Son of the Morning (71 page)

In the dark, more devils were assembling, squat figures, gigantic heads perched on bowed legs, no bodies, just cavernous mouths of innumerable teeth grinning from drooping jowls, big eyes flashing red in the torchlight. There were hundreds of them, all bearing spears and axes, many torches too.

‘We can wait it out.’

‘Can you? How much food do you have? We have poisoned your water.’

‘We have a queen in here. God will not let her die.’

‘Not her, perhaps. But you, I think, yes.’ The stink of the devil – smoke and sulphur – was powerful even at twenty paces.

‘Then bring your worst,’ said Robert. ‘I will die fighting for right. God does not want you out of Hell, does he, devil?’

‘God knows what he wants when he sees it, in my experience,’ said the devil. ‘He is first concerned that the sinner is punished. If that is achieved, I think he will be flexible on the rest.’

‘This is the realm of men and angels,’ said Robert, ‘and you offend it by your presence. England is not given to devils.’

‘Thrones are not always given to kings but still they take them. We will see. We’re needed here. God’s order is under threat. We only move to defend it. Let us in – we could be your allies.’ The creature returned to the darkness. Beneath the torches, the 12
^th
Legion gnashed and gurgled.

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Robert. ‘We hold the line and they will not harm us.’

‘Kill the queen and we are safe,’ said the boy.

‘Our bodies, but not our souls. God will deliver us, one way or another.’

From a high window, Isabella looked down. A ring of torches out there, movements in the dark, as in dreams – a wing against a flame, great jaws emerging from the murk into firelight, only for the dark to swallow them again.

‘How long do you think they’ll hold out?’ said little Charles, who stood in front of her. The boy was still trembling from the effects of his journey by the angel feather cloak.

‘They will die rather than admit the devils,’ she said.

‘So what is the point of the siege?’

‘To show we can stage a siege. To show we are a force. When the Hospitallers are dead, I can just walk out of here. And my forces will keep increasing – there is no sign the devils will stop coming.’

‘Where are they coming from?’

‘What an inquisitive child you are. You don’t need to trouble yourself with that. Suffice it to know that they are coming. Once I am outside these holy circles
I
can begin summoning. We can have more impressive devils than these on our side.’

‘You have used them before?’

‘Yes. In a limited way. My husband had allowed Despenser to ruin the country by that stage. Once my husband’s angels had gone we didn’t need any devils. I could have taken the country riding alone on my palfrey. The armies couldn’t wait to welcome us in. Still, the devils helped us take the throne. But after that we didn’t want them. They’d set themselves up as our masters if they got the chance. There’s a never-ending need to control them, to fight with ritual and ceremony to stop them overthrowing you. Better to banish them when they’ve served their purpose.’

‘How did you banish them?’

‘As one banishes anything. By making a deal.’

She went to the table and took up a looking glass. She turned down the corners of her mouth, dissatisfied with what she saw. From a bag she took out a small vial and unstoppered it. She carefully dripped a tiny drop onto her finger and licked at it. Then she replaced the cork.

‘Did you have any angel’s blood left over from your little escapade?’

‘I have several vials.’

‘Bring me one next time you visit, there’s a good boy. It does wonders for the complexion. Despenser had some about him when we finally took him and I’ve found it most useful ever since.’

‘I will.’ Charles thought for a moment. He was still gazing out of the window. ‘Will you banish these devils too? It seems a pity. I could use them in France. I bet they’re stripping the land for miles around.’

‘I don’t know. It’s time you went. I have a task I need you to perform. If you want to deal France a blow it will be worth your while.’

‘What?’

‘These Hospitallers who contain me have several documents relating to the attack of the Templars on our House of Capet. They contain much that is of interest to me, much that would enable me to persuade and control my son. They lock them in their Caesar’s Tower in the Temple in Paris. You could get them.’

‘The travel makes me sick.’

‘But it has not killed you. The documents, my spies say, are walled in on the topmost floor. But the tower is impregnable. No door. Anyone wanting them would need to dig them out, something that could take weeks and hardly go unnoticed. You could fly in there, recover at your leisure and fly out again. You’re a big enough boy to cope with sleeping sick in the dark for a few days, aren’t you?’

‘My cloak gives light enough,’ said Charles, ‘but tell me, auntie, what do the documents say?’

‘They discuss the summoning of certain creatures of the air – those cast down by God when he expelled Lucifer from Heaven, those who were not thrown into Hell before the gates closed. And other mysteries too. Beyond this, I believe a key is there. The first gate has been opened once. When it opens again, someone might step through who can open the second. That would give us more powerful allies. I would reward you for this service with some devils of your own.’

‘Bound to
my
service?’

‘What a clever boy you are! Yes, bound to your service.’

‘Then I will bear the sickness for you, auntie. How shall I find it?’

‘It is north of the Great Hall, a huge square castle – you can hardly miss it. Caesar’s Tower is the smaller of the two that stand within the grounds.’

‘Then let me do your bidding. I could carry a summoning circle out for you if you like.’

‘No, we will limit the number of those – it makes my bargaining position stronger.’

‘With whom?’

‘With my son.’

Isabella tousled his hair. ‘Ooh, look,’ she said, ‘the devils have got a country lad to try to break the circle. Oh no, the monks have a quarrel in him. Two quarrels. Marvellous shots in this torchlight, you have to give them that.’

‘You have spies here. Can’t they break it?’

‘I am never let near the men who tend the circle. My spies are few and good for relaying me news from the few friends I still have outside. The Hospitallers would kill them if they tried to touch the circle.’

‘Mummy says you have a way of getting men to die for you.’

Isabella laughed. ‘Not these men. They are wise to most of my tricks. But you are clever, little Charles. The monks never face me. Though with you here that might change. I have another idea how you might serve me.’

A few moments later, Charles stepped out of the window in the angel feather cloak, floating to earth as if a feather himself. The monks did not see him at first and, such was the jabbering of the devils in the dark, he had difficulty making himself heard.

Then someone turned from the line and screamed, pointing at Charles and his glowing cloak.

They ran to him with swords but he shouted for them to put up their arms, for he was of God. Monks grabbed him.

‘A devil!’ said one.

‘Nothing unholy can break the circle,’ said another.

‘I am of God!’ said Charles. ‘My name is the Doobaloobaloo, a cherub of the throne of God. I have killed the vicious queen to release you.’

‘What?’

‘She is dead, as God intended,’ said Charles. His cloak glowed and burned with a white fire.

‘How did you kill her? How?’ But the monks were now grasping only air. The boy in the cloak was shooting up into the heavens.

The monks shot up the stairs to the queen’s solar. Her lady-in-waiting lay dead on the floor, her throat cut.

‘It’s true!’ said Robert.

He ran inside, pounding up the stairs to the bed. The queen too was covered in blood, all over her hands, her dress. The monk shook her gently, instinctively asking her forgiveness for presuming to touch her. Only then did the monk realise – she had no wound at all about her.

Isabella opened her eyes.

‘Oh Robert,’ she said. ‘You look at me, at last.’

37

The pardoner lay in a bed in the guest room of the great keep. He had his wine by his side, a fine lantern, good sheets and, very importantly, Montagu’s weighty purse. He counted the money again and again. Forty livres. It was more profitable working for the French than the English, that was for sure.

On a table next to the lantern lay the letter he had taken from Montagu’s tunic after he had slugged him unconscious. It bore a fine seal which he dearly wanted to break so he could find out if its contents were worth selling. However, he hadn’t yet decided if the letter would be more valuable intact.

Gressil, the little devil at his feet had told him that opening it
would
reduce its worth. And there were some secrets it might be dangerous to know.

As far as the pardoner could see, little could be going better. Despenser, missing an arm, a toe and with a bad wound in his shoulder lay in the chapel, hoping the dawn light might restore his angelic body. The Hospitallers were going to try to sew the arm back on in the morning, Despenser assuring them that it was perfectly possible to mend a devil with patches, like an old cloak. Philip had been well pleased with the summoning, the capture of Montagu and the signing of the pact with Despenser. Despenser would get Gascony for his aid in tracking down the prophesied Antichrist. That would certainly awake the French angels. The Gascons were used to harsh masters and the addition of a few devils wouldn’t hurt them.

Montagu was in the dungeons, lashed to a wall. As soon as he recovered he would be interviewed by rack on his role in the death of the angel and after that he would be killed. Osbert smiled to himself as he lay in his bed. His angel feather was around his neck. He wondered what use that might be. Could it heal Despenser? Even if it could, he wasn’t going to try. He preferred devil Hugh injured and cowed. The longer he remained so, the better.

Presently, the wine made him drowsy and he dozed. He snuffed the wick with an automatic gesture and felt the exertions of the day seeping out of him in the luxurious bed. Things were going great. It was only as he fell to sleep he remembered how often in his life the thought ‘thank God, I’ve had my last ever kick in the balls’ had been followed by an enormous kick in the balls. His contentment worried him.

It was as if he dreamed. Smoke was in the room, lots of smoke. And then the smoke took shape, grew a voice.

‘Form up,’ said the smoke. Its voice was a scraping squeak, like the rending of metal.

‘I am doing. It’s not easy, you know.’

He opened his eyes, or at least he thought he opened his eyes. In front of him were two extraordinary creatures. They were like dwarfish men – no higher than his elbow when standing but they had monstrous boar’s heads out of all proportion to the size of their bodies. Gressil was on the end of his bed, cleaning his paws.

‘Who are you?’

‘Colour Sergeant Bale of the 15
^th
Legion of Dis,’ said one of the men, ‘This is Sergeant Slurp, of the same.’

‘You’re from Hell?’

‘Got that right,’ said Bale.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Clearing up your mess, son. Agent Gressil of The Sneak here managed to get a message to us through a chink in the wall of Hell.’

‘The Sneak?’

‘Satan’s spies,’ said Gressil, ‘we’re active in Hell but most of us are here on earth.’

‘I thought Hell was sealed.’

‘You spoke of the postern gates,’ said Gressil.

‘I was making that up.’

‘It happens to be true,’ said Bale. ‘Though there are also cracks in the walls where certain of us may get out – those with the gift of smoke, though we are few.’

‘You can turn yourself into smoke?’ said the pardoner.

‘Anyone can turn themselves into smoke, that’s a piece of piss,’ said Bale, ‘all that takes is a torch and a bucket of pitch. We can turn ourselves back again. That’s a lot harder and it takes it out of you but,
in extremis
, it can be done. Anyway, Gressil here had you down as a likely agent of Hell. But you’ve been making a mess of things, son.’

‘How so?’

‘Our allies on earth want the boy dead. But we also need Montagu to get back to his king.’

‘Why so?’

‘You ask a lot of questions,’ said Slurp. ‘In Hell we don’t ask questions because if we do, we find we get answers, some of which we may not like. Know what I mean?’ He cracked his knuckles, which Osbert saw were ordinary human hands.

‘Where did you come from?’

‘There he goes again,’ said Slurp. ‘Shall I give him an answer, captain?’

‘Give him two,’ said Bale.

Slurp drew a sword from his belt and in a quick movement struck Osbert twice on the head with the flat of the blade.

‘Arrghh!’ said Osbert, holding his head.

‘Any more questions?’ said Bale.

‘I’ve got a holy sword there!’ said Osbert, ‘which I don’t mind using!’ He nodded towards where Arondight lay.

‘He’s useless in a fight,’ said Gressil. ‘Don’t worry about that. He’s no Montagu!’

‘I thought you were my familiar!’ said Osbert to Gressil.

‘No, you’re
my
familiar,’ said Gressil.

‘Rubbish, you didn’t help at all in that summoning.’

‘Yeah, as you might have expected a familiar to. You however brought Despenser through just nicely on my behalf. Thanks. Now let’s get Montagu out of that dungeon. Move.’

‘We can’t do that. There are gaolers, he’s in the middle of the Hospitallers’ castle, I’m blind pissed.’ That was something of an exaggeration, though not much. The room swayed under the influence of the wine.

‘He’s got an angel’s feather,’ said Gressil.

‘Bang on,’ squeaked Bale.

‘What will that do?’

‘It opens passageways,’ said Gressil. ‘We’ll be able to go straight into the dungeon. I know which one he’s in, boys.’