Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  ‘Can it be so?’ said Philippa. This was far worse than ever she had imagined. Not just the prince as devil, but a whole line of devils!

  ‘It is so,’ said Edward. ‘I read it in the book Alice took from my mother. It is something Mortimer said to me, that I never believed. We are the Devil’s Brood. Our history is plain. King Richard tried to atone for his family’s sins by crusading, seeking to know God’s mind, overthrowing his father. King John tried to call Satan to save his skin, sacrificed his treasure to the sea and was excommunicated for his pains.

  ‘The book bears the signature of Eleanor of Aquitaine, who some call the mother of the Plantagenet line. She promised that, given access to devils, she would mix her blood with the already devilish blood of the Angevins who we now call Plantagenet and would, for earthly power, work for the dominion of Satan on earth. Satan Volutus Divina Absentem. In Place of the Absent God.’

  The Black Prince stepped forward.

  ‘It is so,’ he said. ‘God is wounded, perhaps dead. The demons of the poor rise up and He will not raise His hand. But there is one who will.’

  ‘Who?’ said Philippa.

  The Prince smiled. ‘Satan Servant of God, of kings, of order. Ally with him and England will prevail! Spurn him and this Albion will crumble to the sea!’

  ‘That will never do!’ said Philippa.

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ said the prince, ‘you know well that we are with him already. See Sloth here, see our devils. Why did they come so easily to us? Why were the angels held back for so long? What more can we bring out if we openly ally with Satan, God’s servant? What if we work for his dominion on earth? He honours kings, he respects the rule of God. Then would the servants of Lucifer quail, even those who claim God Himself. Where is God? Where is He ?’

  ‘He would not reveal himself to you, devil!’

  ‘Why do you call me that?’

  ‘I have seen what you are! I know what Isabella did. In prayer and devotion, your nature has been revealed to me! You are a devil, it is true what men say! Edward, King, strike this thing from your court. Order it back to Hell to its master Satan. It is here to bewitch you!’

  The prince bowed his head.

  ‘If Satan is my master, then God is his, just as the man who serves the prince by proxy serves the king. Does it not, in the Bible, call Satan a son of God, a member of God’s holy council? God has abandoned the world! Once it is returned to order, then He will think it fit for Him once again. Satan will come from Hell if he can and, if not, his laws will be enshrined here, enforced by tooth, claw and horn. Kings will be kings. The poor will be the poor! England will bring order to the world, flying under the banner of Satan – the burning whip!’ He gestured to Sloth’s surcoat, the emblem of Satan.

  ‘God has not abandoned the world!’ said Philippa. ‘Did not an angel fly above our armies but a few years ago?’

  ‘And where are the angels now?’ said the Prince. ‘Not here, not in France. I hear that they are not even in Rome or Avignon. Where are they?’

  ‘Then must we give England over to devils?’

  ‘It is our destiny. The destiny of our whole line.’

  King Edward drew himself up. He pointed at young Mortimer, then at Montacute.

  ‘What is my motto?’

  ‘It is as it is,’ they said together.

  ‘Yes. Can we avoid having devils? When my mother is working her magics, doing who knows what for who knows who? They say Philip has a fallen angel on his side now. If the other side has such power, we must have it – and more. If they strike bargains we must strike the biggest bargain available to us. God would be my preference. He is not there. And so, his servant Satan.’

  ‘How shall we even do this? How?’ said Philippa. ‘Without your mother, there are no devils to be had!’

  Alice bowed a little bow. ‘I grew up under my mother’s tutelage. Lady St Pol was versed in such things, and I believe that may be why Queen Isabella recommended her to raise such . . .’ She paused and gestured to the prince. ‘Remarkable children. My mother sat me at Isabella’s side, not for love but so I might learn. I have learned. I have seen her books. I have seen her practices. I have watched her. But you will need a key, for Satan himself is a prisoner.’

  ‘Which key ?’

  ‘The first key brought the demons of Lucifer, the champions of the poor into the world. The second key is I know not where, nor the third. But find them, let me question devils and other men and we will have Satan here on earth, bound to our command. If God is gone then who better to replace Him, to command His devils, than a king and a king of England too?’

  Edward looked to the ground, then to the sky. ‘There can be no half measures,’ he said. ‘Let us bring what devils we can here. Let us strike the bargains that will see England triumph, all devils removed from France, all demons of Lucifer back in their rightful place in Hell. It is time to . . .’

  Philippa knew he wanted to say ‘atone’, but could not in front of his courtiers.

  ‘Remove all pretence,’ he finally said. ‘We are Plantagenet, the Devil’s Brood. I believe God put devils’ blood into us to strengthen us for the fight to come. Our blood makes us more, not less, holy. When we breed the warhorse, do we not mate a courser with a rouncy, the resulting foal so much hardier on the trail, faster in the charge and nobler in the gait than either who begot it? Each of us here has this blood. Look at us. Are we not stronger than ordinary men? Are we not quicker in the fight, lighter in the dance, more honest, more purposeful, better in every way? Are we not?’

  Those around him replied as one, ‘We are!’

  ‘Then we will be Knights of Satan. Satan under God. Now swear fealty to England, to Satan and to God.’

  ‘We swear !’

  ‘You are bewitched!’ Philippa pointed at her son. ‘I know what you are! I know you for a devil!’

  ‘And I too,’ said Edward. ‘And what if he is a devil? He is God’s devil, England’s devil, my devil! These are strange times. It is as it is!’

  The Black Prince drew his sword, knelt and presented it to the king. ‘This, I believe, was my destiny. Why I was sent to this court, to lead us to this moment! My father has spoken our motto already. We are where we are and we must do what we do. Evil be to him that evil thinks of it!’

  He stood tall and addressed them in French, their language, the language of the English kings. ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense!’

  The knights held up their swords, some boldly, some with shaking hands.

  ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense! Satan ! Satan ! Satan !’

  Philippa fled from the courtyard.

  12

  Blanche’s wedding to Prince John had not come as quickly as Charles had hoped. There seemed to be some reluctance on the part of the lady herself. In the normal course of events this wouldn’t have been a problem. Blanche could simply be told to do her duty and marry the oafish prince, as countless other beauties from little kingdoms had been told to marry oafish princes from large ones before. Charles had, indeed, tried such a tactic. However, Blanche had simply stood mooning into space, ignoring him completely. It occurred to him to have her beaten to snap her out of it, but her effect on his guards seemed pretty much the same as her effect on all men. He wasn’t quite sure he could make them do it. He knew his aunt, who possessed much of this supernatural allure, hadn’t felt a rod across her back since she had been old enough to make men notice her. But Isabella’s charms did not work on royalty. Blanche seemed to enrapture all but him and those protected by holy charms, like La Cerda.

  He wondered if he could somehow get that charm off La Cerda, and had been on a night-time excursion around the roofs of the hunting lodge to see if he could manage it – as a second best to strangling the Castilian fool in his bed. La Cerda, however, had either heard the rumours surrounding Joan of Navarre’s death or he had a Castilian distaste for the cold. Whatever the reason, he had boarded his windows up solidly and there was no way in to his rooms.

  All
through the grand Christmas dinner, Blanche sat as if enraptured by the king. Angels, Charles recalled, were in love with royalty. Then why not him? Half-devil, did the angel shy from him? Or did the natural repugnance between sister and brother count still for something? Worse still, was this a slight? Was a king of Navarre not enough to inspire devotion in an angel, whereas a king of France was?

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked his sister. ‘What can make you do your duty? Look at Prince John. Is he not a handsome man?’

  ‘Who looks at the moon when the sun is in his splendour?’

  ‘He is married. Lawfully married, under the eyes of God.’

  ‘And for that reason I think only chaste thoughts when I regard him. But regard him still I must.’

  Charles looked hard at Philip. He was tall, pinch-nosed; his eyes were rheumy. Did he have the Pestilence? God, let him have the Pestilence, please – Charles offered a prayer. No, God, don’t let him have it. That way the whole court will have it and there’ll be no one to administer the country. Might the king die of natural causes anyway? He offered an earnest prayer – though he knew not who to nor really what about.

  The king’s eyes were fixed on Blanche too, his wife Joan – a lady of great holiness and royal breeding – ill in her chamber and absent. She would not have interfered anyway, thought Charles. He admired her for that. A true queen must know when to oppose a concubine and when to simply stand aside, allow her husband to slake his passions and discard the strumpet.

  He’d forced an audience with Queen Joan the night before. In truth, it had not been difficult. The whole court were enraptured by Blanche and stood to watch her dance with the king in the candlelight, his great tall, bent figure looming over her like a tree ready to fall. Prince John remained silent, seemingly stuck to his bench, not eating, not drinking, just watching.

  Charles was at a loss to know what to do. He had assumed his sister would be easy to control. Now this. Well, he told himself, as an enthusiastic servant of chaos in the realm of France, is this not a good thing? Are not the Valois divided while their enemy the English establish a base in Calais?

  He doubted the English would ever be able to use Calais as a bridgehead into France. The way over the marshes was too narrow, the town too small to really service a decent army. Still, as a trading base it was excellent and provided a key to Flanders and beyond. Things were going well there for the English, his spies told him. The insufferable youth who called himself the Antichrist had disappeared and now a whore was leading that weird sect of Lucifer in Calais, itself much diminished in the eyes of the poor. He marvelled at the presumption of those people. As if they could have the wit to overthrow an anointed king.

  La Cerda, he noticed, was glaring at him from a distant table where he sat with his retainers. Charles had his own good men around him and hoped to be soon joined by his brother Philip – something of a prodigy at arms. He had wondered what manner of devil his mother had lain with to conceive Philip. Charles was like a cat, Philip like a bull.

  Charles got up and walked around to where his sister was sitting, eyes on the king.

  ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that you might have La Cerda executed? You could suggest it to Philip.’

  ‘La Cerda walks with the light of God.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t stop you cutting off his head, does it? He won’t be walking anywhere after that.’

  ‘He says his prayers and builds great churches.’

  ‘Laudable, I am sure,’ said Charles. ‘But, were I to be given his lands, I would build the biggest church anyone ever clapped eyes on in all of Christendom. I would build a church the size of Paris – subject to practicalities, of course.’

  Blanche stared at La Cerda.

  ‘Thou shalt not kill. That is God’s law. I cannot disobey it. Not kill a man like that.’

  A thought struck Charles. ‘But I am your king and your brother. Shouldn’t you obey me?’

  She moved a napkin to her lips.

  ‘I should. But do not ask me to kill, Charles.’

  ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.’

  ‘Thou shalt not kill.’

  This was a troublesome woman.

  ‘Is there anything in the Bible about “thou shalt not exile”? I think not. Exile the ruffian. He offends our eyes.’ Charles sniffed at his perfumed kerchief.

  Blanche bowed her head slowly and leant across to whisper to Philip. The king nodded gravely but he put his hands on her arm, as if imploring her.

  The bastard won’t do it, thought Charles. He isn’t enchanted at all, he’s just got a good old-fashioned marrow in his trousers.

  But Blanche merely inclined her head and smiled.

  Philip raised a finger, a wonderful brilliant finger, and three of his men-of-arms came over. La Cerda, who missed nothing, stood. One of the men-at-arms left the room and Philip gestured for La Cerda to approach him.

  La Cerda fairly stalked across the floor towards the king. Unarmed, not even possessing a dagger in the king’s company, he had few options, thought Charles.

  ‘You have displeased us,’ said Philip.

  La Cerda, white with rage, turned his eyes on Charles.

  ‘You, or this enchanter?’

  Charles put his hands to his chest in mock shock.

  ‘That is Navarre, the good and loyal brother of the most favoured Blanche, betrothed of our son John.’

  ‘What have I done, Lord?’

  Philip seemed confused for a moment. He turned to Blanche and whispered.

  ‘What has he done?’ She, in turn, looked to her brother. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘This and that,’ said Charles.

  ‘You have done this and that,’ said Philip. ‘And for such offences will be banished from our kingdom.’

  He seemed to run out of ideas of things to say.

  ‘Get thee hence,’ suggested Charles, helpfully.

  ‘Get thee hence.’

  ‘Father!’ said John. ‘La Cerda is my most valued servant!’

  Well, thought Charles, that hurts.

  ‘Might he not stay, Father?’ said John.

  ‘No. Off he hops,’ said Charles.

  ‘No. Off he hops,’ said Blanche.

  ‘Off you hop,’ said King Philip.

  More men-at-arms filed into the room – around twenty - most unarmoured, some in their underclothes as it was late, but all with swords or maces.

  La Cerda’s retinue was greater in number but their weapons were left in their lodgings where, Charles was confident, they were now being removed.

  La Cerda pointed at Charles.

  ‘You will come to no good. I curse you. I curse your stratagems and designs. May they all come back to soil you like piss in the wind!’

  ‘When I piss in the wind I turn my back to it,’ said Charles. ‘That way I can be sure that whoever it blows on, it blows not on me!’ He bowed.

  La Cerda turned on his heel, his men sweeping out of the room behind him.

  ‘I’ve counted the tapestries in your quarters!’ shouted Charles. ‘I’ll know if they’re gone!’

  The next morning, Charles was chuckling to himself as he went through the weapons that had been collected from La Cerda’s men. Thirty good swords, a variety of hammers, maces and axes. They’d let them keep the lances and bows – they had to eat on the road. He could still smell the wine and the ale drifting up from the hall below. He fancied a cup of wine. He had been too wary of an attack – armed or not – by La Cerda’s men to drink much that night, and had spent some of a cold dawn on top of the lodge, watching La Cerda’s men file away across the snow. What an insult. The low people would see them – knights without swords; men without cocks, in effect. He had gelded La Cerda, yes he had. Though he took care to remind himself that geldings can still kick.

  The fire was not yet lit in his room and he guessed the maid might have died in the night. He stood looking at the chopped logs and the kindling. He certainly wasn’t going to light it him
self. Like any knight, he could knock up a fire in an instant if he had to – it was an essential skill he’d learned as squire to Prince John. But a king couldn’t do that in a hunting lodge. His grooms were asleep all around him but they too were noble men and would not light a fire here. They needed a maid. How much, he wondered, would the next maid demand for her services? Since the Plague it was as if the low folk held the aristocracy to ransom.

  The screams cut through the muggy interior of the hunting lodge. They sounded rather refined screams. The servants were more guttural, making more of a ‘kwwwwoooooor!’ noise than this one, high and sustained. Female, certainly. A lady-in-waiting? He wasn’t even all that curious, he just wanted a fire. Everywhere you went nowadays, howls of grief were as common as the call of thrushes. And, like thrushes, you heard them the most in the morning, when people awoke to find the dead at their side, when ladies awoke to find no maid answered their call, when horses fretted in the stables for want of a groom to clean and exercise them.

  A knock on the door of his chamber. His grooms awoke; Charles drew himself up.

  A groom opened the door to reveal a pale-faced servant.

  ‘The queen!’ was all he could manage. ‘The queen!’

  ‘The queen wants you to light my fire?’

  ‘No, sir. No. The queen is unfortunately dead.’

  Charles’s eyes widened. Unfortunate for whom? he thought. Certainly for someone – everything nowadays was unfortunate for someone. He went through a mental list. Was it him? Possibly? Philip? Maybe. John.

  ‘Oh my Lord! Take me ot the chamber!’ The implications struck him like a cavalry charge.

  Charles followed at the run, winding around the staircases of the great lodge to find the queen’s chamber.

  Within was a bloody sight. The queen had been butchered in her bed. Her murderer was not difficult to find. The king sat on the edge of her bed, his wet red dagger in his hand.