Son of the Morning (14 page)

He stood gawping at Lockey for a moment.

‘I need to think about this,’ he said. ‘Who have you told?’

‘No one, sir. I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t desperate. I don’t want people thinking I consort with devils.’

Montagu had been knocked from his horse in a tournament over twenty times yet never had he felt as disorientated as he did just then.

‘No angels in England,’ he said under his breath.

The most logical explanation – the one that no one seemed to have thought of – was also the most extraordinary. The angels spoke to the king or the queen, God’s proxy, appointed by Him. Contact with an angel had to be through the rightful king, except in very unusual circumstances. Young Edward had been crowned, the third Norman king of his name, in Westminster Abbey, under the eyes of man and God. The angels were duty bound to come to him. There could be no other way. Unless his father was still alive. Then young Edward was not God’s king and the angels would stay away.

Montagu stood staring at the ragged man in front of him, hardly able to take in the implications of what he’d been told.

Edward II had died ten years before, almost to the day. Montagu remembered Westminster Abbey – the hearse shining with golden adornments – a leopard on the top, the four evangelists, each to a corner, eight incense burners in the form of angels, rampant leopards at each side. He had never seen so many candles – it was almost as if the king’s effigy on top of his coffin floated on fire. All that splendour for the king the English people had gladly seen fall.

They’d given his heart in a silver vase to Isabella, his queen, who had always asked that her heart be buried with his. Her lover Mortimer, the evil dog who’d had the king killed, had the spleen to shed a tear. People whispered that he wept because he knew his soul was bound for Hell. Edward had died quickly after the rebellion and there had always been the suspicion that Mortimer had killed him, a suspicion that had taken on the status of fact after young Edward had overthrown Mortimer and had him executed at Tyburn. Mortimer had been found guilty of the king’s death in front of Parliament. But they hadn’t let Mortimer speak – he’d been tried bound and gagged. Who had ordered that? What were they afraid he might say?
No, wait
. Montagu wasn’t thinking clearly. Mortimer had never been charged with killing the king. He had been charged with appropriating royal power. It was just that, in the years following his death, people had begun to assume Mortimer had been tried for the king’s death. Where had that idea come from?

Montagu tasted salt on his lips. Sweat. If the old king wasn’t dead then … He couldn’t think what. He felt utterly ill-equipped to consider the implications. Words flashed through his mind. ‘Disaster’, ‘treason’, ‘blight on the land’. It was the end of everything.

Montagu took out his purse. ‘How much will it cost you to drink yourself to death?’ he said.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Three pounds should do it.’ Montagu took out his purse. He counted sixty shillings onto the table and waved for the villein to take them. He did, almost leaping forward.

‘Now get out and never relate this to anyone.’

The man left the tent as if pursued by a dog. Montagu had thought to take the precaution of hanging him but no one would listen to a beggar with tales of old Edward – no one who mattered would believe him. He himself hadn’t, until the man had uttered the code words. And Montagu almost felt pity. How desperate must a man be to walk the length of the land on the chance his story might earn him some small coin? Montagu’s entire upbringing made him haughty and dismissive with low men – any noble behaving otherwise would be considered weak by the villeins – but he did have some sympathy for them in their sufferings.

‘Is this all fine words? Are you a coward, Montagu?’ he said to himself. ‘Afraid to lay a paw on the devil’s messenger?’ Maybe. Maybe not.

He picked up his sword and kissed its hilt. The sword was called Arondight, said to be the one that knight non-pareil Lancelot had carried in service of King Arthur. Inside the pommel was a tooth of St Anne. He prayed and tried to raise the saint in his thoughts, asking her to fulfil the role of all saints and petition God on his behalf. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the presence of the blessed lady. Was she there? A cool blue light was in his mind, a movement of robes, a gentle whisper.

‘Glorious St Anne, I humbly beg of you to take the present affair which I recommend to you under your special protection. Vouchsafe to recommend it to your daughter, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and lay it before the throne of Jesus, so that He may bring it to a happy issue. Cease not to intercede for me until my request is granted. Show me the truth of old Edward’s death.’ He swallowed and crossed himself, chasing away the thought that came unbidden into his mind.

‘And let him be dead.’

He thought of a letter he’d received nearly six years before, from Queen Philippa – young Edward’s bride. She had begged him to find a way to persuade her husband to look into the circumstances of Mortimer’s rebellion, how he had defeated the king and his angels. The king had dismissed her worries. He had been with Mortimer and Isabella as they landed to face his father – a boy subject to the control of his mother. But still man enough to see what was going on. The angels had appeared but declined to fight for his father, and now they were failing to appear for him, very likely in anger at the way he had come to the throne. There was no more to discover.

Montagu thought for a long time about what he would do. Could he trust this business to a subordinate? No, he must investigate it himself.

An angel could only be raised, even by the king, in a properly sanctified space. Money would have to be spent on gold and fine things for the altar. If Edward had been summoning angels at Corfe, some trace of those things might exist. And he needed to visit Berkeley too – the castle where Edward was said to have been killed.

There was a cough and George stepped into the tent.

‘The scaffold’s up, sir,’ said George.

‘Didn’t take long.’

‘We made use of a tree, sir.’

‘Have you threatened to hang the Earl of Moray?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does the countess say to that?’

‘She seems quite pleased, sir. She says she’ll inherit and substantially increase her lands.’

Montagu put his head into his hands. ‘Well, of all my troubles, at least I’m not married to Black Agnes. Can you imagine trying to bring a woman like that to obedience?’

‘It’s why the Earl of Dunbar is always in the field. They say he’d rather face the English in the open than his wife in his own castle. What of Moray? Shall I hang him anyway, sir?’

‘No, I’ll go to my tent and take dinner. Send him in there; I’ll dine with the Earl. And get my squires to repack my kit. We’re going south again tomorrow.’

If old Edward were alive, thought Montagu, then England really was doomed. The old king had been a useless and ineffectual man, even backed by angels. He had been ruled by favourites and led into terrible tyranny. But he
had
been anointed king. Montagu, raised on chivalry and obedience, could not think beyond that fact. If still alive, he must be restored, no matter what the cost. What were the implications for young Edward? He would be a usurper, abhorred of God. That was as serious a charge as Montagu could imagine.

Rebel thoughts came into his head – if old Edward
were
still alive, someone would have to find him and kill him. Which would mean that someone would save England, but be damned himself. He would die a hero but go to Hell.
How brave are you, William? Easy to risk your life, what about your soul? Insupportable!
God had put old Edward on the throne and nothing could remove him, not abdication, not exile. Only death. If England’s king
was
a usurper, as young Edward might be, the country’s fall was inevitable. God would not tolerate such an affront for long.

To act or refrain? The young Edward was so much the better king than his father, and was Montagu’s friend, but the path of chivalry, duty and godliness was clear. Montagu must seek the truth. If the old king still lived, he must be restored, however hateful the thought. It was not up to Montagu to question the will of God, only to enact it. He would travel south in the morning to speak to Berkeley, in whose castle the king had supposedly been murdered, hoping that the old knight would tell him he had seen old Edward butchered with his own eyes.

Montagu crossed himself and kissed the pommel of his sword. God would provide the answer. He had to trust to Him.

2

Midnight was different in the city, Dow thought. The moor was still at that time, just the moon and the deep stars to see by, the Devil’s Men all around him, lying close for warmth.

In London there were strange sounds everywhere – people hallooing each other in the dark, drunken men mainly, riding past, calling to whores to come out. Dow understood well that night in the city belonged to the city watch and those either too rich or too poor to bother about the law. Dogs barked and the bell tolled the hours. He’d been there months now and still was unused to it.

Every night he lay on the floor of the little room in complete darkness. He had never known such blackness – no windows meant no light at all. On the door and the wall were wards and symbols – the names of God and the angels, the signs of planets and the zodiac – to save him, Edwin said, from Hell’s rescue. He felt their presence even when he couldn’t see them.

Part of Dow almost wanted to stay, just to rest and to think. Orsino had found him a straw mattress and bought him a thick cloak. He had thought at first to reject the gifts, but he had been so cold every night since he had been taken, that, lonely and scared, he had accepted these small comforts. Had Hell really deserted him? The demon had branded him, as the priest had branded him. And yet when he had spoken to it with his mind, he’d felt its warmth, its love for him, even. Dow was very confused.

The Florentine’s kindness surprised him. The followers of Heaven had only ever brought him pain before. He couldn’t quite believe that the man wasn’t going to hector or beat him. The straw was softer than anything he’d ever lain on, fresh and free from bugs.

He was heartsick and he would not sleep. His captors were fools if they thought he would not try to return home when he was fit.

Matins rang out at a distant monastery, a long lonely peel through the city’s empty spaces. It was well after midnight now and would be cold on the streets. December had brought snow, January too, and his ankle would still not support his weight. The Florentine had wrapped it tightly in bandages saying they would have to see how badly it was broken – if it healed deformed. Orsino said he’d like to train him as a soldier – that being a cripple wouldn’t necessarily prevent that. The priest had talked of using him as an assistant, though never called him to the cellar. Neither of those things would happen, Dow vowed. February blew in, raw, cold. He could just about walk and the swelling was much less. By March it was time to leave.

The room was warmer than any shelter he had ever known and it was difficult to leave its comfort. Still, he would. He touched his chest. Orsino had been kind to him, he couldn’t deny. He had brought him salves of comfrey, lavender and vinegar which stung terribly, but had helped. Now it was healed – just about.

He crawled through the darkness across the floor towards the door, careful of his footing, feeling his way. He had assessed the door as no real barrier on the way in. The Devil’s Men, when times were bad, would ghost into Bodmin, stealing from the houses of merchants to sustain themselves. Abbadon had shown him how foolish householders had concentrated on good locks, forgetting about the state of their warped and bent doors. This door did not have a particularly good lock and it was certainly warped – crudely fashioned from cheap oak planks. It also had a good thumb’s width gap beneath it into which he could work his fingers, plus a bigger gap at the top. It was all Dow needed.

He rocked the door back and forth, as quietly as he could, pulling hard against the hinges as he moved it upwards, loosening the rivets. In a few minutes the door had enough play in it for him to shove it back against its jamb and get the tongue of the lock free of the recess in which it sat.

It was sightless dark in the passageway. He couldn’t risk standing for long so he crawled carefully to the kitchen, every movement threatening to betray him. Here there was a small window – its shutter broken – and the moon outside was strong enough for him to see by. It was cold in there, though he knew it was only a taste of what was to come. The horses outside were blanketed, blowing steam in the moonlight. Dow found the back door. It was secured by a bolt. He drew it back and crept into the garden.

The horses were undisturbed by his presence. He thought to take one, but he would not give the priest an excuse to hang him. It was very quiet now, the last drunken noblemen gone home. He lifted the latch on the gate and went out into the narrow alley. Here he stood, his ankle still feeling weak, though not painful. A rat scuttled by his feet. He went on. At the top of the alley he had a view of St Olave’s, boxy, spireless and squat, overlooking a wide thoroughfare. He couldn’t risk spending too long on that road – the city watch might see him. Once across it, though, he would be free of the Florentine and the priest. London was a forest and its paths were many – three streets away in the town was as good as thirty miles in open country. They’d never find him.

Dow loped towards some grand houses across the street. With a tangle of alleys in front of him – five in all, each splitting and turning through houses and gardens, he chose one at random. He was going as quickly as he could now, hugging the side of the alleyway.

Down a tight little lane he thought he saw movement. Not a dog, he hoped, as he had no stick to fend it off. He took another alley, to his right. Movement in front of him again. Was it a dog? It wasn’t.

Something was on the air. Smoke. In the washed out moonlight he could see it now pooling about his feet. Was a house on fire? Should he raise the alarm?