Son of the Morning (77 page)

42

The Hospitallers’ lodge was an enormous building outside the city walls in the Brolo di Sant’ Ambrogio – a vast woodland that spread north out of Milan. It was built in pale brick and was relatively square and plain in the old Roman style, what you could see of the outside under the ivy. The commander of the hospital – a middle ranking officer of the Hospitallers – was not there to meet Dow and Orsino, and no man could be admitted to the order without his say so. So they waited and asked at the gate every day until, on a blazing afternoon in August, they were finally let in. It had taken them six weeks to get an audience.

They were led in through a side gate into a large square surrounded by a cloistered walkway. This was a poor hospital – or at least it had been at one time. There were few signs of the poor here, though many rich pilgrims sat in the sun of the main squares or walked among market stalls that sold clothes, sandals, cheese and bread.

‘Wait here.’ A stout soldier with the white fluted cross of the order on his black surcoat strode across the courtyard away from them, tapping the sword that swung at his leg. His tone was not over-friendly.

‘I’m worried about the shield,’ said Dow. ‘It marks you as an angel killer if they’ve heard of what happened in France.’

Orsino shook his head. ‘I’m not a fool. Who knew that angels even had shields? I never heard of one taking flesh before.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Who is ever sure about anything? The sacred heart of Christ is a familiar symbol to crusaders. I’ve seen a dozen men with it on their surcoats and I’ve only campaigned with crusaders in Poland in the east. Those of us who don’t come from noble houses often adopt such things on the battlefield, to be known by our own side.’

‘What if the other side do the same?’

‘That’s where the theory breaks down.’

The soldier swung back across the courtyard, munching on an apple. ‘Nope,’ he said.

‘Nope, what?’ said Orsino.

‘We’re not taking men on. The way you speak is not that of a high man of this order. Your squire is a raggedy-looking idiot and, though you can doubtless fight, you would dishonour us by your common blood.’

‘Mark our equipment. This is a true knight,’ said Dow.

‘Bollocks. One nicked shield doesn’t make someone a knight.’

‘My honour does,’ said Orsino. ‘I don’t stand for such remarks.’

‘You reckon yourself, do you, son?’ sneered the soldier.

He stepped towards Orsino to push him, but the Florentine stepped into him, sweeping his foot and putting him to the ground.

‘More than you.’ The soldier tried to get up but Orsino stood above him, tripping him every time he tried to do so until the man gave up. Three men came towards them, soldiers. Now Orsino’s hand was on his sword.

Dow despaired – their chance of infiltrating this order was sitting right there in the dust. And Orsino had lost his temper. Dow had never seen that before.

Dow’s eye was taken by someone marching towards them across the square. He was a small, dark man in the flute cross insignia of the Hospitallers. He bore no sword but carried a length of counting beads in his hand. He waved to Orsino.

‘Master Bardi?’ said the Florentine.

The little man walked up to the group and nodded at Orsino in acknowledgement. Bardi offered him a deep bow and Dow, who was keen to avoid attention, did the same.

‘I thought I’d find you here, Condottiere,’ said Bardi, ‘and my word, you’ve taught this ape to bow. Really, Orsino, they should beatify you. If ever I’ve seen a living miracle there it is.’

‘You know these, sir?’ said the soldier, who’d taken advantage of the pause to stand.

‘This is my man, gatekeeper. The soldier Orsino, one of the most deadly men ever to have drawn a blade, and his charge the stuttering little heretic. I was told they were here and I came to greet them.’

‘We had a misunderstanding,’ said the soldier.

‘No,’ said Orsino. ‘I understood perfectly. Apologise and we’ll say no more.’

‘Sorry,’ said the soldier. He bowed as he said it. He withdrew a little way, trying to maintain the illusion that he was still in charge of this encounter.

‘Told we were here by who?’

‘Whom. All in good time. Really, gatekeeper, have you not offered these men a drink?’

‘They were applying to join the order, sir.’

‘And very good monks I’m sure they’d make, one or two differences in dogma aside. Come with me, the both of you.’

‘You’re convinced that’s safe, sir?’

‘I’m safer now than I was an hour ago,’ said Bardi. ‘Come, follow.’

Dow felt his familiar hatred of this rich man rising in him, but he bit it down. The order was where to find the old king, and through him the banner. This snake had wormed his way within it; he might be useful.

They stepped out of the heat of the day into the shadow of the cloister and then went inside the building. Straight stairs led up and the three climbed. They went down a narrow corridor of rough stone, low enough to cause Orsino to duck. Bardi opened a door and went inside. It was a well-appointed cell.

‘Close the door,’ said Bardi. He sat on the only chair. ‘Well, I’ve found you. And you haven’t found …’

‘Not yet,’ said Orsino. ‘Are you a monk now?’

‘Yes, for the meanwhile. I thought the spiritual life might do me some good.’

‘You have no spirit.’

‘Oh, you know how to flatter, don’t you?’

‘How did you finish up here?’

‘A man of my financial skills is always welcome. Do you know the Hospitallers have riches that dwarf those of many kings, certainly of your king?’ He jabbed a finger at Dow. ‘They need managing.’

‘And you had to take holy orders to do it?’

‘The wise ship runs with the prevailing wind,’ said Bardi. ‘But look. This is the headquarters of the Lombard Hospitallers. The whole Italian tongue of the Hospitallers is headquartered in Rome. Considering how ineffectual you’ve been, I’ve had to act myself. All I need to do is to come up with some reason to see the accounts and we will have where Edward II is kept.’

‘How?’

‘Because kings eat money! These fellows can keep as quiet as they like, hold their secrets close, but money speaks. He will need a retinue, he will need keeping … Or, even if he is a hermit, they won’t risk leaving him without a guard – there will be
some
unexplained expenditure. We will have him!’

‘You’ve gone broke, haven’t you?’ said Orsino.

Bardi allowed himself a nonchalant purse of the lips. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You don’t deny it. And I know you as a man of pride. You would have commanded someone else to work this subterfuge for you if you were still in funds. The English king has reneged on his deal, hasn’t he? Are you still paying me?’ said Orsino. ‘What of my sister and mother?’

‘Your family will be safe,’ said Bardi, ‘there are certain provisions within the law that have enabled me to retain a modest base of property. My grand house has been sold and the money gone to my creditors but so far your mother and sister remain comfortable. If you wish them to continue so, then I suggest you prepare yourself to do what is necessary as soon as I have found the king.’

‘I will write to them,’ said Orsino, ‘and if I don’t receive a reply that I like, it’s your throat I’ll be cutting, not that of a king.’

‘That won’t bring absolution.’

‘I’ll take the risk,’ said Orsino.

Something flitted across the window. Murmur, Dow knew, was roosting until nightfall when he could approach unseen. A fluttering – like a bat – and a tiny woman flew through the open window into the room.

‘Who is this?’ said Dow.

‘I am Catspaw,’ said the little woman, ‘and I need to talk to you, man of perdition.’

‘Why do you call him that?’ asked Orsino.

‘The heresy that these creatures maintain is that an Antichrist is coming to earth, to lay low the high men and raise up the poor. That’s your Antichrist right there,’ said Bardi. ‘If I didn’t have so much riding on it I’d cut him down and prepare for Heaven.’

‘I have helped this downtrodden man,’ said Catspaw, settling on the table, ‘but I fear I may have been misled by him. He has quickly clothed himself in the garb of the oppressor.’ The ympe’s voice was reminiscent of the miaowings of a cat.

‘He is our enemy,’ said Dow, ‘but we must work with him until we get what we want.’

Catspaw spoke. ‘I do not like his company any more. I am sorry I told him where you were going.’

‘That banner is mine,’ said Bardi. He took out a small bottle of holy oil and anointed his hands, making the sign of the cross as he did so.

‘We will see,’ said Dow.

‘The ympe can still be useful to us, though,’ said Bardi.

‘How?’

Bardi leapt forward and grabbed Catspaw with both hands. With a quick wrench, he broke the little woman’s neck.

‘Oil from the tomb of St Claire,’ said Bardi. ‘I thought it would work!’

Dow drew but Orsino barred his way. ‘What was the point in that?’

‘It’s important to find favour in these places. How better to announce one’s arrival than with the discovery of a whispering ympe,’ said Bardi. ‘They’re quite the pest around these parts.’

‘It was murder,’ said Dow.

‘Not so,’ said Bardi, ‘it was the rightful elimination of a fiend. And, even if it wasn’t, then it was practical. It moves us closer to our long term goal.’

‘I’m going to kill you for this.’

‘No, you’re not. Do you think I’m a complete idiot? This will bring me great respect in the order. I need as much of that as I can get in order to secure access to the right accounts so I can track this king. Doubtless you think you can steal the Drago and use it to your own purposes. You would not be with us if you didn’t want what the king has as badly as we do. So, you will not kill me, you will help me and you will accept my help. You are a creature of magic, no doubt, and thus useful to me. Be thankful for it – it’s kept you alive. Orsino, get him out of here. I will arrange your lodgings with the servants.’

Bardi picked up the body of the ympe.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’d better find the commander. I think this may get me sent to Rome for an interview with the Prior.’

43

Montagu spent his last night on earth productively. He visited the chapel at Windsor to take mass and made confession of his sins. In normal circumstances he hated to do this, as it put him in the power of the priests. They were sworn never to reveal the secrets they heard, but he knew what their oaths were worth. The chapel shone with gold in the candlelight. He thought of Good Jacques, throwing his purse back to him, telling him it could feed countless numbers of the poor. Unsteady on his knees in the chapel, he knew the Templar had been right. All his possessions meant nothing now. It was as if he was naked before God, everything stripped away but the essentials of his life – the sword at his side the most essential of all. He did not allow himself the indulgence of thinking too much of his family. Isabella had duped him into carrying his own death warrant back to Edward. He had done it gladly, keenly, as she knew he would. Even now he still longed to see her. The thought of her was a fire, burning away all reason.

He wrote a letter to his wife and sons, as honest as could be without admitting his faithlessness. He bridled at his own cowardice. He told his sons he expected them to grow to become true servants of the king, his wife that she had done her duty by him and that he had loved her. He did not say that he was to die, just that he had returned from captivity in France and had been honoured to fight as the king’s champion in the tournament celebrating victory over the French. He did not say that it was an honour that never was for a victory that never was.

He added some instructions, including that Arondight should be given to his son William. Another letter, this for Edward, he set out what he’d discovered, including details of the return of Despenser. He signed himself Edward’s loyal servant. There was still time, of course, for the king’s temper to cool. He doubted it would.

Trumpets and shouting. People arriving at the camp after nightfall – remarkable. The halloos came nearer, accompanied now by a monstrous drumming. ‘Make way for Lord Sloth! Lord Sloth returns. The avenging hand of the Lord is here!’

Montagu decided that, since he would be spending a long time lying down very soon, he had no desire to spend his last night on earth in bed. He called for the king’s squire young Tom who had been sent to attend him.

‘Help me here, boy, I want to walk the camp.’

‘You’re sure, sir? You look as though you would be better off sleeping.’

‘No. I’m sick and it is my custom, when sick, to walk the illness out. Support me. I’d see this Sloth if I can.’

The squire lifted Montagu using his good arm and the two made their way out of the tent, Tom supporting Montagu as if he was a drunk. The going was not easy.

‘I can bring you a jennet if you wish, sir,’ said Tom.

‘Yes, do that.’ It wouldn’t really do to tour the camp on a lady’s horse, but he thought the men would understand, given that he’d been injured.

The drumming was loud now and the cries almost hysterical. ‘Sloth, Sloth is here! See the prisoners he has brought, see how rebellion is punished!’

Devils burst past Montagu – squat, boar-headed men in red velvet livery bearing the image of a silver lion. They squealed and shouted as they ran, two at the front bearing drums banging out a heart-bursting beat, others behind trailing torches, still others dragging captives bound by ropes.

The pace was fast and the prisoners stumbled, some falling. The devils did not slow down – they just dragged their prisoners on. A priest careened past, dragged by his bound hands. The man was very thin and had a look of grim forbearance on his face. Beside him was a woman, like his partner from a children’s rhyme – ‘Big Fat Bess did burst her dress, Thin John couldn’t fill his hose’. She was impressively short and rotund, so much that he almost expected her to roll rather than run as the devils pulled her on. She had bare arms like sides of ham and her breasts seemed to reach her knees. She was more scared than the priest, calling out ‘Alack!’ and ‘For shame!’ and crying a good deal. Others were there too – some old men and maids, some children. Montagu did not look at them for long. Behind them, riding on a dust grey destrier was a huge lion, itself the colour of beaten steel. It wore a weathered mail hauberk and its mane rattled as it spurred its horse forward. Montagu marvelled at the horse – bearing such a terrifying burden without fear. The lion carried a long whip in its paw and cracked it forward with expert precision to lacerate the backs of the prisoners.