Son of the Morning (34 page)

‘I want to ask you directly, George. Reply truthfully – the answer won’t reflect on you. Did your father have any truck with devils?’

George’s face remained calm. ‘Enough people said he was the Devil. I don’t know. I’ve heard it said. But …’

‘Well, exactly. The low people like to believe that because it holds out the possibility that God will deliver them.’

‘I was rather going to say that the high people like to believe it too. If the old king was bewitched then he was not guilty of tyranny but rather the victim of magic. So we do not blame the king, and thereby God who appointed him, but blame the Devil for leading him astray.’

‘Well, quite.’ Montagu would have sent a poor man to the stocks for expressing such a view but he just smiled at George.

The door to the chapel was boarded up and its windows had been sealed with brick. Why? Why not let the place go to ruin if you were going to abandon it?

‘Who did this?’ said Montagu.

‘My mother,’ said George.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. It was a pretty little place. There was an angel here for several years, though I never saw it.’

‘An angel?’

‘Yes. Old Edward drew it out on a visit here and it loved the light so much it remained for a while. That’s what my mother said. My father …’ The young man’s voice faltered.

‘Yes?’

‘My father knew she took joy in it and defiled the chapel during one of his rages, so I understand. I was away – my mother liked to keep me from him.’

‘Very wise. Not much light now,’ said Montagu, tapping the brick of the window.

‘No, my lord.’

Montagu wondered why even Despenser would risk displeasing an angel. Smashing churches was a recognised way of denying the enemy the favour of angels. The angels tended to blame those who were charged with protecting the church rather than those who did the smashing. But this was Despenser’s chapel. The angel would blame him. It might even move to defend the chapel – that was not entirely unknown, though the angels tended to simply move on. Very odd behaviour, anyway.

‘Be as good as to break this in, would you, George?’

‘They do say it’s cursed, sir.’

‘They say that of a lot of places they don’t want people going into.’

The young man grinned nervously. ‘I’ll send for the men-at-arms.’

The men-at-arms were sent for, they sent for the pages, who sent for the smith. He had the tools for the job – hammers and chisels to hack away at the nails that secured the planks over the door.

‘What are we hoping to find?’ said George.

‘Just satisfying some curiosity about your father.’

‘I hope you’re not going to bring any more dishonour to our name.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re going a long way to repairing the damage your father did.’ Montagu eyed the young man and fought down a rush of hostility. His father had been Isabella’s ruin. Could that stain be erased in a generation? He checked himself.
Wake up, Montagu – you’re acting like a squire in his first infatuation
.

The planks came away and the door was opened.

‘Get me some sort of light in here!’

A page lit up a rush torch.

‘Only the baron and me in here,’ said Mortimer.

‘I’m not a baron,’ said George, ‘that was my grandfather’s title. Mortimer stripped it from my father.’

‘We’ll see about putting that straight,’ said Montagu, ‘might allay some of your fears about your family name.’
What are you thinking Montagu?
His mind was veering between irrational hostility, shame at that hostility and then irrational generosity.
Grow up, William.

George smiled and took the torch from the page. ‘Shall we go in?’

The chapel had, predictably, been stripped of all its gold and precious things. The glass of the windows had been removed. The weather had got at the roof and the floor was wet and mildewed. Rats scattered to the shadows as the torch came in.

From niches and shelves in the wall plaster saints looked down. Or rather, didn’t. Each one had had its face smashed. All that was left untouched was, high up in a niche, an indistinct, time-worn stone statue of a saint. Its face was hardly distinguishable.

‘Dark work gone on here, George.’

‘Yes, sir. My mother would not have sanctioned this; she’s a holy woman.’

They walked on through the torchlight to the altar. It was no more than a stone table now – no cup or cloth adorned it.

‘Hard to believe there was an angel in here once,’ said George.

‘Really?’ Montagu recalled that Despenser was descended from the first Norman King Edward – Longshanks. It wasn’t impossible an angel watched him still.

‘The old king came here?’

‘Yes, and it was said the angel lived here for a while afterwards. My mother said she saw it, even after the king was gone. It loved the chapel’s light, she said.’

‘Can’t be loving it any more,’ said Montagu, ‘you have noble blood in you, George. It offsets the viciousness of your father.’

Behind the altar, steps led down to the crypt. Montagu walked towards it.

‘Can you talk to saints, George?’

‘Those of my family, yes.’

‘Which are?’

‘St Offa was the one my father insisted we dedicate to.’

‘Scourge of the Welsh. Like him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Any chance that’s Offa up there in the niche?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you try for me?’

‘It’ll take a while. I’ll need to keep vigil for a day or two.’

‘Then do.’

‘I’ll try my best. I’ll fetch my armour.’ George went outside, leaving the torch with Montagu.

Montagu felt alone and vulnerable in the church, scared even. He’d faced enough men in battle to be able to call himself courageous without thinking it a boast, but he hesitated to go into the crypt.

‘Stop it, William,’ he said to himself.

He went down, resisting the ridiculous temptation to draw his sword. If any of his men saw him do that they’d assume he was terrified of rats.

The crypt had a low ceiling and Montagu had to stoop slightly to get in. There were six obvious graves in there – three of warriors with their ladies alongside them. What had made Eleanor Despenser board up this place and commit the Despenser line to spend the centuries unvisited? He wondered who was in there. Not the Hugh who was Montagu’s squire’s father. All that remained of him was a thigh bone that had been returned to his wife. Not his squire’s grandfather, either. The Mortimer had hanged the grand old man of the Despenser clan in his armour and fed his body to the dogs. Maybe one of the really old Hughs. Montagu wondered why the whole bloody line had been called Hugh. Must have made for dashed difficult storytelling around the family fire.

There were inscriptions in Latin at the base of the graves. He didn’t recognise the names. Local knights, no doubt. One grave, though, had the names chipped away. It had been done recently – the chips were still on the floor. He picked one up. It wasn’t stone – it was cement. He rubbed at the joint between the slab and the sarcophagus. It was cemented but poorly. Someone had made a bodge job of it. There was plenty of cement on the join but plenty down the side of the sarcophagus too. It was shoddy work indeed. He turned to the grave behind him and rubbed at the joint there. The cement on that was darker, dirtier, older than the stuff on the tomb with no name. What to make of that? Probably nothing.

A chink of mail came from upstairs. Montagu walked back up.

‘You’ve told the men what you’re doing, George?’

‘I’ve said I’m keeping vigil to see if the saint can provide guidance in a matter of importance to you.’

‘Good. I like the men to be reminded we have the ear of God. Did you bathe?’ The disappearance at Orwell in front of Isabella’s invading army was particularly perplexing. Perhaps George would shed some light on it.

‘I had a good wash. No white robes though, so the formal stuff will have to do.’

‘Very good.’

George kneeled before the altar. Then he took out his sword and held it between his hands, point down to the floor. Montagu went out into the spring sunshine.

He clicked his fingers to summon a page.

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Go back to that village down the way – take a couple of men, I don’t want to lose you to bandits. Ask for masons – see if you can find one who served Lady Despenser, but if not, any will do. Bring him here.’

‘He’ll ask for what work, sir.’

‘None. I just want to speak with him. No, second thoughts, have him bring his tools.’

Could he justify opening a family grave on nothing more than a hunch? He could do what he liked: he was Marschall of England. But would it be right?

He mulled the idea over for the next night, while a mason was found and George kept his vigil, glad of something other than Isabella to occupy his thoughts. He felt sorry for the young man, kneeling in his full armour throughout the night but – without an actual relic of the saint – and not in the presence of an angel, this was the only way to talk to the saint. He had no hope George would get any more sense than he had achieved himself from St Anne but he thought it worth a go.

An hour after dawn the mason came – a squat little man, toothless with a broken nose. Had he worked on the church? Certainly not, he said. Who had? Men who were no longer alive. Men that Hugh the Devil had killed.

‘Why did he kill them?’

The mason just looked at the ground.

‘Go on, man,’ said Montagu. ‘I’m not a tyrant. When I ask a question it’s because I want an honest answer.’

‘Sir, I …’

‘Don’t worry about displeasing me. I was no friend of Despenser and if Mortimer hadn’t killed him, I would have.’

‘He killed many people,’ said the mason. ‘The Despensers didn’t need a reason.’

‘But he killed people who worked here within living memory?’

‘Yes. Easier than paying them.’

Montagu nodded. ‘Little short sighted, though. Good masons are difficult enough to come by without killing them to save yourself a groat.’

The mason just looked at the ground again.

The scream came from inside the church, a terrible note of agony cutting through the chill of the autumn morning.

‘What in the name of God was that?’ said Montagu. He ran into the church, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the darkness – the sun through the door the only light.

‘George! George!’ but Despenser was lying on the floor, three of his men around him trying to revive him. The knight was fighting for breath, sucking in great rasping gulps of air.

‘Get his mail off him – he’ll breathe easier without that, and get him into the sun!’ said Montagu.

They stripped him down, but Despenser was suddenly awake, more than awake, sitting up with his eyes staring. He grabbed at Montagu.

‘It died here, William, it died. He saw it. Offa saw it! It died.’

‘What died?’

‘The angel,’ said Despenser, ‘the angel!’

‘Get outside now!’ said Montagu to the men.

That night, while George lay recovering in his tent, Montagu led the mason into the crypt, two horn lanterns their only light. He would like to have done the job himself but as a nobleman, he disdained to pick up a chisel or a hammer. Old King Edward had spent enough time mooning about in the countryside, digging ditches and thatching roofs that he lost all authority with his nobles.

No one else was allowed in. Montagu had a dreadful feeling of foreboding about what might be in the grave. It had been disturbed, no doubt. He took out his sword and the mason gave him a fearful look. But Montagu just kissed the pommel. ‘St Anne, St Anne!’ The blue light in his mind, a feeling of great anticipation. Nothing more. Something had gone on, something very odd. An angel had died, George said. He wondered if he was going to find the body of an angel in there – if angels ever took bodies. He knew it was said that they did but he had never seen any evidence. The body of a devil? He prayed that he would find the remains of a knight.

And he prayed that whatever was in there wasn’t so important that he’d have to kill the mason to protect the secret. He hoped not.

Both men put down their lanterns, the soft light just enough to see by.

‘Open it.’ Montagu put his sword back in its scabbard and the mason crossed himself. The earl almost had to laugh – the man had thought the sword was for him. The mason opened his bag and took out a chisel and a hammer.

‘You might want to cover your ears, sir.’

Montagu did as he was bid as the mason banged into the cement.

‘Whoever put this bit of pug together didn’t know what they were doing. It crumbles as soon as I tap it,’ said the mason.

By ‘pug’ Montagu assumed the man meant ‘cement’. So not done by a man who knew what he was doing. By whom then? A noble? Someone in a hurry. He couldn’t accept that Eleanor Despenser would allow such a shoddy job.

The mason tapped around the edge of the sarcophagus.

‘It’ll come away now, sir. Do you want me to send for another common man? I’ll never shift it on my own.’

But Montagu could stand to wait no longer. No one was watching.

‘No, I’ll help.’

The mason took one end of the great slab, Montagu the other. They slid it aside and, when a crack of a handspan had appeared, Montagu signalled to the man to stop. Nothing could be seen inside in that light – the lanterns were at floor level.

‘Step away,’ he said, ‘this isn’t for the eyes of commoners.’ The less the man saw, the safer he would be.

‘Very good, sir.’

The man stepped back. Montagu picked up the lantern and looked within. Nothing. Nothing at all. The sarcophagus was completely empty.

‘Come back, it’s empty. Help me get the lid off completely.’

The mason returned and, very carefully, the men leaned the top against the base to guide it to the floor. The mason instantly withdrew. Montagu took up the lantern again and peered inside, thinking perhaps that there might be a body beneath and that this was just a decorative plinth – that was not unknown.

But there was something in there. A residue? The merest smear. He licked his fingers and worked them into the stone, licked the dirt from them. A strange taste – more than a taste. A tingle went through him, a feeling as if someone had walked over his grave. Blood? Very like it. But beneath that residue the floor of the sarcophagus was strangely marked.