Son of the Morning (53 page)

‘My lords,’ said Osbert, ‘it is a pleasure to offer you this service and—’

‘We need a disguise,’ said Montagu to Suffolk.

‘Take these low men’s clothes,’ Suffolk replied.

‘I have, by my service, freed you,’ said Osbert, ‘and would ask—’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Montagu, who was already changing out of his noble’s clothes. ‘I have seen you before. Do you know a safe place in this city?’

‘Of course,’ said Osbert, who did not. As the men discarded their clothes, he changed out of his to take Montagu’s fine tunic and soft woollen hose. The nobles were too preoccupied to castigate him.

‘Then lead. And how did you make a devil appear in our cell.’

‘Oh, er, when I summon them they appear pretty much where they like.’

‘You should be hanged for consorting with fiends,’ said Montagu.

‘I’ll take that as a “thank you”,’ said the pardoner.

The men had the gaolers’ clothes on very quickly and ran outside into the street, following Osbert.

‘What is
that
?’ said Suffolk.

The hook-nosed devil’s bat-wing horse was stamping the street, surrounded by men-at-arms. Its rider bore a great sword in its hand and cut down at its attackers, the horse scattering them in stuttering charges, only for them to reform and attack again.

‘I believe it’s a devil, sent to kill a boy of this town and possibly also the angel of Sainte-Chapelle,’ said the pardoner, ‘but I do feel we should now make our way—’

The press of men around the horse suddenly broke as a twisted, galumphing devil carrying a thick stick set about them from the rear, smacking five or six at a time to the floor. This devil jumped to join its fellow on the horse’s back, and the horse charged up the steps towards the Great Hall and Sainte-Chapelle.

‘We should find out more before I go to Edward,’ said Montagu.

‘Then let’s chase them!’ said Suffolk.

‘My lords,’ said Osbert, ‘God forgive that a humble man may presume so to counsel his betters, but that would be a bollocking bad decision.’

The two nobles ran off towards the Great Hall and the pardoner felt he had no option but to follow them. They could save his immortal soul by interceding with the king and, in addition, they owed him a decent sum for pulling devils out of his belly to tackle the gaolers. He hared after them, towards the sound of battle.

16

The cog
Thomas
laboured in a big sea, the sails of the invasion force plunging to vanish and then rising alongside it on the swell.

Edward hated to travel by sea. One advantage, if he ever became true king of France, would be that he could fight his wars without ever tasting salt on the wind.

He looked up into the swirling grey clouds. Enemy angelic intervention? No, just a lousy day in an English summer – nothing unusual there. Fortunately, the wind was at their backs. If an enemy angel were present that would not be the case. And where was his angel? It had sparkled above the fleet at Ipswich but hadn’t been seen since. He knew from what his father had told him that angels might wait for the men to show their valour and engage before intervening. God, let it be so here!

He moved among the men, telling them the wind was a sign God was with them and made his way back to the aftcastle to give what little reassurance he could to the ladies of his wife’s household. His wife was surviving in Gaunt with a staff of less than ten. She needed her ladies and so they had to travel. He told them they would be in little danger but gave strict instructions they were to remain under the platform of the aftcastle ‘should we engage the French’. There was no ‘should’ about it. Edward was taking his ship into the press of the enemy, looking to grapple and board their ships.

He picked his way back down the ship, using the rail and rigging for support. The men were still on the deck, packed tight, swaddled sailors huddled against the wind for warmth, a hundred of his best men-at-arms and eighty archers. Thomas Holland was there, with twenty of his men-at-arms, their silver lion rampant on their surcoats. Edward had asked for the baron on his ship because there was no fiercer fighter in Christendom. The sight of that lion was enough to terrify most of the French nobility.

They had the guns too – the pots-de-fer, tied to the rail, their stacks of huge quarrels lashed in beside them and a couple of giant crossbows – the springalds – mounted to the forecastle.

Sir Reginald Cobham sat up beside one, a long metal tube on a stick at his side. This, Edward knew, was his handgun. By the time you’d loaded and fired the thing your enemy could have run you through a hundred times, but the noise it made was terrific and it did the job of spreading panic. It would be useful in the first boarding, thought Edward, because it fired a mighty stone and would be effective against a press of men.

Cobham was a slight and short man and had been picked to lead a scouting party once they found a place he could be put down. It would be a hazardous trip through enemy-held territory but Cobham, Edward thought, was up to the job. And at least, with that ridiculous gun at his side, they’d hear if he came into contact with the French.

The swell dropped as they approached the Flemish coast. They put ashore Cobham and two knights in darkness, the men slipping away by rowing boat. By dawn they had returned with bad news. The French had completely blockaded the harbour from the Cadzand island on the north east to the long dyke that marked Flemish territory on the west. They held conference on the forecastle of the
Thomas
. The king was already armoured, in his heavy mail and surcoat, his basinet helmet with its visor raised, with his great sword at his side. He felt secure in his armour, even pleased that, if he fell from the ship, there would be no lingering death for him. No one could swim with that weight of mail.

‘They’re like a row of castles, lord – three lines all roped to each other side to side to defend against boarding.’

‘The state of their ships?’

‘Huge ones to the front, sir, near twenty of them.’

‘Including our
Christopher
.’

‘She towers above them, sir.’

Edward breathed in. The
Christopher
alone could hold two hundred men.

‘The French angel?’

‘We saw the fleet at night but it’s like day over the harbour. The cloud above the estuary is on fire. It’s there.’

‘Did it see you?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Where the bloody Hell is ours? We’ll attack with or without it.’

Crabbe and Morley were alongside him, come over from their ships for conference. A dozen other important captains were there too.

Crabbe, a weather-beaten man of around forty-five, shook his head. ‘We can’t take them in the harbour. We must lure them out to sea.’

‘Agreed.’ Morley spoke. ‘No room to manoeuvre in there.’

‘Will our angel come to our aid?’ Cobham, of all people, a nerveless spy, looked worried.

‘It will come,’ said Edward, ‘I have its assurance. The wind is with us and we will attack the French directly.’

‘That is suicide, sir,’ offered Morley.

‘I didn’t ask for your opinion, Morley. I simply demand your obedience. You are here to receive orders not to indulge in a debate.’

But even as his anger flared he reminded himself of Morley’s many services to him. ‘Have faith, Morley. Direct attack. You may have the honour of taking back the
Christopher
. Three lines, as is customary. I’ll lead the way myself.’ Four of the assembled captains crossed themselves. The rest just looked at their feet – only Crabbe, the old pirate met his eye.

‘Don’t look so pale, men!’ said Edward. ‘If the French have been chained together since Cobham saw them, then they’ll be in a sorry state. You can’t hold a line like that for long in an estuary before the tide’ll have you to one side or another and you, as men of the sea should know that!’

‘You should speak to the men, sir, so we might relay your words to our own.’

‘Yes, of course.’

The king turned to the rail of the forecastle to look down on his ship. A trumpeter beside him sounded a flourish and the fighting men fell silent. In their war array they looked truly fierce – lions, dragons and bears looking out from surcoats of every colour, polearms sparkling in the sun, the goose feathers on the quills in the quivers white and bright, though the archers themselves looked drab in their poor men’s tunics. Already a couple of the more eager hands had taken to the crow’s nest, their bows on their backs. The great leopard pennants streamed from the mast tops, snapping gold and red in the breeze.

‘God, this is my sacrifice. God, restore my angels. I am the rightful king. Return my angels to me for this offering of blood I bring you.’ He crossed himself. What it was to go into battle hoping God would see your sacrifice and kill your father but unable to state your wish directly, even to Him.

He spoke to the men, these instruments of his will. He couldn’t bring himself to lie to them.

‘I stand here before you as your king, appointed by God, God’s anger in my soul and God’s words in my mouth. The French lie at anchor not an hour away. You may die today – if so, be happy. You die in a just cause, supporting the undoubted will of almighty God, in his service, offering your blood to protect the right of his servant on earth. We are English, blessed by God and can know no fear. Your Heavenly reward is assured and the day can only end well for you. You will be masters of France or seated at the right hand of God in Heaven. The French will be shaking in their ships for they know that, should they perish, eternal damnation follows.

‘I am the rightful king of France; that is my firm belief. God will stand by us. God will not let us fail. When Jesus found the moneychangers and the harlots in the temple of his father, he took a whip to drive them out. By my birth, by God and my right, I stand in the place of Jesus on earth. You are my whip. And what a scourge you are. One of us is worth ten Frenchmen, wise men say throughout Christendom. Today, fight well enough to make those wise men rethink their timorous odds. We are worth twenty, thirty of these murdering, burning, plundering fools and we will wash away their sins in their own blood! Forward, for England, for Edward, for the right God gave me and the obedience that you owe me!’

The men cheered and many called ‘God bless the king’. The cry went from ship to ship. ‘God bless the king! God bless the king!’

The captains returned to their ships and, as soon as the sun had moved above them and was no longer in their eyes, the fleet hauled up the anchors and set the sails, a good breeze still behind them. The harbour was familiar to them and they swung wide as they approached to attack head on into the estuary, the wind at their backs.

The
Thomas
broke past the headland under full sail and Edward could finally see what he was facing. It really was like a row of castles, or rather a deep and impenetrable mountain range. The enemy ships were no longer roped together as Cobham had reported. They had separated and were clearly manoeuvring to regain battle order, having drifted due to the tide. A great sigh went up from the French ships as the English came into view, men venting their fears as one, and,
yes
!, the air above the
Thomas
ignited and a great flaming circle of eyes appeared facing the French. From above the French ships the light shifted and swam, flowing up off the water to form the image of a gigantic man.

‘Sir?’ His captain was in front of him, his eyes full of terror.

‘Onwards! We can’t worry about what they decide and our actions may influence the outcome.’

The English ships ran forward, the longbowmen crowding the forecastle ready to engage.

The sky was yellow and the sky was red and then green. Great clouds raced across it, though the wind did not alter. A voice like a great cymbal sounded across the waters. ‘Yes?’

Another, like the roar of a fire replied. ‘Yes.’

The burning wheel above Edward’s ship vanished and only the figure above the French line remained, blazing with light.

Edward fell to his knees on the deck. His men were looking to him to protect them, to use his favour with God to intercede on their behalf.

‘Mighty God, I am your servant, your abject servant. I worship you and honour you. Stay the hand of the French angel, stay its hand.’

Light flashed across the heavens – tongues of fire. Now it was the English force’s turn to gasp, many crossing themselves or shouting out prayers for forgiveness.

A word shuddered through the air. ‘Jegudiel.’ It was as if a second sun was in the sky above the French ships. Edward shielded his eyes against the intense light.

‘Angel of kings,’ he shouted. ‘Angel of authority, of judges and those in authority who labour to God’s glory! See how abject I am, how dependent on God’s mercy! I have come here ready to die, to send all my men to slaughter! Recognise my faith. Reward my faith!’

The light dimmed and Edward could just make out the figure of a man, as if suspended in a cloud of light, holding forth a radiant crimson heart.

‘Forgive me!’ said Edward.

‘You are not forgiven. You are damned and all your countrymen with you!’

‘Listen to our angel! It will represent us!’ Edward cast his eyes about – no wheel of burning eyes, nothing.

‘Your angel defers to my opinion.’

Around him ships were foundering, water churning up, sailors unable to see what they were doing in the intense and blinding light.

‘Forgive me!’

‘You are not forgiven. You have an appointment in Hell, Edward. You have beauty beyond compare. What would it be like to touch you Sariel? Is it sweet to fall?’ The angel had stopped making any sense, though the water still rose and fell as if in a storm – but a storm of smashing, pulverising light. Edward’s ship was thrown sideways, the burning light robbing him of any vision. The French had no need to attack; they could just watch as the English fleet struggled in the furious waters. A sigh of three thousand voices. Screams and curses in French.

The light went out and the sea was still. Edward prised himself off the soaking deck. The French line was still in disarray, ships at all angles to each other, but the angel was gone.
My God, the enemy angel was gone!