Son of the Morning (24 page)

‘You have come to take me back!’ Maltravers was ashen and he rubbed the medallion between his finger and his thumb.

‘No. You are dead, officially. The king believes you were killed by the knight Wyvill. As did I. He was sent to kill you.’

‘I bought him off with what money I could find.’

‘My God, that’s worth knowing. Wyvill’s a pompous ass, always banging on about honour!’

Maltravers looked around for the innkeeper.

‘I am thankful to the king for awarding my lands and income to my wife. I thought that he might confiscate them after my work for the tyrant,’ he said.

‘Can she not send you money?’

‘She thinks I’m dead, too. It’s better that way. I would not have my taint fall on her. Has she remarried?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Good. Where are those pies?’

The landlord had disappeared for the moment.

‘Are you guilty, John?’

‘What should I say? I want to return. What should I say?’

‘Tell me the truth – and, believe me, I will know truth from lies. If I judge you truthful I will work for your return.’

Maltravers, a man who seemed given to expressing his inner thoughts physically, slumped forward over the table with a sigh. Relief? Despair?

‘When Edmund tried to free the old king from Corfe, it was not because I had lied to him. It was because I had told him the truth. The king
was
there.’

Montagu bowed his head. It was as he had suspected. The king had not died at Berkeley. But that wasn’t the same as saying he was still alive. He needed to know more.

‘You mistreated the king. There was word you tried to drive him mad by locking him away, denying him food. Why did you then act as a friend to him?’

‘What it is to be accused!’ said Maltravers. ‘I am damned for trying to save the king, damned for abusing him. I was not the one who locked him away. The old king himself demanded it!’ Maltravers thumped the table. ‘Oh, where are those pies?’

‘Control yourself and speak softly. What do you mean?’

‘Ah!’

The innkeeper had come back in, though not with pies – but ale and bread. Maltravers tore into the food at once. He had wolfed the whole little basket, gulped down all the ale, before he continued.

‘A devil had set on him. A terrible devil. The king said it was a curse called up by Despenser, though I don’t know why he would choose to attack the source of all his power. The king and all his angels fought it. At Berkeley they subdued it and sealed it in a box. The king heard that men were coming to murder him, but he would not leave the box. He was convinced the devil would break out. So we transported him and it to Corfe, where a chapel had been sanctified to allow him to call his angels again. There he sealed it further, with the help of certain foreign knights.’

‘The Hospitallers?’

‘Yes. They had a man working under duress with them.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know his name. He was a Frenchman. Good Jacques, they called him, I don’t doubt to mock him. They seemed to think him anything but good.’

‘You know no more about him?’

‘No. Where are the pies?’ He stamped his foot like an impatient child.

‘And when he had sealed it, why didn’t he await his brother Kent’s arrival? Edmund would have freed him.’

‘He was afraid.’

‘Of what.’

‘Of the thing in the box. He said that, for the future of his line, he needed to take it away. They took him away – along with the box.’

‘Who?’

‘The Knights Hospitaller.’

‘Where to?’

‘Across the sea. I went with him.’

‘To where?’

‘To the Pope at Avignon, and under disguise. From there I was dismissed, and shamefully – no pay. I barely got my expenses back from Mortimer.’

‘You applied to Mortimer for expenses?’

‘Yes.’ Maltravers took out a purse and opened it. There, on a threadbare piece of parchment, was an official delivery note. ‘For expenses incurred at Corfe. £273, eight shillings and sixpence.’ It bore the seal of the royal exchequer. Montagu studied it. Maltravers, he knew, had only been at Corfe for around a week, a fortnight at most. How in that time had he incurred such massive expenses? Only kings spent on that scale. If Maltravers was looking after the notoriously extravagant Edward, that would explain the huge bill. But wait. Edward had travelled without his retinue.

‘What was the money spent on?’

‘Equipping the chapel in gold and plate. He needed to summon an angel. In fact as many as he could to seal the box.’

The pies were thumped onto the table and Maltravers stabbed at his with the fury of a man conducting a revenge killing.

‘Is he alive, John?’

Maltravers crossed himself, munching and swallowing. ‘I have no reason to believe he’s dead.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘After Avignon, I have no idea. I came back, having done my duty,’ he said. ‘My nerves were shot. That demon, that … dragon, looked at me and told me that Hell claimed me. I have never slept properly since. Then the king hanged the traitor Mortimer and blamed me for killing his uncle. It was he who signed the death warrant.’ As he spoke he stuffed down the pie. Montagu hadn’t touched his and, without asking, Maltravers pulled it towards him and started to eat that too.

‘Your protector.’

‘As you say. I was condemned to die. Then I fled the country and came here, taking what I could. I am not guilty of what I am accused, Lord Montagu, not at all. I did my duty and stood by the king. If only young Edward would hear me. He might find his father and restore him to the throne.’

Montagu sipped his ale. That, he thought, might not suit the present king at all. Would it suit England? Maybe. If the French invaded, as they were rumoured to be planning to do, better a bad king with angels than a good one without.

‘Where would you look if you wanted to find the old king?’

‘The Knights Hospitaller might know more than me. Or find the box. The demon was a thing of magic. Magicians might be able to find it.’

‘You think the king is with the box?’

‘I feel sure he wouldn’t let it out of his sight. He was adamant that its contents were a peril for us all. Go to magicians,’ said Maltravers. ‘Surely they can find it with their art?’

Montagu stood up and took out his purse. He shook out a handful of Italian florins.

‘You’ve been useful to me, John,’ he said, putting the florins into Maltravers’ hand, ‘I can’t promise a return home but I’ll let your wife know you’re here.’

‘Will that endanger her?’

‘You have said nothing so far. Stay here and keep quiet, I doubt Edward will trouble himself to have you killed. He has more to think about than chasing old scores.’

‘I do long to see her.’

Montagu nodded. Maltravers was a weak man who went with the prevailing wind and had been caught out by an abrupt turn in the weather. He was not bad, though, and Montagu considered that he lacked the guile implied in that charge of deceiving the Duke of Kent. Edmund had been the cleverest man in the kingdom, no one’s fool.

He remembered the words of the letter to old Edward that had damned Kent. ‘Soon you shall come out of prison and be delivered of that which plagues you’. Had Kent known about the devil? Had he found a way to subdue it? There
had
been a devil and an enemy of God – of that he was now sure. Three separate sources had confirmed it: the gaoler, Berkeley and Maltravers. Two were men of noble birth. He had to take that seriously. What a mess that had been – old Edward still king, forced to abdicate – something God could not allow, his son a puppet. No one had been surprised when the king had met his death – it brought clarity and legitimacy to his son’s rule. Only old Edward had
not
died.

It meant he now had a means of finding the old king. He would have liked to pay a visit to Queen Isabella in her prison at Castle Rising as she was attended by Knights Hospitaller under pay of the crown. They had spirited the old king away. Now they guarded the old queen. Easy to see how they got a grant of land in Norfolk if they had Edward by the cullions over the survival of his father.

Montagu watched Maltravers finish the last of the pie. He wished he could abandon this whole affair. Honour would not allow that. Not if the old king lived. Oh William! If the old monarch lived, England and Edward were damned. He had to be dead, didn’t he? God would not support a usurper.

Montagu bid Maltravers goodbye and rode from the inn, returning through the cart-battered streets to the river, where he took a boat. It felt good to be afloat and underway and, for the first time, Montagu allowed himself to doze. His head was full of competing cares. The army could stand in the field for no longer. They hadn’t the money to pay them. They needed to engage the French. But the French would not come to battle. And if old King Edward was alive, then there would be no prospect of angels. Practically, the best course of action was to find the old king and do what was necessary – or have it done. But that was against God. Morally, he should search out his king and restore him.

He could stop right there, do nothing. But that was the road to Hell, to know what was right and ignore it.

He needed more information before making any decision. He would dearly have loved to interview the Knights Hospitaller, or even Edward’s mother, Queen Isabella, herself. But they were at Castle Rising and all access to that castle was denied. Only the king could visit and he rarely chose to.

‘Isabella.’ He said the old queen’s name. He remembered what the poets had called her – the beauty of beauties. For once, they hadn’t lied. Involuntarily, he crossed himself. He understood why her lover, the traitor Mortimer, had overthrown old Edward for her. She always seemed ageless, enchanting, the cleverest and the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He was frightened of her; he knew what a woman like that could make a man do. Had The Mortimer not been gagged when he was executed at Tyburn, he would surely have died with her name on his lips.

The boat came in to Antwerp in the dusk. Help had arrived, he could see. Alongside the three long leopards of Edward’s banners, the many arms of his knights, the rearing black lion on gold of Brabant flew, as well as the black and gold chevrons of the Count of Hainault, the three red flowers of the Duke of Guelders and hundreds of other beasts, shapes, ships and flowers that made up the standards of lesser men. The allies had arrived. Montagu crossed himself, thanked God and cursed the bankers. The cost of paying so many men would be ruinous for Edward.

There was smoke on the breeze and, from the shore, a hullaballoo. He couldn’t understand the cries of the people, but it was plain enough something big was afoot. Montagu peered into the falling light. From deep inside the town a plume of smoke was rising. Now he began to hear shouts in English and French. ‘Fire! Fire! The king’s house is on fire!’

Montagu rushed through the streets. People were running towards the fire, some with pails from the river, others just to see the spectacle.

Montagu found the king watching the blaze.

‘Thank God you’re safe!’

‘I’m well.’

Montagu eyed the king. Could you tell a usurper by looking at him? ‘Was it an angel?’

The king looked at him strangely. ‘No. Just a candle knocked over by a clumsy servant. There’s a worse crisis than this. Do you know the warehouses are empty? The wool hasn’t come in from England. I’ve been lied to, William.’

‘Will Louis grant you his angels if you don’t pay him your debts? Have you enough money? The war will be lost without them.’

‘William. We need that wool. I need someone I can trust to oversee its collection. Go back to England. Take the treasures of the monasteries and mortgage the great crown too. This is a time of great need and each true subject must come to his king’s aid.’ He put his hand on Montagu’s shoulder.

‘I will need a free hand to ensure we get what we need,’ said Montagu.

‘You will have it. The Earl of Norfolk died last week. His office of Marschall of England is free. You have it, William. Do what you need to do. Each man to contribute according to his station. Those who have no wool to give can buy some.’

‘I will have to knock heads together.’

‘Do it. Get the wool and the money we need. Use your new powers as you think serves us best. You act in place of our royal person – no one can deny you. Act firmly. The time for great scruples is over.’

Montagu bowed. ‘I’ll head to England with the first tide,’ he said. ‘You will have your money.’

‘Let nothing prevent that,’ said Edward. ‘Everything depends on you, William, everything.’ He turned to his squire. ‘See that the merchant is paid for his house.’

12

Coblenz. The city was going to bleed Edward dry and he wasn’t even in it! He was upriver at Niederwerth waiting for the Holy Roman Emperor to decide if he was going to see him or not. According to spies, the French were mustering not two days’ ride from Antwerp and the Somme was crawling with Valois troops. Edward needed money and fast or he and his Flemish allies would be overwhelmed.

He sat on the most impressive seat the locals had managed to find – a tall-backed carved thing. It was no replacement for a throne and it gave him a rick in his back. Dancers and jugglers cavorted in the hall, tables of roast meats, poultry and fish groaned under the weight of their burdens. It was September and it appeared to Edward that he’d bought the entire abundant Belgian harvest.

Then there was the expense of the clothes. His courtiers were all dressed up in fine garments, as was he, following the theme of Waltharius and the Nibelungen knights. He was Waltharius – in a red-crested helm, costing twenty florins, and golden greaves, whose price he had been too afraid to ask. He needed to make a show, though, and the expense was necessary. All Coblenz had to believe he was a wealthy lord and a worthy ally.

Beside him was a table piled high with stacks of money which had been obtained in a fit of wild borrowing by Edward’s finance-raiser John Montgomery and by pawning most of his jewellery to the merchants of the Rhine. He looked up into the timbers of the Guild Hall. If this place burned down like the merchant’s house at Antwerp then he’d be down to selling the ships to pay for it.