Son of the Morning (20 page)

‘I’m Plantagenet – your little struggles don’t bother me.’

‘Your mother is a Capetian.’

‘There are significant differences between us. She’s a woman, for instance. You’ll notice I’m a man.’

‘Oh, I notice that,’ she said, patting her belly.

‘You’re not …’

‘Maybe. I feel different, so maybe.’

‘You must be blessed three times a day. Make sure of that, Philippa.’

‘You hardly need remind me to go to church, Edward. You’re the one who only goes on Sunday and no more.’ She prodded him in the chest.

‘Ow!’ He laughed and took both her hands in his.

‘The child must be christened and warded as soon as it is born.’

‘I’m not even sure yet. It’s just a feeling.’

‘Even so, every preparation must be made. The child must sleep in a magic circle. I’ll speak to the Knights Hospitaller; they will arrange that.’

Had Bardi been a dog, his ears would have pricked up. The king certainly feared supernatural attack. What to make of that? Even without angels, would God let a devil or a demon harm a king? And still relying on the Hospitallers. Well, he knew the king had relied on them to imprison his mother, Isabella. Bardi had thought that politic – the Hospitallers were a marginal group without too much in the way of influence. Even if Edward’s mother corrupted them, her sphere of influence would be limited. But was there more to it? He knew what was said by some about the old queen – she was a witch. He had thought it just an insult, a way for tired minds to understand a woman of subtlety and influence. The longer Isabella was insulated from public life, the better for Bardi. He knew she hated him. The king had rewarded him well after her lover was overthrown, and the lady blamed Bardi for undermining her control of her son. That was something of too simple an explanation, but he’d let it be believed to enhance his reputation.

‘Little William died naturally.’ Philippa squeezed Edward’s hand. The loss of her baby had hit her hard, Bardi knew. The child had thrived when he was born but was found dead in his crib at two months, wasted away seemingly overnight.

‘Yes. But I have many enemies and without the angels, my children are at risk.’

‘William
did
die naturally?’

‘William died naturally.’ He let go of her hands.

Bardi, beneath the terrace, crossed himself.

‘If we go to France I won’t see you again. You cannot win.’

‘I am not without hope.’

‘How so?’

‘A king is only a king as much as he looks a king. We will go to France and on to Cologne to meet Emperor Ludwig and we’ll make a great show of it. There he will mark me vicar of the Holy Roman Empire. God will listen to me then. He’ll send me my own angel.’

Philippa nodded. ‘And if Ludwig refuses?’

‘One too many ‘ifs’ for a fine morning,’ said Edward. ‘Take the child. I must go to Parliament and tell them our angels stand ready to support us.’

‘Why won’t the angels come, Edward?’

‘Who can guess the mind of God?’ He stood up and clapped his hands. ‘Page, get my horse – I’ll set off for Parliament!’ he called.

Bardi watched the king with two strong convictions. The first was that he was a man of destiny, an uncommon warrior and leader capable of achieving what others thought impossible. The second was that he would never see Edward again. Edward, he thought, would be killed in France and, with him, most of Bardi’s chances of getting his money back.

Bardi had seen Hell’s ambassador and was convinced the Drago could be found. Well, if England didn’t want it, then others might. Navarre would never be king of France, but the Capetians hated the Valois. The king of Navarre was a lap dog, but his wife showed more promise – Bardi knew she was ambitious for her son. Perhaps the Drago could be sold to them, an alliance entered into with England, and his money recouped.

Why not? thought Bardi. He would like to deal with the Navarrese. They were pretty, they were sophisticated and they listened to reason, unlike these English dogs.

There was another enormous shout from the ring. They’d resumed tilting and Sir William had been knocked from the hobby horse.

‘Excellent Holland, excellent,’ shouted the old knight. ‘Much more like it. I think you’ve broken my ribs! Nice work!’

Bardi ducked out from beneath the banner. He’d write a letter to the queen of Navarre to be sent on the first tide.

7

‘Do you consider me clever, little Charles?’ Prince John sat on the steps outside the Great Hall with the boy on his lap, feeding him sugar pieces. In front of them a fool tumbled and flipped, delighting the little boy. It was morning and the sharp sun cast crystals of light along the river. Since his ordeal in the woods, John had been particularly kind to Charles. The puzzle of the burned bodies – whom no one could identify – had been explained neatly. Men had tried to kill Charles but God – or one of his angels – had struck them down. John had had the taverns and public squares searched for suspicious-looking foreign fighting men and hanged five as probable conspirators in the matter.

‘You are the cleverest person I ever met,’ said the little boy.

‘What do you think of my father?’

‘He is king.’

‘He is indeed, but do you think him as clever as me? Do you think I could outwit him?’

‘Oh yes. You could outwit anyone. Everyone says so.’

John let go a deep chuckle.

‘Shall we play a trick on him?’ said the little boy.

‘What sort of trick?’

‘You’ll have to think of that, you’re the clever one.’

‘We could tell him someone he loves has died,’ said John.

‘Or we could go to see the angel.’

‘The angel won’t appear unless he’s there,’ said John. ‘I’ll have to wait until I’m king until I can command it.’

‘My mummy used to see the angel whether her daddy liked it or not.’

‘How?’

‘She’d go to the chapel and wait for him to come in. The angel appeared as soon as he came in, so he had to talk to it before he could tell her she had to leave.’

‘That’s very good!’ said John. ‘But the angel doesn’t seem to favour Daddy that much at the moment.’

‘Surely with two princes present, a king and your holy mother, if she comes running, it’s bound to hop along. It’s worth a try isn’t it?’

‘It can’t hurt, can it?’

‘I’m sure if you try it you’ll succeed, cousin John. And if there is a rumpus in the chapel then your father and mother may come and so the angel will just …’ he gestured as if fanning up a fire, ‘… whoof up! If it doesn’t then your father can hardly be angry at us for looking at the pretty glass. And it will at least show him for being bossy.’

The prince giggled. ‘It may indeed whoof, in just the manner you’ve suggested. What are we waiting for? Let’s go and see some whoofing!’

They went through the palace and up through the gilt and the deep blue and the crimson and the silk of the stairs to the door of the chapel, the prince’s retinue of minstrels, fools and poets cutting capers behind him.

Two guards were at the door, liveried in red tunics decorated with fleurs-de-lys. ‘Not the little boy, sir. Only you.’

‘Are you giving orders to your prince? You’re Deschamps, aren’t you? A good family. Do you behave like a common soldier or hired guard?’

‘Sire, I’m sorry, we were put here specifically to prevent the child getting in. It’s your father’s orders.’

‘And what do you think my orders might be when I come to power, Deschamps? Do you imagine that you will prosper when I am king?’

The young man coloured. ‘I have to obey my king, sir.’

‘What can the problem be? We can’t raise the angel without my father.’

‘It’s a precaution, sir. If the boy’s father were to die when he was in the chapel he would be king of Navarre. Then he would be able to talk to the angel.’

‘And what would he say? Do you think God looks with the same favour on a king of France as he does on one of little Navarre?’

The man looked everywhere but in John’s eyes. ‘I cannot admit him, sir.’

‘If I were prince, I should kill them both and walk in,’ said little Charles. ‘Stab, stab, stab!’

The prince’s retinue all laughed at the child’s precocity.

‘Not a bad idea,’ said John. ‘Fool, bring my sword.’

‘Go for the king, Jehan,’ said Deschamps to the other man-at-arms.

‘You were right,’ said little Charles, ‘he’s doing exactly as you said.’

‘Do you intend to fight me, Deschamps?’ said John.

‘I won’t raise a weapon against my prince,’ said Deschamps, ‘but neither will I stand aside.’

‘Then we shall remove you!’ said John. ‘Fools, minstrels, poets, take this dull servant away!’

The retinue burst into laughter as they came forward, leaping onto Deschamps, a couple trying to tickle him as they did so. The man-at-arms shouted and protested but he didn’t draw his sword, and the weight of numbers dragged him aside. John opened the doors of the chapel and the throng carried Charles into the chapel.

Glutinous light, light that floated in blobs and pools like those shimmering stars that halo the vision on rising too quickly, filled the chapel. It was the light of storms, of the war between the sun and the dark clouds, of an effusion of gold breaking from the gloom of a rain-soaked hill.

‘Ah, my father must be coming,’ said John. ‘As you said he would, you clever boy.’

Charles had never seen its like before, not even when he’d been with his father in the chapel at Pamplona, watching the angel draw its form from the luminescence of the glass.

The air was thick and heavy, as if it needed a storm, the light of the chapel was a burden to him, something that ached at the corner of his eye, that seemed to contrast so sharply with his sense of his own body that he felt solid, lumpen, made of meat. He did not want to stay inside but the chattering fools at his back expected it of him.

Charles looked around him. Suddenly the idea of coming to that place didn’t seem such a good one. No king was there. The angel shouldn’t come without one. Unless … Angels had appeared to lower people before. The shepherds. And the people they smote at Sodom and Gomorrah. Charles felt confused, as if his head was full of fivestones.

The air in the chapel was becoming difficult to breathe. He had never had that sensation before. The feeling of being in front of the angel at Navarre had always been wonderful – light, like a mountain morning. There was a commotion down the corridor. King Philip was coming. Charles felt dizzy and had a strong urge to sit down. The pooling light was all around him and he felt as though he might drown in it. Noises behind him. He was aware that his mother was there; Joan the Lame too, with the king, had come in, but he could not look away from the angel.

‘Why are you saying these things to me?’ the boy stammered.

The angel’s words boomed in his mind but, though Charles understood them, he could not yet believe them to be true.

‘Who brought him here? Who brought him here?’ King Philip was shouting.

‘Jegudiel.’ The name was in Charles’ mind, crackling and spitting like a bonfire.

‘Why are you saying these things?’ cried Charles. He felt as though he had drunk a river of wine.

‘Get him out of here. You, Deschamps, remove the child.’

Charles fell to the floor and Deschamps hovered above him uncertainly.

‘What’s happening?’ Prince John’s hands were stretched to the ceiling, as if he would pluck the light down like an apple from a tree.

‘Charles, Charles!’ The queen of Navarre bent over her boy. A thick bubble of blood issued from his nose.

‘The angel spoke to me! It spoke!’ Charles was distraught, trying to frame the words, trying to express the horror that had been revealed to him.

‘What did it say?’ King Philip was there.

‘There’ll be time enough for that. Can’t you see that he’s hurt!’ said Joan.

‘What did it say?’

The boy was sobbing, gulping in air trying to get his words out. Joan picked her son up and started to carry him away.

‘What did it say?’ The king was shouting, imploring.

‘Charles, Charles!’ said the little boy, ‘King of Navarre. Never of France! Never be king of France!’

King Philip put his hands on his hips. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘well. This is interesting news indeed! John, bring your minstrels to the Hall. I am in a fine mood and would drink some wine, hear some song and watch these fools cut their capers! An internal threat removed, we can concentrate on the external ones. The Antichrist. Is it Edward? Who is it?’

‘God does not yet see.’ The angel’s voice was like a struck gong.

‘But it is not this boy. Not this one here.’

‘He is on the side of God.’

Philip bent to his knees. ‘Jegudiel, for this gift of knowledge, I promise you England. You will dwell in the light at Westminster, at Canterbury and at Walsingham. You will be England’s angel!’

The light of the chapel blazed, red, yellow, gold, a bonfire light.

‘Your lands are burning, Philip.’ The angel spoke.

‘Yes!’ said Philip. ‘And my people suffer. See the productive farms I lose, crops, animals and toiling men to the usurper. Say now that I don’t suffer!’

‘You suffer. I will watch over you in battle.’

‘Will you speak to Michael at St Denis? Will Michael release the Oriflamme?’ said King Philip.

But the light died and the chapel was ordinarily beautiful again.

8

Dow descended the stairs behind the priest, clasping the rail for support.

The glow of the candle lit up the cellar, showing the demon, devil or whatever it was, quite immobile in the circle. It was lying face down, its head on its arm.

Dow looked around at the books, the powders, the skulls and the animal corpses that lined the walls. There was even a whole human hand, rotted almost to nothing.

More of Îthekter’s filthy relics, he thought. He tried to speak. His throat so raw and swollen he could emit no more than a grunt.

‘What?’ said the priest.

Dow picked up a quill from the desk. He was desperate to learn exactly what the devil could tell him about the strange woman who had saved him. He’d seen priests writing before he’d fled to the moor, though he had no idea how to do it himself. Still, he dipped the nib into the well.