Son of the Morning (72 page)

‘Will you bring it back when you’re finished?’

The boars exchanged glances. ‘We’re devils,’ one said, ‘if I tried to pick up or use that feather I’d be dead meat.’

‘Fried pork,’ said the other boar, with something of a sizzle to his voice.

‘This is why we need you, you moron. Now bring it.’

‘I can hardly walk. I’m lashed.’

‘Get up before I get you up,’ said Bale.

The pardoner slid out of bed. He hadn’t bothered taking off his clothes, so he only had to strap on his boots. He swayed as he stood. He was really phenomenally drunk. Situation normal for that time of night; he’d get by. There was no way he was going to join in this mad escapade. He’d decided that France was offering him far more than England ever had and that he wasn’t about to turn his back on that. He’d raise the alarm and have the Hospitallers deal with these devils. He dived for the door. Unfortunately the door didn’t appear to be quite where he’d left it when he came into the chamber and he ran straight into the wall. He sat down with a great thump.

‘Was that an escape attempt?’ asked Gressil.

‘Do that again and I’ll open up your entrails and chew on them,’ said Bale, ‘slowly, and with malice.’

‘Right.’ The pardoner was sick.

‘Get him some water,’ said Gressil.

Slurp poured a draft into a cup and gave it to the pardoner. He drank it down.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘can we not rethink this? – life has just picked up in a major way for me. I could be court wizard to King Philip. Imagine that. Fine clothes, women, drink. A bit of light summoning. I could try to find your mates, bring through more devils, I really could.’

‘Cut out the chat!’ Slurp’s voice was like the squeal of a greased piglet at a May fair.

‘We’ll be seen leaving the tower!’

‘Not at this time. Come on, and bring that feather. And the sword and the letter.’

They slipped down out of the tower, where, as predicted by Osbert, there was a double guard on the front door – two men. He said ‘hello’ and explained he wanted to nip outside for a piss, on account of being unable to piss in strange surroundings. The guard was about to let him go when a long knife emerged through his stomach and he fell silently to the floor. Osbert saw the boars had used the distraction of him talking to the guards to kill them both.

‘That’s stealthy, isn’t it?’ said Osbert. ‘That’ll cause no alarm.’

‘They’ve only just started their watch,’ said Gressil; ‘they won’t be missed for a while.’

Osbert crossed himself. The forecourt was deserted but Despenser’s moans could be heard from the chapel.

‘Godforsaken bleating little girl,’ said Osbert, ‘Montagu’s in the dungeon under the castle.’

‘Which side?’

‘Other side,’ said the pardoner. The cool night air was beginning to sober him.

They skirted the castle. Osbert still had to think of a way to ditch these creatures. Shouting out might do it, but Slurp carried a cruel barbed spear and Osbert knew very well that Bale would happily follow up on his threat of chewing Osbert’s entrails.

‘Please don’t let me be blamed for this, God,’ said the pardoner, ‘please. I am opposing your enemies, I am working with your devils. Do not let me suffer for doing your will.’

Osbert considered others who had done God’s will down the centuries. Martyrs, mainly. God hadn’t seemed all that bothered about them suffering for doing his will. In fact, he’d rather seemed to relish it.

No monk was around when they came to a point where Osbert guessed the dungeons might be. Osbert pissed against the side of the building. What it would be to empty himself properly, to piss out all the bad luck, stupid decisions, losing bets and wrong turns he’d made. He’d have to piss forever to do that. He’d never expected anything from life but he’d allowed himself to hope: that was the problem. When he had no hope in his life he was happy – he knew where he was. The devils were right, that idiot boy so wrong. In the Leadenhall market, selling his bits and bobs among the poultry and the meat, he’d known where he stood, or rather grovelled. Here, in his merchant’s finery, albeit bedraggled finery, he had come to think of nights in soft beds, women, enough wine to drown him. But, as he looked at the wall, he thought of himself as one of the foundation stones that wished to have the weight of the building removed from it and sit on top of the roof. All that happened when you got up there, though, was that you got rained on, snowed on and shat on by birds.

‘Are you going to piss forever?’ said Gressil.

‘I have a feeling it’s going to be one of the evening’s highlights, so I’m dragging it out while I can,’ said the pardoner. He shook and miserably holstered his cock.

‘Use the feather,’ said Bale.

The pardoner took out the feather. It did occur to him to hit the devils with it but he was sure that while he was frying one of them, the other would be spitting him with his spear.

‘What do I do?’

‘Wave it at the wall,’ said Gressil ‘and want to go through. Really
want
to go through.’

‘I don’t really want to go through.’

Slurp jabbed him with his spear. ‘Want to go through now?’ he said.

‘A lot more than I did,’ said Osbert.

The pardoner waved the feather. For all the trinkets he’d ever sold, all the saints’ bones and teeth, the magic symbols and amulets, he had never touched anything with any real power. This was different. The stone began to shimmer as he traced the outline of a door, to blur like water seen from underneath and finally to open. He was fascinated by it. Despite his fear, he had even been fascinated that time in the chapel, when Despenser had possessed Sariel’s body. Osbert thrilled at the thought that he was doing magic. He put his hand on Arondight at his side. For a moment he felt like the knight or the wizard he had wanted to be as a boy.

He went forward and down, swirling the glowing feather in front of him, creating a tunnel through the rock. Bale followed behind with the lamp. The rock opened out and they were in a dungeon, a filthy place stinking of every noxious thing that could be imagined. Three bodies were in there, no one alive.

‘Smell that rot,’ said Bale, ‘wouldn’t you love to have a feed in here, old Slurp.’

‘I would that, colour sergeant,’ said Slurp.

They were faced by a door.

‘We’ve come down into one of the cells, just get us through that and we’re in,’ said Gressil.

Osbert waved the feather again and the door blurred and buckled, a hole appearing in it big enough to crawl through.

‘Allow us,’ said Bale.

The boar devils ran through the hole, Bale first, Slurp second, one turning left, the other right. There was a brief cry of ‘hoy!’ and then silence.

‘Come on,’ said Slurp, his head appearing through the hole.

Osbert ducked through, drawing the holy sword. He was beginning to enjoy himself now, a combination of alcohol and the effect of seeing such incredible magic at close quarters lifting his spirits considerably. He felt like having another drink to wash the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

‘One dungeon keeper, dead,’ said Slurp as if reading off an inventory.

‘Which cell do you think he’s in?’ said Gressil.

‘Well there’s only three,’ said Bale.

‘He’s in that one,’ said Osbert. ‘I put him in it.’

Bale lifted the keys from the dungeon keeper, as Osbert lifted the man’s bottle of wine.

‘Are you going to drink again?’ said Gressil. ‘You need to sober up.’

‘You’re right, I do need to.’

‘So why are you drinking?’

‘Because I so rarely find what I need is what I want. It’s a toss-up isn’t it? Want, need, need, want. Which is it to be? Oh, go on, want then.’

‘You need discipline,’ said Bale. ‘Drunkenness is a sin.’

‘Everything’s a bloody sin if you listen to you lot,’ said Osbert. ‘Look, I’m English. Drinking is what we do. Blame the weather. Rain’s more bearable when you’re zonked.’ He swigged on the wine. Not bad. Maybe Philip had been in a good mood after the recapture of Montagu and had ordered the monks to hand out the good stuff.

Bale opened the door. Suspended from the wall, his hands above his head, was the sorry figure of Montagu.

‘I hope he’s not dead and you haven’t got me out of bed for nothing,’ said Osbert.

‘Unclasp him,’ ordered Bale.

‘What, are the manacles holy? Can’t you touch them either?’

‘They’re too high up, you bollock,’ said Slurp.

Osbert went over to Montagu, taking a stool. He stood on it and undid the first clasp. Montagu’s left arm fell from the manacle, swinging all his weight onto the right. It dislocated with a crack.

‘Whoops,’ said Osbert. Montagu cried out. Osbert was not happy to see the lord that way. He respected men like Montagu, was proud to tell their stories and feel they were the better of any French or German knight. To see him so beaten and broken was a shame, albeit that it was Osbert who had brought this about. He undid the other clasp and Montagu fell heavily to the floor.

‘Give him drink.’

‘This is my wine,’ said Osbert.

‘Water.’ Gressil came in, a cup in his hands. He put it to Montagu’s lips but the lord was too weak to drink. The demons lifted him between them and dragged him back towards the passages the feather had carved. They were gone, but with a swipe the pardoner renewed them. Out into the monastery. Still foggy, still silent.

They carried Montagu over to the woods near the curtain wall.

‘Give him the letter,’ said Gressil. ‘Put it in his tunic. And the sword.’

‘Well, er, no,’ said the pardoner. ‘I’m in charge as long as I’ve got the weapon.’

Montagu opened his eyes and lay looking up at the trees. ‘Devils.’

‘Devils who have rescued you – think on that,’ said Gressil.

‘How?’

‘A wave of my wand,’ said Osbert, flourishing the feather.

‘Put that away, it’s visible even through these trees,’ said Montagu. ‘Did you get that off the Templar?’

‘Who? I got this off the angel,’ said Osbert.

‘The man who came with me. Did he make it out of Caesar’s Tower?’

‘God knows,’ said the pardoner.

‘Do you have my letter?’

‘What letter?’

‘The letter you took from me, along with my sword and my money, no doubt.’

‘Your tone is very aggressive for an unarmed and wounded man,’ said Osbert, ‘I, ah!’

Montagu reached over with his left hand, drew Arondight from the scabbard at the pardoner’s side and levelled the tip at his throat.

‘Though your mood seems reasonable for a man in possession of a sword,’ said the pardoner. He handed him the letter and the purse.

‘We need to go back to the tower,’ said Montagu.

‘No, no, no!’ said the pardoner. ‘Look, it’ll be dawn soon. Despenser might have recovered by then. And …’

‘Put my arm back in,’ said Montagu.

‘What?’

Montagu lay on his back and pulled his arm over his chest. ‘Take the arm and pull it to the side of my body,’ said Montagu. ‘Do it sharply!’

The pardoner did as he was bid. There was a click and Montagu swallowed hard.

‘We will go to Caesar’s Tower,’ said Montagu, ‘where I will get what I need. Then we will leave.’

‘This is suicide,’ said the pardoner.

‘For you it is suicide to stay. Follow me or die,’ said Montagu, ‘my arm is useless and you must help me search.’

‘Follow you and die, more like,’ said Osbert.

‘Perhaps but you’ll find the “or” takes places quicker than the “and”. Let me be plain, low man. I intend to kill you. You attacked me and therefore you deserve a traitor’s death. Make yourself useful to me and I may reprieve you. But know that, if we are frustrated in our mission, or capture looks likely, I will kill you in an instant.’

Osbert looked Montagu up and down. The pardoner had long experience of men who issue idle threats. The Lord Marschall did not strike him as one of them.

Montagu turned to the devils. ‘This is Arondight, the sword Lancelot held. It is a holy blade and death to you. Only the noise that your slaughter would cause prevents me from using it now. Get back to Hell,’ said Montagu.

‘Actually, I thought we might go to England,’ said Gressil. ‘There seems a good deal of employment for our sort there at the moment.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Hell is going to make the king an offer.’

‘In a month the king will have his angels,’ said Montagu, ‘and he won’t need Hell, free or otherwise, and you devils will be as vapours on the wind. Now you, merchant, go forward – we’ve got work to do.’

38

Edward leaned at the window of his room in the White Tower of the Tower of London, taking in the dawn, the shame of compromise deep inside him. The capital had always been an unruly place, resentful of the rule of kings, indifferent to any concerns but its own. Now the streets were in ferment.

The poor were muttering against their masters and, in some places, there had been rebellion. Everywhere, according to Edward’s advisers, people spoke of Lucifer as the true maker of creation, God as an impostor. The morning sun had a dark smudge across it. Edward shivered. More of those little demons. Numerous as locusts, they swarmed through the air, whispering in the ears of the poor and stirring them to rebellion.

He’d led a party of longbowmen out to face them when they’d hovered over Southwark one day but the arrows had been useless, the creatures simply flying up out of range. It was like trying to shoot down a swarm of bees. After the second volley the bowmen had rebelled at firing at the demons, who had done nothing to them. Before Edward could have them arrested they were gone into the stewes. He’d caught and hanged four of them but that was hardly a sufficient example.

Edward thumped the wall. How was he supposed to conduct a war with the French when he wasn’t even secure in his own realm at home? He could do nothing against these creatures, nothing. In the stewes there was talk of a preaching whore – a great fat-bellied creature who spoke alongside a fallen priest, turning the people to Lucifer and away from God. He’d ordered his men to search for them, even put a price on their heads but the people had not yet surrendered them. He imagined Montagu by his side. What would he say? ‘At least the fact our enemies are demons shows we’re on the right side.’