Son of the Morning (37 page)

The pardoner said nothing, just noted that the walls were mighty dry – like the paper of a wasps’ nest.

‘I say it’s a never ending task,’ said Pole, ‘a joke. Oh well, the amusements of the damned.’

‘Why aren’t you tormented?’

‘I was. I expect I will be again. Everyone is, even the devils. Builds up a sort of camaraderie. But I immediately saw that this place lacked organisation. Just about managing one alarm or catastrophe before the next came thundering along. I’ve brought planning here and reduced the devils’ workload. I did a similar thing with my wool exports.’

‘And the devils listened to you?’

‘All my life I’ve got people who don’t
want
to talk to me to talk to me. No more difficult persuading a devil than an earthly monarch. Devils can be persuaded, bought and bribed like anyone else. They have needs and weaknesses. There’s a choice here. Be a devil or be a devil’s victim. I know what my choice is. Like anything in life, death is all about your connections.’

The pardoner marvelled at Pole’s resourcefulness.

‘Where others see difficulties, I see opportunities.’

‘So why are you helping me?’

‘You’re an opportunity,’ said Pole, ‘a great opportunity. Believe me, I’ve been watching you.’

‘How?’

‘Ways and means,’ said Pole.

They continued down. There was no light.

‘I can’t see.’

‘Can’t risk a flame in here,’ said Pole, ‘everything’s tinder dry. It’s a different case in the middle; we’ll soon get there.’

The pardoner felt his way on and on. Things brushed past him in the dark.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Pole, ‘you’re with me. There’s nothing going to do you any harm here.’

Down and down and down they went, winding through doors that Pole had to unlock, descending vast staircases where Pole told Osbert to be careful – there was a huge drop either side of the unguarded steps. He could see nothing but his other senses were fully engaged – smells of burning and sulphur, sounds of groans and clanks in the dark, the papery walls crumbling beneath his touch, the acid taste of hunger in his mouth.

‘Is all Hell like this?’

‘No, this is the city of Henochia. The demons have quite a nice place in Dis, apparently, for as long as they resist. And some places are much more overcrowded. If you think about it, the Ten Commandments condemn anyone who worships any god other than the God of the Bible. Well, you can imagine with all the old Romans, the Vikings, the Greeks and then all the strange peoples of the east filling up the place it’s getting pretty crowded.’

‘Didn’t Christ come down to Hell to release all those just souls who had gone before him but had had no chance to come to his Grace?’

‘He did. And he freed both of them.’

‘No more?’

‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to keep the Ten Commandments? Thou shalt not covet? Coveting’s what makes a lot of people get out of bed in the morning.’

Finally Pole opened a door without rushing immediately to the next. Instead, there in the corner of a plush room sat a little devil, horned and tailed like a winged gargoyle, glowing.

‘This is Stinger,’ said Pole, ‘my attendant devil. Raised to be pestilential but I’m slowly training him. As you can see, he’s quite useful for his light.’

Pole sat down on a well-upholstered couch and gestured for the pardoner to pull up a chair.

‘Do you have any food, any drink?’

‘I’m sorry if the service in Hell is a little lacking. Mind you, I’ve eaten at the Bull and Bush in Shoreditch and it’s not as bad as that. I’ll see if I can get you something to fill a hole. Stinger, food.’

The little devil buzzed its wings, fast as dragonfly’s, and rose into the air, flying out through a gap in the door. The room returned to blackness.

‘You can see Hell does have its inconveniences,’ said Pole, ‘but once one has made certain adjustments, life can be very tolerable.’

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘Why does anyone help anyone?’ said Pole. ‘To get something in return.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

The door opened and the light returned. The little devil flew in with a loaf of bread, delivering it to Osbert who grabbed it and bit into it hungrily.

‘I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.’

Someone was coming down the stairs into the chamber. A figure took shape in the gloom. It was a man – very richly dressed but his clothes were torn and tattered, his nose a bloody stub, his face almost skinless. Around his waist he wore a great corset, strapped tight, and his head – his head – was only secured to his neck by what looked like laces. It was unmistakable: his head had been cut off and tied back on with what looked like shoe laces.

‘This is the fellow you’ve been tracking?’ said the figure. The accent was upper class, heavily tinged with French. Osbert instinctively bowed.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Will he do our work?’

‘I believe he will.’

‘Who’s this?’ said the pardoner.

‘I am Hugh Le Despenser, Lord of Wales, Royal Chamberlain, favourite of King Edward and of Satan, Lord of Hell. Get on your knees when you address me and don’t speak until you’re spoken to.’

9

They found Eleanor Despenser, now Eleanor De La Zouche, formerly Eleanor Claire, at Tewkesbury Abbey. The main church – a huge building in pale stone with a handsome square tower dominating the flat land about it – was under heavy reconstruction, workers clambering up wooden scaffolds on the tower and crawling all over the roof.

George Despenser shifted in his saddle and crossed himself at the sight. The young man had recovered slightly from his ordeal on the short journey to the abbey, but Montagu could see he had had a major fright. St Offa had not spoken to him, only screamed. But he had seen what was in the saint’s mind – the smashing of the icons, the presence of the angel and more than the angel. He had seen a vision of great wings, a woman of terrible perfection, her dark hair lustrous in the chapel’s dawn light and he had seen blood too, heard the woman screaming, seen the knife and known that an angel had died there.

Montagu had a tough time explaining George’s outburst to the men. ‘A glimpse of his father’s offences against God,’ he told them. ‘It was he who smashed all the saints. God hates such men.’

But privately he asked George, ‘Can angels die?’

‘It wasn’t an angel – not like I saw as a boy in the presence of the old king. It was a thing of flesh, I’m sure.’

‘What did it look like?’

‘Like an angel from the tapestries, from the windows. A perfect man.’

‘Wings?’

‘Yes. That’s what they have, don’t they?’

‘I was there with the old king when one manifested and that looked like, well, light. Colours.’

‘So where does the idea of them with wings come from?’

‘No idea. Seems we’re in the right place to ask.’

‘My mother will want to know what we were doing at Hanley.’

‘Let me explain that.’

‘Very good.’

The men rode on through the monastery’s miles of fields, orchards and vegetable gardens. Monks at work gaped as the great procession of riders moved forward.

‘They’ve never seen such a sight. Look at them with their mouths open!’ said a little page trotting beside Montagu on his pony.

‘Don’t believe it, boy, these monks are more worldly than you know,’ said Montagu. ‘They’re just wondering how they’re going to feed us all.’

They’d been directed to the monastery from Eleanor’s Tewkesbury manor. She and her new husband had invested mightily in restoring the church. Montagu couldn’t help wondering what sins lay on their consciences that they needed to spend quite so much money winning indulgences. Well, he hoped it had worked for them. De La Zouche had died not five weeks before they arrived, it emerged. The amount of work that was going on, you’d think the old boy had paid enough to buy him entry to three Heavens.

A rider had been sent the day before to alert the monks to the Marschall’s arrival and there was a party of the higher-ranking brothers outside the great abbey, waiting to meet them. At their front, alongside a man Montagu took to be the Abbot, was a tall eagle of a woman, her bearing and her imposing manner lending elegance to her green dress, otherwise unfashionable and baggy.

The retinue came to a halt and Montagu and Despenser dismounted.

‘George!’ called the woman with a beaming smile, ‘how like you to drop in without warning. And what exalted company you keep! Great Montagu, a king in all but name.’

‘Not so, madam, not so – a glorified servant, no more,’ said Montagu with a deep bow.

George strode up to his mother and bowed before her. ‘King Edward’s vicar on earth, the rock on which the ship of state rests, the Earl of Salisbury, Lord Montagu.’

‘Is it desirable that ships rest on rocks?’ said Eleanor. ‘Although I’m sure the earl knows what you mean. Welcome, William! I owe you more than I can say. If it hadn’t been for your bravery, these monks would not have their new roof, nor benefit from any of the fine work we’re doing here.’

‘Glad it was worth it, ma’am,’ said Montagu, though the comfort of the Tewkesury monks wasn’t foremost in his mind as he’d dragged the tyrant from his bed. The lady certainly did owe him. She had been imprisoned under the usurper, Mortimer, and, in overthrowing him, Montagu had eventually enabled her to petition the new king to restore her considerable fortunes.

The abbot introduced himself, a swollen little man full of pork and importance, thought Montagu. That was a problem. He wanted to talk to Lady Eleanor privately. He knew the abbot’s type – they stuck to influential men like bird shit to a hedge-dried sheet.

‘Will you tour the abbey?’ said Eleanor, ‘we’re making such marvellous changes.’

‘Gladly.’

Montagu really wanted to sit down a while, take a cup of wine and prepare himself for the uncomfortable talk with Eleanor Claire yet to come. Why did he still think of her as Eleanor Claire? Because he’d always liked her – a clever, resourceful woman who had needed to stand up to her husband. She’d quickly realised the best way of dealing with her husband Hugh was minimally – that is, she’d seen him when she had to, shared his bed when she had to, encouraged his ambitions at court and kept herself tucked away in the countryside.

He couldn’t bear to think of her married to Despenser. He was convinced any woman of lesser mettle wouldn’t have lasted the distance – driven mad by Hugh, maybe even killed.

They walked around the great church while Lady Eleanor explained the works taking place.

‘My late husband, De La Zouche, is buried here,’ she said. She caught a look in Montagu’s eye. ‘You wonder that I don’t mourn his death more visibly. You wonder that I can smile and be happy. I have faith in God, William – real, consuming faith. It is all in His hands and I shall see William one day.’

‘You shall, ma’am.’

Now they came into the church. The Abbey was massive – not quite Westminster but a fair imitation. It too was full of scaffolding, workers swarming around the ceiling, hammering, gilding, painting.

‘The lady has been very generous,’ said the Abbot.

‘Indeed,’ said Montagu. Should he bring it up now? Well, why spoil dinner?

The tour continued, through cloister, apiary, living quarters, little chapels, larger chapels.

At last it was time for dinner – not held in the refectory because the order’s rules prohibited a woman from eating there. There was a separate, private hall for that, newly built. Montagu thought how lucky for the monks that Despenser had died. Had
he
visited the abbey he would have left with the silver.

It was a fair meal – well cooked, though not elaborate, give or take a stuffed peacock. The meat complemented the sweet custard and almond darioles perfectly, though Montagu found it hard to concentrate on his food.

The room wasn’t big enough for the entire retinue and the monks served many of Montagu’s men out in the open. The night was mild enough. Eventually, Eleanor Claire, seated at his side in a fine dress of red taffeta, said, ‘I’m not a fool, William. I’m still alive because I can read men’s moods. What brings you here and what’s troubling you? There’s already talk between your men and mine. What happened at Hanley? Why did you violate the chapel?’

‘Ma’am …’ Her directness had taken Montagu by surprise. ‘Your late husband—’

‘De La Zouche?’

‘The other, the one you would not anticipate meeting in Heaven.’

‘Yes?’

‘He …’ Montagu struggled for the words. ‘Did Hugh violate that chapel too? Was something done there that caused you to close it down and board it over?’

The lady went pale but answered without hesitation. ‘Hugh had one of his tempers. The priest displeased him. He killed him and smashed the church. It was only the refusal of his men to burn it that saved it.’

‘I see.’ Montagu was curt. He didn’t believe her and she could see he didn’t believe her.

‘I went into the crypt,’ he said.

Eleanor tensed. ‘And?’

‘What really went on there? Was it you or was it Hugh who mixed the cement to seal the sarcophagus? It was no expert mason. What had been kept in there?’

Now Montagu saw something he had not expected. Eleanor Claire had tears in her eyes and her lower lip trembled. ‘Excuse me,’ said Eleanor, ‘Suddenly I feel very ill. I can’t stay here. I will return to my manor.’

‘Lady, it’s dark. The distance is five miles.’

‘I have done it before. I have three good men with me.’

‘If you’re ill, you can’t ride.’

‘I have some medicine I need at home.’

‘Then let me afford you some men to escort you. Your son, at least.’

‘Yes, my son. I would like my son to come with me.’

The whole room was looking at her. Normally she would have stayed in the sumptuous guest house she’d had built for the monks. Travelling home after dark was unheard of.

‘George,’ instructed Montagu, ‘see your mother reaches her home safely. Take five of my men.’

‘The road is not dangerous,’ said Eleanor.

‘But will be less dangerous with five fighting men at your side. Our doctor can attend you.’