Son of the Morning, page 30
part #1 of Banners of Blood Series
Here was a clue: a correspondence between the Grand Preceptor of the French tongue of Hospitallers – their order was split into eight ‘tongues’ – one ‘Brother Adam’ and Hugh Despenser, Eleanor’s husband. The letters – of which only the ones from the Grand Preceptor were present – began with a huge and pompous list of each man’s titles.
‘Further to our meeting on your proposed creation of relics. We are prepared to deliver what we found if you provide what you say you will. We will not provide the necessary weapon nor see it moved. You know where it is and how to get it. You are the motivating force in this. What you propose is unholy and without precedent. We work under the eyes of God and St John and will not have any part in the sin in any way that makes us answer before God. However, the deal we offered at Paris stands and the banner will be yours, boxed and sealed, on delivery of what you promised. Destroy this letter.’
There were more, some with next to no introduction but written in the same hand.
‘She will respond to a promise of light. You ask for assurances but I can give none. This is what our communicants tell us. I now formally beg you in the name of God and St John to give up this business. You will answer before God. Should you go through with it, our arrangement would stand.’
He noted the reuse of ‘stand’, ‘answer before God’, and the appeal to St John. There was no address on this at all.
Another: ‘The banner will help you fulfil your wish. Only the strongest kings with the most loyal angels could stand against it. I warn you again to give up this unholy business. Your soul is in peril. As the presence of Mortimer has changed your plans, we would be willing to add a cash payment in addition to the banner. The seal of the Florentine stands surety for the money. Good Jack will come when you say you are ready.’
The seal of the Florentine. Montagu recognised it immediately – he had witnessed half of Edward’s loans. It was the chain and key of the Bardi family. Isabella had seemed sure he was behind their entrance to the castle. This was proof of his involvement some four years before. But perhaps she misunderstood the role bankers played. Perhaps he had just been asked to guarantee a transaction? Such deals weren’t unheard of – promises to pay that would be honoured by a bank in the case of a noble family or institute reneging on its debts. The money would be set aside and only paid by the bank on the completion of a transaction. What did Bardi know? And what did they mean by ‘the presence of Mortimer has changed your plans’. What were Despenser’s original plans?
Montagu didn’t know what to make of the rest of it. The letters were so contradictory – giving advice on some unnamed project while begging Despenser to give it up.
A phrase stuck in his mind: ‘the creation of relics’. He was convinced an angel had died at Hanley. A saint’s tooth in the pommel of your sword would protect you in battle, a piece of his robe bring a blessing. What protection would an angel’s feather bring? What miracles might be wrought with one of its bones?
‘She will respond to a promise of light. It will take flesh for her. As she fell, so he will fall.’ Hugh Despenser had put up that chapel at huge expense and, as soon as she was able, his wife had come along and bricked and boarded it up.
The sarcophagus itself was a relic. Why hadn’t Lady Eleanor smashed it to cover all evidence? Because she was so holy. It had been touched by an angel – she would not desecrate it, though she couldn’t bring herself to use it. So she sealed in its secret. The cement work must have been done by her – she would have had some idea of how to mix it: she’d seen enough building work.
He took out his sword and kissed the pommel, kneeling to pray. Did he receive divine help? Probably not, he thought, but he felt the blue light in his mind and his thoughts were very clear. Despenser wanted something from the Knights Hospitaller – this banner. For what? To drive off a king’s angels. Had he been planning rebellion against old Edward? Montagu would not have put it beyond the man’s ambition. But to do so he had to give them something in return. The body of an angel. It was killed, Montagu could not guess how, and then its body kept in the sarcophagus until the knights came to collect it. Hugh got what he wanted and set off with it, not bothering about any trace he left behind him, because he had no immediate expectations of having to answer to anyone. And besides, it wasn’t Despenser’s way to worry about such things. He was secure in the king’s love and feared no accuser. The whole barony of England had only succeeded in having him exiled, and then only for a few years, after he’d been on that murderous rampage through Wales. He was taken back by Edward after living three years as a pirate in the Channel.
Despenser hadn’t taken the sarcophagus, or the angel’s blood. Why? Because he had something more powerful by far. Whatever this banner was, it must have been a rare prize to warrant risking his immortal soul. Why the contradictory messages from the knights? To cover their backs. They’d take the angel’s relics, as they’d take any relics. But they would save their souls by putting all responsibility for the angel’s death on to Despenser.
There was a further, final note. It was signed Eleanor De La Zouche.
A note. ‘As I am not guilty of my apparent sin, they avoid the guilt of theirs. I have sought only to protect him. Let the shame be mine. Exodus 20:5.’
He went to the big Bible that lay chained on a plinth and opened it. His Latin had always been poor and neglect had not improved it. He could make no sense of it.
He pulled on his trousers, coat and boots while calling for George. The squire came into the room.
‘Get that fat abbot up here, now’ he said. ‘Tell him to bring one of his learned monks. Twenty minutes later, the abbot was in the room, torn between outrage at being woken and self-importance at being summoned. A thin, bookish monk stood behind him holding a big Bible.
‘Exodus, 20:5,’ said Montagu.
‘Look it up,’ said the abbot.
‘No need, sir,’ said the monk. ‘It’s the Ten Commandments. ‘Non adorabis ea neque coles ego sum Dominus Deus tuus …’
Montagu held up his hand. ‘In God’s French or the Devil’s English.’
The monk smiled. ‘Thou shalt not adore them, nor serve them: I am the Lord thy God, mighty, jealous, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.’
Montagu picked up the papers and stuffed them into his purse, tying it to his belt. Eleanor feared Montagu knew what had happened at Hanley and the shame would impact on her and her boy. She couldn’t bear it and hoped that by appearing culpable herself she might deflect any suspicion from her son. ‘My apparent sin.’ Suicide.
‘Get my horse. We’re going to your mother’s house.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Just do it, George!’
Lady Eleanor was not there when they arrived – to the surprise of her servants. They found her at ten the next morning, face down by the bank on that broad reedy stretch where the Severn meets the Avon. Montagu was called from further upstream, where he had been searching. Her body lay on the bank, her servants silent about her.
George cried out and ran to her.
Montagu dismounted and put his hand on his squire’s back.
‘My mother killed herself,’ said George, his voice choking. ‘She will go to Hell for this.’
‘No, George,’ said Montagu, ‘Your mother would not have committed such a sin. This is a considered act. She went into the river and put herself into God’s hands. She didn’t kill herself – God took her. She is in Heaven. She’ll be buried in consecrated ground, next to her William.’
‘What is behind this?’ said George.
‘I fear your father’s shadow stretches a long way.’
It was surely time, Montagu thought, to tell the king what he suspected. Edward could no longer leave his mother in the control of men who had conspired to kill an angel. And it appeared they had either abducted his father or conspired with him to help him disappear. The king needed to know, but first Montagu wanted to find out where the knights had taken old Edward. Montagu had little confidence he would get the explanation he needed.
He was tempted to go back to Castle Rising and put pressure on the Hospitallers until he got some information. But these men were trusted by the king. He must have solid evidence before he moved against them.
So how to get it? He needed a man with contacts. Who? He could kill two birds with one stone here. Bardi, the banker. He had some dealings with the Hospitallers and there was enough in the letters to deeply discomfit him, hang him even, if they picked the right judges. Wicked thoughts slipped into his mind. Perhaps the Florentine wouldn’t even need coercing. He had a great investment in England’s regaining its angels. Montagu was sure that, given the right information, Bardi would undertake the right enquiries, make the correct inferences and act. So old Edward would die at last, but Montagu’s conscience would be clear. He would never issue an instruction to kill the old king, nor even suggest that it might be done. But Montagu knew the Florentine well enough to believe that he would have the guile, resources and manpower to do what was needful. No. That was the coward’s way. He was no dissembling Hospitaller. He was a true knight of chivalry. He needed to talk to Bardi, though. But that alone might be enough for Bardi to kill old Edward. If he gave the banker strict instructions Edward was not to be harmed, would that be enough? Enough to save Montagu’s soul perhaps, but not to absolve him in his own judgement.
‘It is as it is,’ he murmured. He would arrange to meet the banker.
10
‘We need gifts for Edward’s queen, sir. She is with him and conspicuously pregnant yet again, according to spies.’ The Count of Eu, Constable of France, stood solemnly by Philip’s side. King Philip was outside the royal pavilion at Buironfosse, the nobility of France and its allies around him in all the gaudy colours of war. Sometimes he felt like a king among all those surcoats of bears, lions, leopards and wolves. Other times he felt like their quarry. A gaggle of nobles around him were theatrically attentive to Philip’s every word. Four of them were dressed in fox fur. He knew what that meant – they were accusing Philip’s advisers of foxiness in refusing to come to battle with the English for so long. It was tantamount to accusing him of the same, though no man would ever be bold enough to criticise the king. The advisers took the blame, no matter that they were urging war. The Count of Foix was actually in full mail. The message could not be clearer.
‘My God, she’s only just had one. She must get ridden like a messenger’s pony. How many children will that be now?’
‘I’ve lost count, sir. Do we include girls nowadays? Our spies report the pregnancy may not be going well. Priests attend the queen night and day, laying blessings and charms, and Edward makes particular mention of it when praying before his angel, even beyond what might be expected. I don’t understand his concern, he already has two sons.’
Philip grunted. ‘Rattle up a few jewels for him. Distinctive, inscribed personally from me – the sort of thing that’s shameful to sell on – I don’t want to end up paying his troops myself. Better make it costly, though; we want to make a point.’
Eu bowed.
It was late October, not far from All Saints Day. Winter was nearly upon them and finally they had come to battle. Edward’s forces were drawn up on good ground not four miles away at La Capelle. The English had a slope in their favour, a forest protecting their west flank and a good force protecting the road to the east, according to some captured Germans. The angel was with them, but that was as good as it got for Edward. He was outnumbered five to one.
But still, no angels for France. No Oriflamme either. The Oriflamme would shine its blood light and bring guaranteed victory. But the archangel Michael at St Denis had refused to release it, or rather not given his blessing. Philip could not take the holy banner without the angel’s consent. Fighting without it? Too many possibilities. Too much uncertainty. And the south was in flames too, under attack from English freebooters. That would require his attention soon.
Philip put his hand to his brow to shield his eyes as he gazed to the distance. There on the horizon, beyond the brooding copses, shone something like a sun. The English angel. It sat above a wide area of smoking land. The English were excellent wreckers and they burned everything for roughly fifteen miles around anywhere their army marched. The people were suffering terribly.
No matter Edward had bought the damn thing from the Holy Roman Empire – it was still there. Could he win the battle? Yes. The angel wouldn’t strike against the appointed king of France. Would it?
‘What of the angel?’ said Philip.
‘No need to worry about that, majesty.’ The Constable was at his sleeve.
‘No, Eu?’
‘No, lord. We harried the English this morning. It just turns in the air, all eyes and fire, no action. It won’t attack France. Our angels may not be convinced out of their shrines, but I feel sure it’s because they think we can win this on our own.’
‘Really?’
The chase had been on for over a year now, Edward stamping about the countryside looting and burning, Philip drawing up plans, redrawing plans, summoning armies, dismissing them. Nothing had gone quite right. The Genoese mercenaries, for instance. Some talk had broken out in Genoa, some strange sect on the rise, worshippers of Lucifer. The ruling families had been overthrown and now the availability of mercenaries had declined sharply, in the short term at least. Who could have predicted that?
All this gave him the distinct and sharp feeling that God was not with him. He wanted to see some angels before he would feel safe, but none would come. They talked, they spun in the air but something had rattled them. An Antichrist. Was it Edward? The angel had said the boy Charles would never be king, so it couldn’t be him.
‘Give me reports of the enemy.’
‘Dug in, sir, archers deployed behind stakes, men-at-arms dismounted and ready to fight. We outnumber them four to one, though. I’d be confident of winning.’
‘How’s his finances?’
‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with it, sir.’
‘No, you don’t, do you, Eu? Flambard?’
A noble stepped forward, his surcoat displaying a prancing white horse on a blue background.
Philip turned to him. ‘What are our spies saying about Edward’s readiness to face us?’
‘The new baby is not dressed in the finest of clothes, sir, and his wife keeps fewer ladies around her in her latest pregnancy. The crown and jewels are pawned and Edward is feeding his allies from his own supplies.’ Philip made Flambard report the situation so that Eu might be reminded of a few realities.
‘He has Germans with him, Flemish weavers, the Duke of Brabant, Nevers and a few others. Tell me, Constable, why did William of Hainault come begging to us this year, having deserted the English pirates?’
‘Lack of pay, largely sir. And because he is a treacherous dog.’
‘Indeed. All men are treacherous dogs if you don’t pay them. Dig in.’
‘What sir? Look at our array of knights. We have ten thousand mounted. We don’t need to dig in.’
Philip rarely got angry but he did now. ‘Dig in,’ he said. ‘And let’s see if he can afford to fight in France. He’ll never dare to attack so many men in a well-fortified position. His only hope is that I charge into the trap he’s set – which I won’t. My bet is that Edward’ll up sticks and be scuttling back to the Low Countries before the first frost.’
‘Sir, men have mustered from all over France. How will I explain this to them?’
‘Pay them,’ said Philip. ‘I find that’s usually explanation enough. When Edward can raise a force to make our angels stir, then we’ll fight him. Until then, if God cannot be bothered to face him, neither can I.’
The nobles muttered, a few cursed, but they dispersed to organise digging the defensive works.
Philip went to bed. The next day he sat in a chair watching the English angel again. Just before dusk it reddened like the sun. Then it too dipped below the horizon. He heard the anguish of the English as a murmur on the breeze.
Eu came striding up. ‘The spies report the Flemings have gone home on report of your refusal to give battle, for want of pay. The Germans and Hainault too. The angel is quite a lowly one. Our churchmen are sure it won’t move against an army led by a king on his own land, well, not until the English have bled enough into the soil to make its intervention useless. He is alone in the field, sir. If we attack now, England will have a new king by tomorrow. Edward will be dead.’
‘And why would I want that, when this one proves so inadequate? Why would I want to relieve Edward of his debts to man and God?’ said Philip. ‘We’ll sit here for a few days to make sure he doesn’t attack us in retreat, and then disperse when he’s gone. Try the local cider; it’s wonderful. We should rejoice that we can afford to buy it. Edward can’t.’
‘It’s no sort of victory I recognise, sir.’
‘Well,’ said Philip, ‘I suggest you learn to, for you’ll be seeing a lot of it in the future. Edward is writhing and in agony. I’m not going to put him out of his misery.’
The Constable bowed and Philip drained his cup. When he put it down, he had a large smile on his face. The English king, he thought, would head back to Antwerp, bankrupt – owing his enemies thousands. He wondered if his creditors would let him go home. In the meantime, Philip would work out a way to engage his own angels and take the Oriflamme that would lead them. Then Edward’s current sufferings would be as the bite of a fly compared to a swarm of locusts, or some such Biblical analogy.
‘More cider,’ he said. ‘More cider!’
11
‘Can you read?’
Despenser had his back to the pardoner, very much tempting Osbert to make rude signs. However, he didn’t want to risk the lord turning round and catching him. Any man who could have his head cut off and restitched with twine was obviously a tough sort.
