Son of the Morning (15 page)

And then it wasn’t as dark any more. Ahead of him was a deep crimson light. Stepping towards him from the retreating shadows came a man dressed all in red, with a broad red hat on his head. In one hand, a lantern with a candle in it, in his belt, a dagger. Then the man opened his mouth revealing a fire, burning as fiercely as any Dow had ever seen.

‘Unwarded, unguarded and alone,’ said the man, his voice like the crackling of a kindling fire.

The thing stretched a hand towards him. Panic overwhelmed Dow even as some strange empathy awoke in him. He sensed the boredom and hunger of the dogs of the city; the dulled emotions of a whore sleeping above a cheap inn towards the river; even the burbling, bellicose attitude of a rich young man climbing the stairs to bed in a nearby fine house. And he knew what the ‘man’ in front of him was feeling. He was nervous.

The creature was sweating heavily. His mouth leaked smoke, making the alley hazy. Dow could not move. It came towards him, its hand spraying red light, its fingers huge talons of light. It was a devil, Dow was sure. It wanted to touch him, but it was uncertain.

Its fingers were at his shirt and were not now light, but flesh, hot and clammy, with great black nails. Dow managed to step back and the hand drew away. Dow felt so hot. He threw off his cloak. Why didn’t he call out? Why didn’t he run? He didn’t know. It seemed as though he was in a strange dream world where everyday actions were odd and puzzling, unthinkable, even.

The creature’s hand returned to Dow’s chest. No! The burn on the boy’s chest was fire again, scalding and hot as when the demon had first touched him, as when the priest had branded him. He cried out, but the devil was on him. It had its fingers in his throat, stuffing them down, trying to choke Dow, its nails ripping at the flesh of his tongue. The smell of burning was all around him – burning hair and skin. The creature’s robes were painful to touch, so hot they were, and reeked of smoke.

‘You die as you were drawn here to die,’ said the creature. ‘Eden is saved.’

Dow could not cry out as the scorching fingers were forced further and further down his throat. He bit down hard, but the thing didn’t even seem to feel it.

The burn on his chest pulsed and sizzled. As the devil pulled Dow’s head down the boy could see his livid scar, exposed and glowing, like fire itself, like metal in a mould, a moving living thing. The demon Paimon’s claws had changed the T of the priest’s brand to a new shape – a three pronged fork. This pitchfork on his chest was the symbol of Lucifer, the symbol of demons. Dow knew the story – how Îthekter had sent the bright angels into Hell and had devils torment them with hot forks. But the demons – as the angels had become – rebelled again, fought their tormentors and took their weapons, setting up their own cities in Hell. They turned the symbol of their captivity into that of their freedom, as the peasants could turn the instrument of their toil to that of their liberation. And there it was, burning bright on his chest, Lucifer’s sign, the sign denoting he had the protection of the lord of Free Hell.

A bell was ringing – three times for Terce. He heard cocks crowing in the new day, the stir of animals and humans. Not dawn yet, but there was a light, a pure light, like the morning. From where? His vision blurred.

Dow desperately wanted to vomit, but his breath was choked. The thing was too strong. Without thinking properly, he put his left hand to his chest. He heard a voice.

‘Such light, such light, where is the light?’

The devil snatched its fingers out of Dow’s throat and turned. Dow fell down but, as he did, he saw a woman, so beautiful that even in his agony he registered it.

She was small and dark-haired, her skin like snow and lips like red berries. The rich dress of brilliant deep green she wore was stained and dirty and torn at the bottom. But she seemed to have stopped time, to have drawn the attention of creation to her; everything but she, his pain, the devil, the cold earth of the street against his cheek, was irrelevant.

‘You!’ said the devil, a red light flashing from the furnace of his mouth.

Dow got to his feet. His mouth was full of blood.

The devil pulled out a long dagger, wicked, curved and thin. ‘Well, Hell knows your tricks, lady, and has ways to stop them!’

The devil stepped towards her but Dow leapt at him. He instinctively wanted to protect the woman. His hands and arms burned as they seized the devil. Its entire body was scorching hot and the thing shook him off like a dog shakes off water.

But then it was like dawn in the street. The lady was looking about her, up to the heavens. The light was coming from her!

‘Oh no, don’t make me shine! It hurts so much to shine through this flesh.’

The light intensified, burning ever brighter. The woman cried out as if in agony, and all there was was light. Nothing else, white, burning, cleansing light.

Dow was momentarily blinded and when he had recovered his sight the devil was gone. Only its dagger remained. The woman in the dress lay unconscious on the floor.

He heard voices, far off. The city watch were shouting to each other but they were not near. His tongue and throat were terribly raw, the root of the tongue, in particular, lacerated by the devil’s nails. But his only thoughts were to get this lady off the street before thieves or the city watch found him. He hobbled towards the woman, putting his hand to her chest. She was still breathing.

Despite her tattered clothes she looked like a very rich lady, but he would neither rob nor leave her. She had saved him. He stuck the dagger into the back of the belt of his trousers, and put on his cloak to cover it. Then he picked her up. It was awkward to lift her with his still unreliable ankle, but she was much lighter than he expected. He carried her in his arms, back towards the priest’s house.

Free Hell had protected him, called this woman to him and driven the devil away. Was she a demon? He hoped so. Even if she were not, his course was set. Free Hell wanted a banner found, Free Hell would have the banner. He would go back to the priest, he would learn his art; he would let the soldier teach him to fight. And when he had learned what he could, he would kill the priest, kill the soldier and use what they had taught him to follow the will of Lucifer, lightbringer, downthrower, Lord of the Dawn.

3

‘Hunting is not a seemly activity for a boy of his age,’ said Prince John. Two troubadours, gaudy as parrots, sat either side of him on a couch. One held a lute, the other – who had been singing – now simply stared like a coshed eel at King Philip and the phalanx of courtiers behind him.

The boy Charles pranced about the prince’s oak panelled room of retreat in a splendid blue skirt adorned with paste jewels in amber and red. On his head he wore a little basinet and he carried a wooden sword in his hand. In the year he’d been at the court he had become a great favourite of Prince John. Charles liked the idea of hunting, and spring had finally arrived, but he felt slightly self-conscious at the king’s sudden interest in him.

‘I shall hunt dragons!’ he said.

‘The boy isn’t like you, John – he wants to hunt. Look at him in his sword and helmet. He’s seven years old now and can drag along on a pony as well as any of the other high born sons.’

‘He’s acting out a romance. We’re interesting him in poetry. Minstrels, play an air for the king so he might see the boy hop and dance.’

The king gave the minstrels a look that suggested they might do well to remain silent and they shuffled on the couch, apparently suddenly struck by indecision about what to play.

‘I will dance for Prince John, the cleverest uncle in the world!’ said the boy.

The king ignored him. ‘It’s a good spring. The hares are running and the boars are grunting and ready to test our mettle. The boy will hunt with me tomorrow.’

‘It might rain,’ said John, ‘children die of chills and you know, Father, how awfully fond of him I am.’

‘It’s fine sunshine. If it rains he can shelter under a tree.’

‘And what if it’s struck by lightning? Play, minstrels, play!’

The lute player plucked anaemically at his strings while the singer made a sort of uncommitted hum that could have been classed as singing by a prince or not singing by a king.

‘The boy hunts!’ said Philip, ‘and I’ll hear no more about it!’

The king turned smartly and left the room.

‘Well, we shall go with Charles, shan’t we boys?’ said John, ‘and if he is to hunt, let him hunt something fun. Would you like to hunt a dragon, dear Charles?’

‘I would!’ said the boy.

‘Then let’s go to my wife and her ladies and see if they can conjure a dragon!’

The prince leapt up so enthusiastically that the lute player was forced to lift his instrument abruptly to prevent it being dashed to the floor.

At Vincennes the next day, Charles found himself mounted on a placid pony, looking out into the great wood. John had dressed him as St George, with the red cross on his white coat and his own wooden spear. Charles felt mildly self-conscious. Edward in England had adopted the saint as his own and relations with France were not good. It was rumoured the English king was raising an army to attack through his lands in Aquitaine and Gascony, and the Norman lords were siding with him – along with the counts of Flanders. Charles’ mother Queen Joan – who had gone up to visit relatives in the north of France in the Agenais – kept her son well informed, in person when she was there or by letter through Count Ramon when she was away. Charles found it easy to follow the broad nature of the alliances, particularly as Count Ramon helped spell them out to him with chess pieces.

‘Here is the French king,’ he said. ‘And here the English. The English one should bow to the French as he owes him homage for squares he owns in his land. But he will not bow. He thinks the board is wrong – he should change places, the white king become the black. This is why he’s currently stomping all over our northern towns with his army. And we’re stomping back, I should add.’

He picked up a white and a black pawn and bashed them into each other.

‘Now the white pawns are the English king’s men. Most of these pawns are to be loaned by the Holy Roman Empire in Germany. Though they might
not
be, because that Emperor, who is on another board, might decide to keep them. Here are the castles. These are Edward’s lands in Gascony. Very valuable. The French king is attacking those. And his bishops – well, those are the godless weavers of Flanders who overthrew their masters. The English knights – we’ll say those are the various lords of the flatlands, the Duke of Guelders, Louis of Nevers. The queen? – his angels. Not been seen for a while – may move late in the game.

‘For France we have the wild Scots under King David. They can be the French knights. They can launch sudden surprise attacks but aren’t going to win the game on their own. We have various wavering allies – Normans, for instance. Then there’s us. We have to be the queen, don’t we – the Navarrese? Very important. Most of the rest of the field belongs to Philip. He’s much less dependent on allies, though he buys some in – they can be the bishops – Genoese with their crossbows and galleys. Very, very useful. The rooks are the angels.’

‘Why is the English angel a queen and the French a rook?’

‘More of ’em and move sooner,’ Ramon had said.

‘We’re going to invade soon, though aren’t we? Invade England.’

‘Yes. I should think so.’

‘Then what happens?’

Ramon smiled and sent all the white pieces clattering to the floor.

‘That,’ he said.

In the wood, Charles tried to pretend he was a knight preparing for a battle, ready to run down the English boar – as he’d heard Edward called.

King Philip’s retinue – all splendidly dressed in coats of green, turquoise and scarlet, their horses adorned with fine brasses, boar spears glinting in the sun – drummed up a hubbub of talk as they prepared to hunt. Charles felt proud to be included in such a throng – nearly three hundred people including pages, servants, squires, grooms and minstrels, not to mention the hangers – on from the outlying villages who had come to watch, to sell, to cheer and to offer whatever service could be imagined. A smith had set up an impromptu forge, a saddler had his wares laid out, piemen and priests moved among the throng. The dogs were baying up a storm, falcons cut curves in the air, and elegant ladies sat on fine horses while servants strung their bows for them.

‘How shall they ever find a boar with all this noise?’ said Charles.

‘They’ll find one,’ said Count Ramon, dressed in unflattering red, with a cap like a cockerel’s comb on his head, in honour of his French hosts. ‘In fact, I think they’ve already found one.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The king has hunters and trappers in these forests,’ said Ramon, ‘there’ll be one in a cage – maybe more – hidden around here. When the hunt starts they’ll let it go.’

‘That saves a lot of grubbing and makes him look good in front of his people!’ said Charles.

‘As ever, my lord, you grasp the truth of a situation very well.’

‘Charles, come, come!’

John was waving to him. He was dressed in scarlet riding braies, an extravagant padded pourpoint coat, blue with golden fleurs-de-lys, topped by a huge stag mask, complete with fur. It was dotted with little sapphires and its eyes were glittering yellow topaz.

‘Be careful the hounds do not mistake you, uncle!’ called Charles.

‘They might, cousin, they might! I am king of the hunt, am I not?’

‘You are, you are!’ Charles was always careful to look excited in the presence of his idiot uncle, as his mother had impressed upon him to do.

Charles pulled his pony alongside John’s. ‘I wonder you can ride such a fine horse, cousin,’ he said. ‘I’m sure no other rider in the land could take him in hand.’

‘I am the only one who can ride him!’ said John, ‘he’s a fire breather – you’re right about that, you rascal. But we have other firebreathers to contend with! What’s that up ahead? What is it you spy, young hunter?’

Charles put his hand to his eyes. In the trees there was a flash of vivid green. ‘What is it?’