by Mark Alder
Is this the extent of Hell? She thought. To outwit an ape for your supper? It seemed a much lesser punishment than being sentenced to the living wall or the Lake of Fire.
‘I am as hungry as I can be,’ she said to the ape. ‘I hunger for my love and can bear any torment to free him.’
The ape farted and belched.
‘I would have dealings with your master.’
The ape smiled at her and burst into a chattering, knee-slapping laugh.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ said Isabella.
The ape seemed to find this even funnier.
Isabella was not used to being mocked and did not like it much.
‘I am a queen. You are bound by God to obey me.’
Again the ape screamed and hollered, throwing fruit and meat to the ground, banging its feet, thrashing its hands.
It scampered across the table to face her again.
‘I am a queen!’
The ape waved its sceptre in her face, took off its crown and waved that too, hissing and baring its teeth.
Now, Isabella understood.
‘Satan,’ she said.
The ape grinned.
She held out the heart.
‘This is for you.’
The ape evaluated her for a second, craned its head. Then it snatched the heart from her and thrust it into its mouth, guzzling and guzzling until it was all gone. It grinned at her with bloody lips.
‘You,’ it said. ‘You have defied God to bring me a voice.’
‘I have completed the great magic. I have damned myself living so my love may escape Hell.’
‘You offer yourself to eternal torment?’
‘Yes. If it will free Mortimer. But I have not finished living yet.’
‘You brought me the heart of a king. It will be but a short time before you are back.’
So it thought. She would live a very long time. There were enough angels in heaven to keep her in angels’ blood for eternity.
‘I have not yet struck the bargain.’
‘By being here you strike it!’
‘I think not. Swear to let him out of your jurisdiction. Swear to open the gates of Hell for him!’
‘All the gates? I cannot get through the third gate to release myself, Lady. I will not open the fourth for then my great prisoner Lucifer may break free.’
‘I got here, didn’t I?’
‘Things are allowed to the souls of men and to princes royal that are not allowed to devils nor other spirits. The gate is made small for a reason.’
‘Is Mortimer behind the fourth gate?’
‘You are canny, Lady. No, he is not.’
‘Then open the third. Devils might not get through but a man can, as I got in.’
Satan grinned. ‘Yes, a man can be released. Ah, Lady, you see through all my subterfuges and evasions. I could allow a man through, give him passage through a postern gate. Ah, you see how the lesser devils enjoy freedoms their masters do not. I have never walked in the world, never set foot in God’s higher creation. All I have is this dry replica . . .’ He waved a great hand at the sunlit garden.
‘Let Mortimer through!’
‘What God has ordained cannot be lightly bargained away.’
‘I have given you the heart of an anointed king, that is no small gift.’
‘You have given me the heart of an anointed king, you have worked odd magics. And yet, and yet, you are still a queen. You may not be certain to be damned. God is mysterious. I need your soul, Lady. We are constructing a magic here. A queen who has chosen damnation will add powerfully to that. God has given you the right to command. So command your own damnation and I will give my order that Mortimer should be allowed through the postern gates of Hell. I will not hold Mortimer once you have made your oath. Command yourself damned!’
‘I so command it. I damn myself to Hell.’
‘To the Lake of Fire, if I so choose?’
‘Yes.’
‘To the living walls of Akash?’
‘Yes.’
‘To the Hungry Chamber?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I accept,’ said Satan. ‘Your magic is complete.’
‘Then release Mortimer!’
The great ape picked at his ear.
‘Oh, Lady, I cannot.’
‘You swore so to do.’
‘I swore to let him out of my jurisdiction. I swore to open the gates of Hell for him.’
‘So do so, or my oath counts for nothing.’
‘It is binding,’ said Satan. ‘I release Mortimer from my power. If he approaches the gates of Hell then I will open them for him. But he will not approach.’
‘Why not ?’
‘Because he never came here.’
‘I buried him myself. I . . .’
Isabella felt the words like sand in her throat. His body had not rotted. She had thought it because of the powers he had invoked in life. But why had those powers not come to his defence when her son had overthrown him? Why had no devil plucked him from the gallows at Tyburn when one had rescued him from the Tower of London years before? But Mortimer had been freed from the Tower on the feast of St Barnabas in Chains. He . . .
Satan smiled his ape’s grin.
‘Mortimer is in Heaven.’
Her heart thumped at her chest like a cat in a bag.
‘He rose up against an anointed king.’
Satan licked the blood from his fingers.
‘God is mad,’ he said. ‘When He threw the usurper Lucifer from Heaven the dark one stuck a sword in Him. He cannot remove it. The pain drives Him to insanities.’
‘In supporting Mortimer?’
‘In supporting Edward. The line is corrupted by devils.’
‘I corrupted it. I will make amends.’
‘No, Lady, it was corrupted years before you were born.’
‘That is a lie. Then how can God support them?’
‘God is many things. And He is stricken. Perhaps He does not even know His will. Those of us who follow Him do what we must to interpret His desires. We seek to obey. But obey what? I am a poor devil and must do my best.’
‘Your best favouring your interests.’
‘The interests of order.’
‘So how did Mortimer win his place in Heaven?’
‘It was not part of the bargain for me to tell you.’
She saw it now. It was obvious to her.
‘I will tell you then, what I guess. The Plantagenet line is both cursed and blessed. And it has succeeded in mixing its blood with that of the pure streams of France. The picture is smudged. God was in pain, not knowing how to impose the law He had set down. Mortimer sought to bring order to the situation, to cleanse the line and start again. By his boldness he won God’s heart. You have no claim on him here.’
‘That is some of it. Though the rot goes deeper than you know.’
‘How deep ?’
The ape sneered. ‘Not in the bargain.’
‘Then what of me?’
‘You are damned. And for nothing. There are magics brewing in Hell. The soul of a damned queen might speed them nicely.’
Isabella took an apple from the table. Satan drew back his teeth but she stared him down.
‘I am not yours yet. I am still blessed of God. I will find a way to redeem myself.’
‘How will you do that?’
She smiled.
‘I will undo all the wrong I have done. Like Saul, like Magdalene, like Augustine and St Francis, I will turn to God. You cannot keep a saint in Hell.’
The ape shat massively on the table, wriggling as it squatted.
‘The third door,’ it said, pointing. ‘You will leave by it, and by it you will return.’
8
La Cerda’s host were used to shocking sights. They had seen the angels torn, seen the sky black with the wings of devils and demons, watched the flower of French nobility wither under the bows of common men. However, the spectacle of a manacled wretch
falling from a parapet as slowly as if through water was a new one to them.
It was not entirely a surprise to Osbert, he having taken the precaution of sewing an angel’s feather into his hose. This was chiefly so that, when he tumbled over drunk, he did so slowly. But he knew well angels’ feathers were also marvellous openers of portals in all sorts of structures, from doors to stone keeps, and so he kept it secreted in case he ever had to escape from imprisonment. In other men this might have been seen as an unjustifiable fear bordering on cowardice, but Osbert was no stranger to confinement and the hiding of the feather had been a wise precaution.
However, he had sewn it into his hose so tightly and positioned it so inconveniently that he had been unable to unpick it when manacled. It had done him no good at all in de Baux’s dungeon, though he had attempted to employ its powers of making walls disappear by waggling his arse at the stonework. Now, though, it enabled him to float serenely to the floor. A brief wave of elation rose in him. He was free! Apart from the manacles, all that stood between him and open country were fifty men-at-arms, all of whom were watching open-mouthed as his considerable bulk floated gently to the floor like a leaf on a breeze.
Osbert landed, fell over, and quickly evaluated his options. He had none. That certainly made things easier. His confinement had reduced his legs to solid bits of wood; he had enemies behind, and a large number of men whose chief hobby was chasing things that ran away in front of him. Doing nothing was always Osbert’s preferred course, though one that had rarely presented itself to him in a life of scratching a living from deceit and fraud. Here, though, it seemed very apt. He didn’t even bother to get up but just lay back looking up at the fragile blue of the summer’s day like a lazy man on a riverbank.
Before long, the fragile blue was replaced by the sturdy brown of a horseman’s face.
‘Who are you?’
Osbert didn’t really see the point in lying any more. He knew that knights tended to divide their conquests into high value captives and dead people. He would place himself in the former group.
‘Osbert of Paris, magician of the French court, summoner of the king’s most holy devils.’
‘If you are such a great magician, how come you’re dressed in rags ?’
‘I have been cruelly imprisoned. Do you doubt my magic? Did you not see how I floated from these walls? Tell me how I did that?’
‘You are a magician?’
Someone kicked him, quite hard.
‘What was that for?’
‘I’ve never kicked a magician before. I wanted to see what it was like.’
‘What is it like?’ said someone else.
‘Just like kicking a shitty peasant. Give it a go.’
Another boot in the side and Osbert cried out again.
‘Shouldn’t he have turned you into a frog by now, Hubert?
Osbert stood up and he saw he was surrounded by four dismounted knights. As he rose, one drew a sword.
‘You’re not my idea of a magician.’
‘Is that sorcerer still alive?’
De Baux leant down from the battlements.
‘Yes, My Lord, he is.’
‘He obviously is a sorcerer if the noble says he is,’ said one of the horsemen, younger than the others.
The other men nodded.
‘Worth taking to the boss?’
‘It’s sorcerers we’re here for.’
‘Listen, fellow,’ said the oldest of the horsemen. ‘We’ve already fetched every drooling idiot between here and Crécy field to the lord and none have pleased him. If you are not a sorcerer, it would be better you said so now rather than risk his wrath.’
‘Kill him!’ shouted de Baux.
‘I’m a sorcerer,’ said Osbert. ‘I’m the king’s sorcerer.’
‘What is he saying? He killed my lord and a clutch of our men even while drunk. He is a sorcerer. Kill him!’
The horsemen glanced at each other.
‘Drunk, ugly, fat and coarse. He certainly fits the description.’
‘I’m not drunk!’ said Osbert. ‘Not any more.’
‘Take him to La Cerda.’
‘Kill him!’ shouted de Baux.
‘Afraid not, dear chap, he’s the property of royalty now. If I were you I’d prepare a feast and open your gates. The most important men in France beside the king and his son are coming to visit you.’
‘He is a slayer of nobility. He is a champion of the poor. Kill him!’
‘Everything you’re saying just makes us more convinced to keep him. Now look to your cooks and your cellar-master. We’ve ridden a long way and expect some quality entertainment.’
The knight struck Osbert’s leg irons a heavy blow with the pommel of his dagger. The lock sprang open and Osbert kicked them away.
Osbert was grabbed and pulled away from the castle walls towards the distant ranks of horsemen. His legs were agony and his lower back hurt dreadfully from his confinement but he was glad to be free, however briefly. He had thought for an instant that he would be offered a horse, but there was a dispute among the riders about allowing him to soil a saddle. Also, there was no proof yet that Osbert was indeed the court sorcerer and it would be improper for a churl to be allowed to ride a well-bred horse. And, yet more, allowing Osbert to ride alongside them might imply to anyone watching that they considered him their equal, which they certainly did not. Better, then, to drive him like an exhausted animal.
Mercifully, it was not too long a trot to the trees as Osbert feared he would be able to go no further. Already a camp was being established, doubtless to give de Baux the time to prepare properly for the arrival of the almost-royal troupe. Bright pavilions of blue, red and yellow billowed to sudden attention under the restraining ropes; pages chopped wood from the forest – something a poor man might lose his hand for.
‘We can’t present him to the lord like this, he stinks of shit,’ said a horseman.
‘In my defence, Lord, not all of it is my own,’ said Osbert.
‘Strip him,’ said a horseman, ‘that’ll drop off half the stink.’
‘I will not be stripped!’ said Osbert. Even though his hose were foul they contained the sewn-in angel feather. That could be sold in times of extremity or used to pilfer and rob from any house or castle. He had not used it before since, being clothed in the riches of Heaven, he’d had no real need to. And he had found he loved to strike down the noble men, to bring them into the gutter with him. Much better to make a living as a hero than a thief.
The horsemen nodded to each other and dismounted. Rough hands seized him; he was kicked, forced to the floor, his tunic cut off him with the quick movement of a knife.
‘Oh my God, those hose,’ said one. ‘Who’s going to take those off ?’
‘Not me,’ said another. ‘Send for a low man.’
‘They’re all trailing behind, with the baggage,’ said someone else ‘A page, then.’
‘A page can’t be expected to face that.’
‘Halt !’
The nobles were quiet.
From his place on the floor Osbert could see a tall and imposing man, his clothes sparkling as the afternoon sun caught his jewels of blue and red. He wore a tall feather in his hat and his riding boots shone like the back of a chestnut mare.
‘I’m sorry to present this man to you in this state, sir. He says he’s the sorcerer.’
‘He doesn’t look like a court sorcerer.’
‘He’s been in a dungeon, sir. I’m trying to strip him to make him more presentable.’
‘I’ve seen shitty peasants before,’ said La Cerda.
‘Not this shitty, sir,’ said the rider. ‘He is truly a paragon of shittiness. He is a shitehawk nonpareil.’
A spotty page attempted to pass La Cerda a posy, but he brushed the flowers away.
‘So what makes you think he is the sorcerer?’
‘One of the locals shoved him off his walls, sir and he just floated to the ground.’
‘H
ow far a fall?’
‘Ten man heights, sir.’
‘Tell me of the court,’ said La Cerda to Osbert. ‘Give me its description, the things you might see there.’
‘What would you like to know? Of the angel that sparkles above the Oriflamme in St Denis? St Michael himself. Or Jegudiel who dwelt in the Saint-Chapelle where the glass turns the light to butterfly colours and the holy Crown of Thorns sits upon the altar?’
‘All things you could have heard.’
‘When the angel died they wrapped him in two carpets,’ said Osbert. ‘Those two should be missing.’
‘I never heard that.’
‘There’s plenty else you probably haven’t heard either. What would you like to know?’
‘What was the role of Charles of Navarre? He was a child then, wasn’t he? The gang who killed the angel kidnapped him and let him go.’
Osbert didn’t know what to say.
‘Well ?’
‘I fear to offend powerful men.’
‘You will not offend me. Know that I openly state Navarre is my enemy. He has betrayed the king, led the prince down wrong paths.’
‘Oh, he was a bugger for that.’ Osbert made a gesture with his hand and grimaced to indicate someone taking a wrong turn.
‘So what happened to him? He was cursed by the English sorcerer Montagu, was he not?’
‘I was with them. The gang had captured me and sought to use my powers. I was there when they killed the angel.It was me who worked with the king to call Despenser back from Hell, to equip his armies with devils, to drive the English back into the sea.’
‘None of that worked.’
‘The devils came, they served the king. The victory or not was in God’s hands.’
‘But what was Navarre’s role? Was he using devils too?’
‘He had his own devil called Nergal but he was dissatisfied with him and threw him out.’ Osbert felt La Cerda needed to know no more about how he had helped Nergal possess the body of the fallen angel Sariel – something he still felt guilty about.
‘How dissatisfied ?’
‘I believe the devil had told him he was going to ruin France and then failed to deliver on the promise.’
‘Why would Navarre want to ruin France?’
‘It’s well known the angel told him he would never be king of France. “If I cannot play, then I will ruin the game,” said the boy with the spiteful face. So goes the adage. And Navarre has a mightily spiteful face.’
