Son of the Morning (68 page)

‘You’re going nowhere,’ he said, ‘until I get out of here and … my God, that’s actually quite painful now I think about it. Where are my teeth? Where my wings. And which bastard chopped off my toe?’

33

Montagu sat by the Templar’s little fire in the squalid camp. A fog had come down on the river at last and it was as if they sat in a cocoon of light.

‘God has given us this night to do our work,’ said Montagu.

‘Perhaps,’ said the Templar. ‘Though I would be wary of imparting any intention or human thought to God. How strange his angels. How more strange He.’

‘Spare me the philosophy. Are you ready to go?’

‘Leave it a little longer. I would hear the Compline bell first.’

That was a reasonable idea. It would be full dark then, which allied with the fog would keep them concealed as they approached the tower.

‘We do God’s work tonight,’ said Montagu.

The Templar looked around him, as if expecting to see God hovering behind his shoulder in the murky air. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But do not confuse it with good.’

‘We only know good through God.’

‘How easily you surrender your moral responsibilities,’ said the Templar.

‘God tells us our moral responsibilities. I don’t surrender those.’

‘But what happens if you disagree with him? What of the moral responsibility to challenge groundless authority? What of the responsibility to recognise the good in you? Was Abraham moral when he went to sacrifice his innocent son on the word of God? No, because he gave up what he knew to be right for what he was told was right.’

‘You twist words and dissemble. We only know right through God. Besides, God spared the boy,’ said Montagu.

‘Was it right to even ask for the sacrifice? I read God’s words as they are written. God will burn you eternally for a lie, for cheating at cards. God will burn the youth for fumbling in his braies, no matter that God gave him both the cock to fumble with and the desire.’ His voice was flat in the fog.

Montagu drew closer to the fire. ‘God is just. The correct man need fear nothing.’

‘So what must you fear, lord?’

‘Plenty,’ said Montagu.

The people still had not returned, though Montagu had seen no more signs of any devils. He had had enough of talking theology with this idiot and itched to get to the tower and get out. ‘You know how to use the angel’s feather?’

‘I do,’ said the Templar, ‘although it is not a matter of knowing how, more just a way of wanting.’

‘I don’t take your meaning.’

‘The feather will permit you access to places you want to go. You need to express that wish confidently and sincerely. But I warn you, my lord, it will not make you invisible or invulnerable. If you use it to make a passage through the curtain wall of The Temple you will emerge in the grounds. The Hospitallers will see you there as if you had walked through the gate.’

‘Then this fog will hide us.’

‘It might, but best perhaps to make your entrance through the west curtain. There are woods there they keep for contemplation and prayer on hot days and the monks are not allowed to chop them for firewood. That was the way when we had possession of The Temple and I have no reason to think it will be otherwise today.’

‘Would it be wise to test the feather?’ said Montagu.

‘There is no need. It will work.’

‘Where will the letters be kept?’

‘I don’t know. In the keep or in Caesar’s Tower. They are the securest parts.’

Montagu had a question. ‘Why does Philip not either keep the letters with him or destroy them? Why entrust them to a group of monks, no matter how dependable he believes them to be?’

‘The monks have no designs on his throne. The king has allowed them to keep the riches granted them by his predecessor. And the documents. Philip may need to use them again, he fears. He is a careful and considerate man. They offer him great power, at a cost. He will not destroy them, but he will not have them in easy reach. Besides, they offer his explanation to history. You know how you nobles are concerned with your legacies.’

‘A man’s name is all he has,’ said Montagu. ‘He would cast away his life rather than stain it.’

‘Not all great men feel that way,’ said Jacques.

‘All great men do,’ said Montagu, ‘though plenty of little men wear crowns and ermine. Our integrity, our generosity and goodwill are all that stand between man and the devil. I have seen philosophers draw the world as a house, with the many base men as its foundations, we nobles as the roof and gables. Not so. We are the foundation of all that is right and pleasing to God and he places great trust in us. If we abuse it, then what? The common man rebels and turns to the lies of Lucifer.’

‘Why should a man toil in your fields for so little to provide your riches?’

Montagu was genuinely perplexed by this line of thinking. ‘Because they are my fields.’

‘How yours?’

‘By right. By God’s right!’

‘Because your ancestors came to those lands with fire and with the sword. Because they took them by force. Tell me, lord, why should the base man not follow your example and take your fields from you as your forefathers took them from others?’

‘Because God is on my side,’ said Montagu, ‘and knows the importance of order.’

The Templar let Montagu’s words hang in the air, poking at the fire with a stick. ‘We were to have a state,’ said the Templar. ‘Philip promised us our own country. And for a while I thought he meant to give it to us. Gascony. Aquitaine, one of the English king’s possessions in the realm of France. But Philip is a waverer, a vacillator, and when he did not win those lands immediately he took it as a sign of God’s displeasure and thought it safer to oppose the tattered remains of the Templars rather than God.’

‘What would you have done with this state?’

‘Returned men to the equality they had in Eden. Before God whispered that some men might set themselves above others.’

‘Men are not equal because they were not made so. As the lion is not the equal of the ant. As the eagle is not the equal of the sparrow. In nature, everywhere we look, we see how God has set his immutable hierarchies. You have failed because you have opposed the divine will.’

‘That is why we have failed, but it does not follow that what God wants is right or desirable,’ said the Templar.

‘Yes, it does,’ said Montagu, ‘the only way we know if something is right or wrong is if it is the will of God. God is our lodestone.’

The Templar waved his hand. ‘Back here again,’ he said. ‘When the lodestone leads you through a drowning river, or across a pit of vipers, it is time to find another way. You know in your heart what the true direction is. God corrupted that. Tell me, Montagu, what is it that makes you? Your wealth, your armour, your horses and fine food? Are you less yourself standing here with me in those rags? Would it matter for you to have a little less so others might have a little more? Would it make the slightest difference to your life to live on a smaller estate, to wear linen instead of velvet?’

‘And would it make any difference to the lives of the people here to have more? Or would they waste it and fritter it in an instant? Why should I give away what is granted by God?’

‘Because God stole it in the first place.’

‘This is heresy,’ said Montagu, ‘and it is unachievable. You cannot oppose the will of God.’

‘There are a few men who can.’

‘Who?’

‘You, Lord Montagu. You oppose his will and I foresee you have a great part to play in the death of kings.’

‘I’m not going to kill Philip. Nor any king.’

‘You will kill a king. I see your future.’

‘In dice, bones and fire prophecy.’ Montagu spat.

‘No, in your face. When you call the lady’s name in your sleep. No need for Chiromancy, Lithomancy, Haruspicy or to pick patterns in the drips of a candle with you, lord. I know whose name you cry and I know you are her champion, whether you like it or not. You’re on your way to damnation, but you do not fight it. You hurry down the path to Hell.’

‘I’m seeking to kill no one. I just want to do my duty and go home.’

‘Where is home now? Castle Rising?’

‘I do the will of God.’

‘No, lord. You are a creature of the morning light. I see it. I give you a new name. I call you Gallus – cockerel. Herald of the Dawn.’

Montagu stood. ‘I’ll hear no more. Where is the tower?’

‘In the inner court.’

‘Good. You will come with me. Then, if you are playing me false, I will get to cut your throat at least before I’m taken.’

‘It would please me to come,’ said the Templar, ‘though if I am discovered there I will thank you to kill me quickly, lest the Hospitallers catch me and try to bend me to their will again.’

The men made their way down the hill, stumbling over ditches – treacherous and invisible in the close fog, the sack with the crown of thorns and holy lance in it bouncing on Montagu’s back. The Temple was outside the city walls but the streets where it was situated were of much better quality than those of the slum – the swamp here had been drained and the ground was firm underfoot. A mean sort of higgledy-piggledy house sprouted here, like pale mushrooms burst from the filthy earth.

‘There is no real curfew outside the walls,’ said the Templar, ‘but it’s best to watch yourself. You may be asked to explain what you are doing.’

‘Damned impertinence,’ said Montagu, before remembering what he looked like in his gaoler’s rags.

The fog cloaked them and they saw little in the way of lights. Montagu wouldn’t have had a clue where he was going if it were not for the Templar. He seemed quite sure. Presently, a light in the sky. A tower, its bulk just a shadow on the fog.

‘Some of the masters keep late hours on the upper floors,’ said the Templar.

‘Whoring, if I know monks,’ said Montagu.

‘Perhaps,’ said the Templar, ‘but these are severe and holy men. Not all monks are dissolute.’

‘So you admit that godly men are virtuous men.’

‘Godliness and virtue can sit side by side,’ said the Templar, ‘an abject, cringing sort of virtue but virtue nonetheless. We come to the wall.’

A tall stone curtain wall was in front of them, its big blocks stretching up five man heights above them, a parapet at the top, no chance of climbing it.

‘The feather?’ said Montagu.

‘The feather.’

Montagu took it out of his tunic, the letter brushing his fingers as he did so.
Isabella.
He could never be with her again, but he could honour her, honour his feelings for her, and deliver the letter. He was close to that. Once this mission was over he would buy or steal a horse and ride hard for Antwerp. The king might even be there and, if he wasn’t, he would find news of him.

‘What do I do with this?’ The feather glowed faintly in the fog.

‘Tap it to the wall.’

Montagu tapped the feather to the wall. Nothing. He turned to the Templar. ‘It doesn’t work.’

‘Do it again but with intention. Think clearly of going through the wall.’

Montagu did as he was bid.

A shimmer, and the wall took on a sheen like the sun on a lake where only stone had been, a small patch, a hand’s breadth around where the feather had struck. Montagu tapped again, with the same result. Then he moved the feather down the wall, describing as narrow a doorway as he thought was possible for him to slide through. The shimmering spread to fill the outline of the shape of the door.

‘Walk through?’ Montagu’s voice was low.

‘Walk through.’

Montagu stepped into the doorway. There was a ripple, a distortion, like the ordinary world seen from the bottom of a clear stream on a summer’s day. He was through, in the woods next to the castle. There were two lights shining – one on the upper floor of the tower and the other in the great, squat chapel.

The Templar was beside him. Behind him, the hole remained for an instant. It stopped shimmering but just looked like someone had chipped an arch out of the wall. Then it was gone. Was that really how they had got in to Nottingham all those years ago? It seemed likely. He tucked the angel feather into his tunic. He dearly wished he’d had one of those at Dunbar. That would have given Black Agnes a shock. On the other hand, he was surprised half the nobles of England were still alive if Despenser had access to such powerful magic. He thanked God the vicious lord had been given very little time to use his angelic relics.

A rumpus away to his right, men running. Nine or ten men-at-arms, unmailed but with swords drawn, were running towards the chapel from the castle. Montagu had the urge to draw his own weapon but resisted it.

There were two towers within the grounds – one the great round keep, the other a tall, slim tower.

‘Which one?’ said Montagu.

‘The tall one is Caesar’s Tower. The bigger one is the keep. I don’t know. Either might contain the letters. In my day they would have been stored in the keep.’

‘The keep, then,’ said Montagu.

More men came running from the castle – these were better armoured than the first group, two of them pulling on sword belts as they ran. Montagu, with his soldier’s eye, automatically counted them – twenty. Other monks – unarmed and wearing only their habits – ran from the keep and from Caesar’s Tower.

‘How many fighting monks live here?’ said Montagu.

‘A good number – maybe fifty,’ said the Templar, ‘some of the healing brothers have training with a sword.’

‘Too many,’ said Montagu.

‘You’d think to fight them?’

‘We might have to if they discover us. With only nine or ten fighting men we might get away. With fifty it will be difficult to avoid being captured.’

Shouts and screams emerged from the chapel, the last of the monks pressing inside.

The courtyard was silent. Montagu walked out of the trees, the Templar following. The courtyard seemed immense, though it was no bigger than at any other castle and a good deal smaller than some. Still, he felt vulnerable and exposed as he made his way across it. Good Jacques followed. They were unchallenged as they made the door of the keep. They exchanged glances. Then Montagu went within. He was in a small entrance room with an open door to its far side. The room was well furnished – a long couch at one wall, two crossbows mounted above them, a fluted fireplace below a chimney built into the outside wall. A little fire was in it and Montagu realised how cold he had been.