Son of the Morning (74 page)

‘How, in the name of Christ’s fat cock, did you get in here?’

‘Think, pardoner,’ said Montagu, ‘if we can get in here with one feather, what can he do with all those?’

‘He doesn’t look well, does he?’ said Osbert. ‘Look at his eyes.’

Montagu peered at the boy. His eyes were more like those of a cat now, a bright green with dark vertical slashes as pupils. ‘Are you all right?’

The boy nodded. The space was no more than a cupboard, really. The boy was in there, the pardoner crammed beside him but Montagu could only peer in from outside.

Beside the boy was a small chest, again marked with magical circles and symbols.

Osbert tried it but it was locked fast. He smiled and dabbed the end of the feather at the lock. It sprang open. Osbert removed it and was about to open the chest when Charles spoke.

‘Mine.’ The word came with great effort.

‘We’re not starting that again, your lordship, are we?’ said the pardoner.

He passed the chest back to Montagu, who opened it. It had a number of letters within it, all their seals broken. He uncurled one and read. Yes, it was a correspondence between the Templars and Philip. The bottom half of the page was given over to magical drawings and an astrological chart. A quick glance revealed the others as similar.

There was something beneath the letters too. A pouch in velvet on a cord, a sort of purse of the type designed to be worn around the neck. Montagu took it out. A little carved wooden box was within. He opened it. A fine, almost translucent key was inside, no bigger than a thumbnail. It was paper-thin and looked as if it might blow away in a light breeze.

Osbert crossed himself.

‘You know what that is?’

‘I saw one at St Olave’s. It is a key to Hell,’ he said.

‘A what?’

There was a clamour at the bottom of the stair. ‘A breach! A breach.’

Montagu snapped the box shut on the key and put it back into the pouch. With difficulty he got it around his neck. He shook Charles by the foot.

‘That cloak got you in here. Can it get us out?’

The pardoner went scurrying back down the stairs. ‘Up here, mes amis! I have apprehended the knave!’

The boy gestured for Montagu to bring him the little chest.

Montagu did, pressing it into his arms.

‘Thank you!’ whispered Charles. ‘If I survive I shall repay your family.’

‘My family?’

‘I think you are about to die,’ said Charles.

He took up the cloak, which glowed with a fierce light.

‘No!’ Montagu snatched at him with his good hand but the boy disappeared, taking the chest with him.

Montagu had grabbed a handful of feathers from his cloak as the boy went. A man-at-arms was on the stairs. Montagu drove a kick into his face, sending him sprawling backward unconscious. Good, at least he would block the way.

He waved the feathers at the wall and he saw lights beneath him. Torches and lanterns. The giant Despenser howled from the chapel and came crashing into the forecourt. Five feathers. Enough? Montagu didn’t know. Only one way to find out. He jumped hard from the tower, clasping the bright quills in his good hand.

He didn’t fall, but instead went up, his jump magnified many times, carrying him forward from the tower, over the trees and onto the top of the perimeter wall. The giant had not seen him go and howled and beat at the tower, shaking it as if to knock it down.

Montagu did not look back. He jumped from the wall and ran south, into the blackness of the streets, heading for the Great Hall and the apartments of Joan of Navarre. He grasped the feathers as he ran. No! The light. A scream from the giant as it saw the feathers bobbing like a bright mackerel through the sea of the dark.

Faster, Montagu, faster. He felt old and his arm was agony but he laughed. Wasn’t this what he’d dreamed of as a boy? The injured knight on a mission only he could fulfil, beset by the deadliest enemies. Yes, boys dream of such things: old warriors, repose and peace. He would not die. He wouldn’t give Despenser the satisfaction.

Soon he would encounter the wall and he needed to be prepared for that. He stuffed the angel feathers into his tunic.

Behind him the limping giant Despenser blundered and crashed through the houses. Montagu heard the cries of men and of devils, houndly barks, the call of great crows, grating and gurgling noises no earthly animal ever made, all distorted in the fog. Montagu kept running. The fog was thick but a watch fire near to the wall guided him. He ran towards it. He had to make the Petit Pont – the bridge that led to the Île de la Cité where the Great Hall lay. Charles would have gone back there, he was sure. And if he hadn’t gone there, then Montagu needed to impress on Charles’ mother the importance of returning those documents.

He reached the wall. Two guards were outside the locked gate, warming themselves around a fire.

They both had spears and levelled them as Montagu emerged from the murk.

‘Is the hue and cry for you?’

Montagu didn’t bother replying, just ran off down the length of the wall. All along it people had built lean-tos – using the solid stone of the city’s defences as at least one good wall in their shelters. Some people emerged as the mob bayed for Montagu’s blood; Despenser bellowed that he’d tear off Montagu’s arms and eat him like a leg of chicken.

He came to a rough turf lean-to. The guards who had followed him down the wall gave a shout and Montagu realised he had no choice but to kill them. The first charged with his spear. Montagu had trained wrong handed often enough but the excitement of combat made him forget his bad arm. He sidestepped and instinctively brushed the spear aside with his right hand. He felt as if his arm might be torn from his socket. He was sick into his mouth but he had achieved his objective – the spear snicked by him and he delivered a heavy backhanded blow to his opponent’s head, flattening him to the ground. The second guardsman did not like what he saw and his charge faltered.

‘I am Montagu,’ he said. ‘England’s chief killer. Run while you can.’

The man did as he was bid. Montagu knew it would not be long before he came back with many more men. He sheathed his sword and took out the feathers, cutting a hole in the wall just big enough to squeeze through. He cut a passage twenty feet deep before he made the other side. Then on through the cramped streets of Paris, down towards the water. He sensed it in front of him, a cold presence.

On he ran. The giant roared behind him. It had clambered over the wall and was now smashing a couple of the city guard down. Clearly no one had told Paris’s able defenders that a torn and bloody giant climbing over their walls was to be treated as a friend. Montagu got lost, turned down blind alleys, found himself running uphill when he should have been running down. All the time he could hear Despenser howling and roaring for his blood.

Finally, he turned down a street that fell into water. He made his way along the muddy bank, towards the looming stretch of the Petit Pont. The night watch had formed up all the way across it – twenty men, shields, mail and lances forward, grey men in a grey fog. There was no way across. But there had to be. He got up onto the bridge. The spears bristled, ready for an assault.

‘I’ll suck out your marrow for what you’ve done!’ the giant screamed through the fog.

Montagu summoned his best court French.

‘Prepare to repel this giant, men, prepare to repel it. Devils are on earth! Make way for the king of Navarre!’

He ran across the bridge as fast as he could, his arm a dead weight at his side, his sword in his good hand. He did not feel tired, though. Were the angel feathers making his body lighter?

The watch forwarded their spears but the commander slapped them down. ‘Let him through, boys, let him through!’ Montagu thanked God for the fog and the confusion that meant the men had no time to realise he was dressed as a pauper. They would not have let him through if they had – kings never dressed in rags, in any circumstances.

Montagu bustled through the line and got on to the island. He turned for the Great Hall. Now more men were pouring onto the bridge as the lumbering figure of Despenser loomed through the fog.

A guard challenged him at the door to the Great Hall and Montagu cut him down.

On into the building proper. No guards there, all having gone to face the giant, no doubt looking for a bit of glory to enliven the evening, rather than standing about doing their useful duty. It took him a moment to remember where the ambassadorial quarters were. He felt sure Joan would be there, along with her son.

To the back of the building and up four staircases. Now there were guards, four of them, too many to take on with his injuries. They came running for him but, as they closed he reached inside his tunic with his sword hand to touch an angel’s feather and he leapt. He soared over their heads and landed behind them, running to the spiral staircase that led to the solars at the top of the building. He made it through the door and bolted it behind him. Up and up. Then a corridor at the top. Two Navarrese guards.

‘I’ve come to see Queen Joan.’

‘With a sword in your hand?’ The guard presented his spear. The corridor was narrow and there would be no dodging here.

‘Get the queen.’

‘Drop your sword.’

Montagu put Arondight on the ground. The guard weighed his spear in his hand, as if deciding whether to charge. The man behind him said they should take Montagu to Le Châtelet and let the queen decide if she wanted to see him in the morning.

‘Montagu!’ Joan was in the corridor, dressed in a loose nightgown.

‘Queen.’ Montagu bowed.

‘Let him in.’

‘Do you need a chaperon, lady?’ said the guard.

‘I have my ladies and my son.’

Montagu picked up Arondight and went into Joan’s solar. Two ladies-in-waiting barely acknowledged him, they were bending to tend to the little boy on the bed. Next to Charles lay the cloak of angel’s feathers. He was soaked in sweat and moaned out as if in a tormented dream. But he was awake.

‘Look at him, William,’ said Joan.

Montagu went to the boy. His eyes were as he remembered from Caesar’s Tower – green, cat like. And now that cat-like aspect was extending to his face. No substantial change had come over him but he held his expression differently, as if he’d been asked to do an impersonation of a cat. Beside him was the chest.

‘What’s happening to him?’ said Joan.

The door opened and an extraordinary figure came in – a cardinal, with an iron collar about his neck. He swallowed a lit candle and shivered. Hadn’t Montagu seen him beheaded in the chapel?

‘I think I have deduced it.’

‘What?’

‘He is a devil,’ said the cardinal, ‘or a half devil. To travel as an angel is greatly stressing for mortal flesh. His mortal self is fading away and revealing what he is underneath. Who did you lie with, lady?’

Joan was pale in the candlelight. ‘Get out,’ she said to her ladies-in-waiting. They did, their eyes on the boy as they left, full of fear.

There was shouting outside. Despenser’s voice boomed through the night, promising murder to Montagu.

‘What is that?’

‘Another devil. You are not the only one who has been conjuring,’ said Montagu. He was breathless and needed to sit down, the exertions of the last days taking its toll now the rush of combat was over. He looked at the boy.

‘You always accounted your husband a weak man. Did you want a stronger father for your son?’

‘The Capetian queens have certain arts,’ she said. ‘My line is broken. I could not see my husband’s offspring bringing it back.’

The boy shook and shivered on the bed.

‘He took certain letters.’

‘That compromised Philip. They prove the usurper’s guilt. I have looked at them.’

‘Yes. But they are of no use to you. The French nobles will not rally to you. Your claim has been dismissed and they fear you. My king claims the throne of France. Give him those letters and you may yet see the Valois fall.’

‘And how will you escape with them?’

‘I will take the cloak.’

‘That is ours.’

‘And yet it has brought you no good. How will you explain your son’s condition? He is still required here at court.’

‘I will say an English sorcerer cursed him. You, Lord Montagu.’

‘You’re very like your aunt when you are angry.’

‘Yes, and remember, when the women of House Capet are stirred to ire, kings fall. Sooner or later. Ffff!’ She swiped at the air with her hand.

The window rattled. Something had gone past it. Despenser, Montagu guessed, crawling up the outside of the building, despite his injuries.

‘Give me the cloak and the chest,’ said Montagu.

‘You could take it easily enough.’

‘I could, but you are a lady and I am in your chambers. I would not abuse your hospitality so.’

A face at the window, the giant pressed his eye against the pane. ‘You!’ roared Despenser.

‘Take it,’ said Joan. She glanced to the window.

‘No mama, there are spells there!’ the boy cried out.

‘Not the sort princes should use. That is the magic of demons, who oppose and hate God’s holy order. This family has always been scrupulous in restricting its dealings solely to devils.’

The hand smashed through the window, groping for Montagu. Joan was still calm.

‘He is too big to get in, I think.’ She showed no agitation.

‘You know the king’s troops will be here soon.’

‘Yes. I cannot command them to leave you alone. I am Philip’s loyal subject, remember.’

Montagu put the cloak around him. Immediately he felt light, his own weight nothing to him. He picked up the chest. Guards were on the stairs now.

Joan called to them, ‘You gentlemen are too late: we have been robbed and assaulted by magic.’

‘What do I do?’

‘Wish to be away, sincerely,’ said the cardinal. ‘Think of a person in another place you might want to be with.’

The guards crashed in, the giant keened and Montagu thought he should reach for his sword. But nothing was easier for Montagu than to wish to be away.

‘To Edward,’ he said. Despenser’s face loomed momentarily as he shot through the window, out above the Great Hall up and up into the stars.