Son of the Morning, page 50
part #1 of Banners of Blood Series
‘Rubbish, I saw him buried myself at Gloucester. What rot. I won’t listen to this a moment longer.’ He clicked his fingers at a knight, ‘Hubert, kick him up the arse and send him on his way.’
‘We could hang him, sir. It’d provide a diversion for the men,’ shouted Hubert from twenty paces away.
‘No, no, let him go. The English have cowered before us and gone home. Let’s offer some compassion for that, even to liars. Here.’
He flicked a silver gros tournois towards Osbert, which he caught as easily as a fish takes a fly.
‘Thank you, King,’ he said, ‘thank you.’
‘You’ve forgotten the kick up the arse,’ said Philip to the knight.
‘Sorry, sire.’ The knight ran up and planted a hefty boot into Osbert’s seat and the man was off, running through the camp.
‘Let’s move on to Tournai,’ said Philip. ‘We have our people to thank for their defiance in the siege.’
That night, it took many hours before Philip finally got to sleep inside the commander’s house at Tournai – the stink of a long siege did not fade in a day and had kept him awake into the small hours, that and the image of the flagstones of Sainte-Chapelle, stained with the blood of an angel. It had made the shape of the cross and Philip did not dare to have it cleaned away.
He dreamed he saw a light floating towards him – like a candle in strength but much whiter and purer, unwavering. He smelled something else too – a sweet, sticky smell. Wine – not the tart appetising note of a newly opened bottle, but the sour stab of drink on the breath – and on a man’s breath at that.
‘Forgive me.’ A voice was at his ear. The accent was vaguely familiar.
Someone was lifting his hand, looking at the ring on his finger. In his dream mind this just seemed odd rather than alarming.
‘That ring! My God, how even to price that?’
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend. I could find no other way to convince you what I said is true.’
Philip sat up, as awake as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. In front of him was the man he’d seen in the camp the day before: Osbert.
Osbert gestured to the ragged remains of his fine clothing. ‘I have seen what it is to walk in finery,’ said Osbert, ‘and I have known poverty as well. Of the two, I know which I prefer.’
Something was glowing inside the pardoner’s tunic.
‘What’s that?’ said the king, pointing.
‘Magic,’ said the pardoner. ‘I am a rare magician.’
‘You have no power over me, I have turned back to God.’
‘You have,’ said Osbert, ‘but you have been looking for God up there.’ He pointed to the heavens. ‘You’ve overlooked his many able servants who stand ready to help you from below.’ He pointed down. ‘What I told you before is true. I was there when the boy killed your angel.’
‘What boy?’
‘The Antichrist. A commoner. Now he’s on his way to unleash the power of Free Hell, set it against you. Send for some wine, if it so please your majesty!’
‘You are a demon.’
‘No. I am a man. But I’ve been to Hell and come back by my magic art. And there are those there who would be your friends.’
‘Such as who?’
‘The late Hugh Despenser,’ said Osbert. ‘I met him in Hell. You should talk to him – and I think I know how.’
‘I was responsible for his death. Indirectly, but nevertheless.’
‘I think it’s the Templars he’s after,’ said Osbert. ‘They were the ones who tricked him after all. In my short time with Lord Hugh I notice he has a hierarchy of hates. King, or rather queen, of those hatreds is Isabella. You helped Edward depose her. I should think Despenser regards you as a friend.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I’m a powerful sorcerer,’ said Osbert. ‘I learned my art from Bardi’s man, Edwin. I have walked through walls. I have been to Hell. I have turned lead into gold, though I’ve rather lost the knack.’
‘Bardi?’ The king propped himself up on his hands. ‘He does know some interesting people.’
‘None more interesting than me. I have harrowed Hell, which is a tough place to harrow, believe me.’
The king eyed the glowing thing in Osbert’s tunic. He could see it was a feather.
‘What good would Despenser do me?’
‘He may have a solution to the problem of the boy. The boy is a killer of holy things. He will kill the true English king – old Edward – and his angels will fly to his son.’
‘You still say he’s alive? There was a whisper from our spies at Avignon but I never trusted it. Mortimer was full of tricks.’
‘No. It is true. The Antichrist is on earth and searching for the old king.’
‘The angel did mention a boy. I thought it would be someone of my rank. Why are you so keen to see Despenser return from Hell?’
‘Well, he set me the task of killing the boy. That has proved a little beyond me. At the moment it seems to be beyond all the devils of Hell. However, I think it won’t be beyond Lord Hugh if he arrives here. He is a fine man for killing, I believe.’
‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Well, I know where the body of your angel is,’ said Osbert, ‘as a gesture of good faith I’m willing to tell you, if you swear not to harm me. The boy can be found, England pacified, at least until the old king dies a natural death.’
‘What’s stopping me just invading England now? Our angels may be cowering in their shrines but if Edward has none then we could overrun him.’
‘What is stopping you? I don’t know.’
‘The concern that God may favour him and not me. That and money. Our nobles have fallen in on their own concerns after Tournai. They will not follow me unless they can hear the rattle of Edward’s armour at the bottom of their lanes.’
‘So cripple the English king! Keep him from his angels, kill this Antichrist, this boy, this angel killer. Restore faith with God. You killed kings to take your throne. Save one, please God and prosper.’
Philip thought for a moment, his long finger touching his lip. ‘With the body of an angel the Templars cast a spell and brought down the Capetian kings appointed by God. What might be done with the body of another?’
‘Bring down one more?’ said the pardoner.
‘Can you summon Despenser, at least to speak to him?’
‘I can try,’ said Osbert, ‘for I have the secret,’ he lifted his tunic to show the circle scarred into his belly, two puffy red wounds disfiguring it, ‘and if you find the angel’s body, I will have some of the ingredients.’
‘Old Edward alive? Well, it could make sense. I had heard a rumour from Avignon but never believed it. And I won’t believe it until I hear it from the horse’s mouth. Can you summon this Despenser?’
‘I am a sorcerer supreme!’
The king took up a little bell. ‘I’ll send for your wine,’ he said.
27
Bardi’s mule was not of the first order of mules. Nor was it of the second or third order. It may once have belonged to the fourth degree of that put upon breed but, since it had gone a little lame in its hind leg, it could now only lay claim to be considered in the fifth rank of muledom. The sixth rank is generally dead, cut up and fed to dogs or the villeins if the dogs were feeling fussy. Bardi distracted himself with such thoughts as he made his way back to Florence. He’d used nearly the last of his cash getting an English ship to Genoa but the weather had been terrible, the captain an idiot and the ship had cracked its mast. They’d limped into Rochefort, still under control of the English, where his travelling companions – as foul a company of ruffians as had ever set sail from England, robbed him as he looked for an inn. He’d been lucky to escape in the clothes he stood up in, with the few coins he’d sewn into his underwear.
He’d made his way across the burning landscape of Aquitaine in the company of a bunch of English freebooters come over from Harwich to see what they could plunder. The answer: not much – everything was ruined, everything burned and smashed. It was as if one of the plagues of Egypt had come down upon the land. The freebooters had headed north and, though Bardi felt terribly vulnerable without them, he had felt scarcely more secure when he was with them. They were a murderous crew and had only protected him because he showed them certain letters of passage he’d received from the king many years before. Bardi had implied that if he lied and offered royal protection the letters might convince rich towns to open their gates to them.
‘He’s got the breeding to do that,’ said the freebooter chief, a thick-set toothless ruffian who owned a gentleman’s sword a man of his station could only have obtained one way.
Now Bardi travelled always by night – skirting any town or settlement, living as an itinerant. There were few towns or villages intact. Armies had been at war here and the people had paid dearly. The smell of ashes clung to him: the taste always in his mouth, the black soot on his fingers, sucking out all the moisture from his skin. There was no money in a war now, none at all. It should have come sooner and harder, Edward should have plundered this land down to every last villein’s penny to repay his debts. If only the Drago had been found, if only the king’s angels had been with him. Then, then, the French would know destruction, not this awful looting that seemed to do nothing but enrich the basest knaves.
He’d found the mule wandering by a river – an animal of such little value that it had managed to avoid being looted. He’d thought to ride it to save his feet but that was impossible. Though he had no property to carry he thought he might trade the mule for a meal if needs be, or even eat it. It also represented hope. Bardi was a man who judged his worth by his possessions. A mule was a possession, if the poorest sort.
He had no money for the first time in his life and did not like it. He was not used to living on the land and longed for Orsino, a practical man who could catch rabbits, fish, build a fire and protect him. Often he cried as he travelled and told the mule that it ate better than he. It did, too. There was no shortage of grass and thistles on their journey. Bardi had tried eating berries but, having no idea which ones were edible, had wasted two days at the side of the road leaking from both significant orifices.
His clothes wore through and his travelling boots, bought from an excellent cobbler in Florence, turned out to be fine for the gentleman who spends much of his time on horseback, less so for the footslogger. The tear in one seam gaped like a crocodile’s mouth. Always a fastidious man, Bardi began to spend more and more time close to the mule as they travelled, preferring its animal smell to his own.
The land was unyielding – no farm, no village remained unburned. The volcano of war had erupted here and burned everything to ashes. He began to starve. One night, when the moon was full, he saw thousands of little bats swarming in the sky – no, not bats, but little men and women with wings fluttering across the moon.
Famished and delirious, he appealed to them to save him, to take pity. Something tumbled from the sky in an irregular, halting flight of fits and starts. Bardi reached out his hand.
‘You are a poor man.’ It was the voice of a woman, or maybe a girl.
He looked around him. Flitting just above him, silhouetted against the moon, was a tiny figure, a winged woman, her skin white as ivory. In her hand she had a spear, on her arm a little shield.
‘Are you a devil come to tempt me?’
‘I am a demon come to rescue you. We are friends of the poor.’
Bardi nearly spat that he was not poor – simply inconvenienced – but he knew that was not true. The bank had collapsed, its property seized by creditors. Bardi had nothing now but the hope of charity from his friends in Florence. Yet what friends would a fallen banker have? Many fewer than a rich one, for sure. As the little woman hovered in front of him, Bardi’s tears returned.
‘Do your masters oppress you?’
‘They have cast me out, as I am no longer useful to them,’ lamented Bardi. ‘I have nothing in the world, nothing!’
‘And they have everything.’
‘My fall is a delight to them. They owe me money but they will never pay.’
‘Then take heart. Across the world, the poor are rising. The man of perdition is here and seeks to open the gates of Hell. A new paradise will come to earth when all men will be equal.’
The idea of equality had never much appealed to Bardi before. It had seemed something unnatural, advocated by the heretic poor. It wasn’t so much sinful as unrealistic: men would always strive to outdo each other. Equality, Bardi reflected, would have definitely decreased his riches substantially. Now, however, it might represent a mild upturn.
‘Will there be bread for all?’ said Bardi.
‘Yes, bread for all. And meat and shelter and warmth. We would throw down the high men.’
‘I am starving,’ said Bardi.
‘Wait.’
The little ympe flew off into the night. When it returned it flew low, a lurching, bouncing flight. It was hanging on to a dead rabbit. Bardi had to stop himself from rending it apart and eating it at the roadside there and then. He kindled a fire, the ympe striking sparks from a stone with her spear, and was soon tearing into the delicious flesh.
Bardi thought hard. Could he ever regain his former position? No. All trust was broken, all credit withdrawn. He could never regain those exalted heights, unless … Edwin had spoken of this Drago. Find that and he could sell it to the highest bidder: France, England, Navarre – they would come queuing. Or perhaps, if he found where old Edward was being held, he could work to free the old king, to restore him to his former glory. There might be a way back to riches that way. The Hospitallers were holding him, it was said. Well, there was a real opportunity. He could serve them – they were bankers and would welcome a man of his skills working behind the scenes. And once you see the accounts, once you see where the money flows, you can see where a king lives. The keep of a royal does not come cheap. But Bardi would need help. His man Orsino.
‘Tell me, do you know a boy called Dowzabel?’
‘Every ympe of the air knows him.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘I will ask the clouds.’
‘The clouds?’
‘Many of us have been released, and I am the largest. We swarm in the upper airs, carrying whispers from fellow to fellow across mountain and sea. I can find Murmur, his ympe.’
‘I would overthrow the masters,’ Bardi said, nibbling the last of the meat off a leg bone. ‘I would see all men equal. But first I would find Dowzabel and those with him. I will not survive without help.’
‘I will help you,’ said the demon. ‘My name is Catspaw.’
‘And I am Bardi.’
The little figure flew away from him, spiralling up like a leaf caught in a whirlwind. Bardi saw a great mass of black in the sky, like so many starlings, whirling and turning on the wing. As he lost sight of the tiny woman against the wheeling cloud he heard a murmur. It was as if a wave had shot across the sky like a ripple caused by a stone.
Bardi realised the whole sky was thick with tiny demons, long trails of them streaming like clouds across the sunset. He watched them disappear in the night, and return the next evening, a great smudge against the sky. Something fell from the horde. Catspaw.
She alighted on his arm.
‘Milan,’ she said. ‘I will lead you there, so you may find the man of perdition and help him spread the word.’
Bardi smiled. He would go to the Hospitallers in Milan. He could bring expertise with finance. He could bring warning of demons. He could connect with his servants. The Hospitallers would have him, he would have his banner and be back on his way to influence and money.
‘Lead on,’ he said.
28
The France Dow and Orsino were now travelling almost seemed a different country. There were no burning fields here, no corpses in the ditches or hollow-eyed children staring out from the ruins of their homes. To Dow it seemed a paradise, the harvest coming in, every village, every town overflowing with things to eat.
The way was easy and direct. They took the road to Troyes and there Orsino offered his services to a group of pilgrims heading for Rome. There were eighty of them and they had already hired three guards, but Orsino with his fine shield and sword was welcomed to join them – his pay: food and wine for him and Dow for the duration of the trip.
The pilgrims headed east on rough sun-baked tracks until they met the Via Agrippa going south. Progress was even quicker then, dropping down to Besançon – a jumblous collection of red-roofed houses tied in a bag of land made by a looping river.
There was a trade-off to using the Roman road – the going was quicker but the roads had been built to connect cities, not, in the modern way, abbeys. So the pilgrims often slept out in the open country rather than taking guest rooms at a monastery. It should have been no hardship to Dow. The nights were warmer than those he had known on the moor. But the night was a black nest, full of hungry eyes. Devils, he sensed it.
‘I fear to sleep,’ he told Orsino as they rested at the foot of the Grand St Bernard pass, the summer moon a clipped penny in the cold blue mountain sky. They were in light woods and the track stretched on along the side of a steep hill, though it climbed only gently.
‘Some of those things still follow us,’ said Orsino. ‘I can see their eyes in the darkness. They shine like those of dogs – but dogs don’t climb trees.’ He carved at some wood with his knife. Since Paris, he had not met Dow’s eye. He had talked only of his guilt in leaving Sariel’s body and how he should have ensured she received a Christian burial. Now, the threat of violence brought him out of his reverie.
‘What can we do?’ said Dow.
‘We must keep watch and trust to our fellows.’
‘Do they see them too?’
‘They must.’
