Son of the Morning (48 page)
‘I think,’ said Orsino, ‘we are about to meet some nobility, at least.’
If the mob at Lille had been intimidating, the one at Paris was murderous.
Montagu and Suffolk were taken in on an open cart, flanked by thirty men-at-arms but still the press of hate-filled people threatened to overwhelm them. All manner of rubbish, shit and stones were hurled at them, so much so that at one point the horse panicked and made a bolt for it.
By the time the cart driver had it back under control, the cart had broken a wheel and the men-at-arms had to drive the mob back with the butts of their spears and form a phalanx around the two nobles and run them into the city. Montagu was glad of it. It was much harder for the crowd to get a clear shot at him that way and, if he ducked, it wasn’t conspicuous because he was running.
And after all, he and Suffolk fared better than D’Aubrequin. The Frenchman hadn’t even made Paris and been butchered by their guards on the road.
Even in the middle of the mêlée, Montagu was impressed by Paris. The trouble had begun in the suburbs and he suspected one of their guards’ camp followers had run ahead to drum up a hot reception in the city. By the time they got to the walls, a mob was straining at the gates and the captain of the guard had to assemble five crossbowmen at the front of his column and indicate they would fire before any sort of headway could be made.
The party entered from the north down a wide road, the tall, narrow houses leaning in on each side as if to get a better view of the captives. So numerous, so densely packed were the houses in the centre they made London look like a suburb. Alleys jutted off in all directions and the clamour of the streets was immense, even above the boos and jeers. Smiths hammered, builders sawed, and they were briefly impeded by a whole herd of cattle that were being driven up the street.
A man lunged towards him and at first Montagu thought he was under attack. Then he realised the man flourished a piece of purple cloth – he was trying to sell him something. Having realised aristocrats were being brought into the city he was seizing a possibility to trade. Montagu admired his enterprise.
Above him now loomed the great towers of Notre Dame and beneath his feet was water. The river had flooded a little and they splashed forward wet to the ankles.
The water and the more expensive area meant reduced crowds. Few people came out into the streets but plenty hung from windows, balconies and roofs. Many of the citizens here had donned their best clothes to see him. Some even cheered and enquired loudly after his health, implying that they knew him, that they were his equals. My God, a merchant leering from a window even asked to be remembered to his lady wife. Better the man had flung dung in his face than imply he was on familiar terms.
He was glad he’d insisted on having decent clothes fitted at Lille at Du Fay’s expense – his scarlet velvet tunic and blue hose at least marked him out as a lord. His beaverskin hat had, regrettably, been lost when the cart smashed its wheel. The men slowed to a walk and Montagu was pleased to see some of the men-at-arms were showing signs of fatigue, groaning with relief as they stopped running.
‘An Englishman would run ten times as far in his full mail, what Suffolk?’
‘And fight a day’s battle at the end, Salisbury!’
‘Are you all right, Robert?’ Suffolk, it had to be admitted, was breathing heavily. A fine horseman but no foot soldier.
‘Well enough. He’ll kill us you know.’
‘Not if he’s got any sense. His nobles won’t let him. They won’t fight for him if they believe Edward would hang them in reprisal, rather than ransom them.’
‘He hasn’t got any sense. Or rather he’s not the kind of man to be concerned about losing any nobles. God’s on his side, remember.’
‘He might be right,’ said Montagu as they looked across the water towards the Île de la Cité. They were opposite the chapel of the Great Hall, the light of its vast windows answering the light of those of Notre Dame at the other end of the island. No wonder the angels loved France when its kings built them such monuments.
Montagu had expected to be taken across the bridge to the palace but instead he found himself corralled into a large, round crenulated structure – a little castle. He had been on enough diplomatic missions to Paris to know what it was – Le Grand Châtelet.
‘My God,’ said Montagu, ‘this is a court!’
‘And a prison,’ said Suffolk.
‘Well, looks like we won’t have to worry about having fine clothes for royal dinners,’ said Montagu.
‘I tell you, we won’t see morning,’ said Suffolk, ‘and if we do, I’ll bet we don’t see noon.’
They were run up a flight of stone steps under a vaulted ceiling and into a dingy old room. It was circular and dark with a floor of beaten earth, lit only by a couple of slit windows and some reed torches. Clearly part of the old keep.
At the centre of the room, crown on head and sceptre in his hand, sat Philip in full royal regalia trimmed with ermine. At his side sat his wife and, standing behind them, the court. For a second Montagu’s heart skipped. He thought he saw Isabella in the throng. But it wasn’t Isabella – it was her niece Joan. She looked scarcely younger than her aunt, though she was – by seventeen years. Another beautiful woman, as the Capetians tended to be. Perhaps he could give her the letter before he died. She would see it got to Edward. Next to her stood blind King John of Bohemia, the white and red lions of his house embroidered on a rich blue surcoat. Montagu almost smiled to see him. An honest and decent soldier, certainly brave as a lion, Montagu had met him before he lost his sight crusading in Lithuania.
Montagu was pushed forward.
‘Salisbury,’ said Philip, ‘as grim a dog as ever bit.’
‘The same, your majesty,’ Montagu bowed.
‘And Suffolk. Doesn’t even pretend to be a Frenchman. Ufford. What an ugly, English name.’
Suffolk – Robert Ufford – bowed.
Philip stood up. ‘The Agenais in flames, the land burned and ravaged, the Count of Flanders put out of his lands by merchants backed by your king in a manner that can only be offensive to God, our ships attacked and stolen, Robert Morley the pirate given licence to burn and pillage where he will on our coasts, Mortagne in flames, the Cambrésis devastated, your forces refusing to come to honest battle.’
‘Well, that’s one reading of it,’ said Montagu. ‘I must say it seems to me that it was you who invaded Aquitaine to start this whole mess, burned the Channel ports, went storming about our lands in Guyenne and Gascony. You had to expect a scrap, my lord.’
Now the king began to rage. ‘Endless musters of troops, endless expense! Have you any idea what you’ve cost me, Earl Salisbury?’
‘I flatter myself it’s a tidy sum, sir.’ Montagu’s heart was pounding but he was determined to be light. With execution inevitable he refused to go cowed and begging. He nodded to Joan of Navarre. ‘Your aunt sends her regards, ma’am, I found her in robust health when I last saw her.’
‘I am grateful for the news.’ Joan bowed a little.
‘We’re not here to exchange Capetian tittle-tattle!’ shouted Philip. ‘You’ve heard the list of charges – how do you plead?’
Montagu turned to Suffolk. The other earl was as pale as Montagu felt. ‘I don’t know, Suffolk, what do you think?’ Montagu looked back to the king. ‘I find it difficult to plead anything. It’s war!’
‘Then you are a true warrior and not afraid to die.’
‘Not a bit.’ Montagu stood tall. ‘To be honest, I could do with a lie down.’
‘I scorn fear.’ Suffolk did his best to look down on Philip – a man a good handspan and a half taller. Montagu could see his fellow earl was trembling though he put on a good act of being indifferent to his fate.
‘Then you’ll be executed at the dawn.’
‘I disdain to point out the folly of that,’ said Montagu.
‘England will be invaded by the end of the year,’ said Philip. ‘There will be no king left alive, no nobles either, so no considerations of exchange. Even now our fleet is moving, the angel Jegudiel sparkling on the waters before it.’
Joan of Navarre whispered into Blind John’s ear. He in turn whispered to Philip. The king erupted.
‘Not politic! Not politic! I’ll tell you what’s not politic – half the country in flames between here and Flanders, that ridiculous upstart Edward proclaiming himself king of France when he should be here on his knees doing homage. Not politic! Well, let me tell you, Blind John, God is behind my every action. The angel is stirring. It has appeared with our men and it assures me it will stay longer come our hour of need. Christ blesses our swords and multiplies our victories like so many loaves and fishes. Not politic! Lock them up and tomorrow we’ll hang them in the courtyard right here.’
‘That is barbaric,’ said Montagu. ‘We are noblemen. You will kill us by the sword!’
‘Get him out, get him out!’ shouted Philip. ‘Tomorrow, on the scaffold like the thief and murderer he is!’
He and Suffolk were hustled up a winding set of stairs and left in a large comfortable cell with two beds, a writing table complete with pen, pen knife and ink for the purposes of writing last letters and an ordinary table appropriate to their status. The door was locked behind them and the two nobles stood facing each other. Suffolk crossed himself.
‘Indeed,’ said Montagu, doing the same, ‘I think tonight may be an occasion for prayer.’
‘And wine,’ said Suffolk, ‘my God, they’ll bring wine, won’t they William?’
‘Of course,’ said Montagu, ‘there are depths of depravity to which even Philip cannot sink.’
They received their wine and food quite soon and, with it, a note:
I will speak to you before the morning.
It bore the seal of the house of Navarre.
‘Well,’ said Montagu. ‘That should prove diverting at least.’ Suffolk wasn’t really paying attention.
‘Sorry old man,’ he said. ‘But I propose to violate the law of Leviticus tonight.’
Montagu raised his eyebrows.
‘Get pissed as a polecat, I mean,’ he said, raising his cup.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Montagu. ‘You’re not as pretty as my wife.’
‘You’re fair competition for mine,’ said Suffolk.
Both men laughed, dreading the dawn.
Dow watched the huge force advancing towards them across the land. Murmur, who had returned with the morning, now flew forth again, rising up into the cold blue air until he appeared nothing more than a dot in the sky.
‘How are we going to stay alive here?’ The pardoner crossed himself repeatedly.
‘We should manage it,’ said Orsino. ‘Make no attempt to run. They’ll want to quiz us as spies. Dow, time to play the mute.’
The army had seen them now and two outriders – knights, armed and pennanted – came galloping towards them.
Orsino immediately sank to one knee, as did the pardoner. Dow remained upright.
‘Dow, get down if you want to have any chance at all of getting to see the angel,’ said Orsino.
Dow bent his knee. Sariel remained on the horse.
The riders drew to a halt. They were very young – no more than sixteen – squires flying their lords’ colours – their horses caparisoned in blue decorated with fleurs-de-lys. One had his sword free. He jabbed it towards Dow. ‘Who are you?’
‘We is folk who wishes it being to observe fat men of your nobility.’ The pardoner’s French was appalling.
‘English!’
‘No,’ said Sariel, ‘I am a lady of Navarre, caught by the English and rescued by these good men.’ Her French was perfect.
The young man coloured when he looked at Sariel. ‘Of course, my lady, we have men of your country here, and your prince Charles rides with us. We’ll convey you to him immediately.’
He brought his horse about and took her reins to lead them towards the great throng. The others scrabbled along on foot behind.
‘She kept that well hid,’ said the pardoner.
‘She is holy,’ said Dow.
‘She keeps on like this and I’ll start believing it, kid.’
It was dusk and the army set down to camp in the black fields. Foremen directed carts into lines, tents in every colour sprang up, wood was unloaded and fires soon started.
‘Our prince won’t be far away,’ said Orsino.
Closer up, the size of the force took Dow’s breath. The English army had been quite the biggest gathering of men he had ever seen but this was on another scale entirely. It was a moving city – a giant marketplace in carts, trundling behind the riders and infantry. Everything was there, everything. He even saw a barber’s pole on one cart. Shoemakers, glovers, hatmakers, cutlers, tailors and smiths were unloading their wares and swarms of children ran among them to help or to hinder, depending on their age. There were scores of strange carts too – full of smoky-faced men with odd equipment – chains and hooks, barrels that leaked tar. They bore axes too – of the sort more suited to cutting wood than felling enemies.
‘Wreckers,’ said Orsino, ‘men skilled in the arts of demolition and ruin. They burn the land and deny the enemy its use. This number – there won’t be a farmstead standing for twenty miles about.’
‘Why do they burn their own land?’ said Dow.
‘This isn’t their land. We’re still in Flanders. France is a way down yet.’
So many flags and pennants – deep blue, sporting wide-armed golden birds, vaunting red lions, yellow castles, stars and crosses, diamonds and rearing horses – a forest of strange trees sprouting out of the black soil and at the centre of them all, the fleurs-de-lys.
‘The king,’ said Orsino.
The pardoner crossed himself and Dow looked heavenwards, trying to see Murmur up in the sky.
‘I see what you’re thinking but don’t,’ said Orsino.
‘What?’
‘High men. This is the highest you’ll ever have met. Believe me, you’ll be throwing away all our lives if you lift a finger against him.’
Dow smiled. ‘I have greater purposes in mind.’
The camp was deploying at an amazing speed and Dow soon found himself outside a huge deep blue tent decorated with fleurs-de-lys. A magnificent white warhorse stood outside it and everywhere liveried servants and squires were rushing around carrying wineskins, food, even weapons. There was another flag outside the tent too – the fleurs-de-lys of the French king quartered with a web of golden chains on red background.