Son of the Morning (75 page)

40

Sunday at St Olave’s and the rich merchants and minor nobles of the congregation filed up to take communion. The young under-priest Father Paul was surprised to see Edwin come in, half way through the mass. He had often thought to complain to the bishop about Edwin’s behaviour – for his whole tenure he hardly took one mass in four on a Sunday and none in the week. In the last year he had not been there at all. In the end, however, Paul had decided to stay silent. He had an easy life with no supervision and he was free to take collections and donations and allocate them as he saw fit – on necessities such as cooked goose, fine cassocks or splendid furniture for his home.

He was a handsome young man with an easy charm and found it straightforward to collect money above and beyond the tithes the rich parish was owed. A stroke of genius had led him to provide benches in the church. This made the elderly of the parish very grateful and more likely to remember the church in their wills. He had also found that the purchase of rich tapestries drew richer people to his church, who in turn drew more rich people. A Sunday at St Olave’s was now quite a sight as the merchants and even nobles who might have chosen between three competing parishes, came to his church so its splendour might reflect on them. Paul had just lifted the rather fine new silver communion cup to the lips of a master of the Clothworkers’ Guild when the door of the church was opened.

He looked up over the array of rich coats, houplenades, dresses and tunics to see the thin figure of Edwin in the doorway. He had something under his arm and a woman the size of a travelling bear with him. Behind her, was a mob of the lower sort in their tatters and rags.

‘Father Edwin,’ he said. ‘The church is quite full. If you wish to favour the poor then I’m sure some bread will be left for them after the service.’

A merchant’s wife raised a large loaf from a basket. It had been brought for just that purpose.

‘No,’ said Edwin, marching up to the altar.

‘Er, no to what?’ said Paul. ‘I’m afraid you are a little too cryptic for me, father.’

A murmur went through the church. Paul had thought Edwin carried a bag under his arm. Now he saw it was a fat little creature with stunted arms and legs, a wide mouth, grey skin and horns upon its head.

‘No, I’m not Father Edwin,’ said the priest.

‘Well, er, you are,’ said Paul. ‘Though I cannot help noticing that you have a devil attached to you.’

‘I am friend Edwin, not father. And it’s a demon, not a devil.’

‘That would appear to be splitting hairs and not quite …’ Paul gave up his attempt at eloquence. ‘It’s a thing of Hell. You’re a priest. What are you doing?’

‘Your problem, Paul, has ever been that you don’t use the ears Lucifer gave you. I am not a priest and I’m here to explain what I am doing,’ said Edwin.

He faced the congregation, the demon clinging to him, the fat woman at his side.

The paupers filed in beside him, surrounding the benches, mingling with those who were standing.

‘This is an odd do, father!’ Andrew Hardcastle, a rich dyer who had been particularly generous to the church spoke.

‘I didn’t come here to mingle with whores!’ said a man’s voice.

‘Where do you go then?’ said a rough-looking woman.

‘The Woodbine stewe,’ said another prettier, but no more refined lady. ‘That’s Steven Tremlett the weaver. Cock as big as a rye loaf – some of the younger girls won’t go near him.’

A woman standing next to the weaver thumped him on the shoulder.

‘I am here to talk to you about God!’ said Edwin to the crowd.

‘We’ve had all that already,’ said a man in a fine fur coat which he wore despite the warm day.

‘He is evil, and he opposes the true nature of man as established by Lucifer at the making of the earth,’ said Edwin.

‘I won’t hear that!’ A knight in a tunic embroidered with white doves tried to stride up to the altar but a couple of big brown bowmen barred his way.

‘Lucifer asked us to love each other,’ said Edwin. ‘He came to earth as Christ but God tricked and killed him. God’s followers, people like me, corrupted his message of love. We must return to it. See what is important. Do not follow blindly the mad instructions of a tyrant. Look into your own hearts for what you know is right.’

Paul made a drinking sign with his hand and gestured with his eyes towards Edwin.

‘I am not drunk,’ said Edwin. ‘Unless it’s drunk on the knowledge and freedom that acceptance brings. I do not value gold. I do not value silks.’ Greatbelly took his hand in support and nodded to the crowd.

‘Can we have them then?’ shouted a wag from the back of the church.

‘I am here to give them away. Take the tapestries. Take the cups. Sell them to buy bread for your children.’

The bowmen pulled at a huge embroidery showing the passion of Christ and it fell from the wall. A young whore plucked the silver cup from the priest’s hand.

‘Now steady on there!’ said Paul.

‘You’re a priest – you should be ashamed of yourself!’ shouted the knight to Edwin.

‘I have been ashamed all my life. That is what I have been taught, shame. Shame for being as I was made. I will be shamed no more.’

He turned to Greatbelly. ‘Will you kiss me?’

‘She won’t. She doesn’t do that!’ shouted a young freeman’s son.

‘I will,’ said Greatbelly, putting her lips to Edwin’s for a long kiss.

‘Ahhh!’ said Annie Rolfe, one of Greatbelly’s girls.

‘That is an abomination!’ shouted the knight.

‘I don’t know; it wouldn’t do if we all liked the same!’ The wag was at it again.

‘Call in the poor!’ shouted Edwin. ‘Call them from everywhere. This is the first church of Lucifer and I welcome them in to hear the truth.’

‘We won’t listen to you!’ shouted a merchant.

‘No,’ said Edwin. ‘You won’t. No priests any more. No high men. Listen to Joanna. Listen to Annie Rolfe or Rosie Ashe. Listen to Tom Trevalyn of the western archers or ask their children. And listen to the word of Lucifer!’ He stretched out his hand. Know-Much gave a great caw and the church was full of the fluttering wings of ympes.

‘The king will hear of this!’ shouted the knight. ‘The king will hear of it and then you will pay!’

‘Let him,’ said Tom Trevalyn. ‘We have forty men of Cornwall here, friends of Lucifer and the bow. Let him, let the king come – because the poor are standing in the morning light and their shadows will be cast on him!’

41

Montagu crashed heavily into the wet grass of the tournament camp not thirty yards from Edward’s beautiful royal pavilion. He looked up at the sinuous painted leopards and the fluttering flag of St George. He tried to stand, but it was as if he was drunk. He felt very weak and, had he eaten anything in the previous two days, he might have been sick. Home. God’s teeth, he could just sleep there on the grass.

Trust Edward to make a show of it. The banners were streaming in the Windsor breeze, pavilions in yellow, red and blue lined up all down the bank of the Thames. The Thames! My God it felt good to be near an English river after that stinking Parisian sewer. And it looked as though the French campaign had been victorious.

‘Hold!’

Six guards came running for him, polearms pointed towards him. One of them was not as Montagu would have expected for a member of the king’s guard – he had the legs of a gigantic goat and short horns protruding from his head.

‘Do not move or you will be cut down where you stand!’ One of the men shouted at him, doing a little dance back and forward with the polearm, unsure what to make of Montagu, wrapped in glowing feathers, materialising from thin air.

Montagu coughed and took in a big breath. He felt as though he’d been knocked from his horse by a lance. ‘Sorry to draw your attention to the obvious, but I’m not standing,’ said Montagu. ‘If I’m going to have any hope of doing so then I may need a little support.’

‘Don’t speak your magic at me, demon! … or angel, or whatever you are!’

‘I’m Montagu, Lord Marschall of England. So bring me to the king, sit me on a stool and fetch me a leg of game and cup of beer,’ said Montagu.

‘You’re in rags. You’re not Montagu!’

Montagu felt his anger rise. ‘Look at my eye. Look at
this
!’ He drew Arondight, the magic sword sparkling like the waters of Avalon.

‘He’s drawn a weapon,’ said the goat-legged man. ‘Kill him.’

‘If you kill me, the king is going to be more than a little put out,’ said Montagu. Always remain light, William, always careless and glib. Never let them see you desperate.

A guard went running back into the tent. Then a huge voice boomed from inside it.

‘Lead me to him! Get out of my way!’ King Edward pushed his way through his guards like a destrier through surf.

Montagu tried to stand to greet his king. His legs wobbled like a man struck by a mace and he collapsed.

‘William! William! What’s happened to you?’ Edward threw his arms around Montagu. ‘You’re injured, my God! And in rags. Are you all right?’

Montagu smiled. ‘Some mild inconvenience encountered in your service, sir.’

A crowd had been pulled in and Edward rounded on them. ‘Has no one a drink for the lord? A seat? You useless dogs. Do I have to carry him myself? You, horn head, make my bed and fetch some clothes befitting my friend’s status. I’d rather have this man on my side than a whole army of you useless, lazy cowards!’

Edward got Montagu to his feet, others now piling in to help him. So many squires and knights came forward that Montagu feared he would be crushed. ‘My arm, lord – I took a bit of a knock.’

‘Be careful with him, you oafs. Here’s a man who carries the injuries of a noble fight, not like you shivering mice, afraid to bruise a finger!’ He turned to his squires, almost apoplectic.

‘Fetch Lord Sloth,’ said Edward. ‘Bring him now.’

‘He’s gone to London, sir, to quiet the rebellion; you sent him yourself.’

‘So send for him! My God, William, you’ve faded away since I last saw you!’

The throng parted as Edward supported Montagu into his tent. Edward lowered him to the bed, leaving the cloak of feathers about him. Edward stroked the cloak in wonder and gently unclasped it, leaving it beneath the lord like a blanket. Then his squires stripped the filthy and tattered gaoler’s clothes off Montagu. One squire took the letter from the tunic and placed it carefully on top of the casket Montagu had brought from the tower. The king slapped away another who brought out a scarlet shirt of fine lamb’s wool, ordering him to give Montagu the king’s very finest clothes. So they dressed him in satin and cloth of gold, set pearls at his ears and put sapphires and ruby rings on his swollen fingers. When Montagu cried out as a page accidentally tweaked his arm, Edward struck the boy a fierce backhanded blow that sent him scurrying from sight.

‘Perfume, bring perfume for my lord – he stinks like a public shithouse. Bring perfume. And get out. All of you, get out!’

Edward didn’t seem to mind issuing entirely contradictory orders. The tent cleared and Edward himself poured Montagu a cup of wine.

By God, that tasted good. French, clearly. Montagu savoured it, taking the moment to gather his thoughts. ‘No good over there?’ he queried.

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘No, but I can guess.’

‘A ruinous truce,’ said Edward. ‘We were outside Tournai. I would have had it but for a couple of shillings more from these penny-pinching merchants. But no. They need their money for their finery and their whores, aping gentlemen with furs and jewels. I tell you, they were sorry to see me come home, I made an example of some of them.’ He waved his hand, dismissing something, Montagu wasn’t quite sure what. ‘We made our peace with the House of Valois – a five year truce. Five years! How am I to pay my debts with five years of peace? The whole thing came to nothing.’

‘We still have Gascony?’

‘We’re fighting there. The truce only extends to France. And there is some hope of plunder in Aquitaine but beyond that, slim pickings. We may lose as much as we gain.’

The goat-legged man came into the tent with a small stoppered bottle of perfume and a cloth.

Edward took the perfume and poured it on to the cloth. He dabbed it at Montagu’s face, beneath his arms, on to his trousers. It smelled of primroses. Montagu was so glad to be back in ordinary civilisation again. He could go back home, be with Catherine, watch the youngest children grow up, forget war. Forget Isabella – if that were possible. Yet a question troubled him.

‘You are served by devils?’

‘Hell approached me last month. An ambassador came. We have no angels, William.’

‘But we don’t need them if there is no war.’

‘Rebellion stirs. The poor are rising up, some of the merchants too – more out of a desire to hold on to their gold than out of conviction.’

‘There are few convictions stronger than wanting to hold on to gold.’

‘The situation is dire. My knights could kill the people, strip their gold, but the devils are experts at control. They will make the people fight for us, work for us.’

‘What can be done by force can also be done by compromise or by more subtle means. Invite the rebel leaders to parley and then kill them.’

‘Not so simple. They do not
have
leaders; little demons guide their actions. My eyes have been opened, William. The devils serve God and His holy order here on earth. The king at the top, the nobles beneath them, the merchants beneath them, the working men and the poor beneath them. The poor have a heresy – the cult of Lucifer. They would overthrow us and make a pig keeper or a beggar our masters.’

‘And we can’t put down something like that?’ Montagu’s head swam.

‘It’s growing in strength. Half the longbowmen believe it now. Have you not seen this sign?’

He held up his three middle fingers. ‘Lucifer’s fork. The sign of those who belong to Free Hell. Do you know—’

‘I know the heresy,’ said Montagu. He was still terribly dizzy and wished the king would let him sleep, but you do not order monarchs from their own pavilions.

‘It is not heresy. They lie when they say Lucifer made the world, they lie when they say he came here as Christ, but there is no disputing there is a war in Hell that is spilling over into our realm. With no angels we must choose sides.’