Son of the Morning (58 page)

The angel’s wings were spread wide and Dow was struck by its fearful beauty, the pale bright skin, the long limbs and the hair of gold. He moved his knife across its throat. A bright stream of crimson splashed into the bucket.

‘They bleed better than a pig,’ said the pardoner.

‘The low man’s view of the most wondrous of God’s creations –’ said Montagu, ‘– “It bleeds better than a pig.”’

The pardoner reached around the back of the angel to squeeze and push at its chest, trying to press the last of the blood from it. ‘More valuable than gold!’ he said.

Dow filled the bottles as best he could. Dow knew that angel’s blood was an ingredient in the most ambitious summoning spells and he also knew that high men would not allow him as much as a hair from the angel’s head, so he was careful to use a number of small bottles to collect the blood, to make it easier to steal one. As it splashed on his hands it tingled on his skin.

‘Pluck it,’ said Charles, when the angel was drained, and Dow did. As he plucked Dow was amazed to find no structure beneath the feathers. All there was were feathers, layer upon layer of them. By the time he’d finished he’d filled six sacks with them and secreted one feather for himself.

When that was done they took it down and wrapped the body in the waxy cerecloth. Dow was covered in the blood by the time he’d finished, his whole body tingling.

Montagu took a bottle of blood and passed it to Orsino.

‘He’s having those as well, is he?’ said Charles.

‘You have the bulk of the body and the feathers,’ said Montagu. ‘There lie the most powerful relics in Christendom. Be grateful for them.’

‘Gratitude is not for princes. I’m not sure I like your tone,’ said Charles. ‘And you still have the crown of thorns.’

‘Yes,’ said Montagu, picking up the sack from where the pardoner had kicked it behind a pile of straw.

‘I took it, I should have it,’ said the pardoner.

It was as if he didn’t exist. No one even acknowledged that he had spoken.

‘I’m not expecting you to like it,’ continued Montagu. ‘I defer to you as a prince but you must defer to me as an elder.’

Charles snorted. ‘I want that crown,’ he said.

‘Not possible,’ said Montagu. ‘Now, Florentine, you are commissioned by Bardi?’

‘I am.’

‘This angel spoke before it died. It said the one you seek is where the snake eats the man. Do you know the place meant? Answer me man. You’ve sinned and now you must seek redemption; do what you have to and King Edward himself will intercede for you, I guarantee it.’

Orsino shrugged. ‘Sounds like Milan,’ he said. His voice was weak and he did not look at Montagu directly.

‘Why so?’

‘It is the city’s sign.’

‘Then go there. Though why it’s beyond these creatures to speak plainly, I don’t know.’

‘How shall we know the man we’re looking for?’ said Dow.

‘You know who he is?’ said Montagu.

‘Yes.’

‘The Hospitallers have him, I believe. You can find a way. I have questions to ask here and when I get the answers I’ll send word to you. Is there an inn you know that could receive a letter?’

Dow whistled and down from the rafters fluttered Murmur to perch on his shoulder.

‘Good God!’ said Montagu. He drew Arondight.

‘I don’t like that thing,’ said Charles. He drew his little sword.

‘This is Murmur,’ said Dow. ‘Call his name.’

‘And he’ll hear me across a continent?’

‘Say it to the skies,’ said the ympe. ‘Free Hell will hear you.’

‘What it is to trade with demons,’ said Montagu. Montagu gestured to where he had put the blackbird devil’s sword, the falchion, big and heavy. ‘There,’ he said to Dow. ‘Take that. You are an enemy of God and so more useful than you think. You can’t damn the damned, eh Florentine? Take the youth. Let him do what needs to be done. Edward will absolve you of all sin as is his right to do.’

‘Can he really do that?’ said Orsino.

‘He can. Forgiveness is there for you. God’s, if not your own.’

‘Returning to more immediate concerns,’ said Osbert, rubbing his hands. ‘What’s my share of the loot?’

Once again he was ignored.

Montagu turned to Charles. ‘Now, Charles, clear all your men but those you trust the most. We’ll convey the angel to the ship. After that, you indicate you’ve been abducted by us and threatened, and want a rowing boat. We’ll drop the mercenary and the boy as soon as we can and then I’m afraid you’re going to have to walk back into Paris. Are you ready?’

‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘With these relics we’ll lead old Philip a merry dance.’

‘So I get nothing do I?’ said the pardoner. ‘The sum total of my reward. Sod all. A bucket full of nowt. Not even crap in my hat.’

Montagu, took a feather and a bottle of angel’s blood and stuffed them inside his tunic. Then he pulled back the door of the barn and Charles called for his men.

21

The
Thomas
lay at anchor in the broad estuary of the Swin. Around it in the pale dawn lay the spoils of the battle – nearly two hundred ships captured, among them the
Christopher
and the
Edward
, both back in English hands where they belonged. Many were beyond claiming, though, burned hulks clinging to the shore, black and wet as mussels, stranded where their captains had beached them in a bid to make the land before the angel’s fire consumed them.

Edward looked over the scene with satisfaction, a rosary in his fingers. God had made it clear whose side He was on. The angel turned and sparkled above Edward’s mast, a huge circle twenty yards round. Beneath it Béhuchet, that Channel pirate, swung by his neck from the yard of the
Christopher.
It had been over a week since the battle but Edward would leave him there until he rotted away. Still the water around him bobbed with corpses like so many lilies in a bloody pond.

‘The figures are in, sir. Eighteen thousand dead French, at my estimate.’

Sir Robert Morley, the admiral, was alongside him, in a fine green coat embroidered with a golden ship. He’d been wearing it daily since the battle. He must have been confident of a victory, thought Edward. No point splashing out on something like that if you were going to get caught or killed. Then again, if you were going to drown, you might as well do so looking good.

‘Only God could have given us such a victory,’ said Edward.

‘Him, his angel and some tough English bastards,’ said Morley.

Edward laughed. Morley was a pretentious sort of admiral who had always affected to speak French and know little of the language of the common man. He’d become a whole lot more English after the battle and now spoke like a London merchant.

Edward had several plans forming in his head. He had two thousand men with him – around one thousand three hundred archers. They’d need horses – there simply hadn’t been enough space to bring them, so he had to wait until they could be brought from England, hence his delay in Sluys. These men were his core. He could rely on his Flemish allies for thousands and thousands more men – one hundred and fifty thousand, his negotiators were saying, though that struck Edward as highly optimistic. Even if it were true, most of them were more at home pulling the shuttle on a loom than a longbow string. Still, the situation was promising.

The French were in Artois, so Edward’s force would divide, some marching under Robert of Artois to stop a counterattack on Flanders.
He
should cause Philip problems as the locals rallied to his flag. Philip had disinherited him from his ancestral lands, which was why the old boy had come to the English flag. With luck the French might face a battle against both external and internal foes. Edward would go south to the rich town of Tournai, the strategic key to the whole North. That taken, and the valuable weaving town secure, they could strike into France proper and take Lille. There he would await the demons, hand over the town to them and be done. Lille was too strategically important to the French for it to be allowed to stay in enemy hands and, Edward’s bargain fulfilled, it would be bound to be retaken, with luck at great cost to both the French and the demons. That didn’t matter – his part in the whole business would be done and his children safe.

A small cog cut a broad arc into the bay, flying the cross of St George from its mast. At the side of the
Thomas
, rowboats were docking. Edward’s commanders were coming aboard. Doubters, the lot of them, dogs come to feast on the lion’s kill. Well, he’d let them. At least Robert of Artois was among them. There was a warlike man, even if he was French.

Edward looked out at the scavengers looting the bodies on the shore. Flemings – they’d stood half the battle on the shore waiting to see who was winning and come to the aid of the English as soon as it was obvious the battle was going their way. That, he thought, was a taste of things to come. Victory breeds allies. A party of his longbowmen moved among them. One of them was talking loudly, gesturing and pointing up at the angel. There was some sort of disagreement going on between them because some men applauded what he said while others tried to shout him down.

He turned to Morley. ‘You’d think we could have unity after a battle like this.’

‘That’s what happens when you stick the Cornish in units alongside anyone else. There’s a reason God put them so far away.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Talk. We should hang a couple of the dissenters.’

‘Dissent?’

‘Religious. A cult. They put Lucifer above God,’ said Morley.

Edward crossed himself.

‘We’ve let it go so far because they’re bowmen. We can’t start hanging them and doing the enemy’s work for them.’

‘What dissent?’

‘Oh, don’t ask me. I can hardly understand a word they say. I had a man flogged for it a month back. He said the fighting poor have more common cause with the fighting poor of the enemy than they do with any high men.’

‘That’s unnatural talk.’

‘Quite. I’ve heard less of it since the angel appeared.’

Edward watched the men a while longer. Eventually the man who had been talking the loudest was left alone, even by those who appeared to agree with him. He pointed up at the angel and began to shout. ‘Drogoberer! Turant!’

‘What is he talking about?’

‘Cornish gibberish.’

‘Have him brought here,’ said Edward. ‘I want to talk to him and, if he can’t speak English or French, get someone who can translate.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The little cog was nearing the ship now and he could look down to see two of his paymasters – Sir Peter Henry and Sir Robert Jollibois on its deck. Messengers from England. He hoped they had more money for him. They wore big smiles and waved as grappling ropes were thrown up onto the
Thomas
. Shortly a sailor secured a rope ladder and they boarded.

‘God blesses you, Edward!’ Henry threw his arms around the king.

‘I never doubted it. I am England. What else could He do?’

Jollibois gazed up at the angel. ‘All doubt ends when you look at that. Have you ever seen anything as terrible. Did it smite the French?’

‘It caused a good deal of panic and set fire to some of their boats,’ said Edward, ‘but most usefully it persuaded their angel to go away.’

‘Praise to God,’ said Jollibois. ‘And thanks for talking to Him, your holiness. Consider my mother, sick at Hythe.’ He bowed to the angel.

‘There is no question: God weighed my right against Philip’s and decided for me.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Henry.

‘Do you have good news for me?’ said Edward.

‘Parliament has sent us to confirm the news of the battle,’ said Jollibois.

‘They think I would lie?’

‘Surely not sir,’ said Jollibois. ‘It’s just that…’

‘They think I lie.’

Jollibois smiled. ‘You do not lie, my lord, we see the evidence here. We’ll sail back on the next tide and then the news will be good indeed. I’m sure of it. They have to back you, Edward!’

On the shore the Cornishman who had been shouting at the angel ran as he realised the little rowboat released from the
Thomas
was coming for him. He wouldn’t run for long. The men-at-arms on the boat had a big alaunt with them and already it was straining to jump from the boat to chase the man. Edward regretted that. It wasn’t good for his men to see their masters treating their fellows that way. Although, if the man was a troublemaker, they’d have to make an example of him. It was the only politic thing to do.

‘A criminal?’ ventured Jollibois.

‘A heret---ic, by all accounts.’

The two nobles exchanged glances.

‘The
Thomas
has a cabin?’ said Henry.

‘Yes.’

‘Can we go within?’

‘It’s mighty small.’

‘We have something that is not for all men’s eyes.’

‘As you wish.’

The men walked back to the cabin. It was indeed small – room for a bed roll, a chest and not much else. Edward kicked the mattress onto its side to give the men more room to stand. Still, they had to crouch.

Henry spoke first. ‘The wool levy at home is not going well.’

‘Montagu turns his back for a second and I hear this. Not well, meaning badly? How badly?’

‘Very badly. The expected money will not arrive. We have enough to pay
some
of the bankers.’ Henry swallowed. ‘At present we don’t have enough money to cover even the daily expenses of your household. But there is hope. Parliament must offer to raise taxes after this success.’

‘What’s the excuse?’

‘The normal ones. And the pirate Robert Houdetot has raised a squadron of ships under Philip’s flag and captured thirty wool ships on their way here. They have also burned towns on the Isle of Wight, on Portland, Teignmouth and made damage at Plymouth. Sark has fallen.’

‘This!’ said Edward pointing to the captured ships of Sluys, ‘was supposed to have ended French sea power for a generation! You’re telling me they’re back up and running in just ten days? Send the ships of the northern Admiralty to the Channel Islands and make sure all ships leaving are in convoy. Morley, raise a fleet and attack Brest – there’s plenty of merchants shelter there. We’ll pick up their cargoes.’