Son of the Morning (38 page)

‘Really no, it is a familiar malady and I have the cure at my manor. Foolish of me to forget it.’ The tears were flowing now. What, thought Montagu, could make a woman like her cry?

He had been asleep an hour in the guest house when George came in to wake him. Eleanor had constructed three private guest rooms there – one specifically for entertaining royalty. It was an extravagant gesture that reflected the monastery’s ambition.

‘Lord, I’m sorry for the hour.’ The young squire held a candle, dimly lighting the room.

Montagu sat up in bed. ‘How is your mother?’

‘Not well, I fear. I wouldn’t have left her, but she gave me these for you.’

In his hand was a bundle of letters.

‘They are—?’

‘I haven’t looked, she asked me not to. She said they were to be presented to you tonight.’

‘Pass me the candle.’

George handed it over.

‘You may as well go now,’ said Montagu. ‘I’ll talk to you in the morning.’

Montagu arose and went to the little writing table that sat near the window of the room. That Eleanor had provided this for guests was not a little flattering. Such routine provision was a mark of the quality of person the monks expected to entertain in the room.

He put the candle on the desk and studied the letters, scanning them all quickly to pick out the most interesting. Some were legal documents, sent from the Tower of London when Eleanor had been imprisoned, arguing her rights that her husband’s property should not be touched, demanding his personal effects for ‘a loving wife to cherish’. A sudden fit of sentimentality from a woman who was notoriously shy of her husband’s company? There were several other requests for the body of Despenser to be returned, ever more desperate in tone. Why did she want his body? Here was a clue: ‘Lest forces malign obtain it. It is especially necessary that the Hospitallers and those who give shelter for gain to the old order should have no claim to my husband’s body or possessions.’ What would be the use of the vicious Hugh’s bones? He was hardly likely to be made a saint? And who were the old order? The Templars? What would
they
want with a sinner’s dead body?

Here was a clue: a correspondence between the Grand Preceptor of the French tongue of Hospitallers – their order was split into eight ‘tongues’ – one ‘Brother Adam’ and Hugh Despenser, Eleanor’s husband. The letters – of which only the ones from the Grand Preceptor were present – began with a huge and pompous list of each man’s titles.

‘Further to our meeting on your proposed creation of relics. We are prepared to deliver what we found if you provide what you say you will. We will not provide the necessary weapon nor see it moved. You know where it is and how to get it. You are the motivating force in this. What you propose is unholy and without precedent. We work under the eyes of God and St John and will not have any part in the sin in any way that makes us answer before God. However, the deal we offered at Paris stands and the banner will be yours, boxed and sealed, on delivery of what you promised. Destroy this letter.’

There were more, some with next to no introduction but written in the same hand.

‘She will respond to a promise of light. You ask for assurances but I can give none. This is what our communicants tell us. I now formally beg you in the name of God and St John to give up this business. You will answer before God. Should you go through with it, our arrangement would stand.’

He noted the reuse of ‘stand’, ‘answer before God’, and the appeal to St John. There was no address on this at all.

Another: ‘The banner will help you fulfil your wish. Only the strongest kings with the most loyal angels could stand against it. I warn you again to give up this unholy business. Your soul is in peril. As the presence of Mortimer has changed your plans, we would be willing to add a cash payment in addition to the banner. The seal of the Florentine stands surety for the money. Good Jack will come when you say you are ready.’

The seal of the Florentine. Montagu recognised it immediately – he had witnessed half of Edward’s loans. It was the chain and key of the Bardi family. Isabella had seemed sure he was behind their entrance to the castle. This was proof of his involvement some four years before. But perhaps she misunderstood the role bankers played. Perhaps he had just been asked to guarantee a transaction? Such deals weren’t unheard of – promises to pay that would be honoured by a bank in the case of a noble family or institute reneging on its debts. The money would be set aside and only paid by the bank on the completion of a transaction. What did Bardi know? And what did they mean by ‘the presence of Mortimer has changed your plans’. What were Despenser’s original plans?

Montagu didn’t know what to make of the rest of it. The letters were so contradictory – giving advice on some unnamed project while begging Despenser to give it up.

A phrase stuck in his mind: ‘the creation of relics’. He was convinced an angel had died at Hanley. A saint’s tooth in the pommel of your sword would protect you in battle, a piece of his robe bring a blessing. What protection would an angel’s feather bring? What miracles might be wrought with one of its bones?

‘She will respond to a promise of light. It will take flesh for her. As she fell, so he will fall.’ Hugh Despenser had put up that chapel at huge expense and, as soon as she was able, his wife had come along and bricked and boarded it up.

The sarcophagus itself was a relic. Why hadn’t Lady Eleanor smashed it to cover all evidence? Because she was so holy. It had been touched by an angel – she would not desecrate it, though she couldn’t bring herself to use it. So she sealed in its secret. The cement work must have been done by her – she would have had some idea of how to mix it: she’d seen enough building work.

He took out his sword and kissed the pommel, kneeling to pray. Did he receive divine help? Probably not, he thought, but he felt the blue light in his mind and his thoughts were very clear. Despenser wanted something from the Knights Hospitaller – this banner. For what? To drive off a king’s angels. Had he been planning rebellion against old Edward? Montagu would not have put it beyond the man’s ambition. But to do so he had to give them something in return. The body of an angel. It was killed, Montagu could not guess how, and then its body kept in the sarcophagus until the knights came to collect it. Hugh got what he wanted and set off with it, not bothering about any trace he left behind him, because he had no immediate expectations of having to answer to anyone. And besides, it wasn’t Despenser’s way to worry about such things. He was secure in the king’s love and feared no accuser. The whole barony of England had only succeeded in having him exiled, and then only for a few years, after he’d been on that murderous rampage through Wales. He was taken back by Edward after living three years as a pirate in the Channel.

Despenser hadn’t taken the sarcophagus, or the angel’s blood. Why? Because he had something more powerful by far. Whatever this banner was, it must have been a rare prize to warrant risking his immortal soul. Why the contradictory messages from the knights? To cover their backs. They’d take the angel’s relics, as they’d take any relics. But they would save their souls by putting all responsibility for the angel’s death on to Despenser.

There was a further, final note. It was signed Eleanor De La Zouche.

A note. ‘As I am not guilty of my apparent sin, they avoid the guilt of theirs. I have sought only to protect him. Let the shame be mine. Exodus 20:5.’

He went to the big Bible that lay chained on a plinth and opened it. His Latin had always been poor and neglect had not improved it. He could make no sense of it.

He pulled on his trousers, coat and boots while calling for George. The squire came into the room.

‘Get that fat abbot up here, now’ he said. ‘Tell him to bring one of his learned monks. Twenty minutes later, the abbot was in the room, torn between outrage at being woken and self-importance at being summoned. A thin, bookish monk stood behind him holding a big Bible.

‘Exodus, 20:5,’ said Montagu.

‘Look it up,’ said the abbot.

‘No need, sir,’ said the monk. ‘It’s the Ten Commandments. ‘Non adorabis ea neque coles ego sum Dominus Deus tuus …’

Montagu held up his hand. ‘In God’s French or the Devil’s English.’

The monk smiled. ‘Thou shalt not adore them, nor serve them: I am the Lord thy God, mighty, jealous, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.’

Montagu picked up the papers and stuffed them into his purse, tying it to his belt. Eleanor feared Montagu knew what had happened at Hanley and the shame would impact on her and her boy. She couldn’t bear it and hoped that by appearing culpable herself she might deflect any suspicion from her son. ‘My apparent sin.’ Suicide.

‘Get my horse. We’re going to your mother’s house.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Just do it, George!’

Lady Eleanor was not there when they arrived – to the surprise of her servants. They found her at ten the next morning, face down by the bank on that broad reedy stretch where the Severn meets the Avon. Montagu was called from further upstream, where he had been searching. Her body lay on the bank, her servants silent about her.

George cried out and ran to her.

Montagu dismounted and put his hand on his squire’s back.

‘My mother killed herself,’ said George, his voice choking. ‘She will go to Hell for this.’

‘No, George,’ said Montagu, ‘Your mother would not have committed such a sin. This is a considered act. She went into the river and put herself into God’s hands. She didn’t kill herself – God took her. She is in Heaven. She’ll be buried in consecrated ground, next to her William.’

‘What is behind this?’ said George.

‘I fear your father’s shadow stretches a long way.’

It was surely time, Montagu thought, to tell the king what he suspected. Edward could no longer leave his mother in the control of men who had conspired to kill an angel. And it appeared they had either abducted his father or conspired with him to help him disappear. The king needed to know, but first Montagu wanted to find out where the knights had taken old Edward. Montagu had little confidence he would get the explanation he needed.

He was tempted to go back to Castle Rising and put pressure on the Hospitallers until he got some information. But these men were trusted by the king. He must have solid evidence before he moved against them.

So how to get it? He needed a man with contacts. Who? He could kill two birds with one stone here. Bardi, the banker. He had some dealings with the Hospitallers and there was enough in the letters to deeply discomfit him, hang him even, if they picked the right judges. Wicked thoughts slipped into his mind. Perhaps the Florentine wouldn’t even need coercing. He had a great investment in England’s regaining its angels. Montagu was sure that, given the right information, Bardi would undertake the right enquiries, make the correct inferences and act. So old Edward would die at last, but Montagu’s conscience would be clear. He would never issue an instruction to kill the old king, nor even suggest that it might be done. But Montagu knew the Florentine well enough to believe that he would have the guile, resources and manpower to do what was needful.
No
. That was the coward’s way. He was no dissembling Hospitaller. He was a true knight of chivalry. He needed to talk to Bardi, though. But that alone might be enough for Bardi to kill old Edward. If he gave the banker strict instructions Edward was not to be harmed, would that be enough? Enough to save Montagu’s soul perhaps, but not to absolve him in his own judgement.

‘It is as it is,’ he murmured. He would arrange to meet the banker.

10

‘We need gifts for Edward’s queen, sir. She is with him and conspicuously pregnant yet again, according to spies.’ The Count of Eu, Constable of France, stood solemnly by Philip’s side. King Philip was outside the royal pavilion at Buironfosse, the nobility of France and its allies around him in all the gaudy colours of war. Sometimes he felt like a king among all those surcoats of bears, lions, leopards and wolves. Other times he felt like their quarry. A gaggle of nobles around him were theatrically attentive to Philip’s every word. Four of them were dressed in fox fur. He knew what that meant – they were accusing Philip’s advisers of foxiness in refusing to come to battle with the English for so long. It was tantamount to accusing him of the same, though no man would ever be bold enough to criticise the king. The advisers took the blame, no matter that they were urging war. The Count of Foix was actually in full mail. The message could not be clearer.

‘My God, she’s only just had one. She must get ridden like a messenger’s pony. How many children will that be now?’

‘I’ve lost count, sir. Do we include girls nowadays? Our spies report the pregnancy may not be going well. Priests attend the queen night and day, laying blessings and charms, and Edward makes particular mention of it when praying before his angel, even beyond what might be expected. I don’t understand his concern, he already has two sons.’

Philip grunted. ‘Rattle up a few jewels for him. Distinctive, inscribed personally from me – the sort of thing that’s shameful to sell on – I don’t want to end up paying his troops myself. Better make it costly, though; we want to make a point.’

Eu bowed.

It was late October, not far from All Saints Day. Winter was nearly upon them and finally they had come to battle. Edward’s forces were drawn up on good ground not four miles away at La Capelle. The English had a slope in their favour, a forest protecting their west flank and a good force protecting the road to the east, according to some captured Germans. The angel was with them, but that was as good as it got for Edward. He was outnumbered five to one.

But still, no angels for France. No Oriflamme either. The Oriflamme would shine its blood light and bring guaranteed victory. But the archangel Michael at St Denis had refused to release it, or rather not given his blessing. Philip could not take the holy banner without the angel’s consent. Fighting without it? Too many possibilities. Too much uncertainty. And the south was in flames too, under attack from English freebooters. That would require his attention soon.