Son of the Morning Page 2

  At the front of the column a man-at-arms, his pig-face visor pulled down, held up a standard – the three sprawling leopards that announced the riders as the personal bodyguard of Edward III – king of England. This standard bearer was flanked by two others who held the red and white banner of St George.

  In the church a bareheaded young man knelt before the charred altar. His surcoat bore the same motif as the standard, and the helmet that sat beside him was encircled by a metal crown.

  A respectful distance away, across the debris of the floor, were four armoured knights, standing around a brazier. Closer to the altar stood another knight, in a surcoat of red diamonds. This man was much older than the king, in his mid thirties, and his face was as worn as a campaign saddle. An eyepatch hid his right eye, a deep scar emerging above it on the brow and below it on the cheek.

  Beside him was a small boy of no more than seven. The child had pattens on his feet – wooden overshoes that raised him above the filth and mud of the floor. He wore a full hooded tunic in the Italian style, its rich red cloth trimmed with gold and pearls, but when he spoke it was in the ragged French of the English court.

  ‘How shall we repay the French for this, father?’

  The king stood up in a jingle of armour. He walked over to the boy and put his hand on his head. Then he turned to the scarred knight.

  ‘Salisbury. Montagu, cousin. Advise me.’ The king’s voice was low and confidential, and he spoke in English.

  The knight shifted from foot to foot. He glanced into the shadows. There were other men in that church, beside the higher nobles – the banker Bardi and the merchant-knight Pole, huge creditors of the king’s, travelling west under his protection. In the church they kept well away from the men of better sort, shunning the torchlight, standing in the darkness by the side of the ruined door. Montagu’s eyes were on them and his voice was a murmur. ‘Our dear Gascony is under attack by the French king. The war in Scotland is as pressing as it ever was, with the French reinforcing the natives. The French send Genoese mercenaries to raid our shores and we can scarcely muster the men to defend them. Buying off the Genoese is out of the question. Our money has been spent in Scotland. I have given the accounts my closest scrutiny. And now this. We are fighting on too many fronts.’

  ‘So your counsel is?’

  ‘Continue in Scotland, bide our time here, suffer a little, and, when the crusade takes the French king away, we strike. Our allies in the Low Countries and Germany will support us, the former for want of our wool, the latter because the Holy Roman Emperor suspects the ambition of the French.’

  The king snorted and scraped at the ashes with his foot. ‘The Pope has cancelled the crusade; I had word from our spies at his court in Avignon this morning.’

  ‘Then God help England.’

  Edward shot Montagu a questioning look.

  ‘Will He? Or are the rumours true?’

  ‘The French have not managed to persuade their angels out of their shrines, sir, I’m sure of that. We would have heard by now.’

  ‘Philip attacks our ancestral lands in Gascony and the Agenais. Angels have been seen outside Bordeaux. Our garrison is terrified.’ The king related the threat as lightly as if discussing the menu for a tournament feast. He was a war commander, experienced against the Scots, long used to the importance of conveying certainty and strength to all those around him. ‘Lights were seen in the sky,’ said Edward.

  ‘All sorts of things can cause lights. Men’s imaginations first of all. The French have employed sorcerers – it’s well known. The manifestation could be demonic, rather than angelic.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to reassure me?’ Edward smiled.

  ‘It would mean we’re on the right side. When I travelled to France on your business in the spring I saw no sign they had coaxed the angels from their raptures.’

  ‘Though they try. New churches cram the streets of Paris, relics are collected from all over the world. His queen is a woman of rare piety; it’s well known.’

  ‘They call her a devil.’

  ‘Because she is lame and because they fear her. She is no devil. She has succeeded in this way before.’

  ‘Sir, when the angel came to their aid at Cassel it was clearly God’s work. A peasant rebellion is, by definition, unholy. There is no question of that here. And besides, it is not an important point. We can’t invade anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The French have no need of angels. The Royal House of Valois can put fifty thousand in the field and their men-at-arms are formidable. Their lances alone will do.’

  ‘I spit on their fifty thousand. Thirty thousand of them are commoners and of no account, five thousand are mercenaries who will run after one decent charge, and the noblemen are the same ones I’ve been beating the brains out of at tournaments since I was sixteen. My army has razed half of Scotland against those furious men of the north; Philip’s has hardly been in a battle worthy of the name. One of us is worth five of them and they know it, or they would invade properly. They burn our churches. They hamper our prayer. This must be their aim – to weaken us spiritually, for they know they cannot face the teeth of the English lion in fair battle.’

  ‘There are many churches in England, Edward. We can spare a few.’

  ‘Does God see it that way?’

  ‘It may be that we do enough already. Angels have danced on the tips of French spears before, but there have been none in the kingdom since Cassel. Perhaps our prayers, our devotion keep it so.’

  ‘Perhaps. But God will not favour us if we cannot defend His houses.’

  Montagu kicked at the dirt of the floor and said, ‘Well, look at it this way. The cancellation of the crusade increases the physical threat, but diminishes the spiritual one. God must love King Philip less today. He will allow no angels to help him if he backs out of his obligations in the Holy Land. We should hold here, greet him with great force when he attacks us, and fight on our land – well supplied on ground we know.’

  ‘The cancellation has holy sanction – on the edict of the Pope. God loves Philip as much today as He ever did. But we will make war without God if we have to.’

  ‘To make war without God is to make war on God.’

  ‘Not so. I am king because of God. I want different counsel. Sir Richard, come here.’

  Another man-at-arms walked forward – a tall, powerfully built man aged around forty, wearing a mail coat, his basinet beneath his arm, his long grey hair bright in the firelight.

  ‘Richard. You have the wisdom of age. What do you think? Do we repay this? Take on the French in open war?’

  ‘To face them directly is suicide. It is for you to decide if it is a right and noble suicide.’

  ‘You don’t think we can defeat them? There is no guarantee they can put angels in the field against us.’

  ‘Our spies say that the French king asks for the Oriflamme on every saint’s day.’

  Edward bowed his head. The Oriflamme – the holy fire banner, dipped in the blood of the French martyr St Denis – was one of the most powerful relics in Christendom. It had been used very rarely by the French in all memory, such was their regard for it but, flown at the head of the army, it meant that the French army could not be defeated and would give no quarter: and that God was with them and would cut down their enemies as he had the first born of Egypt. St Michael the archangel sat sometimes in the abbey of St Denis where the Oriflamme was kept. The French king needed the angel’s blessing to take it. Once he had that, the French angels would come and England would be in great peril.

  ‘We’ll face the Oriflamme and all his angels if we have to. My honour will not be trampled into the dirt. It’s possible to beat them even if they have it. Our royal ancestor John fought without angels, without the blessing of saints. He fought against the Oriflamme without flinching from it.’

  Montagu spoke. ‘That’s not a particularly propitious example. John lost Normandy, he saw England wracked by civil war and
he died, struck down by who knows what. Cousin Edward, your father’s angels …’

  The king’s hand went to his sword. ‘If you say more, though you are my dearest friend, I will strike you down where you stand.’

  Montagu shrugged. ‘Not very likely to speak then, am I?’

  ‘Keep your flippancy and your caution, Montagu! I am king of the English, and a Norman true. When I bid you fight to defend my lands, you will fight and, if necessary, die, along with your sons – with all the sons of England – if that is what God wills! God made me your master, and your life is mine to do with as I see fit! England is me and I am England!’ The king spoke his somewhat mangled French, to emphasise his ruler’s right.

  ‘I served your father, I will serve you.’

  Edward nodded, his anger gone as quickly as it had come.

  ‘My father was a godly man,’ he said in English.

  ‘Though we might want to ask ourselves how God allowed him to fall to the usurper Mortimer,’ said Montagu. ‘You know your wife thinks an explanation for the lack of angels might be found there. I could investigate this.’

  ‘Mortimer never usurped anything. He threw down my father but it was me he put on the throne, remember that. Are you saying I am a usurper?’

  ‘You were a boy. You were his puppet.’

  ‘And when I became a man God blessed me to avenge my father and kill him in his turn.’

  ‘So let me investigate.’

  ‘You cannot investigate the mind of God. And God guided my hand to send Mortimer to Hell, never forget that. I would not be here if I did not have God’s blessing. Kings are appointed by God and only stay kings as long as it pleases Him.’

  ‘King Philip of France has been a king for a long time.’

  ‘Then we’ll face him in the field and see who the Lord favours. I have faith in God that I will prevail.’

  ‘You have faith in yourself, Edward. That is very different and close to vanity. Wait until tomorrow to decide. We’ve ridden a long way and the fire that burned this church has inflamed your passion too. Slake it on a girl – there is a queue of merchants’ daughters in the town waiting to see you, and I have it on authority that no fewer than eight famous whores have travelled to Southampton hoping to please you. Let your temper cool in your bed for a while; make your decision in the clear light of morning.’

  ‘No, Montagu. Courtiers talk; kings act. We’ll have them. Angels or no angels, Oriflamme or not, we’ll have them. We’ll take the battle to France and we’ll do it soon.’

  ‘We should wait until we can summon at least one angel to counter theirs. Let me look into it more fully. I understand you don’t want an investigation because of the damage it would cause if it were known that the angels were more than simply reluctant to appear. But I can be discreet.’

  Edward held forward the breast of his surcoat. ‘What does that say?’

  Montagu rolled his eyes. ‘It’s rather difficult to see in this light.’

  ‘Don’t joke your way out of this, Montagu. What does it say?’

  ‘It is as it is.’

  ‘The motto of my house. “It is as it is.” No point whining about it. We took on the Scots without angels and won.’

  ‘To be fair, sir, the Scots have never managed to win an angel from God.’

  ‘I wonder why that is.’

  ‘I’d always assumed they rather terrify Him,’ said Montagu.

  Edward smiled. ‘You can always amuse me, Montagu. Particularly with the victories you bring me.’ The king was quiet for a moment. ‘Can you bring me victory here?’

  ‘I can try, sir. Your royal wife brought the patronage of eight saints as part of her dowry, the court has another thirty or so between the higher nobles. We can call in the relics and see what divine aid can be summoned.’

  ‘It has been tried, Montagu. I …’ The king waved his hand.

  ‘I wasn’t told.’

  ‘My wife has tried. If a lady of her royal blood and piety can’t gain insight with eight saints, then we have no hope even with eighty or eight hundred. We must ask for God’s blessing, of course, but we cannot expect it.’

  ‘And if the French receive it instead?’

  ‘Then we shall show Him on the field that, by our valour, we deserve His help.’

  ‘We’ll show plenty of valour to take on fifty thousand men, backed by angels, under a banner that guarantees victory.’

  ‘Good, then how can He deny us? We are English, like the mastiff who goes grinning into the maw of a bear. We honour God on the battlefield, shedding our blood to defend Him, showing Him that the French cannot defend church, cathedral and monastery from the devastation we can wreak. Then the angels will come to us. Or Philip’s will go from him and we will have our victory. The French do not yet suspect our weakness, our spies report no gossip at court. We may force them to an accommodation that could make us all rich men. Take courage, cousin – Christ once thought God had forsaken Him too. It was not so.’

  ‘And if we lose?’

  Edward glanced at the men in the shadows. ‘Then I am dead and my debts are cleared. To man, if not to God.’

  Montagu gave a short laugh. When he had first heard Edward say ‘I am England,’ he had thought it a useful piece of propaganda. Lately, the king was coming to believe it.

  ‘Well,’ said Montagu, ‘a happy outcome is almost guaranteed. Luckily I had not expected to live to see all my children wed.’

  ‘Who does? That concludes our business. Send these whores and I’ll see which of them pleases me.’ Edward put his arm on Montagu’s shoulder. ‘Trust to God, William; trust to God. He will not desert us when our hour of need comes.’

  Edward walked from the church, his trumpets sounded and the cold air was loud with the rattle of the fighting men sitting up on their horses.

  Montagu glanced up into the black sky as he followed his king. ‘This is our hour of need,’ he said to the heavens.

  2

  Two men remained in the ruins of the burned church. One was a lower sort of knight in a blue coat trimmed with sable fur and bearing three golden polecats.

  ‘What were they talking about Bardi? He kept glancing at me as though he wanted to borrow more money.’ The knight spoke.

  ‘The cancellation of the French crusade, I should guess.’

  Bardi was a head shorter than his companion and not nearly as portly. He had a thick accent and was dressed in a rich high-collared black tunic studded with sapphires. At his neck was a fine gold chain which bore a small green bottle, held by a tiny casket of gold and silver. He wore a black beaverskin hat, to which was pinned a cockleshell, worked in silver. It was a sign he had made a pilgrimage to the tomb of St James at Compostela.

  ‘Christ’s cullions! When did you hear about that.’

  ‘I learned of the Pope’s decision a week ago.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell the king?’

  ‘To what purpose, Sir De La Pole?’

  ‘The defence of our lands.’

  ‘I am, as you may have noticed, of Florence, not London. These are not my lands. I think rather of the defence of my family’s money. While he awaited news he did nothing. Now he has it, you see what happens.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about money. You bankers are as rich as Croesus.’

  ‘We were, until we gave our money to the king. Things are tighter now, believe me. My family needs to recoup its money, I say that to you because you are a man who understands such things. And the importance of keeping them confidential.’

  Pole blew like a puffed-out hunting dog. ‘I’m into him for one hundred thousand, myself.’

  ‘I know. Can you afford that?’

  Pole drew himself up, pulling at the heavy rings on his fingers. ‘Don’t ask me what I can and cannot afford, Bardi. I am a Norman, born in high estate in Hull, recognised in law as a high man above the common English herd, a master of this land. You are a foreigner and a base born man, lower than an Englishman here. Remember that when
you speak to me.’

  The Florentine shrugged but his expression showed he knew Pole couldn’t afford to lose that sort of sum. No one could.

  ‘Well,’ said Bardi, ‘there’s clearly more money in wool than I thought.’

  ‘There’s plenty of money in wool,’ said Pole.

  ‘But you need the king to pay you?’

  ‘Yes. And if he goes to France and fails, as he will fail …’

  ‘Bankrupt?’ said Bardi, rolling the English word around his mouth like a sugared plum.

  ‘Yes. No hope of angels yet?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘You seem to keep your ear to the ground.’

  ‘I let others do that. In Italy, keeping your ear to the ground is a good way to have a cart run over your head. As I guess it is here. But I hear things.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The king has lost his contact with the divine entirely. The angel of St Paul’s will not speak.’

  ‘Not even speak? We have had no angels in battle since the King’s father defeated Lancaster at Boroughbridge, but everyone knows they’re harder to coax out than a prioress’s tits. Not even speak?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since ever. The angel of Westminster never appeared to him at his coronation, so I hear. His father was the last king to have such contact.’

  ‘My God, it’s worse than I thought. Mind you, a fat lot of good they did old king Ted when his dear wife had Mortimer’s men ram that red hot poker up his arse.’

  Bardi shrugged. ‘A curious death for sure. A curious time when kings were thrown down by their wives. How could God have allowed it to happen, I wonder?’

  ‘What?’ said Pole. ‘Do you know something I don’t, Bardi?’

  ‘My lord, I would never presume to say that.’ Bardi put his hand to his chest in a way that made Pole wonder if he was mocking him. ‘Young Edward came to the throne in revolution. He was a puppet. He overthrew his usurping mother and her lover, who had used him as their instrument, as soon as he could, but nevertheless, he benefited from rebellion. Perhaps God has closed his account. He will extend him no more credit.’