Son of the Morning, page 71
part #1 of Banners of Blood Series
And then Bardi saw something he thought he would never see in his life. An English baron, William Montagu, or Montacute, of the purest Norman blood in England, the foundation stone of God’s England, put up three fingers in the sign of Lucifer.
Montagu wound the angel feather cloak about him, taking the bloody heart underneath it. ‘Isabella,’ he said. A white streak like a comet leaving the earth, shot up into the heavens leaving Bardi alone.
The banker crossed himself. Angel cloaks, enchanted briars, devils walking the earth he could deal with. But Montagu a Luciferian? He simply could not believe it.
‘Truly these are the last days,’ he said. But, as his father had always told him, in any disaster or crisis, there’s money to be made. The end of the world might just be an investment opportunity, should he find something with which to invest. He scrambled up to examine the chest.
10
Another child had been taken. Free Hell had claimed little Maude, the child revealed missing from her crib with the morning light, the flame demon visiting to urge him to action. Philippa’s howls filled the palace and Edward had smashed everything about him. Vases, chairs, windows, tables, all took the brunt of his useless wrath. No good. They had his daughter. Edward was a sentimental man, so he mourned his bonny little Maude – but at least it was not a son.
‘I am trying,’ he said on his knees in the Windsor chapel. ‘God, give me strength. I will honour my vow to your enemy and then I will crush them.’
Philippa was pregnant again. He could not lose another child. Another, harder push would need to be made. France must fall. The war was proving utterly ruinous. How ruinous? France was finding it expensive, the richest country in the world. Edward could pile up his IOUs to the sky. He was indebted to virtually every landowner in England, and still he needed more for his expedition. The devils had helped there. Lord Sloth was uncommonly good at extracting money from people, his violence and aggression yielded even better results than Montagu had achieved with his charm.
Montagu. Still the name made him boil. He’d told Edwin the Luciferian priest that he wanted him delivered up, but Edwin said he couldn’t find him. Edwin was no longer really a prisoner, more of a leader of the bowmen who travelled in promise of their Eden in France.
Montagu had lain with his mother. His mother! Isabella had by letter suggested burning his manor house and imprisoning his wife to flush him out, if he was not captive, and to provide a lesson to others even if he was. Had he admitted her to his presence, no doubt she would have got her way. As it was, Philippa had begged mercy for Lady Montagu, and his wife’s tears prevailed.
So many years of fighting, so much destruction, all to come to this. Edward knelt in the chapel, his coat of plates on his back, his son Edward beside him, nearly a man now, he too in full armour, taller even than his tall father.
Little Edward, as his family still called him, wore a green and white caparison over his harness decorated with the royal leopards. Would the boy fight? Of course he would. He had held a sword as soon as he’d been removed from his mother’s breast. At a tournament he gave the best knights in the land a run for their money. Little Edward would become just Edward when they brought the French to battle.
The king thought back over the years of truce – years in which the fighting had hardly ceased. Brittany had been burned black, half held by the pretender to the Dukedom, John De Montfort and his more able wife, half lost again. He remembered the walls of Quimper, the devils howling over the battlements, no need for siege engines or ladders. ‘There’s a reason the fortress at Dis has smooth walls a mile high,’ Lord Sloth had said. ‘These little defences are no more than country stiles to the legions of Hell.’ Some stile Quimper had proved to be. The giant who claimed to be Hugh Despenser had marshalled his forces there. Lion fought spider, the boarheads of Dis fought the waspheads of Agana while the Luciferians with their bows blackened the air with arrows blessed by the priest Edwin – blessed in the name of Lucifer. Edward had tried to insist they have their arrows blessed by God’s priests but this they would not do – promised land or no promised land. Without the blessing, the arrows were useless against the devils, so Edward, a man who had swallowed so much of his pride it was surprising he had not grown fat on it, had to swallow some more.
What a coalition. What a mess. But the French king still had not put his angels in the field and his reliance on Despenser was encouragement that he could not.
No angels from France, no angels from England. Some said the age of angels was over. It was not over. Spies at Reims had seen the angel sparkling above the cathedral, at Chartres and Notre Dame too. Some said the archangel Michael had come to France’s aid and sat in a great throne above Montmartre.
The English needed all the help they could get. Devils could fight the devils, the men the men but without angels, without angels! The Holy Roman Emperor had taken his back, unsatisfied with his rates of pay. Charles of Navarre was known to have coaxed his from the shrine in Pamplona. Which way would that odd fellow and his mother jump? They’d had enough meetings with Navarrese representatives and nothing solid had ever come out of it.
The south, the Agenais and Aquitaine had been at constant war – cities lost, cities gained, Bordeaux falling, recaptured, falling again. And yet the main truce – in truth a series of truces – had held, while Edward’s children were threatened by fiends.
Now it was over and the ships ready to sail. Edward crossed himself.
‘King.’ A voice hung above him, like the sound of a deep bell.
Edward looked up. Around him the light cut rainbows in the air, a curtain of diamonds seemed to drop from the ceiling of the chapel, falling soundlessly to the floor, not settling. A strange elation filled him and his head swam. He recognised the feeling immediately – he’d had it when his father had introduced him to the angel at Walsingham as a boy.
‘Angel?’
Floating above the altar was the figure of a man shrouded in light.
‘I am Chamuel, an angel who keeps the law.’
‘You were one of my father’s angels.’
‘Your father is dead.’
Edward crossed himself, fighting back the thanks to God. At last, after all the years of struggle, he was a true king, beloved of God. It was as if he didn’t know what to feel. For the first time in his adult life he wanted to cry. Part of him wanted to shout his joy to Heaven, another part mourned his father deeply. He had been a great man, a great fighter, an example in many ways.
‘How did he die?’
‘A great love overwhelmed him.’
Edward stood, his heart drumming. His father dead. So long dreaded. So desperately longed for. He showed nothing on his face, by habit concealing any emotion that gave a hint of weakness. He wanted to press for details but long experience of his father’s dealing with angels told him that to do so was only to invite more confusion. Dead, dead. Oh father, so wronged, so wronging. Dead at last. God rest your soul and thanks be to Him that He has received you.
‘Then God has granted me you. Where are the others?’
‘Fled or devoured.’
‘Devoured?’
‘The banner of the evil one. Despenser had it at Orwell. We toiled to replace it in its chest.’
‘So you’re the only one? I have no more angels?’ Edward’s temper rose in him again. He had stuck his kingdom together with glue and hope, waiting for the day the angels would appear to bond it properly. And now only this lesser spirit had come to him. He’d seen the archangel Gabriel sparkling in Westminster Abbey as a boy and the being in front of him, while beautiful, did not compare. Could he stay the power of Michael in the field? They had no choice. Could he simply call off the invasion? No, he had to take the war to Philip on his own soil. This angel could depart as quickly as it had come if it faced the French angels. So he was still dependent on devils, still on the heretic bowmen.
‘I watched over him while the others ran. I avoided the briars and the thorns. I am here for you. Venerate me, pray to me and bring me jewels so I might play in their light.’
He had that heady feeling that comes with talking to angels, like the first glass of wine on a summer’s day. It was unwelcome. Edward turned to his son, the prince, who was staring up in wonder at the angel. ‘Go outside, fetch me some monks. If this thing wants venerating then we’d better venerate it.’ He looked back at the angel. ‘What can you tell me of the world? What is the disposition of my enemy’s forces?’
‘He has many allies. Michael and Adriel and Eremiel. From the south comes Jophiel. Devils attend him and fifty thousand knights.’
‘That’s no good to me, my earthly spies can tell me that. I want more if I’m to keep you in gold and glass.’
The angel shimmered and Edward’s head swam, but he would not be cowed by this angel. It had been given to him as a servant by God and he would use it as one.
‘Philip fears the evidence in those letters Montagu brought you, but he knows you will not use what you have against him. To do so is to incriminate yourself.’
‘Is there a way back for me? Can I come to God?’
‘Yes. There is a boy – your mother has heard tell of him.’
‘The Antichrist. Our French spies report that he has been mentioned over there. He isn’t here or the Luciferians would be parading him around. Should I kill him for God’s favour?’
‘God does not want him dead.’
‘What does God want?’
‘His faith in Lucifer shaken. He wants the Antichrist to come to worship Him.’
‘How do I make him do that?’
‘If you want him to come to God, you will catch him and find a way.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He is with one of Despenser’s devils, captured and heading for France.’
‘Where in France?’
‘To Despenser. Despenser wants to kill him and win favour with Satan.’
‘And Satan, though he is God’s servant, wants to kill this boy?’
‘The aims of the master and those of the servant are not always the same. God is wounded. Do you imagine Satan wants his master fully well? Politics are as subtle in Heaven and Hell as they are on earth.’
‘God is sick?’ Edward knelt down again.
‘The struggle with the evil one has been at great cost.’
‘He’s still all right, though? He’s still … there.’
‘He seeks the youth so he can return to his former glory.’
Edward could hardly believe what he was hearing. God was dependent on a boy. Still, it is as it is. Analysing and asking questions was for the monks. He had a war to conduct.
‘I have a spy in Despenser’s camp who knows of him. I’ll send word to him,’ said Edward. ‘With luck he can intercept the boy and smuggle him away. Can you take the message to our spy?’
‘The angel at Notre Dame forbids the presence of English angels in all of Paris.’
‘Fine, I’ll sent one of my mother’s flying devils. The skies above France are thick with them nowadays, I hear, I don’t suppose they’ll notice one more. Why don’t the angels blast those?’
‘They are persuaded they fight for the same cause. God is uncertain of the correct course. How much more so his angels?’
An abbot monk opened the door.
‘You,’ said Edward, ‘get venerating this thing here. Your best songs and incense. I’m off to get a chapel constructed on my ship. Well, good news, boys, good news, the angels are here in England again. Bring me a stoneskin, I have a letter to send!’
He tapped the sword at his side and strode from the church.
11
As the monks chanted to the angel at Windsor, Isabella watched the bright morning from her solar at the top of Nottingham Castle. The piping child devil was playing ‘May is Merry’, one of her favourite tunes and, at her shoulder, a little devil cracked walnuts for her and fed them to her on the end of its fork.
It had become impossible for Montagu to stay at Nottingham. She had admitted Salisbury to goad her son into coming into her presence but it hadn’t worked. Edward simply said they would do very well without any more devils until Montagu was handed over. Well, she had no intention of doing that – contrary to her expectations when she had planned to have him killed, the earl had become far too useful. There had, however, been a certain satisfaction in banishing him from her immediate company, once he had become thoroughly intoxicated with her.
The king had been furious when she had let Montagu go – spiriting him away on gargoyle’s wings – and it had taken her sending him the Drago to placate him. That was one weapon that would come as a shock to Despenser’s flying devils come the day of any battle.
Montagu had sent her a letter. He had seemed unusually keen to detail his crimes. He went to the Luciferians who had captured him and asked them to help find the old king. They had suspected his motives, so he had taken their oaths to Lucifer – after all, he was seeking damnation, and lived among them as a poor man, finding no earthly riches of account now that he was gone from her presence. How sweet. The Black Priest, Edwin, had used his creature Know-Much. All they had told was that they were seeking the old king too – the whispering demon of the boy Dow reported as much. He was in Lombardy and, when the old king was found, the ympe Murmur would whisper it to the skies and the teeming demons would bring the message back to Know-Much. Then Montagu would have the king, she would have his heart and with it the ingredient to cast the spell to rule all England.
Now there was a light that seemed to split away from the morning sun – a meteor approaching from the east. She opened the window. There was a flash and Montagu landed at her feet, wrapped in his cloak of angel’s feathers. In his hand was a bloody tuber of slick meat. The heart.
She bent to take it from him.
‘Oh, William,’ she said. ‘It’s still warm! You really are a man to get things done!’
Montagu lay panting on the floor, clearly unable to move. She remembered how weak little Charles had been travelling with that cloak. The famed warrior Montagu seemed just as afflicted.
Montagu gestured to his tunic – rather a workmanlike affair, not in fine cloth at all. She reached inside to remove a small bottle.
‘Angel’s blood!’ she said. ‘Monty, you naughty boy, what have you been up to? I must say, you do look younger. Well, now you know all my secrets. She unstoppered the cork with her thumb – her left hand still holding the bloody heart – and dabbed her tongue at the opening of the little bottle.
‘Can you speak?’
‘I can.’ Though with effort, it seemed.
‘Oh Monty, so often I find myself able to kill you and yet unwilling to do so. Why? I think it must be just how very useful you are. I often said to myself, if only I had a servant like that Montagu, I should rule England. And now I do and I was right! With this gift it seems I shall in just a few short years, providing we get the magic right. The heart of a godless king. What a prize for any devil! Keep your eyes off it, you!’ She spoke to the little winged child who made a big-eyed face of exaggerated innocence.
‘The question is: “shall I revive you?” I could leave you there while I invite in a succession of lovers. Robert the monk’s quite the performer now, and he’s even let his tonsure grow out a bit. But no, I shall revive you, of course I shall, and you can tell me how you intend to kill yourself. I’m going to banish you from my company forever now, so I expect you’ll want to do that.’
She put the bottle of angel’s blood to Montagu’s lips and he sipped.
‘You really do look younger, William. Still, I’ll never want you.’
Montagu stood, his strength visibly returning.
‘I had no hope of your favour,’ he said. ‘Rather the reverse. You have given me what I want. Your scorn, your hatred. It removes all doubt, you see. If you were wise enough to hold out even the slightest hope you might …’ he stumbled over the words, looked up as if what he wanted to say might be written on the ceiling. ‘Not love me but indulge me. If you offered me a kind word that might spark my dreams of you then I might seek to live, and live in torment forever. But you have released me, cast me out completely and I know I have no path to you. So thank you, lady. As you rightly guess, I can now go to die – whereupon I will pass on to another kind of torment, one that cannot be worse than what I now endure.’
She tilted her head again, the same pleasure in her eyes as when she received a rare gift. ‘Perhaps I was foolish and there is more entertainment to be had from you. But I’m not a vindictive person, William. I’ve had my revenge on you, I don’t seek to polish the stars and bid them to shine some more. Enough. Go.’
The winged child began to play upon its pipe again, May is Merry.
Montagu put the feather cloak over his arm and walked to the door. ‘Keep the remains of the angel’s blood,’ he said. ‘I shall not want it again.’
She smiled at him and he had to turn his gaze to the floor. He still wanted her, it was obvious, still couldn’t trust himself not to beg or wheedle for her love, though he knew how useless that would be.
‘How will you end it?’
In one action Montagu strode forward, drew Arondight and struck the child devil, half severing its head. It dropped lifeless to the floor. ‘In fighting,’ he said. ‘It has been my life, it will be my death.’
Isabella hardly blinked. ‘For whom?’
‘For Edward,’ he said, ‘to whom I gave my oath when he made me earl. And for Lucifer, to whom I gave my oath when you made me nothing.’
Isabella looked down at the dead devil. ‘Yes, it seems apt you should die in war, though I fear you are rather too good at it. Take care not to survive, William. I would not hear of you again.’
Montagu sheathed his sword. ‘What did you give for the powers you have? What did you promise to overthrow Edward?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Your soul?’
‘Don’t be melodramatic. I promised England to the devils, under my rule, that is all. Soon I shall honour my bargain. Now go and think of me as you die.’
