Son of the Morning (29 page)

They’d caught the traitors in the hall of the queen’s lodgings, discussing what to do about the plots against them. Too late: both Mortimer’s sons were caught, along with the conspirator Beresford and Mortimer himself.

Montagu recalled his own delight as he’d seen Mortimer rush desperately for his sword. He laughed as he thought of Bishop Burghesh clucking and fretting like a hen with the wind up it, trying to find an exit. Montagu had been young then, and had kicked the bishop hard in the balls. It was his revenge for when he’d had to look after Burghesh on a diplomatic mission to Avignon and had suffered from his pomposity. Any young knight in the country would have deployed his foot with similar enthusiasm.

Mortimer, for all his vaunted battle skill, was no match for ten opponents and Neville tore the sword from his grasp. Montagu had thought to gut him there and then, but something had stayed his hand – the queen’s anguish: ‘Spare gentle Mortimer!’
Gentle
Mortimer had managed to black Montagu’s eye with a headbutt even as they’d dragged him down to the river – bound and gagged, as Edward had instructed. But the lady had asked him to spare Mortimer’s life and so he had.

That was the last time he’d seen the queen. She almost certainly hated him, but Montagu was undeterred. He had to persuade her to put the safety of the realm, the continuation of her royal line, above any personal feelings – if she still had personal feelings. It was widely believed that Isabella had gone mad. It was still worth questioning her. The mad, he thought, might be less careful with their words than the sane. Perhaps too it was a convenient madness – providing reason for her confinement and explanation for her rebellious behaviour. Montagu reflected, however, that he had never seen any signs of madness in her before.

His men were rising now, calling out that the lord was up and to make haste to serve him. They wouldn’t eat in the inn, but would wait to be received at Castle Rising.

The horses were readied while he stretched his legs. He felt at home here, his men busy with the animals, his squires kneeling before him, awaiting instruction. He’d lived a lot of his life on the trail and the rituals of camp and campaign were a comfort to him.

‘Sir, your clothes.’

‘Oh yes.’

In his moment of nostalgia, Montagu had forgotten that he was about to meet the most splendid lady in Europe, not burn her lands.

His squire brought him his fine tunic of green taffeta embroidered with the rich red diamonds of his family crest, blue hose and green shoes tapered to points a good eight inches beyond his toes.

‘Do I have to wear these?’

‘They are de rigueur at court, sir.’

‘Not my court. Note this, George, if I ever see you in a pair of these you can do an hour at the trot wearing them and full armour besides. Carry them – I’ll put them on when we get to the castle.’ In front of them down the lane they heard a horse blowing.

Brother Robert rode through the wet dawn, his white cloak emerging from the green of the lane to the castle, two of his brothers behind him. The arrowed white crosses that adorned their black surcoats seemed to float in the morning haze. It was only when they got nearer that Montagu realised the men were fully mailed, though they hadn’t gone so far as armouring their horses.

‘Hello, brother, is the way so perilous between here and the castle?’

Robert drew up his horse. He was a large, very athletic man with a muscular neck and a shaved head. He had the look, thought Montagu, of a man who could be hit over the head with a spade without it disturbing his supper.

‘We are warriors for Christ,’ said the monk. ‘It’s good to remind ourselves of that. And to let men see it.’ He spoke his French with a rather common accent. Montagu reminded himself that the Hospitallers, although a proper order whose upper echelons were drawn solely from men of high birth, had admitted a number of Templars to their ranks when that order had been dissolved. The Templars had not been as scrupulous in their recruitment or promotion, and common soldiers’ sons had been known to advance to high office in their monasteries. Montagu might have regretted the bloody manner of the Templars’ dissolution, but he could not regret the dissolution itself. Promotion based on talent was a recipe for anarchy and an affront to God.

‘We’re all warriors for Christ, brother,’ said Montagu.

‘Really? Or for self-aggrandisement and riches?’

‘The aims aren’t mutually exclusive.’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘Don’t contradict me, brother. Your order may admit low men, but in England we still have standards and insist on doing things the right way. You are a man of low birth. Remember that when you speak to me.’ Already Montagu was finding the monk hard work. He’d had some dealings with the Knights Hospitaller before, when on crusade against the pagans in Lithuania as a younger man. They always kept themselves to themselves, which was the way he liked it. They took themselves rather seriously and were notorious booty-hogs, despite their high moral posturings.

‘I am a man before God,’ said Robert, ‘so I am your equal.’

‘God ranks men and beasts in order according to their estate, monk. Remember that. Look, let’s get this over so I can get out of your sight as quickly as you would wish.’

‘You have asked to see the queen?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are not allowed in. No one comes here without royal permission.’

‘Well, Robert,’ said Montagu, ‘look at my banners, look at my retinue. I’m the Marschall of England, the one who gives out royal permission nowadays. So, let’s do this properly: “Montagu, old boy, can I have permission to go into Castle Rising?” “Why of course you can, Montagu, old boy – no need to ask.” There, I’ve given myself permission, let me in.’

Robert looked uncertainly at the banners – the three leopards quartered with the lilies. He looked at the twenty men-at-arms mounted behind Montagu.

‘The queen anticipated you would say this,’ said Robert. ‘She has prepared a feast. Follow me.’

The big knight wheeled his charger about and set off down the lane.

‘An extraordinary fellow,’ said George Despenser, bringing up his horse.

‘And a very useful one, or I’d have been forced to set him in his place,’ said Montagu. The lord caught a doubtful expression in his squire’s eyes. ‘What, you think he’s too big for me to beat him? You’ve a lot to learn, George. More to aim at.’

He smiled and patted the young man on the back. Then he mounted his horse and led his men after the three departing knights.

‘Why such dour fellows, sir?’ said George.

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Queen Isabella. Between you and me, the king prefers to keep his mother here after what happened with his father. The queen, even for a woman of her age, is, shall we say, engaging. She is quite the most charming lady I have ever met and has a rare ability to manipulate men. These monks may be stronger than most of them are. Perhaps they mean their vows of chastity.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Well, I can believe anything now,’ said the squire.

Castle Rising was magnificent. The attached monastery grounds were huge and prosperous and the castle itself a massive square block looming above formidable grass ramparts topped by stone walls. There was nowhere in England he’d sooner defend if it came to a scrap with the French. But the castle’s chief purpose right then wasn’t to keep the enemy out but one woman in. Robert waited at the top of the lane until Montagu drew level with him. Then he kicked his horse on towards the open castle gates.

‘Your retinue must ignore what they see here,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to make them vow that before we leave.’

‘My men are the best in England, entirely loyal to the king. There will be no need of vows, my instruction will be enough.’

‘I prefer vows,’ said Robert.

‘Shall we go on?’

The monks were chanting as the knights trooped into the castle, their chorus like an expression of the morning, like the sunlight and dew, thought Montagu. ‘Crucifer boncy Lucisator …’ He translated in his head as they sang: ‘Oh cross bearer, radiant source of day.’

Some monks patrolled the ramparts in their red surcoats emblazoned with their tapering white cross, incense burners swinging. Interesting, thought Montagu – the red surcoat was battle dress for the order. Other monks went scurrying behind the horses as they came in to sprinkle dust. Montagu looked around and saw, at the base of the rampart a huge circle marked out in what looked like chalk dust. It was this the monks were running to repair. Montagu crossed himself.

‘What’s all this, sir?’

His squire was at his elbow.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know. What is this, Robert?’

The warrior monk said nothing, just gestured for them to follow.

Montagu knew what it looked like – a magic circle of the sort sorcerers were said to use to keep demons at bay. But why would that be needed?

A chill went through him. The rebel Mortimer had come with Edward’s queen, Isabella, to defeat Edward II – a king backed by Heaven. How had he done it?

Berkeley’s words came back to him. ‘Ask how Mortimer escaped his prison when old Edward put him in The Tower for the first time.’ Was the queen caught up in sorcery? He couldn’t believe that.

But of Mortimer, he could believe anything. The old King Edward had not been good – a terrible combination of laxness and tyranny. The king had surrendered government to his favourites – in particular the vicious Hugh Despenser, Montagu’s affable young squire’s father. Old Edward had treated Mortimer very badly, taken his lands, left him no more than the clothes he stood up in and imprisoned him in the Tower of London. The queen had fared rather better, but not well. But there were two differences between Edward and Mortimer when Mortimer had come to power – by proxy through the boy Edward III. The first was that Mortimer loved the king’s wife, whereas the king did not. The second was that he was rigorous in his tyranny, not capricious.

Sunlight caught the dewdrops on the grass, turning them to shimmering jewels of wet light. And there she was at the unglazed window, splendid as the dawn, her diamonds, rubies, emeralds and pearls shaming nature with their brilliance. Montagu actually crossed himself. He had last seen the old queen ten years before. She had been thirty then, an age where most women would be considered dry forage indeed. She, however, seemed to defy all ageing and remained for him a woman of vast allure. The official line was that the rebel Mortimer had used her to overthrow her husband – bewitched her, even. The man didn’t exist who could use that woman, Montagu knew. Intelligent, witty, wise and fierce, she had a beauty that left even the most sophisticated courtiers stumbling for words. If any bewitching was to be done, it would be by her. In fact, the only man she’d ever failed to enchant was her husband. But now they said she was mad. Well, he’d see.

He raised his hand to her and then bowed deeply in his saddle. She held up the back of her hand in acknowledgement, a queen’s greeting – light flashing from the sapphires on her rings.

‘Well, boy, she’s put on a show for us – that at least’s good news,’ said Montagu to his squire.

George nodded, looking around him in wonder. The party moved on, up to the shadow side of the castle and the stables. Montagu dismounted.

‘You’ve got the presents, George?’

‘Of course, sir. And those shoes.’

‘Good God, I should receive some remittance of sin for wearing them. Fashionable shoes. A sure mark of a fool.’ Montagu put on the shoes and waddled forward after Robert towards the door.

The monk put his hand on George’s arm. ‘Only the lord. No retainers.’

‘That’s unacceptable. You’d have me go in there looking like some landless merchant,’ said Montagu.

‘The queen knows who you are and your worth. No retainers. And you, lord, must not meet her eye.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘She is … persuasive,’ said the monk.

‘I damn near grew up with this woman,’ said Montagu, ‘and you will not tell me how I can and cannot behave in her company.’

‘Do not speak to her. Only her ladies may speak to her directly. Speak through them.’

‘Claptrap,’ said Montagu. ‘
And
I’m taking my squire in with me.’

‘If he tries to speak to her, or she to him, I am to intervene,’ said Robert. ‘On orders of the king.’

‘My lord, what’s the world coming to?’ said Montagu. ‘The lady’s charming company, always has been. You’re painting her like some enchantress.’

‘That’s what I believe her to be. Who knows what bargains she struck in France?’

Montagu was an even-tempered man but that was too much. ‘You speak too boldly of your betters, sir. Retract what you say,’ he said, ‘or I shall invite you to support your comments in the old-fashioned way.’

Robert eyed Montagu’s sword – the famous Arondight, weapon of the fabled Lancelot. How many men had that killed? In Montagu’s hands alone probably twenty. Robert had no wish to become number twenty-one.

‘I retract,’ said the monk.

‘As any civilised fellow would,’ said Montagu. ‘You simply mistake the famous allure of the Capetian queens for something sinister, Robert. It is nothing of the sort. Don’t be surprised she affects you that way. Just shows you’re a man with red blood in your veins. And now
that
unpleasantness is over, please show the way.’

Montagu was led into the castle, under splendid arches of brick and up some stairs to an antechamber. A page bowed as the Earl came in and directed him to another door. He went down a short corridor and into the grand hall. A feast had been prepared and the hall swarmed with servants, some laying out great platters of meat, some sitting at the tables, loudly wishing the lady would come in so they could begin eating.

Swathes of bright cloth starred with glittering stones dropped from the walls, along with tapestries showing hunting scenes, and above the main dining table at the back of the hall the arms of England and of France. Montagu tutted as he saw them. Old Edward had mistreated this lady, ignored her, given away her wedding gifts to his favourites. How could he have thought that she, doubly royal, would stand for it?