Son of the Morning (56 page)

‘Gone to France to seek an angel.’

The big man clearly didn’t understand what Edwin was saying.

The woman took Edwin by the arm in a meaty grip. ‘He must come to Southwark with me. He cured my girl and there are plenty more who need his touch.’

There was a shout from upstairs and the big man bundled the priest down the corridor and pushed him up the stairs. The men had found Know-Much.

Edwin went into his bedroom to discover the demon sitting in a corner and the men surrounding it. The demon spoke in a strange language and the men answered it in the same tongue. Edwin recognised it as the Cornish the boy had spoken when he first arrived.

One word emerged again and again. ‘Cuthman.’

‘What are they saying, Know-Much?’

‘They call me cuthman, which means friend,’ said the demon, ‘and are asking if you are lying about the boy.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said not. I said you were one of them. It’s time to move, Edwin. Lucifer is coming back to the world and has sent his Antichrist ahead of him. The world needs to know. Will you announce it? Will you be John the Baptist?’

‘Why me?’

‘People will believe a priest. You can persuade your fellows.’

‘That way lies death. The church would burn me.’

‘They’d have to find you and take you first.’ It was the woman’s voice. Edwin thought it shameful that she was coming into his bedroom but tried to heed the demon’s words who had said there was no shame in the intermingling of the sexes, even in nakedness.

‘What do you mean? Who are you?’

‘I am Joanna Greatbelley. These men of Cornwall are twenty strong, fierce robbers, led by an ympe to seek Dowzabel. In Southwark, people are more loyal to the whores than they are to the king. You preach there, you go to the woods in Peckham and beyond and come in and out of town. They’ll try to take you but you’ll spread your message.’

Edwin bowed his head. ‘I have not the strength. I have rejected God but I cannot yet embrace Lucifer.’

Greatbelly laughed. ‘You seem to have done a good job of embracing him here. Listen, priest, I was as godly a whore as ever lay with a man but I saw what the boy did for my girl.’

‘That is not proof.’

‘It was proof enough for Elijah’s housewife,’ said Know-Much.

Edwin remembered the passage from Kings. Elijah had cured a woman’s sick son. The woman said:
Now by this I know, that thou art a man of God, and that the word of the Lord from thy mouth is truth.
Dow had affected a miraculous cure, he had commanded demons back to Hell, sent a man to Hell. Edwin could only believe the words of the demon to be true. Why quest after knowledge, why go to such lengths if you did not believe what you discovered? And then, if you did believe it, if you were sickened by seeing the bishops and the cardinals preaching a creed of poverty while drinking from jewelled cups, how could you not act?

‘I’ve seen your sort before,’ said Greatbelly, ‘loitering at the knocking shop door: the first time, coming on a Monday, not making it in; coming on the Tuesday, turning back on the step. By Saturday, drunk, full of piss and wind, you finally make it in and up the stairs. After that we’re seeing you nightly for the rest of your life. You can’t admit what you know you want for shame of what others might think.’

The big man pointed at the demon, spoke and then pointed back at Edwin.

The demon translated. ‘He says that if Hell has granted you a familiar then your destiny is set. Lucifer has put his trust in you.’

A little demon settled on Greatbelly’s shoulder and another on the shaggy-haired giant’s.

‘These demons are out among men, spreading the word of Lucifer. The man of perdition opened the gate and let them free. Lucifer’s return to earth has begun. I didn’t want to believe it, I still don’t but you can’t disbelieve your own eyes and ears,’ said Greatbelly.

The shaggy-haired giant spoke again, using that word ‘Cuthman’ and his demon translated for him, its voice like the buzz of a wasp. ‘Already the Welsh bowmen the English king invited here have called Lucifer “friend”. My brothers and sisters fly to the country too.’

‘You will be crushed if you try to revolt,’ said Edwin.

‘Now we will,’ said Greatbelly, ‘yes, we will. But in five years’ time, when the demon’s whispers have echoed to a roar, when your voice has stirred up the poor, what then? I have listened to these demons spreading the word of these honest men of Cornwall and, like you I know there is naught as strong as truth.’

‘We rise in secret,’ said the wasp-voiced demon, ‘and when we are legion, then it will be too late for the armies of the Usurper God, of the Horror, to overthrow us.’

‘Imagine –’ said Know-Much, ‘– you can create a paradise on earth.’

‘And have a roll in the hay without feeling guilty,’ said Greatbelly, ‘though I am not yet decided if that will increase or decrease the need for whores.’

Edwin looked around him, the bare boards, the mouldering walls. He had ignored the world even as he had sought knowledge of it. He had discovered what he had set out to discover, achieved enlightenment. Now, was the time to put his theories into practice. And would he not be an important man?

The giant put one hand on Edwin’s shoulder and with the other he made the sign the boy Dow had made – three fingers, palm towards his face, the three tines of the pitchfork.

‘Pestrior,’ he said.

‘He calls you “wizard”,’ said Know-Much.

‘Got a better ring to it than “priest”,’ said Greatbelly. ‘Return his sign, answer that you are his friend with the trifork?’

‘What’s that?’

‘His hand sign,’ explained Greatbelly, ‘Lucifer’s pitchfork, sign of the cruelties of the devils, sign of cruelty turned against itself in revolution.’

Edwin extended his hand to mirror the giant’s. ‘Cuthman,’ he said. ‘Now come on, because we have work to do.’

19

Jegudiel hit the floor with a sound like the boom of the sea; Sariel screamed and in her scream were all the hateful noises Montagu had ever heard – the death of horses, the anguish of men burned by oil or crushed by rocks, the cries of the women in looted and smashed towns. There was a flash of white light, so intense that Montagu lost his vision for a moment and when it returned the woman lay still on the floor. The mercenary, the youth and the angel all lay in a heap nearby. The light from the windows was dim now, as if dusk had come down. Only the votive candles gave any light to see by.

Montagu shivered. A couple of years ago he would never have thought such an act of sacrilege possible. Now he saw it with his own eyes. He immediately realised he could not allow the angel’s body to fall into the hands of the French. Too many potential relics.

Osbert crouched with his hands over his ears. Then he began trying to pluck the angel like a goose, not minding that it had a dead soldier and a fallen boy slumped on top of it.

Montagu had never seen such sacrilege – that a low man should presume to act so. He leapt forward and kicked him away ignoring his cries.

There were voices outside the chapel. The little boy Charles ran to the doors of the chapel to shut them, shouting to those still alive among the guards outside that he had vanquished the devils and they should guard the doors better this time.

He then turned to Montagu. ‘Who are you that kicks his superiors as if he were a king?’

‘Montagu, Lord Marschall of England, who bows only to kings,’ said Montagu.

‘Montagu – in those rags?’ said the puzzled young boy. Charles had seen six devils and an angel die in front of him but seemed to find it more remarkable a nobleman should dress in a pauper’s clothing.

‘Yes,’ said Montagu. He bent to the angel, pulling the soldier and the youth off its body. The lance was right through it and the angel showed no signs of life. Montagu checked the soldier’s breathing. None. The youth seemed dead too. Long habit made Montagu ignore the common men’s misfortune. Nobles received care after battle, everyone else was left to the mercy of God.

‘This is too valuable to your Valois enemies,’ said Montagu. ‘Its relics could turn the war in their favour. You need to remove it.’

‘Which was sort of my point in pulling out its feathers,’ said the pardoner. If the man hadn’t helped him escape prison Montagu would have cut him down where he stood.

‘Get a cart of some sort,’ ordered Montagu. ‘We’ll get its body onto that and remove it from here.’

‘As a prince, I’m not sure I like taking orders from earls,’ said Charles.

‘Then watch the Valois prosper,’ said Montagu.

‘I can’t order a cart,’ said Charles. ‘A man of my station cannot be associated with farm transport. That may do for you English nobility but we of the higher courts of France cannot speak of such things. We’re not …’ he pondered, searching for a word, ‘… rural.’

‘I’ll get the cart,’ said the pardoner, ‘if you tell me who is ordering.’

‘Go outside and tell them the Prince of Navarre commands it,’ said Charles.

‘And a big cloth, a tapestry, a sheet, anything to cover the body – but a big one,’ said Montagu.

The pardoner sidled through the door.

‘We’ll need a few men to move the angel,’ said Charles, ‘and that knave who killed it too.’

‘Why him?’ said Montagu.

‘He is a useful servant,’ said Charles, ‘alive or dead.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He may be holy or unholy. It’s worth slicing him up for relics just in case.’

But Montagu knew time was short. ‘We need to focus on moving the angel,’ he said.

‘Agreed,’ said Charles. ‘It might suit my enemies at court very well to blame me for this crime and the longer we stay here the more chance we have of being discovered.’

‘How old are you?’ said Montagu.

‘Eight, by my count.’

‘God help us when you’re twenty,’ said Montagu. The boy spoke like a seasoned courtier of thirty.

‘My God, it would be good to take the woman, also, if we could!’ said Charles.

‘Why?’ Montagu was casting around for something that he could wrap the angel in. He could hardly drag a nine feet tall, winged man out into the streets of Paris and hope to escape notice.

‘I find your questions impertinent, Montagu,’ said Charles. ‘This woman brought about the situation where this murder was possible.’ He nodded to the body of the angel. ‘That is all you need to know and all I will tell you.’

Montagu snorted. He inspected the body of the angel, crossing himself. He was somewhere between panic and glee. They had dealt a blow to the French from which it would be difficult to recover. Perhaps Charles was right. They’d accounted for a French angel at no peril at all to their immortal souls. The French had six other angels but this, Jegudiel, which some said was an archangel, was the one that had regular contact with the French king, the one on whom had been lavished the greatest splendour, the most wonderful architecture. He thought of old Edward, still alive in the east, surrounded by his angels. He felt again for a pulse on Dow. This boy, an angel assassin, could be useful, he preferred not to think how. He took the blackbird demon’s sword and stuffed it under his arm. He may need to arm one of his companions yet.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps Edward had been right to be confident. The English army was well trained and drilled, though small. They could face the French and win without divine help. That was cause for celebration. Though the death of one of God’s holy angels was not.

As they waited for the pardoner, Montagu noticed the head of the cardinal on the floor. It was blinking at him. Montagu crossed himself and the head moved its lips. It was trying to speak. A devil, no doubt. No time to worry about that now.

The pardoner returned. ‘I have six good men to help, and transport is at the ready,’ he said.

‘No, no, no, that won’t do at all,’ said Charles. He slid through the doors himself and Montagu heard him ordering the hall cleared. There was a dragging noise and the pardoner backed in to the chapel, pulling an enormous tapestry.

‘Well, help me then!’ he said.

‘Princes do not toil,’ said Charles.

Under the circumstances, Montagu opted to forgo his pride and pull the tapestry into the room.

They removed the lance from the angel’s chest and covered the body with the tapestry, spreading it carefully over the wings.

‘Come on,’ said the pardoner, ‘this beats a shawl of St Anne knocked up behind Spitalfields market! Even the tapestry will be valuable once it’s bled out a bit onto it! You’ve earned damnation but will gain a right few quid.’

‘Shut up,’ said Montagu.

They tried to lift the angel but, though it was much lighter than a man of its size would have been, its wings rendered it cumbersome.

Twice they dropped it. When finally they dragged it from the other bodies, the Florentine sat up, blinking. There was a hole in his tunic but he bled no more.

‘Sariel! Dow!’ Orsino stood, then knelt to check Dow. ‘The boy’s breathing,’ he said. He put his hand to the girl’s neck and then to her mouth.

‘Dead,’ he said and crossed himself. He made the sign of the cross over her. ‘She needs blessing. She needs a priest. She …’ His voice faltered and he cast his arm around her, sobbing.

‘Pull yourself together Florentine!’ Montagu shouted. ‘The royalty here can protect us for only so long. If you want to live we need to leave now!’

‘The French will honour her?’

‘She’ll have a Christian burial, I’ll see to it,’ said Charles. ‘Now hurry.’

‘You see to it,’ said Orsino. ‘I should stay here and die. I have gone beyond sin. There is no way forward.’

‘Only
do
then,’ said Montagu. ‘Follow orders, low man, and weep when there is time for weeping. For now, assist me.’

Orsino was a soldier to his boots and the command snapped him from his reverie. He approached the bundled angel, taking the end the pardoner had been holding, and, with Montagu, on his command, they lifted it.

Orsino grunted. His eyes were vacant.

Four thumps hammered on the door. ‘It’s me, Joan!’

‘With guards?’ shouted Charles.

‘Yes.’

‘Put them to clearing the street!’ said Charles. ‘We’re coming out soon!’