Son of the Morning (60 page)

A tap on his shoulder and he turned around, a bright arc of piss spraying into the moonlight.

‘Hey! Careful!’ The voice was an urgent whisper.

In front of the pardoner was a long thin devil, its body like that of an emaciated man, its head stretched and thin and sporting a pair of great donkey ears. Its lips were pursed as if it had just swallowed a draft of vinegar.

‘Sorry.’ The pardoner holstered his cock, then crossed himself.

‘Which way’s England?’

‘Er, I don’t know. Are you from Despenser?’

‘Do I have scars on my back?’

‘Yes.’

The creature did – and big ones.

‘All right, but only on my back. If I was Despenser’s, I’d be one living scar. I am called by another.’

‘Are you here to kill the boy Dowzabel?’

‘Is he here?’

‘I think so.’

‘Oooh, dear! Which way did you say England was? I thought you were going there – that’s why I followed you.’

‘That way,’ said the pardoner, pointing back down the road to Paris.

‘Good, must get going. Can’t be seen on the road by day or they’ll have a stack of priests down after me. It’s no good telling them we’re on the same side. Good luck with the Antichrist, I don’t expect you and I will meet again this side of the lake of fire. Mind you, if you’re trying to kill the Antichrist, Hell can’t hold any fear for you. Hang yourself and cut out the middle man; the punishments for suicides are less than they are for arrogance and folly. Just a word of advice. Ta ta!’

The creature looked about it and shot off through the woods.

The pardoner crossed himself again. What was the devil on about?

‘Hssst!’

Another voice from the woods.

Osbert put his hand to his knife and looked further in.

‘Hssst!’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Be quiet or you’ll wake them! Come here.’

‘Show yourself. I’m not marching into the woods if I don’t know what I’m marching into!’

A big set of teeth flashed from the dark – like a rat’s but bigger.

‘I’m afraid that’s not very reassuring,’ said the pardoner.

‘I hopped out of your belly. I’m on Despenser’s mission. I won’t harm you!’

‘Is that where that other fellow came from? The long thing.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘So where did he come from?’

‘I don’t know. There must be another gate to Hell around here. Have you been summoning?’

‘No, I’m more interested in banishing.’

The pardoner ventured a careful step forward and then another. Presently he began to make out the shape of what appeared to be a rat, or rather it had the head of a rat, albeit monstrously large. Its body was something else entirely – resembling that of a bear. The creature itself was no bigger than a dog, a terrier, perhaps, though just too big for rabbiting.

‘We need to talk,’ it said. Its voice was surprisingly deep, like that of a London soldier he’d known who had been paid to keep the order in the Crown stewe.

‘Are you here to kill me?’ said the pardoner.

‘Don’t be a fool. I can’t kill anyone bigger than a farmyard hen – look at the size of me. That’s why I didn’t join your little scrap at the chapel.’

‘You’re from Despenser?’

‘Yes. I’m the contingency plan.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, if the devils failed to kill the boy, I was to present our fallback position to you.’

‘Which is?’

‘Kill him yourself or Hugh Despenser will make you the particular target of his personal wrath when you descend to Hell.’

‘
If
I descend to Hell.’

The devil let out a deep chuckle.

‘What?’ said the pardoner.

‘By Satan’s smoking ball sack, you were serious weren’t you? “If I go to Hell!” Very good!’

‘Fine. How shall I kill him?’

‘Lord Despenser doesn’t tend to concern himself with detail. It’s for you to work out that bit.’

‘Great.’ The pardoner sat down on a log. ‘What do you propose? Hibernate for winter? Store some nuts in a cheek pouch?’

‘No need to be like that,’ said the creature, ‘and I have a name, by the way.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Entirelybloodyuseless.’

‘Seriously?’

‘That’s the name Despenser gave me and the one he insists I use. My real name is Gressil.’

‘So he’s sent me an idiot.’

‘He’s killed all the morons, and all the dolts are busy doing other things.’

‘Wonderful. Have you any ideas?’

‘You saw the angel done for by a holy weapon. If it can do for an angel, it can do for him.’

‘So I need a holy weapon? That Orsino’s got the lance of Christ hidden up his arse somewhere.’

‘That might not do it. That struck down an angel. This kid’s something different.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’s the Antichrist,’ said the devil.

‘I thought his lot say Christ was Lucifer.’

‘They do, we don’t. Christ was the son of God. They say that he was Lucifer and we renamed him Christ. That’s why they still call their man the Antichrist. They’re not anti the man but anti what they say we made him stand for. You’re too thick to take this in, aren’t you?’

‘Er, yes,’ said the Pardoner.

‘He’s the Man of Sin. As in Thessalonians – he who will overthrow the law and set himself up in the temple of God, deceiving with signs and wonders. Sound like anyone you know?’

‘Terrific. I just have to kill someone who is powerful enough to spite God. Presumably God’s been trying to kill him and failing? While I find your confidence in my abilities flattering, I have to disappoint you and report they fall some way short of the divine.’

‘You’ll have to improvise, won’t you?’

‘Right, right,’ said the pardoner.

‘Look on the bright side,’ said the devil. ‘You kill him and entry to Heaven’s virtually guaranteed. Even the attempt bumps you up the holy ladder into the sky. No Despenser, no floggings and beatings and living in a house that’s always on fire. Warmth, shelter and plenty in the land of milk and honey. I wish I had a chance like that. I’d jump at it.’

It gave a little hop by way of illustration.

‘But how can I? You said that the holy lance might not work?’

‘That was deadly to holy things. You need something that’s deadly to unholy things.’

‘Like what?’

‘A devil’s knife – that might work, although the fact the kid’s got one tells you how successful the last attempt to kill him with it was. The angel’s sword in the mercenary’s pack might be a start.’

‘Marvellous,’ said the pardoner, ‘all I have to do is steal the sword from a professional killer and then eliminate Lucifer’s favourite son.’

‘At least you have seen the goals,’ said Gressil. ‘Now you can go about achieving them.’

‘Anything else I might try at the same time? Sweep the forest clean of leaves? Pull a piece of sky down for you?’

Gressil shrugged. ‘Killing him’s enough to start with.’

The pardoner glanced behind him. So deep in the woods, the group had not set a watch.

He crept forward to where Orsino lay. The sword was practically underneath him. It would be impossible to remove it without risking waking him. But if he cut Orsino’s throat first – how much noise would that make? Not too much. He took out his little knife.

He would not even risk touching Orsino, just drive the knife into his neck and then hold his hand over his mouth. Then for Dowzabel. But the knife felt cumbersome in his hand. What was the best way to do this?
Come on, just like a sheep at the mumbles
. Osbert stabbed down, there was a great clang and Orsino woke up with a shout. The pardoner had his knife back in his trousers in a blink. What had happened? The Sacred Heart shield had flown up from where it lay to briefly interpose itself between Orsino and the blade.

The Florentine cursed in his own language as he seized the pardoner by the mantle, wrapping the lapel over Osbert’s head to make an impromptu noose. Lights flashed at the side of the pardoner’s vision. And then went out. When Osbert came to, the mercenary was standing over him with a boot in the centre of his chest. So little threat did he consider Osbert that he hadn’t even bothered to draw a weapon.

‘What were you doing?’

‘You were snoring, lord. I was simply trying to turn you.’

‘I’m not a lord. You were trying to rob me, more like. You tried to take the shield!’

‘I swear no, sir, I swear no!’

Dow was on his feet. ‘It was beside me on my left as I slept. Now it’s two paces away to my right!’

‘Sir! Soft Dowzabel, will you not intercede for me here?’ said the pardoner.

‘You deserve to die,’ said Orsino.

‘Dowzabel, dear Dow, you released me. Come, let me confess to you. A messenger from Hell came to me, whispering things in my ear, telling me where this banner lies. The one the old king took. I was afraid of it and tried to take the shield to defend myself.’

Orsino drove his foot harder into Osbert’s chest. ‘What king?’

‘The old king! He still lives. So this devil told me. Gressil, dear Gressil, come and confess what you said.’

‘You knew this in the cellar at St Margarets!’

There was a rustling from the bush and the little rat thing popped out its head.

‘There! There!’ cried Osbert.

Orsino drew his sword.

‘I like not this company!’ said Gressil and ran to the bushes.

‘Where did that come from?’

‘I don’t know. Out of my belly, I suppose.’

‘What?’

‘When Dow sent me to Hell, they marked me. Look!’ He pulled up his tunic to reveal the circle on his stomach.

‘In the name of God!’ said Orsino, ‘we need to break that circle.’ He drew his knife.

‘Don’t kill him!’ said Dow.

‘Why not?’

‘He’s not our enemy. Save your sword for the high men,’ said Dow.

‘He’s a thief and devil summoner,’ said Orsino.

‘And what am I?’ said Dow.

‘We need to break that circle,’ said Orsino.

‘It’s already broken!’ said Osbert.

‘Better be safe than sorry!’

Orsino fell on the pardoner, grabbed his arm and bent it, as if to make a 4 of their entwined arms. Osbert tried to struggle but Orsino had him in an arm lock and the more he tried to break free the more painful it was.

‘I would keep still if I were you,’ said Orsino.

He pushed the tip of the knife into Osbert’s belly and drew it down in a swift nick. Osbert shouted out, but Orsino ignored him, pleased with his handiwork.

‘That should have broken it,’ said Orsino.

‘He stabbed me! He stabbed me!’ shouted Osbert.

‘Rather suggests you’ve never been stabbed,’ Orsino said. ‘I’ve seen men take the knife up to the hilt and complain less than you.’

He released Osbert and the pardoner sat up holding his belly, blood seeping over his fingers.

‘What did that creature tell you?’ said Orsino.

‘Not much!’ said the pardoner. ‘Just some stuff about salvation.’

‘We need to question that thing,’ said Orsino.

‘It’ll be long gone,’ said Dow.

Orsino wiped his knife on the pardoner’s tunic. ‘This one can’t fight, isn’t clever, he doesn’t sew or mend and he brings trouble on our backs. We should leave him here.’

‘How will he fend for himself?’ Dow said.

‘Somehow,’ Orsino said, ‘I think he’ll manage. Now let’s load the horses and be gone.’

‘You’re not going to leave me here are you, dear Dow, prey to wild men and bandits?’

Orsino came very close to him. The man had a dislikable presence, thought Osbert, solid, spiky, as if you could hurt yourself just rubbing up against him.

‘I think you’ll find a way to survive,’ said Orsino.

24

Montagu made his way north around the edge of the city to the place they called either The Temple or Le Grève. It was near to the old Templar’s monastery and housed for the men who waited daily for what work they could get at the square of Le Grève inside the city walls. The day was hot, the June sun burning his neck, and there was no wind to drive away the stink of the camp.

The ground here was swampy and everywhere rough little huts sprouted like so many animal shelters from the watery earth. These were not animal pens though; they were places that people lived. The smell was overpowering – the ground ran with waste of every description; scurf-ridden dogs, lean as skeletons, ran among the rot, searching for any scrap they could get, bare-footed children chased after them. One boy collided with Montagu, who looked down at him. The child had the face of an old man, so thin that the shape of the skull was visible around the eye sockets.

A pity, Montagu thought briefly, that children should have to live so. But God had set them there, their station in life was clearly described in the Bible. If He deemed things must be so then there was a purpose to it. And besides, it was well known these people knew nothing else and so didn’t suffer. Still, Montagu couldn’t help thinking of the farm boys on his own estates in the West Country. They lived like kings by comparison – they might know a hungry July one year in five but the rest of the time they were well fed on good rye bread and soup. They even ate meat on occasion, and his father had made a great show of cooking a hog for the poor at Christmas. Not much cooking here. The very few fires Montagu could see were lit for warmth in the cooling evening rather than to prepare food. This was what became of the masterless poor. Without the clergy to guide them and the nobility to look after them they were like children who fell to ruin. If he’d been given care of the area he would have drained the swamp in no time, had the men build proper shelters and put them to good work in a healthy state, not blighted by disease.

Of course Montagu had ridden through these tumbledown towns of straw and wood before on his way in and out of great cities. He had never needed to talk to the people who lived there, though, and never lingered. Montagu knew he stood out. He had been born to wealth, well-fed from his earliest years, meat every other day and usually fish on the days when God banned the eating of flesh. He was a head taller than most of the people here. He was armed with a good sword and, though he wore his prison rags, he knew his bearing would give him away. He had learned by his father’s example and that of the men of the court in his youth to dominate the space around him, head high, gaze meeting the eye, standing tall. That stance would draw notice here, unless it was mistaken for a brawler’s bravado. It didn’t matter that they thought him a foreigner – Paris was full of foreigners. It mattered if they thought him a lord, worth robbing or ransoming. He still had the sack and, in it, the crown of thorns. He really couldn’t afford to lose that. Still, better that than stooping like a servile man. Breeding couldn’t just be abandoned at the first sniff of danger.