Son of the Morning (54 page)

‘God favours us! God favours us! Attack! Attack!’ screamed Edward. The bowmen around him on the forecastle regained their feet, the sail filled and as the
Thomas
sped towards the French line a great cry went up from Edward’s men.

‘God is with us! The angel has gone! God is with us.’

Edward freed his sword as the
Thomas
closed on the French in a hiss of longbow arrows, volley after volley after volley, as they raced forward – with the wind, with the tide.

Holland was at his side. ‘Are you feeling what I’m feeling, sir?’ The knight was grinning wildly.

‘A good day to be English!’ said Edward. The cog smashed into a big French galley, its sides shearing the oars. Crossbow fire pattered into the deck and men around him died but Edward’s archers’ response was devastating. Twenty longbows on the aftcastle, twenty on the forecastle, sent showers of death onto the decks of the galley. A French cog came slamming into the
Thomas
’s side, grappling irons clawing into the wood. Edward was close enough to touch the crossbowmen on the forecastle and touch them he did, leaping over to be amongst them, cutting and hacking. They screamed and fell back in front of him, cowed that the God-appointed king of England was among them like a fox among the hens. Two were battered down by his shield, but three discharged their weapons at close range. A bolt went through his gambeson and into his thigh, another missed completely and a third wayward shot hit a fellow crossbowman.

Two men leapt from the forecastle in panic onto the deck below. The
Thomas
discharged its pots-de-fer, shivering the French ship. There was another enormous bang from the deck below. Cobham had fired his handgun. Well, thought Edward, a man of noble birth is allowed a little fun in war. He certainly intended to have some himself.

‘One of us is worth a score of you!’ screamed Edward.

‘England! England! England! The Boar is amongst you!’ Holland was alongside him, screaming out Edward’s nom de guerre.

A crossbowman went down to Edward’s sword, another and another. A man fired not three paces from him but Edward’s shield slowed the bolt as it flew and, though it penetrated his mail, it hung harmlessly from his gambeson. He cut the man from shoulder to chest.

All around the battle raged to the accompaniment of a tight drum roll as longbow arrows were fired at ludicrously short range. The French were losing, their sailors easy prey to the men-at-arms who ran rampant over their ships. Edward’s men had overrun the two French ships they’d initially attacked, and he jumped back on to the
Thomas
. The captain brought the ship about, looking for more prey and, just visible in the western sun, Edward saw a magnificent sight. Eight oared galleys of Genoese mercenaries were making a break for the sea. They wouldn’t do that unless they were convinced the battle was lost.

Another loud bang. Cobham had reloaded and discharged his handgun. That alone told Edward his men were enjoying some success in the battle. Cobham couldn’t have done that if hard pressed.

‘We’re going to win,’ Edward said to himself, ‘we’re going to win! Praise God! He is with me! He is with me!’

A large French cog was alongside and Edward’s pots-de-fer fired again, slamming their bolts into its ranks of crossbowmen. As his ship lurched with the recoil Edward saw something in the muzzle’s breath. A shape, like that of a man, but a man of coals and fire. The creature who had visited him at Antwerp.

‘Remember!’ it seemed to say.

‘I remember!’ he shouted, ‘I remember, but soon I will have no need of you for God favours me now!’

Edward was hardly conscious of his bloody thigh, desperate to reach more French.

Above him the huge wheel materialised in the sky – a wheel of fire full of eyes. The English angel had come back.

‘Burn them! Burn them!’ Edward exhorted.

‘The French cannot protect the angels of God,’ said Edward’s angel. ‘I will burn them.’

The eyes poured forth fire, streaking out in great blasts towards the French. The skies blazed; God’s judgement streamed down on the enemy, and even on the
Thomas
, the heat was as intense. The French ships were no more than floating bonfires all along the line, men turned to fiery devils as they leapt aflame into the water. Edward sank to his knees to give thanks. God loved him; against all the odds, mysteriously, inexplicably, brilliantly, and despite what the French angel had said, the battle was won.

17

Revulsion burned in Dow’s chest as he was led into the palace. The beauty of the place was overwhelming – everything gilded, painted, embossed or jewelled. One of the marvellous pillars in the entrance hall alone would have bought shelter for the poor of a town, he thought. How could men live like this while their fellows starved? What sort of devil enjoyed this display knowing that, not a bowshot away, children died for want of food and clothing? The spectacle was entrancing, he conceded, truly wonderful. Each step invited him to stop and wonder. But at what cost? – the denial of decent treatment of the poor. Dow walked on with unflinching purpose.

The little one who led them in was so cocksure, so lordly. What gave him the right to think himself so superior? Dow thought of Nan, dead on the moor. Who had been better than her? She had never swaggered or sneered, but been kind and gentle. Well, the time for kindness was over; gentleness had had its day.

Sariel would force the answer from this angel and then they’d be on their way east to take the banner that would rally the poor and smash these palaces to pieces, using their gold to provide bread.

Sariel, though, looked around her enraptured. ‘The light in here is wonderful,’ she said. ‘See how deep the gold shines, like a summer lake and the rubies, little sunsets each.’

They hurried on, the little boy talking all the time. ‘We’ll proceed directly to the chapel,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by delay.’ He ushered the group past him and waited until he came level with Dow.

‘Now, I know you,’ he said in English, ‘and I know what you are.’

‘What am I?’ replied Dow in the same language.

‘My God, is that supposed to be English? You sound as though you have a mouthful of stones, man. Talk clearly!’

Dow had a strong urge to strangle the child, who didn’t wait for Dow to speak again.

‘You are no friend of angels or priests, I think.’

‘No.’

‘Neither am I. The one we’re about to see is particularly troublesome to me. I think you have something about you that could prove useful. A knife? Obtained from a fellow who breathes fire?’

‘What of it?’

‘Well, if you could stick it in the angel if you get the chance, then I’d be awfully grateful.’

‘I am here to ask it a question.’

‘Wouldn’t your lord, Lucifer, favour you if you killed one of his enemy’s servants?’

‘I am not looking for favour with Lucifer. Only to serve his cause.’

The boy craned his head, as if not quite understanding Dow. ‘Amounts to the same thing, I think you’ll find. Look, let me put it another way. You kill the angel when it appears or I’ll have you and your companions killed in the most brutal way imaginable. Take my word for it, I have a rich imagination and have spent some time pondering how to best inflict pain on my enemies. The captain over there, the one who attends the lady, should I start with him?’

Dow shoved the boy hard on the shoulder and grabbed him by the hair as he staggered backward. ‘Best start with me,’ he said in Cornish, though he could see the little prince took his meaning well enough.

Immediately three polearms were on Dow, one jabbing into his side hard enough for him to take a pace back. The Navarrese men-at-arms had responded instantly to a threat to their lord.

The queen cried out, but the boy held up his hand and spoke in a language Dow didn’t understand. The men lowered their polearms and Dow released the boy’s hair.

‘Have you gone mad, Dow?’ Orsino asked him in English.

‘He threatened me,’ said Dow. ‘He threatened you too.’

‘Do you want him to come good on that threat?’ said Orsino. ‘This must be a tolerant prince, because any I’ve ever met would have had you dead on these flagstones by now.’

Of all the people on the stairs, the little boy seemed the least concerned. ‘High-spirited foreigners,’ he said, ‘a misunderstanding, that’s all. Let’s proceed to the chapel.’

They headed up the stairs to the great doors in front of them. Queen Joan told the two guards barring their way to step aside, and they instantly obeyed. Philip had seen no need to protect access to the angel since receiving the good news that Charles would never be king.

The doors were opened and Dow felt all breath leave his body. The glorious sun of the Parisian June was split into a hundred colours here, leaving its memory dull by comparison, as the ore is dull compared to the tin the fire pulls from it.

The windows were immense, the gold deeper, the gems brighter than anything he had seen in the palace so far. Light, light – everything wrought from light.

Sariel stepped into the chapel, gazing around her. She seemed transformed by the light, her appearance beyond mere beauty, more akin to a star or the moon, a dawn over the hills.

She went further in. At one end of the chapel something seemed to shine – itself a small dawn. Dow walked in, his head giddy. On a plinth was a twisted garland of thorns, shining even in the brilliance of that room. Behind it was a cloth imprinted with a man’s face, it too leaking light. Dow knew instinctively that this was the crown of thorns with which the horror, Îthekter, had tormented Lucifer; the image was the face of the Lord of Light.

‘Can you not see?’ said Sariel.

‘See what?’ said Charles.

‘How it shines, how the crown shines.’

‘I see nothing but a bit of dusty bush,’ said the boy, ‘sold in generations past by charlatans to credulous kings.’

‘It shines!’ said Sariel, ‘it shines!’

All along the walls of the chapel stood statues of the twelve apostles that now began to babble. Dow didn’t understand their language, but somehow he knew what they meant.
A king has come. A mighty king. Half human, half divine. He is the enemy of the true king of Heaven
.

There was a disturbance from behind them, men crying out in panic.

‘Call the angel,’ said Charles.

‘Angels can’t be called,’ said Sariel, ‘or not by any earthly power. They choose to come or they choose not to come, to allow the part of themselves that is here to come to the light or to remain in darkness.’

‘What’s that noise?’ said the little boy.

‘Enemies!’ shouted Queen Joan.

‘I was told angels could be called by her!’ said Charles. ‘I’ve been lied to!’

The commotion grew louder – the sound of battle, steel on steel. A smell drifted up the stairs – brimstone, smoke and sal ammoniac.

First around the corner came the monstrous blackbird, tall as a man and gripping a sword in the talons that sprouted under its wings.

‘Devils!’ shouted Dow, but Sariel wasn’t listening – she was lost to the light.

Orsino drew his sword and kissed the cloth of St John, while Charles and his mother ran to end of the chapel furthest from the door. All their men-at-arms drew to face the devils.

The boy desperately tugged at a lance that was mounted on the altar. Dow saw that it too glowed. The lance that had pierced Christ’s side. All these relics, all these things endowed with Îthekter’s power, were things used to harm Lucifer – whom they called Christ. These were the enemy’s implements, the enemy that had fooled the angels, fooled the saints.

Dow drew his knife.

‘We come for Dowzabel,’ chirped the blackbird. ‘No other man need fear us.’

‘Ask not who need fear you but whom you need to fear,’ said Orsino.

‘Give him the youth!’ shrieked Joan.

A man-at-arms grabbed Dow by the shoulder but little Charles cried out, ‘Give it a moment, men. I want to see if the angel appears.’

Dow felt giddy. It was as if his eyes not only drank in the light of the chapel but radiated it too. The mark on his chest flared, burning white light in the shape of the fork through his tunic. But what was happening to Sariel? She was dancing in the chapel, her arms loose, her dark hair like a living thing as it swung about her, fell forward and was tossed back behind her; she moaned and called out in a voice that had all the beauty of the bird-bright dawn, of a clear river singing at a weir.

The bird-devil leapt up the stairs, cleaving a man-at-arms, shearing through the sword he put up to block and hacking into his side. Orsino got a good blow at the creature but its head retracted into its neck just before his sword struck. The blade bit the door frame and the bird backhanded Orsino down the stairs. Other frightful figures were emerging – a man with the face of a decomposing dog, a mule with a steel peacock fan tail.

With all the devils up the stairs the men-at-arms fell like barley in the harvest.

The blackbird hopped forward at Dow, knocking him down. It turned its head this way and that trying to avoid being blinded by the light that poured from the fork on Dow’s chest but still slashed with its sword. Its strength was enormous, its body heavy and solid and Dow had to writhe and dodge to avoid its blows. He pulled out his dagger and stabbed at the creature but it just brushed his arm away, sending the dagger sliding across the floor. Then it had him by the neck and lifted its sword to strike.

Hot blood pulsed over Dow’s chest; the creature dropped its sword.

The boy prince had run the length of the chapel with the holy lance to spear the bird through the heart.

‘Not until the angel is here. He’s going to kill it, isn’t he? And drive his guardian mad? It’s
your
blasted plan!’

Something odd was happening to the light in the chapel: its beautiful colours were splitting into shining rays, each one itself a rainbow.

The cardinal was at the door. ‘Back! Back!’ he shouted to his devils. ‘Let the boy do his work and then we’ll be on him.’

A sound was in the air, a beautiful song, high and clear. Sariel joined it in counterpoint and Dow felt it doing something very strange to him. He was light, not flesh, a thing born of the light.