained away our children.’
‘I had no choice. It is how it is.’
‘How I despise that saying. It is how you make it. It is how you choose it to be! You stole my babies! You told me they had died!’
‘I stole nothing. These . . .’ He gestured to Jacques. ‘These took them by demonic means. Do you not think I wept too?’
‘I care not what you did,’ she said. ‘Go to Satan. You are a good match. And when the angels rip you down, do not expect me to raise a hand in protest.’
‘Other people’s sons will die. Others’ daughters.’
‘As if you care. As if you would ever care. You have a devil’s blood, they say, and marvel at it as you are so fair. Well I know the rot inside you, Edward Plantagenet, and may it destroy you. I curse you. I curse you for what you have done.’
‘You will obey me, madam. As God commands.’ He stood tall.
‘I will disobey,’ she said. ‘And if that means I go to Hell, so be it, for no torment below can match the one I endure here. Come, children. My daughter. My son.’
Edward flew at Jacques, catching him squarely on the jaw with a jolting punch, knocking over the table plank, scattering the baskets.
The old Templar fell backwards flat on the floor.
She took her children by the arm.
‘Come, let us go away from this man,’ she said.
‘What do I need to do?’ said Edward to Jacques.
The Templar wiped his mouth, coughed. ‘Go to Poitiers. There we will open the pit of Hell. Get there quickly, with all your might.’
‘This is foul work,’ said Philippa. ‘Come, my children. I have mourned you for too long.’
‘Keep the lady out of churches,’ said Jacques.
‘For what?’ said Edward. ‘This is my wife and a queen of England. She does as she pleases.’
‘The angels have noticed her once. They may notice her again and our plan may be revealed.’
‘Angels can’t read minds,’ said Edward. ‘Are you suggesting my wife would betray me?’
‘Just keep her out of churches,’ said Jacques.
11
An ympe, settled on Dow’s arm in the Bois De Boulogne. A message from Calais. He stood, pissed, and looked up into the air. Already the ympes were swarming, called by Murmur beneath the stormy sky, the sun igniting the edges of the black clouds like cinders.
‘It is time,’ he said.
‘Then let’s away,’ said Aude.
The tiny people seized them, two hundred each, bearing them up into the hollow light of the building storm. They flew before it, outrunning it south. Both wore encompassing dark cloaks and thick mantles – to disguise Aude’s angelic armour, but also to protect Dow, who had no such divine protection against the elements or from the cold. This la
nd was untouched by routiers, unburnt, but they flew over many farmsteads that were overgrown, with no signs of life. Three years since the worst of it, but the pestilence had altered this land so much, so very much. Dow shivered. What was to come? Worse? Maybe but, when Hell was split open, and Lucifer free, this would be a paradise.
Ympes were sent to the English army. It was turning north from where it had landed in Aquitaine, burning the land as it went, heading for Poitiers under Edward’s instruction. From high in the Ympe cloud, Dow saw the pall of smoke over the land, until rain came down in torrents and he was forced to land for a while.
When the sun came, the ympes fluttered and scurried into the sky. ‘Ask the English why they do not come,’ said Dow. ‘We are stuck at Tours,’ came the reply. ‘We cannot take the town without devils and Tours is still in France, bounded by great wards.’ So John had finally worked out he could ban devils from France.
But the English were clever. They were expanding Aquitaine, their sovereign land, by use of ordinary men. The devils could then come in behind them, once the claim was made, or even fight in disputed territory. However, they could not set foot in France proper except under orders of the French king. Or, at least, their morale would suffer very badly if they did.
He sent a message back.
‘Ignore Tours, make the land around it your own and then you can defend your back with devils. Come here in force and I will give you all the devils you want. They will stream from the mouth of Hell.’
A day, two days, watching and the ympes reported movement – not in the town but in a graveyard outside the walls. Monks were seen entering the graveyard by night and descending into what appeared to be a tomb.
‘Do you think this is it?’ said Aude.
‘We must look,’ said Dow. Up they flew, under the silver clouds of a half-moon night, skirting Poitiers. Dow could almost feel the apprehension of the people within its walls: mothers putting their children to bed not knowing if it would be for the last time with the English so near; the people drunk in the streets out of fear; the churches and the inns equally full. If they knew what was coming, he thought, many of them would die on the spot out of fright. He made the sign of the Fork with his fingers. Faith, now, was his only hope. Lucifer would redeem everything. Redeem Dow too? He couldn’t allow himself even to question it. Of course, of course.
The ympes set them down at the edge of the churchyard. A vast party of monks had now arrived – fifty or sixty of them. They were Black-clad Benedictines, a severe order, Dow knew from his time in London. They stood in utter silence, a single torch illuminating them enough for him to see that many of the brothers bore clubs or maybe even maces – at such a distance and in such a light he couldn’t tell. It was certain, though, that a couple had mail beneath their habits – he could see its glint.
‘Do we wait for them to drag it out?’ said Aude.
‘No. They will have sealed the tomb with wards and sigils. They might be useful to us and we wouldn’t want to see them broken. If they have enough magic to keep the Evertere in, perhaps there is enough to keep angels out.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘I too. We can best defend the tomb from inside, where the way is narrow.’
‘I can defend against men anywhere,’ she said.
‘But not perhaps against angels and holy swords. We need every advantage.’
She nodded.
‘Now ?’
‘Now!’ said Dow.
Aude cast aside her mantle and cloak, unwrapped the shield and sword. The angelic armour lit up the copse around them as bright as any fire, the sword shone with a wavering light, and the shield shone like sun on water. Dow touched the hilt of his falchion but didn’t draw it yet. He was nervous. Aude said the angelic armour could defeat any number of men. Time to find out.
Immediately the monks turned to face her.
She walked out of the copse and the brothers gasped as one. A couple sank to their knees, and then one more, and one more. Dow smiled to himself. They had mistaken her for an angel. He stood beside her, the monks’ gabbled prayers washing over them.
‘What now?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘Just walk in.’
They walked across the clearing towards the tomb. In the angel light Dow could see it was very large, wide steps going down into blackness.
A voice mumbled something.
‘Forgive us!’ It was a contagion, all the monks prostrating themselves, crawling towards Aude’s feet, begging forgiveness.
‘Forgive us! Forgive us!’
They were blocking the way to the tomb, coming forward in a mass. Dow broke from Aude to skirt round behind them and make the entrance. Such was the distraction provided by Aude, he had remained unseen.
‘Forgive us! Forgive us!’
They were at Aude’s feet. She stood rooted, not knowing what to do.
‘You are forgiven,’ she said.
Dow got to the entrance. It was very dark within. He needed a light, or at least Aude with him.
‘Does an angel talk like a tavern whore?’ One of the monks stood – a senior fellow by his age and girth.
‘What is your name, angel?’ said the monk.
‘Aude,’ she said.
Dow hesitated at the mouth of the tomb. He saw it bore heavy iron doors at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Aude!’ said the fat monk, mockingly.
Aude’s voice. He had given it no thought, but she was an ordinary girl who spoke in a thick, crunching peasant accent. The only angel he had ever heard speak spoke like a king.
‘So an angel has a name like a tavern whore, too.’ He hefted a mace in his hand. ‘If you are an angel, show us. Shoot forth holy fire. Swear to protect us against the English. Praise God on high and curse the Devil and all his works.’
More monks stood. One said, ‘Father, do not doubt the divine,’ but another said. ‘What does an angel want with the dragon banner ?’
‘I come to guard it,’ said Aude. More of the monks stood.
‘An angel would not talk like that!’ said another.
‘Who’s that?’ Dow had been seen.
The monks were still undecided but the fat one with the mace jumped at her, treading on the back of one of his brothers to do so. The mace came down in a swift arc but the shield flew up to meet it, shattering it. A monk grabbed Dow’s arm. Dow had trained under the mercenary Orsino for most of his childhood and didn’t even have to think. He put his hand on top of his attacker’s to stop him taking it away and turned the man’s wrist sharply, breaking it. Then he had his falchion free.
‘Isabella!’ he shouted. ‘Queen of England! Attend us now.’
The monks swept in on Aude, hammering with their maces and clubs. Even the shield could not be everywhere, though it was most places, but those blows that did make it through sparked off her armour. She swung her sword and it was as if a rainbow flashed among the flailing monks, so little resistance did it meet, but what fell from it was not rain, nor gold as in the tales, but blood. But the blood did not fall. It hung in the air like a mist, sparkling with its own light.
Three monks ran at Dow, but took only a few steps before they clutched at their eyes, stumbled and fell in a rain of tiny spears and arrows. A flock of ympes wheeled away, and turned, ready for another pass.
‘Isabella!’ shouted Dow. ‘You who call yourself a queen. Hear us, fulfil your bargain.’
Soon Aude stood among a pile of bodies, ten men dead at her feet. The other monks backed away, hurling insults, crying out to God, some throwing clubs or loose stones they had found on the ground. The Sacred Heart shield deflected them all.
‘I am no whore,’ shouted Aude. ‘Though I should not count it a shame if I was. I am a tavern girl who saw the light of Lucifer, to whom ympes whispered in the dark. I am nothing, not considered by great men, not written of in chronicles or verse. No statue has ever been raised to me, nor will there ever be. And yet here I s
tand before you. The future. Your time is over.’
The monks had now noticed the sparkling mist of blood that hung in the air. Dow felt his hearing go muffled, a pressure in his head as if he dived to the bottom of a lake.
A voice in the air, deep like thunder.
‘I am Shamsiel. The constrainer.’
Another voice, with the sound of chanting, the names of God.
‘And I am Jeduthun, Master of Howling.’
‘And I Jophiel, God’s Spy.’ This voice came with the sound of many whispers.
‘And I Qaspiel, angel of the moon.’ Bells sounded, deep and sweet, and a flute rose high above them. Next, the sound of a great burning, as if from an enormous bonfire.
‘And I Soterasiel, who stokes the fires of God.’
‘Make way for God’s queen! Make way for God’s queen!’
From the mist of blood a shape formed, the sparkling droplets condensing to lend it substance. At first it appeared only as a floating crown of gold, topped by five points of white fire. Then a sceptre appeared, with a shining jewel on top of it. Next a woman, in the plain garb of a nun but with her golden hair uncovered.
The queen stepped out of the mist of blood. The points of light split from the crown and flew off into the night, to emerge as great pillars of light in a circle a league about. A fifth hung like a great star above, lighting the land for miles about.
‘Our God is a god of love but a god of blood too,’ she said, jewel in the sceptre in her hand burning crimson. ‘Christ’s blood he gave for our sins, the blood of the martyrs flowed in times gone by and flows today in memory of that sacrifice, as your blood has flowed here, to rid the world of sin. The first consecration has commenced. Brothers of Benedict, do not mourn your dead, for they have fallen for a great purpose. We have work to do here and it is God’s work, as you see by these, his servants. Here you will see a great magic, performed with blood of the English king!’
Dow’s instinct was to stay and watch the beautiful angels burning white over the countryside, but he had work to do.
‘Come on, Aude,’ he said.
‘To Hell,’ she said.
‘To Hell,’ said Dow. They dived into the darkness with the prayers of the monks to the angels at their backs. Aude split the doors to the tomb with a single blow.