Son of the Morning (23 page)

‘It should have been ours,’ she said, ‘all of it. Every hearth, every home, every soul in this city and the land beyond belongs by rights to us. All the seven angels of France should have been ours. What do we have instead? Little Pamplona, freezing or boiling half way up a mountain.’

‘What shall we do, mother?’ Charles sat up, distraught.

She came to the bedside. ‘I don’t know. If God is against us, then perhaps we should accept it.’

The boy drew himself up, managing to give the impression of looking down at someone who was a head and a half above him. ‘If God is against us, then I am against God.’

Joan crossed herself. ‘That is a terrible thing to say!’

‘Why?’

‘Think of the life to come. And think of this life. You will have angels of your own to speak to when you are king of Navarre.’

Charles wiped away his tears. ‘A measly cherub – France can call on archangels. I don’t care for angels,’ he said. ‘They have done us no good.’

‘When God speaks to us directly, Charles, we must accept what he says, no matter how horrible that may be.’

‘No. I shall be like Great Aunt Isabella.’

‘Charles!’ Again Joan crossed herself.

‘You said she took what she was owed.’

‘And look where it got her.’

‘Is it true she turned to Hell for help?’

‘Her enemies said so.’ Joan looked about her, as if fearing being overheard. ‘Something went on. You can’t invade England, overthrow the king, his army and his angels without some sort of aid, even if the king is your husband. It was well known her lover got where he did by sorcery. The distaff line of the Capetians has always had certain skills.’

‘You are of that line.’

‘Don’t think on that,’ said Joan. ‘I am respectful of my duty to God.’

‘She had bad luck, you said,’ said Charles.

‘Yes, very bad luck. That’s one way of looking at it. Or God punished her for setting herself above her son, the rightful king. Look, sleep now. I shall get someone to come and see you.’

‘Who?’

‘A churchman. He can remind you of your spiritual duties.’

‘Do not talk to princes of duty. Princes command duty, they are not commanded.’

‘And your father? He serves the king dutifully.’

‘Then daddy is a fool. You say it yourself.’ Tears still fell over his blotchy face.

Joan patted the boy on the head. ‘You are wise enough to keep these thoughts to yourself, Charles?’

‘I am.’

‘Good.’

‘Mama,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘If we cannot have France, then France must burn.’

Joan thought deeply. She hated to see the Valois on the throne. What was the alternative? Rule from England. But Edward could not hope to really govern two such countries. If the English king ruled France, then the real power would fall to those who knew the country best. She looked at her son, so beautiful, so clever. He deserved to rule, if not in name then in truth. And if a war failed? Well, she would have poisoned Philip’s reign, tied him up in a vicious conflict, burned the crops that yielded his revenue, killed the farmers who tilled his lands. Yes, England. Philip was a pious prig who talked always of the imitation of Christ. Well, she would turn his crown to one of thorns, make a cross of his kingship, France into a new Golgotha.

But her husband would never move against the Valois or ally with the English. He was an impediment, she thought, a Valois serf to fetch and carry.

She cradled Charles to her, kissing him on the top of his head.
If you can’t be king of France, you can soon be king of Navarre
, she thought.

The child wept, great sobs wracking his body.

‘You stay at this court, smile and learn,’ said Joan, ‘because one day, my son, and it won’t be very long, your day will come. From the rolling waves of the west to the shimmering blue seas of the east, we will see France burn and the banners of the Valois impostors trampled into its ashes.’

‘I would like that, mummy,’ said Charles, ‘I would like that very much.’

11

The day before the fire, Montagu had kicked his horse towards the setting sun, heading down the broad river Scheldt away from Antwerp towards Gaunt. It was thirty-five miles, he had an excellent scout’s horse – an Irish Hobby he’d taken as plunder in Scotland – and he hoped to make the town well before dawn. He’d be missed at court, but his excuse of being ill would deflect suspicion for long enough.

He’d managed to get a letter to Maltravers after having a man tour the city for Englishmen for a week. He’d found Maltravers, but not in good condition – begging by the cathedral, asking for coin. The traitor had read the contents of the letter and sent a letter in reply saying he would be pleased to meet the Earl. Montagu’s man told him to hurry up – Maltravers was starving and would not have approached another Englishman had he not been at death’s door.

Of course it was dangerous to travel at night, but Montagu had been attacked before by English bandits and lived. A few half-hearted weavers looking to make some quick cash on the side weren’t going to bother him. He disdained to show fear of common men and rather thought that he, with his fine sword, was more of a problem for bandits than they were for him. He expected no trouble – ordinary night travellers being unusual and the armies of the Count of Hainault and other allies mustering to Edward’s banners in the area, but he still wore his aketon of canvas and kid leather, the thick padded coat keeping the rain off, even if it was a little hot once he got into the ride.

There had been war in the area. The French had made a half-hearted attack on Gaunt when they learned of its alliance with Edward, and the Pope had excommunicated the entire town’s population, which would have put paid to any angels even if the Flemings had any to offer.

The rain was light and the night cold but the road was lit by a watery moon, full, shimmering, like a silver penny in a fountain. The king was feasting the Count, spending lavishly to disguise his bankruptcy. Montagu had pleaded illness and retired for the night. George, one of his squires, had begged to go with him, but Montagu had refused. He didn’t want the young man caught up in it if anything did go wrong, nor to attract any blame if the trip invoked the king’s displeasure.

The road was a good one, even paved in parts – where the common people hadn’t stolen the stones for building materials.

He trotted on through the silver dark, bypassing hamlets and camps, and, where the forest thinned enough, he saw fires in the distance. He felt good out and alone on his horse, unencumbered by his retinue, dressed no more grandly than a bowman. He wondered what it would be like to live life like that, no politics to contend with, no bullying and coaxing others into doing what they needed to do, no army to command or angels to worry about. Boring, he concluded, though he wouldn’t have minded a month of that life, once in a while.

The road to Gaunt would have been easy to follow – even if he hadn’t done it several times before – and he was cresting a low hill, looking down on the huge town just as the bells of the city’s churches were ringing Matins.

He would make the city well before dawn, which might prove a problem, he thought – the gates were likely barred during the hours of darkness. Never mind.

The rain had stopped so he unbuttoned his coat to reveal a shirt of rich yellow silk, decorated with boars’ heads. The men on the gate would bow to his nobility and let him pass, he hoped, even though he was a foreigner. Where he would find stabling for his horse and anywhere to keep himself warm and stop his sweat from freezing on him, he didn’t know. He rested the horse a while and let it eat. Then he kicked on towards the city. The French had done little damage to the walls and what they had done had been repaired. The remains of a couple of sorry-looking catapults lay broken at the edge of the woods.

The night guard let him in, though he had to make himself understood through sign language – he could never get so much as a word of Flemish. The guards knew well enough that a noble man would want to stable his horse, wash and eat, so they led him to a good inn and knocked up the innkeeper, whose complaints were silenced when Montagu opened his purse.

At dawn, the bells of Prime ringing in his ears, he set out for St Bavo’s cathedral, over St Michael’s bridge as its shopkeepers were opening up for the morning, calling to him as he passed, some holding up rolls of cloth, others holding up hauberks or helmets, still others trying to interest him in rich golden cups. One man showed him a razor and sliced a piece of cloth with it to show how sharp it was.

‘There are a thousand French lords who will bleed me for free, should I wish it and a few who have already done the job. Can’t say I felt better after the experience. Let me through.’

He couldn’t understand what the shopkeepers said but, by their obsequious manner and deep bows, he could see they marked him for a noble. Montagu smiled to himself. He may have been dressed like a foot soldier, all finery concealed beneath his thick coat but his bearing marked him out as above the common swell of men. ‘You can’t disguise it, William,’ he said to himself. ‘Breeding always comes out.’

It wasn’t difficult to find the cathedral – its huge tower dominated the city and, even if he had been blind in two eyes instead of one, the noise of the mason’s hammers, the carpenter’s saws and the calls of the workmen would have led him there. That and the waxy smell of the fires the bell founders had lit to cast their brass work. The city was rising into noise – hoofbeats, hawkers’ cries, the rattle of shutters and the scrape of shop tables being set out in the streets. The people spoke so loudly here, louder even than London.

Of course, it would be impossible for he and Maltravers to talk in the cathedral with so much building work going on and a market already setting up inside. Montagu found the noise intolerable. He would find an inn and take an ale with the traitor to help him sleep on the boat ride back to Antwerp.

Maltravers didn’t turn up. Not for the first hour, nor the second. After the third, Montagu accepted he had been on a fool’s errand and set about finding a boat to take him home. By the docks he saw a man watching him from fifty paces away. An Englishman. No, the dirty ghost of an Englishman. In his wars he’d buried healthier looking men. ‘Maltravers?’ Montagu had known Maltravers at court but he scarcely recognised the starveling in front of him.

The ghost crossed itself.

‘I haven’t come to kill you, John.’

‘No? Nor drag me to torture?’

‘No. I bear you no malice. My sergeant could have done the job. I’m afraid you’ve fallen below the level where you’d get the personal service.’

‘Can we eat?’ Maltravers shook, his hands raised almost as if in prayer.

Maltravers’ clothes were in the English court style – a short tailored jacket, hose and long, pointed shoes. But the jacket was torn and filthy, the hose had holes in it and, though the day was cold, he wore no cloak. In Flanders, where wool cloth was very cheap, you had to be a poor man indeed to dress so shabbily, thought Montagu. The man was short, dark, very thin. Two things he hadn’t sold in his starvation, Montagu noted, were his sword and a brass medallion hung around his neck. Montagu recognised it as a lamina – something sold by frauds to idiots supposedly to ward off evil.

‘Yes, we can eat.’

‘Thank you William – Earl Salisbury now, aren’t you?’ Maltravers actually licked his lips at the thought of food.

‘I am.’

So much for discretion. Still, if the Count of Hainault had spies about, they would more than likely report to Montagu himself, which would stop the king hearing news of his trip. If the old king
was
alive, he would have to confront Edward with the news sooner or later but he wanted to do it on his own terms and in his own time.

Maltravers led Montagu away from the docks, across the broad square in front of the cathedral to a big inn that faced its front. The knight gave a boy a coin to guard his horse and went inside the inn. It was clean and well kept, with herbs on the floor so there was a pleasant, lavender smell to the entrance corridor, before the smoke of the fire in the main hall overwhelmed it. They went into the hall. There were few people in it – just a couple of old men sitting by the fire in the big main room but Maltravers went in and sat at a bench by a table and called loudly for service. A man emerged to whom Maltravers spoke in Flemish. The innkeeper’s glances shot between Montagu and Maltravers. By the cut of their clothes – one fine, the other ragged – neither was the sort of man he felt comfortable entertaining. However, Maltravers set him at ease – doubtless with the promise of extra payment – and the man went away.

‘Thank you for coming to see me, my lord.’ Maltravers’ eyes darted to the door and to shelves where pies sat. ‘No fresh delivery from the bakery, so they’ll be cold – but still wholesome, I guess.’

‘Indeed.’

Montagu took a roll of parchment from his purse that he’d had copied from the parliamentary record. It laid out clearly Maltravers’ crime – he had deceived the old king’s brother, Edmund, into thinking the king was still alive. Edmund had gone to rescue his brother with the aim of reversing his abdication and restoring him to the throne. That was treason and the rebel Mortimer had seen that he was executed for it. Young Edward, though at that point just a puppet ruler, could have stopped his uncle’s execution. But he did not. He let him die. Then, once he got rid of Mortimer, he had Maltravers charged – not with old Edward’s murder but with Edmund’s. That alone was odd but, as Montagu was discovering, perhaps there just wasn’t the evidence to convict Maltravers of the old king’s death. Maltravers had left the country by then and gone to ground. Montagu read the parchment.

‘John Maltravers is guilty of the murder of Edmund, Earl of Kent, the uncle of our lord, the present king. He especially, treacherously, and falsely plotted the death of the said Earl. Although the said John Maltravers knew of the death of old King Edward nevertheless, the said John, by ingenious manner and by false and evil claims, convinced the Earl that the old king was alive, by which false plotting he caused the death of the said Earl.’