Son of the Morning (44 page)

Orsino crossed himself. ‘I should cut your throat.’

‘It would make no difference,’ said Dow. ‘Each ympe will claim a soul, each claimed soul another.’

‘They’re not going to claim mine.’

‘No,’ said Dow. ‘I think that’s Sariel’s job.’

Orsino glanced to the castle of the ship. There the lady, clad demurely in the drab cloak and hood he had bought her, stretched up to the morning light, turning her face to it.

Beside her was that wretched man, the pardoner. He moved stiffly but otherwise looked well enough. Bardi had sent him some clothes – a rich yellow doublet, fine brown hose, pointed shoes and a baggy armless heuke in green velvet, complete with hood. The robe was in good red wool, lined with rabbit’s fur. For diversion they had all agreed the pardoner, who had pretty enough manners when he chose, should play the master among them. The pardoner played the role a little too well – dispatching Orsino and Dow to fetch and carry for him, particularly wine.

Orsino had wanted to leave the man behind, but the pardoner had claimed to have a message for the angel only he could deliver, one that would force it to reveal its secret. And he had persuaded the lady to join them.

‘How do you think he got her to come with us?’

Dow thought. He remembered the light in the great abbey, the woman kneeling beneath the great windows, tears in her eyes. Her beauty was daunting, like the windows of the abbey, like the spirals of incense caught in the beams of light, like the gold and the silver that stretched out in splendour that could have housed a nation of poor if it had been sold. Dow had been afraid to approach her – though he had carried her once before. She was the proof of his faith, its embodiment and he was awestruck before her. Orsino too, hesitated, stumbling over his words, not knowing what to say.

In the end the pardoner had spoken to her and she had agreed to leave. She seemed strange to Dow – not quite mad but distracted. She was a demon, he was convinced, and it filled him with joy and with security to have her along. Orsino said she was a woman like any other and that Dow was just smitten with her. The Florentine watched brooding as the pardoner led her from the cathedral.

The pardoner intrigued Dow. A high man who had fallen. He had never met one of those before.

‘You’re unhappy with him?’ Dow spoke.

‘I’m unhappy with everything about this.’ Orsino took out a piece of cloth and kissed it. Some bit of a saint’s codpiece, no doubt. ‘I’m unhappy Bardi got us letters of passage from the king of France. If we’re caught with those we’re dead meat.’

‘And yet you still come along.’

Orsino jabbed a finger towards the pardoner. ‘I had hoped he would not persuade her. This is a dangerous trip. What are you looking at, boy?’

Dow was staring directly at Orsino. ‘You would make her your wife?’

Orsino laughed. ‘And what would she want with a man like me?’ He stiffened and straightened. ‘Yes. I would. But I cannot ask her.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think the lady has suffered a great shock. I’ve seen it before – after sieges, mainly. We make war on men’s bodies but sometimes on their souls too. There’s a madness comes down on people with too much misery. For most it passes and it is not always severe. I think this is what has happened to her and I want to help her.’

‘Because she is beautiful?’

Orsino looked out to sea, avoiding the boy’s gaze. ‘Yes.’

‘Better help the ugly. They need it more. What do you think the pardoner said to her?’

‘He plied his old trade. He offered her forgiveness.’

‘For what?’ said Dow.

‘He didn’t say. Why don’t you talk to her?’

‘She doesn’t talk to me. I believe her to be divine. She is a gentle soul, a kind demon. She will speak to me if she wants to. I won’t go bothering her.’

‘I’d call you an idiot if I hadn’t seen all these offences to God with my own eyes. But she is no demon. Beauty like that doesn’t come from the Devil.’ Orsino turned to his pack and rummaged in it for a little while, rearranging its contents. The sun broke from behind a coal-black cloud, streaming its bright banners across the sea. Dow put his hand to the tiny demon inside his coat. It took his finger and squeezed it. ‘Lucifer is showing us the way,’ said Dow into his chest.

He turned back to his pack, to sit against the ship’s rail. There on the aftcastle was the high man who owned the ship. Earl Montagu of Salisbury. He was everything Dow hated in life, a condescending, hard-looking man – no doubt a beater, a torturer and a killer of poor men. He looked at the sea as if he owned it, tall and proud, his one good eye scanning the horizon.

He wore a fine coat of black fur that must have cost him the price of a good-sized farm, and his lackey – another rich brute, fetched him ale and bread from below the decks. Well, at least they made each other servants too. Dow would have liked to have pitched them both over the sides. Not practical. Thirty fighting men sprawled about the deck, or under the aftcastle platform. Dow was a confident youth now, strong and tough. But he had noted Montagu’s unpretentious, undecorated sword and doubted his life would be worth much if he confronted the lord in a fight. The earl wasn’t like the banker, a rich popinjay, or like Edwin, a frail and intense madman, or even like Orsino, who bore himself with quiet confidence. Montagu was a man other men feared to meet eye to eye. He stood like a fortress. It had never occurred to this man that the world wasn’t his to do with as he wished. And why wouldn’t he think that, flying under the royal pennants, his own banners streaming in the rigging and men skipping to his every command?

The boat slowed as the tide dropped and Dow, lying against the rail, watched the light change. He found himself dozing, the ympe clinging to his shirt beneath his coat. Dow didn’t feel strange to have this creature so close to him. It felt as if it had always been by his side. It had said its name was Murmur. When it spoke it was as if it spoke in his head, its voice an echoing whisper, sucking and drawing like the sea on shingle.

It was a demon of Hell, it said – one of a host of smaller demons who could sometimes crawl through gaps in the walls of Hell. It bore messages from the citizens of inner Hell to those on its outer limits. When the gate had opened briefly once again, as Lucifer had thought would happen, he had flown out to earth, along with his fellows. His mission was to prepare the way for a complete opening of all Hell’s gates allowing all the demons into the realm of the living.

‘What’s stopping them?’ said Dow.

‘The devils. Lucifer knows that he can’t come here until the angels’ power is tamed, nor will he come here while he will bring devils with him – or at least not till he stands a chance of beating them when they arrive.’

‘What would he need to beat them?’

‘Help from the realm of men.’

Night fell and the boat moved on under a big half-moon. The pardoner snored at Dow’s side, Orsino sat close to the lady, whispering to her to comfort her in the darkness. Montagu was back on the aftcastle, gazing in the direction of England. Murmur stirred and poked a wary eye out of the folds of Dow’s coat. All around, the fighting men were asleep, commoners, squires and knights. All of them except Montagu, who remained where he had stood all day.

‘You’re looking at the grand lord?’ said Murmur.

‘Yes.’

‘He’s troubled.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘I have been long enough in Hell to know a tormented soul when I see one.’

‘What troubles him?’

‘I do not know.’

‘All right, boy?’ The pardoner came to sit beside him.

He looked with great distaste at Murmur, the ympe’s face just visible in the ghostly light.

‘I’m well.’

‘Good. Thank you again for releasing me.’ He wore a grin like a market day whore and Dow was surprised at his friendliness.

‘I would have done it earlier but for the priest.’

‘Yes. Well, you got what you wanted. The devils were very forthcoming.’

‘So it seems.’

The pardoner looked up towards Montagu. ‘Want a bet I could sell him some indulgences?’

‘What makes you think you could?’

‘Look at him. Not sleeping, staring at the moon. There’s a man who’s got three or four shillings worth of sin in him, minimum.’

‘Do you ever use what people tell you against them?’ said Dow.

‘Well, of course. It’s a valuable second stream of income,’ said the pardoner, ‘though blackmail isn’t the easy art some would have you believe. First, you mustn’t get a reputation for it. Second, you need to tickle, not beat your gull, or things can rebound on you. A few dead pardoners are proof of that. But it would be good to know his heart.’

‘How so?’ said Dow.

‘You’re naïve, aren’t you, boy, for all your art. Hanging pardoners is quite a fashion in some parts of the country. Less likely if you could call on the help of the Lord Marschall of England.’

‘Surely he’d let you hang?’

‘Not if you let him know there were certain letters that would be opened if you were to die. Oh, to be so close to powerful men!’

‘I could watch him, brother,’ said Murmur. ‘I can fly and crawl and creep. Let me go to his cabin, see what he writes to his wife, what he writes for business, what he says in his sleep and mumbles as he wakes. I am a skilled observer.’

‘Worth it, boy,’ said the pardoner, ‘If the creature could steal a compromising letter it would be best. Not until we’re off the ship, mind – we don’t want a search, because it’s a long way to swim home. We get that, then a couple of missives to him, “Drop us ten quid buried beneath the cross at such and such, or your king finds out you’re tupping his wife.”’

‘Say he sends a couple of his fighting men to greet you.’

‘You make it plain in the letter that others know and if anything happens to you, the king gets the evidence anyway.’

‘There might be no such evidence.’

‘Worth a shot, though, if your little man there can sneak about a bit. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

‘Let me, brother Dow – I would be useful.’ The demon looked up at him, smiling.

‘If it pleases you, Murmur.’

The creature flapped up into the air, an uncertain, zig-zagging flight like a bat, just a fluttering shape across the moon towards the cabin beneath the aftcastle where Montagu had stored his things.

Morning dawned, and night came again before the ympe returned and wept on Dow’s shoulder.

‘What is it, Murmur? What is it?’

‘I could not go in,’ he said, ‘though I spied through a crack in the cabin wall.’

‘Why are you upset?’

‘Friend Dowzabel,’ it said, ‘I believe Montagu to be a servant of Satan, the gaoler of Hell. He will send me back to the flames and the darkness, I know!’ The little ympe tugged at Dow’s tunic for comfort.

‘He is a sorcerer, friend Dow, a sorcerer! He is in league with devils. I heard them calling in there.’

‘Well,’ said Dow, ‘they haven’t bothered us so far and we have a protector with us.’ He nodded towards Sariel. ‘Devils have other work in the world beside hunting us.’

‘They might cast me back down to Hell!’

‘Not while I am here, Murmur. Come, take comfort.’

The ympe crawled back into Dow’s coat and the boy turned over on his pack to get some rest.

5

Montagu took the letter from Orsino at Bruges. It was a fine spring morning, the sea fresh once you were away from the stinking docks.

‘Why wasn’t I given this sooner?’

‘I only obey my master, sir. I don’t question what he tells me to do.’

Montagu opened it and read it.
I have made enquiries about the Welshman. Too dangerous to convey this way. You will meet my man at the church of St Denis in the countryside by Lille before April
10
. They will be looking for you. Failing that they will seek you in the field. They will furnish you with the latest information.

The Welshman. He’d forgotten the old king was called that – born at Caernarfon and Prince of Wales.

There was bad news – the king had embarked for England not a day before, leaving his wife who was recovering from the birth of their son John. He required more money and had been released from effective capture by his creditors to face Parliament to demand it – on the grounds he left his noblemen and family in Antwerp where Emperor Louis in particular could keep them hostage against his absconding. Montagu smiled to see his own name listed among the captives. ‘Sorry to disappoint, Louis old boy,’ was his response.

The French were in the field again and this time looked to be spoiling for a fight. Mind you, they’d looked that way before. No angels for them yet, and Philip was notoriously wary of engaging without them. And why bother, when you can have a victory without lifting a sword? This time, though, Montagu was determined to force him to battle.

Montagu was to lead his forces in an attack on Tournai, feinting first towards Lille. A coincidence, perhaps, that Bardi wanted to meet him there. Montagu laughed at the thought. Of course the banker had managed to find out the king’s plans. If he could, so could the French. But Bardi would not want his investment seriously compromised, so would not go to the French. Montagu couldn’t worry too much about spies and conspiracies.

He looked around him. Fifteen other cogs were docked there – ships that had been ordered from England to assist him. Oxford and Warwick were aboard them but had brought scarcely thirty men with them. They were good men-at-arms but he would have a total army of two hundred men-at-arms and whatever archers had been levied to meet him at Ypres – two thousand according to the information he’d been sent. He hoped that was a genuine two thousand and not a ‘knight’s two thousand’. And levies! My God, he hoped they could shoot straight! The immediate situation looked poor. Still, the princes of Hainault were going to attack from Hainault in the south and the brewer Jacob Van Artevelde was to lead his men of Gaunt from the north. Montagu didn’t like that at all. Artevelde had overthrown the Count of Flanders in a merchants’ revolution. How could he be a godly man?

He still had the letter from Isabella inside his travel bags and was desperate to give it to her son. Montagu smelled the wax of the seal and thought of her.