Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  It was as if the dawn’s light had drained from it, the sky turning a begrudging grey, the summer sun sick and pallid.

  He was not cold, jolted along in his heavy armour, but he was in pain. Fires were on the wind. He guessed they were going south. Where would the English army go? Paris? He hoped so. It would be good to see the city burn. He could even stage a putsch in the south under the pretence of liberating the country while the nobles of the north took care of England. ‘Never king of France,’ the angel had said. Maybe king of most of it, though.

  The country was almost deserted – the people having fled their own troops on their return. At a farmhouse they encountered five battle-torn French men-at-arms in the livery of Prince John. There was much jabbering and pointing.

  ‘They’re trying to tell you you’ve got a prisoner of the royal line of France,’ said Charles to the crossbowmen. ‘As you surely must know by looking at my colours.’ He gestured to his caparison. ‘You five – liberate me from these fools.’

  ‘They are twenty, sir, we are but five.’

  ‘You’ll be but nought if you don’t.’

  The men looked very nervous.

  ‘King, king,’ said the French, but the Genoese looked at them blankly.

  ‘Argent!’ said one, slowly.

  A man-at-arms pointed south. ‘The king is there, sir,’ he said. ‘We saw his banners not an hour ago.’

  ‘He’s still got his banners?’

  ‘Some of them, sir.’

  ‘The Oriflamme ?’

  ‘I don’t know. We saw its light. We should have won, shouldn’t we; that’s what they say. The Archangel Michael promises victory if it shines.’

  ‘Seems someone else promised something else.’

  ‘What was the dragon, sir?’

  ‘Something from Hell, I suppose.’ Charles shrugged.

  ‘These days are full of devils. I don’t like them, sir.’

  ‘No? Better get used to them, I suggest.’

  ‘The devils fight for us, the devils against us. I don’t know whose side we’re supposed to be on any more.’

  Charles looked down at the bonds on his hands.

  ‘Mine is always a good bet, I find.’

  ‘They’re saying it’s your fault, sir.’

  ‘What’s my fault?’

  ‘Navarre started the charge. The king wanted to wait until the next day.’

  ‘Who’s saying this?’ It was true he’d given the order to attack. A delay of a day might have seen a sensible battle plan emerge. The English could quite easily have been surrounded and annihilated. Such a victory would have made for a stable and prosperous France – the last thing he wanted. However, he hoped he hadn’t gone too far the other way. King Edward was a model king, ‘fulle mighty’ as the poets rather tiresomely attested, even the ones who weren’t paid to. France might come together under him and prosper. No, no, no.

  The Frenchman looked at his boots.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I just heard it.’

  ‘On the wind, no doubt.’ He smiled and the man smiled back.

  ‘You are made of tough stuff, sir. These men have used you cruelly.’

  ‘Well, I shall make some use of them when we get back to my troops.’ He smiled his cat’s smile.

  The French laughed and the Genoese glanced warily among themselves to hear it.

  What a pretty pass when he was talking to a common soldier almost as if he was an equal. Still, he found that easy to do. His mother told him he had the common touch and meant it to needle him, but Charles saw no shame in making the common people love him, though he despised them. Men will do more for love than they will out of fear.

  ‘Take me to the king,’ he said.

  ‘That lot won’t like that, sir, they’ll think we’re going to pinch their ransom.’

  ‘And what do you think their ransom will be? Go to the king yourself, then, and tell him I’m here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A big Genoese came up to Charles, a thumb’s width from his face. He said something unintelligible and no doubt base.

  Charles returned his stare, though he had to crane his neck upwards to do so.

  ‘Best kill me now, old chap,’ he said. ‘Because I will certainly kill you and in an inventive way. I spend a long time thinking about that sort of thing.’

  The man shoved him in the centre of the chest and Charles fell back onto his arse. He looked up and smiled. ‘Enjoy yourself while you can,’ he said.

  It took them another two days to come within sight of the king’s banners. The English, it seemed, were not chasing them but the bedraggled army moved as quickly as if the breath of Edward’s warhorses was on their necks. The crossbowmen had taken the precaution of stripping Charles of his colours and gagging him, lest their expensively dressed prisoner make any other opportunist think it was worth fighting them to capture him. Now he received all sorts of abuse as he passed – largely from the low men, who mistook him for an English nobleman.

  The higher sort were too cowed to confront him. They had been beaten and they knew it, all their boasts and pride turned to dust.

  They made the king’s standard before he was recognised. ‘My Lord!’ It was Noyles, one of Prince John’s closest men. ‘Do you handle a prince of the blood so roughly, fellows?’ The crossbowmen did not understand the language but they understood the sentiment well enough. Noyles’s hand was on his sword.

  Charles bit on the gag. He was tired and thirsty but that could wait.

  Consternation among the crossbowmen. Shouting. One man fell to his knees. Quickly two others untied Charles, ungagged him. They too knelt, the rest of the troop prostrating themselves in the mud.

  Charles wanted to collapse, to tear off his stinking armour, but he kept standing. No one would see him beaten or bowed.

  He fixed his cat’s eyes on the crossbowmen. Ducking from the farmhouse came the dolt Prince John, ridiculously dressed in the latest fashion of short jerkin, the tightest of hose, and a codpiece in the shape of a rooster’s head. Well, at least he hadn’t let a mortal blow to his kingdom affect his sense of style. You had to admire that about the man.

  ‘Charles ! You’re alive !’

  ‘By the grace of God, cousin.’

  Charles widened his arms to embrace John but the prince did not approach him.

  ‘You are cold, cousin?’

  ‘Bring the lord wine, bring wine!’

  ‘And bread,’ said Charles.

  Charles really fancied a nice wriggly mouse, all flip and flop on the tongue, but he disguised his more feline habits from the rabble to avoid kindling rumours.

  ‘Cousin, will you not embrace me?’

  ‘It is not politic just now.’ John looked scared. For all his idiocy, his love of poetry above politics or the tournament, he was not a coward. He’d fought valiantly at Crécy. So to see him scared was unsettling to Charles.

  ‘Is that Navarre?’ He recognised the voice from within the house. The king – Philip; a useless bastard if ever there was one.

  Charles would decline to bow – his claim to the French throne was better than the old man’s, even if it was through a woman. He could never look at the Valois upstart without thinking the word ‘interloper’.

  King Philip emerged. He was a tall man and had to stoop as he came through the low door, almost as if he were bowing, which by rights he should have been. Charles sucked at his teeth, trying not to think of the pain of the sore on his thigh, nor of that in his mouth.

  ‘Are you happy with what you wrought?’ The king was white as a forepined ghost, his jaw firm with anger.

  ’I’m sorry, sir, you have me at a disadvantage.’ As he grew up, Charles leant more and more to pronouncing the word ‘sir’ to Philip as he might to a dog whose manners he was seeking to correct.

  ‘We were going to wait. We were going to form into battle order. Your men charged the English without my command.’

  ‘Are we to be criticised for valour?’ Charles p
ut out his arms wide, speaking loudly.

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘The English were raining arrows on these low men of Genoa. They ran, turncoats. My men were incensed and rode them down on their way to the English.’ God’s nuts, Charles’s leg hurt. He had to get out of his stinking armour.

  ‘It turned the army into a rabble.’

  ‘My men sought honour. The angels had not engaged. It was our bravery that showed God we were worthy of His help. The angels blew their fire at the English. It was sorcery and devilry that undid us, not the courage of Navarre.’

  Prince John spoke. ‘No one doubts your courage, cousin, we are simply questioning your wisdom.’

  Charles felt his mouth go dry. John had been his champion since he was a small boy. John had hardly ever said a word against him, protected him from his father’s justifiable suspicion like the idiot he was. The prince always sided with him. And ‘we’! He had never heard John link himself to his father in that way before. Always it was ‘he and I’, mostly ‘he, whereas I’.

  ‘Where did that dragon thing come from?’ said John.

  ‘Hell, at a guess. Have you interrogated your devils?’

  ‘They fled before that monstrosity. What was it?’

  ‘A dragon that filled the sky,’ said Charles. ‘I am no Bible scholar, sir, but I would say it was the Dragon of Revelation. That would make these the last days, so we can prepare for the coming of Christ in no fear of the English, for we are His true servants. Let’s hope the Lord returns before the news of the loss reaches the Paris mob. They’ll be hanging nobles from the bridges.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ John crossed himself.

  ‘No, sir. A dragon fills the sky, tears angels from their clouds, shatters them to rainbows. What are we to make of it? More to the point, what will the people make of it if we cannot protect them?’

  ‘Doesn’t Michael kill the Dragon in Revelation? Where is he now?’ said John.

  ‘It chases after a woman who has eagle’s wings, in my recollection,’ said Charles. The pain in his leg was very great but he kept a smile on his face. ‘Perhaps you should ask one of the whispering ympes who speak to the poor. They maintain the Bible is a lie. Or at least, a very partial telling of a story. Perhaps they might have some wisdom to add.’

  ‘That is a filthy blasphemy.’ Another voice spoke, heavily accented. It was Charles de la Cerda, of Spain: an upstart who had hung around the court like an ugly younger sister, waiting for a marriage that would never happen. A pious fool, as far as Charles recalled, though he had endeavoured to have little to do with him. Some rural nobility from Castile, still with the stink of dead Moor on him from all those battles in the south.

  Charles turned his slow eyes upon him.

  ‘You are?’ He knew perfectly well, of course.

  ‘La Cerda, of the free kingdom of Castile.’

  ‘Free because men like my father died defending it for you. And how does your king fat Alfonso reward us? By courting the English who have caused such misery in this country.’

  ‘Come on, boys, don’t squabble,’ said John.

  La Cerda bowed deeply. Charles saw the look he exchanged with the prince. It was as if Charles was looking into a mirror. He was ingratiating himself with the dolt. What had La Cerda been saying?

  ‘You two should talk, you would get along. The good lord La Cerda came to our aid when we were sorest pressed by the English, he killed three of them in my defence.’

  He looked the sort – well-muscled, tall and dark with a reasonable black eye puffing up the right side of his face. Spent all his time in the tilting yard or shifting hay bales with the peasants, no doubt. He could see La Cerda working on a farm. There was no end to Castilian depravity.

  ‘Well,’ smiled Charles. ‘We are indebted. Prince John is a sun who shines on us all. France would never see day again were that flame extinguished.’

  ‘And it would have cost us a small fortune in ransom had he been captured,’ said the king.

  ‘Another blessing.’

  La Cerda bowed. ‘I am France’s servant.’

  What did he mean by that? Charles didn’t like his tone. The man was clearly an idiot to declare himself an open enemy of the king of Navarre, favourite of Prince John. Philip had survived the battle but couldn’t have long now. He was old and must die soon. Then Charles would be Constable of France and have not just influence but power. La Cerda would be wise to make him his friend. So why confront him? Because his star was on the wane, however briefly, the king angry with him, and ambitious men like that must seize their chances when they present themselves. It was a gamble, a sudden rush into the tide of court opinion, courtiers’ minds raw and vengeful with the shock of defeat. La Cerda hoped it would sweep him to the land of plenty. Charles simply noted La Cerda’s ambition. He would do nothing about it for now. The court was full of ambitious men looking to pick the right enemies at the right time. Charles was, always and for ever, the wrong enemy. He prided himself on it. However, something about the Castilian disturbed him. Charles, with his cat’s eyes and quick wit, scared most men. He did not scare La Cerda. Yet.

  ‘What to do with these men of Genoa?’ said Charles.

  ‘I have hanged those I’ve found for cowardice,’ said Philip. ‘We should do the same with these.’

  ‘No, no, My Lord, I beg you,’ said Charles, ‘after all, they did rescue me.’

  ‘You would let them go, though they brought you here in bonds?’ Philip was a wise monarch, if an indecisive one. One of his more unpleasant qualities, Charles thought, was that he was a good judge of character. He knew Charles and mercy were not even on nodding acquaintance.

  ‘You are too stern, uncle. Release them, yes. Please. I beg you,’ said Charles.

  ‘Are you so weak, Navarre?’ said La Cerda. The man’s gall was astounding.

  ‘You deal with it, John,’ said Philip. ‘Navarre – keep out of my sight. All is lost and it is lost because of you.’ He went back inside the house. Was no one going to bring Charles so much as a cup of wine?

  Charles said nothing. He didn’t agree with the assessment. What were the English going to do now? Attack Paris? Then they would have to hold it, even if they were successful. Their angel had been chased off by the dragon along with everyone else’s. No, he had no doubt they’d go home if they were sensible or just nicely roll out their brand of chaos across the country.

  ‘We should punish these men and make an example of them,’ said La Cerda. ‘Prince, do not give in to soft counsel.’

  ‘We should at least hang some of them,’ said John. ‘For the sake of form, as much as anything.’

  ‘No,’ said Charles. ‘I would see them live.’

  ‘No wonder you can’t control your men,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘I am tender and known for it. I suggest we have half of them cut the hands off the other half, and then we blind those still with hands. That way there are only ten whole men among them and your sternness and my mercy are both satisfied. I need refreshment and to climb out of my armour but after that we can watch the events while we dine. Will you join me for dinner and mutilation, La Cerda ?’

  La Cerda coloured, looked to John. Charles knew the nobility well enough to know the Castilian would be unlikely to find the maiming of the Genoese difficult to stomach and guessed he had been more discomfited by the invitation to dinner from a man he had thought to profit from by making his enemy. Also, he had been made to look weak by offering the men death.

  ‘I think it would be politic if you kept your distance for a while, Charles,’ said John. ‘There is another house not far from here. You may take your leisure and rally your troops there.’

  ‘Cousin, the nobility are here with you.’

  ‘The nobility is on the field of Crécy, dead in numbers never seen in France, and we must ask who is to blame,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘Was it Navarre, or was it the enormous, sky-eating dragon that tore down the
angels of God as if they were pigeons and it the hawk?’

  ‘It was of Hell,’ said La Cerda. ‘And where are you from, my mountain king, with your eyes so green and appetites so rare? You are not fourteen years old but speak like a man who has seen thirty. I heard a devil say you were one of theirs.’

  Charles smiled, light and urbane. La Cerda had signed his own death warrant with his words.

  ‘Anyone who governs unflinchingly is called a devil. We have all heard that accusation against us. If you haven’t, then I suggest you press your subjects more. It’s good for poor men to suffer. It is one of their talents.’ Charles liked to be seen to keep his temper, particularly when he was losing it.

  ‘Everyone knows Charles was cursed by the English sorcerer Montagu,’ said John. ‘But I will hear no more about it. Charles, you will find lodgings elsewhere and stay away until I call you in Paris. You need to do a little time out of the light of the sun, Charles, but you will soon enough again feel its glow.’

  The light of France is out, the sun has gone from these lands but a new sun will rise in the south and burn these lands to ashes. Charles’s face was stone, though his thoughts bubbled like the scalding water of a spring.

  ‘I will give you a man to show you the way,’ said La Cerda.

  Charles swallowed down the pain of his leg. ‘You are too kind,’ he said. ‘I hope to extend my largesse to you one day. Fetch me a horse.’

  ‘I am not your servant.’

  No , thought Charles, for if you were you would face the same fate as these wretches of Genoa. But one day, you will be. And then you will know what it is to have your honour insulted.

  A palfrey was brought and Charles helped up. Charles nodded to John.

  ‘I’ll leave you to arrange the punishment, cousin.’

  ‘My men will see it enacted forthwith.’

  ‘Good.’ Charles raised a hand to the crossbowmen.

  A Genoese, not understanding a word, bowed his head to Charles.

  ‘Scusate.’ He gestured to his mouth to apologise for Charles’s tooth. Charles put his tongue to the little gap.