Son of the Morning (10 page)

Philip sank to his knees. ‘I, Philip of France, who bows before no man, bow before you. Holy Father, who made Heaven and earth, who puts kings on their thrones and gives them power over men, hear me now.’

Philip looked around him at the stone saints. They did not move but their song rose louder throughout the great chapel, high and beautiful, singing the Lumen Hilare: ‘Oh light, gladsome of the holy glory of the immortal Father, having come upon the setting of the sun, having seen the light of evening, we praise the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. God.’

He smiled at Joan. They had said he was mad to marry her, that her withered leg was a sign of great evil. But Philip knew she was of the royal line, granddaughter of old King Louis, Saint Louis, whose stone likeness now looked down on them from the tall columns of the stained glass windows. It was he who had built the chapel in which they now stood, he who had first summoned the angel, luring it from Heaven with the splendour he had provided on earth. La Sainte-Chapelle was a marvel, the veils of deep blue glass hung between thin golden pillars and surrounded the king and queen on every side. It was a place of such richness, such light.

Philip had wed into the family of God when he married Joan and he had never regretted it for an instant.

‘The angel will come?’ He spoke to his wife.

‘It’s here. It’s always here.’ Her voice was strained, ecstatic.

The light burst around them and it was as if they had entered the stained glass of the window. The air shimmered in gold, crimson, blue and green. A wonderful airiness filled Philip’s heart. He felt like crying with joy, as he always felt when the angel materialised.

‘Jegudiel.’ The angel said its name and that name seemed to shape itself into golds, reds and deep greens – all the colours of autumn – and go floating through his mind like a falling leaf caught in a sunbeam. The colours of the air split and sparkled. When Philip had first encountered it, he had thought it would take form as a man, but now he knew that, amid beauty like that in the chapel, it took its form from the beauty, changed it and deepened it, honoured it. In battle it could appear as a light on the spears of his army, a light in the sky or – as it had at Cassel – an armed knight of such brilliant perfection that few could bear to look at him.

‘Jegudiel.’ Philip and Joan repeated the angel’s name. ‘Angel of the sacred heart.’

The colours of the chapel seemed to flow through the bodies of the king and queen. Philip did not feel like a thing of flesh anymore – but something woven of light.

‘A usurper on God’s Holy Throne?’ The angel spoke.

Its voice was all beauty, the fall of a waterfall, birds in a meadow, the breeze among trees.

Philip crossed himself, acutely nervous. Did he mean him? The angel never made it clear if it knew what Philip had done to gain the throne of France, but then, it never made
anything
clear. ‘I bow down before God.’

‘Then come into His light.’

Philip felt himself drifting away, intoxicated by the presence of the angel. It unlocked something inside himself – an understanding. ‘And God said, “Light be made.” And light was made.’ That had been the beginning, but in the beginning was everything. Everything was light, he, the angel, the chapel and the world. All light, colliding in its beams and colours. He forced himself to think. His father had told him that speaking to angels was necessary but dangerous; that it was not unknown for kings to lose their minds doing it. It was said that old Edward of England had so loved his that he bade it take flesh and accompany him about the court, sucking in all his love and arousing the jealousy of his lords. Even if that story was not literally true, thought Philip, the moral was worth bearing in mind. These contacts with the divine needed to be handled with great care. And the angel made such little sense, talking in riddles, losing the thread of reason. Its mind was not a human mind, but a strange, deep and wide thing.

‘The sun sets at Orwell and the river burns like the path to Hell. Many shadows are on the water.’

Orwell was where the English fleet might muster! Shadows on the water. Philip had expected an invasion but this was the first indication it was happening.

‘Will you sparkle on our bowsprits; will you fill our sails and inspire our men to valour? Will you strike at our enemies with light and with fire, and teach them God’s will?’

‘A usurper on God’s Holy Throne.’

‘I am not a usurper. I couldn’t be here without God’s blessing. I …’ Philip was going to say that he had atoned for what he had done, but he didn’t know if the angel knew he had done anything that required atonement. His father had told him the angels were far from all-knowing, but that they had ways of finding out things. Philip stuck to what he had done for it. ‘I house you in this magnificent chapel; I pray to you. My nobles lay gold upon your altar and light incense so that you might delight to put yourself into a wisp of smoke and float on the scented air.’

‘God tests his kings in battle.’

‘I give rings and gold. I build great churches. I …’

‘The three fleurs-de-lys are withered. Hugh Capet’s line is cut?’

So it
did
know. The three fleurs-de-lys formed the Capetian arms, but Philip knew it also referred to the three sons of Philip the Handsome, all of whom had very short reigns and died without sons, opening the way to the throne for him. The king knew the rumours about him – his nickname ‘The Lucky’ was said with a great deal of courtier’s irony. It was apt.

‘That was the work of the Templars, heretics and worshippers of Lucifer.’ This was true. Although their work had needed a sponsor.

Philip felt the angel’s displeasure as a tightening in his chest, a ringing in his ears, a thumping in his head. ‘I …’

Philip could not lie even if he wanted to. It was as if the light had opened his head and his thoughts themselves were now light, mingling with the beams of the dying sun, with those of the angel whose presence was light.

He remembered that dirty shack by the river where he’d met the Templars – the candles fluttering as if caught in the breath of a ghost, the stink of fish, the hollow eyes of the Templar grandmaster, Jacques De Molay, evaluating him, seeing if he could be trusted. He was only a boy then, thirteen, uncertain and scared. His father had taken him there. The poverty of the knights had struck him – their coats worn, their shoes broken. It disgusted him to be among such men, though his father assured him their war gear would be the envy of any duke’s son. The Templars were heretics, he said, whatever face they presented to the world, but they were useful men.

De Molay had been straightforward in his demands – the Templars wanted their own state in France, a place of the ‘Free Fallen’. It had been gibberish to Philip. Philip’s father the count only knew he wanted to be king and promised them whatever they wanted if they worked their magic. They said the risk was great, that if God discovered their purpose He would move against them and undo them. Many in their number opposed the idea. But De Molay, that cold, thoughtful man had agreed – after demanding proof of good intention from the count. So they’d set him a task – bring them a twig from the crown of thorns. Had it been necessary for their ritual, or a test of faith? Philip had volunteered for the task himself – so it might be passed off as childish mischief if he was discovered. He’d stolen into the chapel at night, heard the cries and sighs of the stone saints as he’d broken it off. Regret had swamped him the moment the twig snapped. It cut his finger and it seemed as if Christ was mocking him, comparing his selfless sacrifice to Philip’s selfish one. He returned with the twig to the Templars. They’d cast their spell, but the ritual was a long and difficult one and it had attracted the attention of a Capetian spy. Philip had watched the Templars hang, knowing they had not completed their curse before they died. All their assets had been taken. Then Philip’s father had died, that dark day at Nogent-le-Roi and the task of finding someone to complete the magic had fallen to him. It had not been easy and had cost him far more than money but he had done it – contacting the ragged remains of the Templars who had gone over to their rivals, the Hospitallers, out of desperation or because of threat. The crown had been put on to his head in the great light of Notre Dame. From that moment on, he had promised to serve God truly, but his relationship with the angels remained poor. They distrusted him, he could tell, and he could not rely on them in his wars. That left him very vulnerable when it came to dealing with other kings.

‘England. Angels have died there. I heard their screams.’

Philip crossed himself. He was sweating greatly. ‘Does God still favour Edward?’

‘Edward, favoured by God. Gone. Not there. There. Yes.’

Philip wished greatly the angel would be less oblique. Why couldn’t divine power be linked to the power of plain speaking? He knew from long experience it was useless to press the creature. Only God was all-knowing and he half suspected the angels descended into cryptic speech when they simply didn’t know what they were talking about.

‘We will invade. Give me your assurances you will deal with their remaining angels.’

‘The English king’s angels labour at God’s task night and day. Lucifer. He was once and may yet be.’

‘What of Lucifer?’

‘Yes.’

Philip put his head into his hands momentarily. He could not make sense of anything the angel said.

‘We will strike the English,’ said Philip, ‘if you will sparkle on our spear tips and give our men heart.’

‘Faith, first,’ said the angel. ‘Faith, that parted the seas and led God’s people out of Goshen.’

‘You cannot ask an angel for guarantees,’ said Joan.

‘I have laboured for God.’

‘What of your crusade?’ The angel’s voice was like the whisper of rain on a dry land.

‘It has been cancelled.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’

‘Rings, churches, wealth, you give and you give but still you have more than any man in the world. Little is the loss. You were haughty and not prepared to weep, you were not prepared to see sons slaughtered, to lie wounded in some foreign dusty land, your armour full of grit, your mouth thick with sand. You would not give your suffering, as Christ gave you His.’

Philip had noticed before that angels could be very exact in their criticism, while remaining entirely impenetrable when you asked them for anything useful.

‘The Pope himself ordered me not to go.’

‘England’s hand is in that!’ said Joan, ‘he wishes to keep us from favour with God.’

‘And yet you refused to crusade with him five years ago,’ said the angel, ‘you could have done great service to God.’

Philip crossed himself again. The truth was that he had not wanted Edward to win favour with God. Philip had been pleased to help Edward overthrow his father and been glad when the old man died. He had turned young Edward into a usurper, alienating the English angels. All good. But through his mother, it might be argued that Edward had a better claim to the throne of France than he did. What if Edward proved himself more courageous, more holy, won back God’s favour? The man was a prodigy of arms. Would he topple Philip?

‘What do you want? I invaded Gascony to take the cathedrals at Bazas and Auch so you might dwell in the light there and be worshipped as you are worshipped here.’

‘Give me the head of God’s enemy.’

‘What?’

‘He is born. The arch-usurper.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A boy, born to tear the world. I see him and half see him. All Hell is behind him. He has been brought to his beginning.’

The light shifted and swam, splintered and shone. Philip felt sick. ‘What is his name?’

‘God as yet only glimpses him. He is known and not known. Should he live or die?’

‘If he’s the Antichrist he should die.’

‘God sees wider purposes. Angels cannot know them.’

‘So you’ll go against God?’

‘I will express that part of God that wants him dead. Others may express the part that would let him live.’

‘What is his name?’

‘God does not reveal it.’

‘Ask him.’

‘You do not ask things of God. You are told.’

‘Is it Charles of Navarre?’

‘He is young.’

‘How shall I act? What shall I do? I would take the Oriflamme, lead the angels, repel England!’

‘Consider what you can give me. Now return to the dark.’

Suddenly it was night. The sun had gone down and the chapel – its candles unlit – was quite dark, the scant moonlight draining the splendid windows, the jewels and the gold of all colour. Philip felt lumpen, solid, fleshy.

Philip put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘It’s gone. What of that?’

Her face was pale. ‘It will be back when it gets what it wants from you,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘What God always wants of the faithful. What He wanted of His son on the cross.’

‘What?’

‘Blood,’ she said, ‘and plenty of it. Prepare to invade England. And kill the boy.’

Philip nodded. ‘The angel was plain. Charles is a servant of the Devil and must die.’

9

The demon flew out of the circle like a blast of sparks from the mouth of a furnace. Many things came out of the circle, things of light and smoke, things with wings that rustled like paper or ground like stone, there and gone in an instant, things that crawled and crept, serpents, frogs, five-headed, scuttling, a boy with eyes burned to nothing. A woman, her head plumed with feathers as if she were some sort of bird ran shrieking into the night.

‘Tell me how to find this banner!’ shouted Pole. He was up on his feet, clenching his fists like a two-year-old in a fit.

The demon, its coals burning, turned to him. ‘Look into your heart.’

His hand reached forward into Pole’s chest, tearing through the rib cage, pulling out the pulsing heart. He put it to his mouth, and squeezed its juice from it as easily as from a ripe orange. Arigo was on the fiend from behind, stuffing the hair of the saint into its mouth, stabbing at the creature’s back with his knife. He fell away from it screaming, his body consumed by fire.