by Mark Alder
‘Do you know where the second gate is?’ said Dow.
‘We know but we will not show you. We are creatures of God and know our Lord Satan attends his duty here.’
‘Would it not be better to allow Satan to decide that for himself?’
The creatures said nothing, just came lumbering towards them across the burning ground.
Aude drew the angel sword while Dow hid behind her. Each creature was enormous, the size of a cathedral, and they came rumbling in, shaking the ground as they came. One stamped down its foot but Aude threw up the Sacred Heart shield. The creature screamed as loud as any storm and hopped backwards cursing, crashing into some of its fellows who went tumbling to the ground, spilling the people from their mouths as they did so.
‘Get to the Evertere!’ shouted Dow.
They ran, lungs bursting in the heat, dodging the ponderous behemoths as their feet came crashing down, Dow clinging on to Aude as she deflected their feet with shield and sword, toppling the creatures as she went, sending the damned souls in their mouths scrambling for freedom. They tumbled into a crater made by one of the great stomps.
‘They can’t hurt us!’ said Aude. ‘The shield will save us!’
It was as if she had called a curse down on herself. A plague of tiny winged devils came sweeping in, each one no bigger than a thumb, but so many that they blackened the sky. Dow fought for vision, flapping at his face to beat them away. Each one was a little warrior clad in shining black armour and bearing a surcoat marked with a clenched fist – some flew banners showing the same.
‘Amaymon!’ they cried. ‘Lord of the first circle!’
Dow was driven wild by the presence of the devils and thrashed with his falchion but, he realised, they were not going for him. The tiny creatures were encircling Aude in a black crowd. A noise like frying bacon, and the little bodies dropped to the burning earth, but more and more poured in, mounds of them piling at Aude’s feet in a great sizzle of burning flesh.
He tried to drive them away from her but it was no good. Her shield had been undone from her arm, each creature giving its life to pull the strap a little more. Her helm floated away, dropping bodies as it did so, but others were always coming in to lift it a little more and die. The shield, too, floated up, a fall of bodies pouring down as it did so. Her mail was unbuckled and pulled over her head, another silver cloud floating up into the red sky, dark bodies falling as rain from it as it went. Aude fought to grip her sword but the creatures were stabbing at her exposed fingers and it dropped to the ground.
‘Release the Evertere! Free the dragon!’ she shouted but Dow could not even see the box.
Dow cut and smashed with his falchion, but he too was now beset, needle swords and arrows raining into him. As suddenly as they had come, the creatures dispersed. He ran for the box with the Evertere in it, Aude at his side, and scrambled it into his arms.
A great foot loomed above them, wide as a house. He and Aude scrambled to get out of the crater but they could not. An arm came down, extending to him, another to Aude. He grasped it and was pulled from the crater as the foot smashed down. It was one of the damned souls who had tumbled from the mouths of the giants.
‘Satan!’ shouted Dow. ‘Hear me! I have the keys you need!’ He had his hand on the box with Evertere in it but he could not open it.
The sky blackened, a great foot loomed down.
‘Yes,’ said a voice, and Dow was flying up into the heavens, borne on tattered, burnt angel’s wings. He screamed for Aude but it was no good. The burning plain was below him, the giants as small as mice, the Evertere left where it lay.
14
The parley before the battle, the grand talks with the aim of limiting bloodshed, was held on the field by Des Dunes, with the five angels towering in their columns of pearly light into the night sky. Torches burned around the tents of the camp, lit from habit more than necessity. Isabella had called the talks herself – for tender love of all concerned. The real reason was more pressing. Edward had not appeared. Without him, no blood of an anointed king would spill on the battlefield. Without that, would Satan be contained? She looked up at her angels. They might kill him and they might not. She certainly didn’t want to be the vassal of that hideous brute here on earth.
The plan would need to be changed. The battle would require another victor. French blood must be spilled.
The banners of France were outside the tent – the blue and yellow of the royal fleur-de-lys, one hundred and twenty banners of twenty-six earls and counts. So much blue and yellow – so many of the royal houses of France directly related to the royal line. At least thirty of the banners bore the royal flower in some way, whether blazoned with silver lions in the case of La Marche, or with windmills and castles in the case of Étampes. What a watering this would be if France could lose – or not lose, simply suffer great loss! My God, they would sell this soil to pilgrims and the sick for years to come once it was enriched with so much royal blood.
There was the leaping blue dolphin of the Dauphin, its red fins bright beneath the angel light, and there the heart and stars of the Scots – the Earl of Douglas. Isabella was pleased to see that lord in good health. He was short, as Scotsmen tended to be, but wellknit and muscular. Half his countrymen had died of the Plague.
And here were the banners of the poor English – their red crosses and their Satan’s whips. Her jaw tightened as she saw the three red diamonds of Montagu – belonging to the son of her hated enemy, now Earl of Salisbury himself since his father had died, or been gone so long he might as well have been dead. Her son King Edward had great powers of forgiveness. There was the white and red quarters of Edward le Despencer, grandson of the hated Hugh Despenser who had charmed her husband from her. It was as if God had set up the whole battle solely for the purposes of her revenge.
Yet that would have to wait. The Black Prince was a devil true and no one who stood beside him had any real claim to the throne – except perhaps Montagu, now calling himself Montacute to distance himself from his shameful father – but alone she could not guarantee that would be enough. To open heaven, Satan would need to give up the secrets of the fourth key and for that, she needed to bind him and bargain with him.
At her side was Good Jacques, the Templar, in his monk’s robe, a hood upon his head.
‘Where is your son?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He is a great killer.’
‘He is. But my grandson does well enough in that way, too.’
‘The English are outnumbered. His blood alone will not be enough to mark the circle.’
‘There is royal blood aplenty here.’
‘Are there the men to spill it?’
Isabella thought. Her grandson was a match for anyone in single combat and there would be no shortage of royal knights ready to face him. If a deal could be made . . .
She entered the parley pavilion, a guard opening the flap of the great tent for her as she went in.
All the men save John and the Dauphin stood at her entry. She kissed the hands of the French king and took a seat offered by an attendant knight.
‘Grandmother,’ said the Prince of Wales. He was a magnificent sight – taller than all the others just sitting down. His armour was lacquered black and on his surcoat he bore the whip of Satan quartered with the English lions. Behind him stood Despencer, just as tall and strong as his Marcher lord grandfather, her husband’s lover. Next to him was Montacute – not quite the basilisk his grandfather had been, England’s avenging hand, but she fancied him rough enough in any fight. Both wore the cross of the Garter.
Despencer spat as she gathered herself. She had hanged his grandfather on a scaffold fifty feet high. Her only regret was that she couldn’t build a bigger one.
‘Edward,’ said Isabella.
‘Are not devils banned from France?’ said Étampes, a gruff, dark-haired man with the build of a giant.
‘You refer to me or to my grandson?’
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�tampes pointed to the prince.
The prince smiled. ‘I have devils with me, true. But I am commanded by the king of England and where his men stand is his land, won by his men with the blessing of God. The king of France has no jurisdiction there.’
‘I’ll show you jurisdiction, you English dog!’
‘I am a Norman true,’ said the prince. ‘Lord of the English, not of the English.’ His French, though, announced him as an Englishman. It had been a long time since anyone in France spoke with such flat vowels. Without warning, he thumped the table. The Duke of Orléans, who had been idly plucking a lyre, flinched.
‘Where is your father?’ said King John. His voice was relaxed, though he clenched and unclenched his fist, clicking the rings on his fingers.
‘He will be here presently,’ said the prince.
‘Really? Our spies tell us he has not left Calais.’
‘He had not left when your spy left, but he left an hour behind. Our devils tell us so.’ Isabella thought the boy a poor liar.
‘Then you would have thought he’d be here by now,’ said the Dauphin. ‘Or at least the flying devils that attend him. They move quick enough, don’t they?’
The Black Prince smiled a smile that was no smile at all. ‘Since devils were banned from France, they have to fly over the sea. I expect them before the night is out.’
The Dauphin said nothing, just let the lie hang in the air, his gaze unwavering on the Black Prince. The Black Prince returned the gaze.
‘Perhaps,’ said the Black Prince, ‘we should settle things here and now. Single combat is old-fashioned but it has its appeal.’
Isabella raised her hand. One body full of prince’s blood wasn’t going to be up to the task in hand.
‘Your martial spirit does you both great credit, My Lords. But I have asked for this parley so that it may be contained and channelled in a way most pleasing to God. You see that I bring five angels with me.’
‘Difficult to miss,’ said the Black Prince. ‘And you know we have our angel-eating banner.’
Isabella raised her eyebrows. She knew from Good Jacques that was not true, though it might profit her to make out that she did not.
‘I do. So this is why I ask, in the name of God, that we conduct our business here most gently. It cannot be pleasing to God to see His angels torn from the sky, nor is it safe for that dragon to enter the world again.’
John waved a heavily ringed finger. ‘Your plan, lady?’
‘That we do what is most pleasing to God. Each of us has a station, set by the Lord. The low men toil and, by our grace, we allow them a portion of the bounty of our lands for their efforts. The Church administers to the spiritual health of men and by constant prayer saves us from damnation. We, the nobles, the royalty, fight. That is our calling and our God-given purpose. You, my King John, bring with you ten thousand or more low men. You, Prince of England, bring many archers and men of little worth. Let them return to their lands to provide us with bread. Take a hundred of your most royal knights, King and you, Prince, bring one hundred of your noble warriors and face each other in the field. Let God decide who lives and who dies.’
The Black Prince put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
‘It is a path that meets with tradition and spares us all the risk of freeing the dragon,’ said the Black Prince.
John drummed his fingers on the table. He was an oafish man, huge and beefy, sentimental, but an excellent and brave warrior. He would not shirk the challenge.
‘Do you have the banner of Lucifer, though? Do you have the Evertere ?’
‘Do not doubt it, cousin,’ said the Black Prince.
‘I do doubt it.’
Isabella stood.
‘Is this the question? Surely the true question is, “Are the knights of France men enough to take on the English in equal combat?”’
Étampes banged his fist on the table.
‘I am more than man enough!’
The Dauphin stood – his surcoat yellow and marked with those jumping blue dolphins.
‘Are you willing to indulge in this combat, Edward of Wales?’
‘Very willing,’ said Edward.
The Dauphin nodded. ‘Then let us refuse it. I think your King Edward is not coming. We shall have a battle. You are already sunk to the level of a devil, Edward. Some say you even are a devil. If you have the banner, use it. Tear God’s angels from the sky and let God pass His judgement on you for that.’
‘God is gone from the world,’ said the Black Prince.
‘I have more faith,’ said the Dauphin. ‘Father, let us have a battle.’
John mulled for a while.
‘I think we should accept the combat,’ he said.
‘Yes!’ said Isabella.
The Dauphin bowed to his father. ‘Your wisdom is great. But what would happen if we defeated the English, or managed a truce? They would release their soldiers and devils to devastate our lands. Let us instead annihilate them. Let not one English devil or low born bowman or murderous gunman live to stain our soil with French blood. Instead of minimising bloodshed, we should rather increase it until we make a river from here to the sea. God is on our side! See the angels above us. Let the English feel His justice.’
Isabella went to speak but John held up his hand. He spoke to Edward.
‘How many towns have you burned since you landed?’
‘Many goodly ones. I have lost the count.’
John nodded. ‘You’ll burn no more. My son is right. Death to the English. All of them.’
Isabella crossed herself. She had but one hope – as many of the nobility as possible would die.
‘At Crécy no quarter was given, no ransoms taken,’ she said. ‘The flower of French chivalry was butchered by common men, slaughtered with knives like pigs in a shambles.’
‘Yes,’ said John, ‘there will be no quarter. Today, Prince, you meet your maker – whoever that may be.’
He clapped his hands, stood and strode from the tent, Isabella tailing after him.
Good Jacques met her at the entrance to her pavilion.
‘I heard,’ he said. ‘We have but one hope. Can you get me a horse and harness?’
Isabella looked at him. ‘You hardly seem able to ride,’
‘We must do as was done at Crécy, as Navarre did. The charge must be premature.’
‘That won’t work,’ she said. ‘Let me do what I can. Do you have the Crown of Thorns?’
‘Yes.’
‘Prepare the ground, powder it and break off its thorns. We shall have a magic circle. Then we shall have our summoning. Where is the English king? Where is he? His blood alone would be enough, I am sure. Or he would have killed so many men of royal stock on the French side that the spell would be sure. Now . . .’ She threw her hands into the air.
‘I have a feeling you will overcome this,’ said Jacques. She didn’t like the way he looked at her – not enough deference, too much judgement.
‘The French must lose,’ she said. ‘I’ll start by calling off my angels.’
15
The Burnt Angel flew him on over the searing plain of brass for a very long way. The red of the soil changed and became darker. Was it a sea?
The dark below was vast, stretching out from wide horizon to wide horizon, undulating and shimmering in the heat. Above it, long devils flew on wide black wings, dropping sand and rocks, shitting and pissing. The sea called out as they passed – human screams and curses.
‘What is that?’ said Dow.
‘The newly dead,’ said the Angel.
‘Why do they stand in such numbers?’
‘Hell is a bureaucracy,’ said the Angel. ‘And they have not yet been processed. Perhaps they will never be processed. Perhaps that is punishment enough.’ Its voice was dry, like the shifting of dead sticks.
‘Are they all newly dead?’
The Angel swooped down over the plain. It was a vast crowd, packed together tight: women, men, children, dancing
on the hot metal ground for what relief they could gain from the heat. He saw they all bore weeping sores and great boils, their skin pale, their eyes hollow. He could not deny it, they were all dead of the Pestilence. As they passed they all threw up their arms to grab at the Angel, as if it might carry them away.
He wanted to reach out to them, to tell them help was coming, but he could not. The Evertere needed to rally them was back among the peg-toothed giants, lying next to the corpse of Aude. How could he storm Hell without it? Never mind. With Satan gone, with all the devils gone to earth, he would find it.
‘Hold fast,’ he murmured. ‘Lucifer is coming and will cure all your wounds.’
They flew to the great encircling Lake of Fire. The second wall of hell – patches of cooler earth within the red – stepping stones that the brave, the mad or the desperate might emerge through, though no barrier to flying devils. Dow’s arms were numb from where the Angel’s claws gripped him and he felt dizzy from the heat.
They flew on to a great wall of living flesh, flying devils shovelling ever more people into it to build up its height, which seemed limitless, stretching up. A great slope led up to the tumbling Falls of Blood.
‘I cannot go on,’ said the Burnt Angel. ‘You must enter yourself.’
It dropped Dow before the Falls of Blood. They roared down from a great height, terrifying.
‘In there?’ shouted Dow above the roar.
‘Step in,’ said the Angel.
He could not think the Angel had saved him just to trick him into entering the falls. So he stepped into them. He was engulfed, cast down by the great weight of blood, smashed to his knees, fighting for air. His hand went to his tunic and he reached within to take out the Key of Blood, but the pressure of the torrent prevented him from reaching it. He wanted to die, to give in to the pull of the falls and sink under, but he could not stop now after all he had done. He thought of his Nan, killed by the priest on the moor; of Orsino, his teacher, dead in the House of God; of the nations of dead waiting on the burning plain. He could not be weak for them. His hand made his tunic and he took out the key.