Son of the Morning (50 page)

He thought to destroy her letter to Edward. It should not fall into the wrong hands. He had no idea what was in it but it might prove a peril to Edward if the French king found it. But he could not destroy it. Mortimer, the traitor, had broken walls thicker than these for the love of that woman and Montagu could not esteem himself less than that man. He would live, if only to deliver the letter, if only to please her and be by her side again. Walls, castles, oceans and wild places seemed insubstantial when compared to his passion.

Suffolk snored like a prize pig on the eve of market. The Nocturnes bell sounded. Montagu looked out of the window. The moon was full and fat, the stars wide and deep. Everything was so vivid.

‘I want her,’ he said under his breath. The stupidity of that thought struck him.
Be concerned for yourself, William. Think of Catherine, of your children; think of Edward fretting in Ipswich hearing that his best commander has got himself captured like a stupid young squire.

A man is allowed some indulgences when he awaits his last dawn and the thoughts Montagu demanded of himself were no more than shooting stars, there and gone in a moment. He thought of Isabella, of the way she looked through him to understand him absolutely, to challenge him more fundamentally than any opponent ever had. He was under no illusions, either, that she was his friend. Had she forgiven him for taking Mortimer? When he’d lain with her in Castle Rising it almost felt better thinking she hadn’t, because that meant her passion for him knew no reason either. He’d loved women and he’d loved conflict. Isabella offered him both at the same time.

The bolt on the door drew back and Montagu looked towards the candlestick holder – a good heavy thing in pewter. If it wasn’t Joan or one of her representatives at the door it would be an assassin. Despite Philip’s statements, he was well aware that his court wouldn’t want the Marschall of England hanged – not least because there was a possibility they would one day find themselves depending on King Edward’s mercy, should they be captured in battle.

The door opened and for a second he thought it was her – Isabella. Her niece was so like her, so fine and blonde and beautiful, as the Capetians tended to be. In the presence of Isabella, though, he felt as if he was standing on the edge of a high cliff, resisting the mad impulse to throw himself down. He admired Joan as he might a painting. She was beautiful but the world was full of beautiful women.

Joan wore a trailing coat of dark blue velvet and a deep red hood. She came into the room and the door locked behind her.

‘Lord Marschall.’

‘Queen.’ Montagu bowed as Suffolk grunted like a boar breaking cover.

‘Shall I wake the earl?’ said Montagu.

‘No need. I understand Suffolk is a soldier, not a politician.’

‘He is currently at his most diplomatic,’ said Montagu gesturing to the sleeping lord.

‘Quite. You are to die tomorrow, sir.’

‘If it is God’s will, lady.’

‘It seems it is, for God makes his will known through his kings, does he not?’

Montagu did not reply. She continued.

‘It seems unfortunate that so valuable a soldier of our cousin should be taken from the field.’

Montagu found this puzzling. Why would Joan want the English king to have good generals?

‘Navarre allies with Philip, does it not?’

‘Because it is in its current interests to do so.’

Montagu tried to work out what she was driving at.

She clarified it for him. ‘Look out of the window, William. What do you see?’

Montagu regarded this as slightly theatrical, but he was used to indulging monarchs’ fancies. He went to the window and gazed out. ‘Stars. Darkness over the Île. The Great Hall under the moon.’

‘You see my property,’ said Joan.

‘You have sworn it away, lady.’

‘And so I have. Yet my treaty is with Philip, not Edward.’

Montagu tried to keep the surprise from his face. Queen Joan had just offered him, as straightforwardly as she could, an alliance. Well,
that
would be worth bringing to Edward.

‘Your husband is well?’ Montagu needed to establish if she moved with the authority of the king of Navarre. He was a loyal ally of Philip and the earl could not believe he would contemplate fighting for Edward. He’d been burning Edward’s lands and sacking his castles in the north in league with the Scots for long enough.

‘My husband is a soldier and so far has resisted a soldier’s death,’ said Joan. ‘He is a bold man but so are you, Marschall, and we see where boldness can lead. The gallows or the field of slaughter.’

So kill Navarre, and Joan would back Edward. Such a strategy wasn’t impossible. The woman was morally disgusting but no less useful for it.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Fighting your armies in the Cambrai. Although I believe he is also planning to make war to the south of Iberia. He regards freeing the land from the Moors as his Christian duty.’

‘Let us hope news of his intentions doesn’t reach the Moors,’ said Montagu. ‘They are formidable fighters and, forewarned, would be a match for any army.’

‘Indeed,’ said Joan, ‘so God spare him from becoming the particular target of any of your soldiers. And God spare him from the Moors.’

Montagu thought it best to come to his point directly. ‘You could make these representations to the king through a messenger.’

‘And trouble myself with secret codes, put myself at the mercy of unreliable servants, untrusted intermediaries?’

‘You’ve had dealings with Bardi.’

‘He came to Flanders when I was there. He is useful, but I would not put anything of value into the hands of that snake.’

‘He has a heavy investment in England. He would want to see us succeed.’

‘Bardi is a banker and thinks of nothing of worth, just profit. He will play all sides in the quest for money. Why not sell me but use my son? Why not do a hundred unguessable treacherous things that bubble in the cauldrons of these bankers’ minds? I cannot understand a man who is motivated only by profit – it is against all human nature. Better to deal direct with a man of honour, no?’

‘You brought me here?’

‘I am not a sorceress.’

That wasn’t a ‘no’. Had Joan arranged for Montagu to be tricked by Bardi? Perhaps. He guessed the banker wouldn’t have sold him just to Joan, though, not while he could get a price from Philip too. The next time he saw the Florentine, perhaps he’d cut his throat and tell him to stick that on his profit and loss sheet. If there was a next time.

‘It’s a poor messenger who never returns with his message.’

‘We must address this. I confess I did not see it coming. I have bought you a stay of execution, anyway.’

‘Thank you for mentioning it.’ Relief swept over Montagu and he cursed himself for it. It was the behaviour of a merchant. A nobleman should be indifferent to whether he lived or died.

Joan smiled. ‘I wanted to get the niceties out of the way first.’

Montagu sat a while, feigning insouciance. Both he and Joan were smiling by the time he spoke. She knew he wanted to ask how she’d put off the execution but found it crass to do so. He knew she knew and they were playing a game. In the end they both started to speak simultaneously and both laughed.

‘I asked for my son to see you hang,’ she said.

‘Is that one of the boy’s interests?’

‘All boys love a show. But no. He is particularly beloved of Prince John. We will arrange a meeting. You will amuse my son in some way that he will prevail upon John to prevail upon his mother to prevail upon his father to spare you.’

‘What could possibly go wrong with that?’

Joan laughed again. ‘Men could learn a lot from you, William. You approach life in the right way – you are not afraid to lose it.’

‘It is only an appearance. I fear as much as the next man but I have schooled myself not to show it.’

Her fine features, her light manner, not Isabella but enough like her to put a hunger into him. He wanted to tell her, desperately wanted to tell her, how he loved her aunt – to share the joy, the confusion, the shame he felt.

Joan, though, would make a bad confessor.

‘Something troubles you?’

‘My capture and imprisonment have hardly put me in the mood for dancing.’

‘Something more?’

Perhaps he could turn this to his advantage. ‘An interest, that’s all, something that has piqued my curiosity. Do you know of a fellow called Good Jacques.’

‘Not at all.’

‘A friend of the Hospitallers. An old Templar, perhaps of Paris.’

‘I could try to find him.’

‘I would advise discretion.’

‘Do you enjoy the company of monks, William?’

‘Hardly, but I believe he may have something interesting to tell us. Something that could be of use to us in our dealings with Bardi.’ Despite Bardi’s assurances he could find the old king, Montagu thought it best to enquire independently where he could.

She nodded slowly. ‘Good to have a few of that snake’s secrets for sure. I’ll ask. Discreetly.’

If Good Jacques had helped in the raid against Mortimer then he was a man the Hospitallers turned to for secret work. So why not to hide a king?

Joan patted Montagu on the knee. ‘See that you please my son.’

‘I am not a child’s fool, lady.’

‘I’m not asking you to be. Amuse him with sword play, show him a trick or two. You can do that, can’t you?’

‘If you consider splitting a man’s skull a trick.’

‘No better one for a boy to learn. Tell me, lord, have you ever been bested in the lists?’

‘On horse, madam, yes. I have been lucky in the foot mêlée. Good men around me and the blessing of Heaven.’

‘Then that is our way forward. We’ll put you in a tournament. You knock over a few French knights and then it becomes impossible for Philip to hang you without looking like a bad loser. Once you are under my son’s patronage here, life will be easier for you.’

‘I have no arms or armour.’

‘Prince John and his father do not see eye to eye. I’m sure you could go in as his champion.’

‘A better end than swinging from a rope,’ said Montagu, ‘if you can manage to secure it.’

‘It won’t be your end. It will be your beginning. I will ask Prince John that you might enter my son’s service for as long as you are here.’

‘And he will agree to that?’

‘He grants my son anything,’ said Joan.

‘He sounds like a remarkable boy,’ said Montagu.

‘He is that,’ said Joan, ‘and you are a remarkable man who will be much use to him in all that he plans to do.’ She smiled softly. ‘You want to live, William. No shame in admitting it.’

Montagu snorted, then frowned. ‘I made a promise to your aunt. I would honour it.’

‘What promise?’

‘I have a letter I need to deliver to King Edward, her son. I made a solemn vow to put it into his hand myself and I would not break it.’

‘May I see it? It would comfort me to see her hand again. She was always such an accomplished writer – as good as any monk, my father said.’

‘Of course.’ He took the letter from his tunic and passed it to her. She studied it.

‘Her seal is unusual.’

‘Yes. Her own seal was denied her by Edward, I think. She scarcely has use for a seal – none of her letters ever get through.’

Joan ran her long fingers over the wax. Montagu guessed she wondered what was in the letter but knew she would never stoop to ask.

‘You should keep it away from your person, William. It’s not good to keep it next to your skin with all that fighting you do. It’ll be soaked with sweat and stained beyond recognition. I believe the seal is cracking already.’

‘I’ll take the advice, ma’am.’

‘Good.’ She touched him briefly. ‘It’s been good to see you, William. You won’t die here, I have a feeling help is on its way.’

‘I’d prefer an assurance.’ Sipping at his wine he smiled at her.

‘Though not easy in these times, have faith, William. And in the name of God, look after that letter properly. I know you chivalric knights. If it ends up illegible you’ll never forgive yourself.’

‘And neither will your aunt, which I would account more important.’

‘Adieu.’

Suffolk grunted like a man inhaling a goat.

‘Do you want me to buy you a separate cell? It must be like sleeping next to a pigsty.’

‘I’m fine here. I’ve been twenty years on campaign, ma’am. Men’s manners can scarcely surprise or offend me any more.’

‘As you wish. You have an ally in me, be sure of that.’

‘I am grateful for it.’

She stood and rapped at the door. The bolt slid back, Montagu stood to bow. He did not look up again until she was gone.

13

Only the flag of Navarre flew outside the Great Hall as Charles’ party approached through the streets of the Île de la Cité. The king was away fighting in the north and his standards had gone with him. The townsmen thronged the pavement, shouting for news of the battle in the north. The troops reported it was going well. Hainault was in flames, thirty-two towns burned, the Count of Hainault betrayed by one of his own commanders enabling the capture of Escaudoeuvres. The armies of England, Hainault and the Germans were in the field but had yet to force a battle and were finding food scarcer every day.

And most promising of all, said the returning men-at-arms, from Normandy at Harfleur, the great army of the sea had sailed, picking up more ships along the Picardy coast. Two hundred ships had burned Cadzand and now lay at anchor in the Zwin estuary, completely blockading the harbour at Sluys. All provisions and reinforcements from England for the enemy army were now cut off and the angel had flown with the French, sparkling above their masts, blowing them a fair wind, the men rejoicing in its presence. It was a mighty army and, noted some of the commanders, a cheap one. The angel meant Philip could cut back on the number of fighting men on the ships. Sailors came cheaper than men-at-arms and there was no point in the king investing in squadrons of fully equipped soldiers when the angel was going to blow Edward’s ships to the bottom, anyway.

Charles led the procession – three hundred men under his own banners – just a boy but with a full-blooded white destrier beneath him, though led by a knight. He was mailed and helmeted, cloaked in red, riders on black horses flanking him. His mother was there to greet him. He attempted an extravagant leap from the horse and was lucky the man-at-arms leading it was alert enough to catch him.