Son of the Morning (42 page)

‘Some people might wonder, if you have killed one angel, have you not killed more? Is that why England is missing its angels, the work of you, a foreign spy?’

‘My lord, you cannot mean to hang me.’

‘When a man like me is told what he cannot do by a man like you, Bardi, that inclines him all the more to do it.’

‘My lord, my lord Marschall, my …’ Bardi stammered. ‘If you kill me people will say it was to avoid the debt and you will never be able to borrow money again.’

‘Not when the letters are made public. You underestimate how quickly you will be forgotten, Bardi. Not even bankers mourn bankers. Does the fox mourn the passing of another fox? No, he rejoices – all the more food for him. Yet he weeps for the lion, whose prey’s bones he picks clean when the noblest of beasts has eaten his fill.’

Bardi extended a hand as if to snatch the letters away from Montagu but withdrew it just as quickly. If he didn’t know how to bully or buy someone Bardi was left relying on his charm, all of which was clearly lost on Montagu.

‘My lord, the king is in my debt. What preferment do you want?’

‘You presume to bribe me?’ Montagu spoke too loudly and a murmur went through the church.

‘My lord,’ said Bardi. ‘I must away, there is business that I …’

‘You will leave when I dismiss you and not before. Who is Good Jack?’ That was like enough to the name Montagu had seen in Eleanor Claire’s papers and Bardi had featured in those.

‘A Hospitaller. A Templar. I don’t know. A pauper. A magician by repute. I hardly spoke to him! I know him only by reputation. You may have known him as William Eland.’

Montagu felt all the breath leave him but rapidly recovered his composure. ‘You met him?’

Bardi reduced his voice to a whisper. ‘The king wanted a magician. Jack had done God knows what bargains with the Hospitallers, or perhaps they held something over him. He was a former Templar magician. The Templars were enemies of God, it was well known. He had helped Despenser, I knew that much and I thought he might be useful to …’ Bardi gestured with his eyes towards the main keep of the castle. He meant useful to the king. ‘I bargained with the Hospitallers. They used him. Or they thought they were using him. I don’t know what happened. Genuinely, I don’t.’

So a sorcerer, a demonic sorcerer had led the way that night at Nottingham.
And Edward sought him out.

‘Where is he now? You aren’t a man to give up a contact like that.’

‘He was expelled from the Hospitallers just after Edward came to the throne. He was useful to them but his heresies were too much.’

‘So he is dead?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Men like that are survivors.’

‘If I wanted you to contact him, could you?’

‘I don’t know where he is. I heard he was at La Grève – the Paris slums outside the walls. Perhaps he’s there, perhaps he’s gone. He’s drawn to the poor like a fly to shit.’

‘And no king, no prior has moved against this heretic?’

‘The people protect him. He is forewarned.’

‘How? Magic.’

‘I don’t know. It must be. That or …’

‘What?’

‘You are naïve, lord. Do you imagine that we are loved by our servants? The scullery boys and the maids? Those who dig our shit from our latrines?’

‘They respect their betters.’

‘Some do. And some do not. They might warn Good Jack.’

Incense was lit and the men in the chapel stood.

‘I need to speak to him and I want you to find him.’

‘He won’t be found unless he wants to be found.’

Montagu wished it was politic to give Bardi a turn on the rack to establish absolutely what he knew. ‘You have some strange friends, Bardi.’

‘Not friends. I am a banker. I do deals, I make money, I make
acquaintances
, so I might make money. There is no plot here, Earl Salisbury, none. I was making contacts, doing favours, putting myself in a favourable position to turn a coin. That is all. I concerned myself only with my part and did not ask and was not told anything outside that. It does not do to know too much of the business of kings, remember that.’

‘You aided an enemy of the king in Despenser. Isabella despises you.’

‘Not knowingly. The good queen should know I am blameless. Whatever I brought Despenser, it did him no good. You might argue Edward might not be on the throne today had his father’s favourite not been encouraged in such a grievous sin that it inflamed God’s wrath.’

Montagu raised his eyebrows – an expression that conveyed as much as other men do when they bang their fists upon a table and scream. He waited a long moment before he replied. ‘So your defence is that you are devil, but a useful one.’

‘I am a man making a living, no more. You have no idea how hard that is. Bankers are hard pressed nowadays. Kings borrow and do not repay.’

‘It’ll be a long time before you have to take up the begging bowl, Bardi.’

Bardi nodded, a little scoop of the head, like a dog creeping back for forgiveness to the owner who had beaten it. ‘The course is clear. If old Edward can be located.’

‘I believe him to be with the banner. That is what I have been told.’

Bardi bent forward, another little bow. My God, these bankers. A true nobleman would have scorned to have begged and recommended himself to the scaffold. This man had no honour and thought nothing beyond his own comforts, his own profit. A worthless life. The priest snuffed out candles. The mass was ending, the chapel cast in the cold fading light of the windows.

‘Then there is hope he could be found. Others have made mention of banners.’

‘Who?’

‘I have a man looking into alternative avenues to angelic help. He has been seeking the Drago and I have had word today that he may be getting close. Perhaps this new information will allow him to narrow the area of his search.’

‘He has been working with devils?’ Montagu’s voice was low.

‘Yes. But God works with devils doesn’t he? Have you heard the book of Job? God works with the great devil there, sending him to test his follower. But the Drago was mentioned by a demon that my man spoke to. A demon or a devil.’

‘Aren’t they the same thing?’

‘The occultists like to make a distinction. The demon is an enemy of God, the devil his friend. I have intelligence from infernal spirits that says the Drago could save England. Perhaps it meant it would lead us to you know who. I have word only today that my man expects progress.’

‘Do you think your man could find him? The Knights Hospitaller will have no more than twenty castles suitable to hold a king. Fewer if he has his angels with him. They’ll need a spectacular chapel.’

‘He could try. And then I could send one of my men to speak to him. If Edward were to die during the conversation …’ Bardi shrugged, his body hunched, his mouth turned down like a mastiff’s.

He had spoken what Montagu had been thinking but hearing the offence against God said out loud brought the earl into a sweat. ‘If I thought that was your aim, Bardi, I would have to oppose you.’ Montagu spoke with more heat than he’d intended. The idea of killing a king was abhorrent to him. Abhorrent. But Isabella, had been marooned at Newcastle by old Edward, left to the Scots. Isabella, scorned in favour of those tyrannous favourites.
Isabella
, no reason, no thought beyond her name, the memory of her in the morning light, the curve of her back, her fine gold hair, her touch. Isabella. Isabella! He hoped she had bewitched him, because if she hadn’t, this unholy and forbidden passion came from within himself.

‘Then it is not my aim. A conversation, no more. I would ask for the banner,’ said Bardi. Bardi appeared cowed, and Montagu realised his fury had shown in his face.

‘Good, we understand each other.’

‘We should meet again after I have made my enquiries.’

‘Yes. How long will that take?’

‘I don’t know. Not too long. Six months?’

‘I need to travel to meet the king’s army. He’s going to force the French to fight in the Agenais. Hurry up or you may not see me again.’ Montagu spoke of the possibility of his own death as another man might discuss the prospects for rain.

‘How shall I contact you?’

‘Send your letter to Antwerp. I’ll have a man there.’

‘Very good. I’ll be quick. Do not tell the king, Earl Salisbury. There is no profit in it. Nor any sense either.’ Bardi made a patting motion with his hands, to illustrate his call for calm.

Montagu tapped his tongue against his teeth. ‘There are only so many deceptions a man can bear. The king must know what I know.’

‘But what advantage is that to you?’

‘I think not of the advantage to me but of the advantage to him.’

‘He might kill you.’

Montagu shrugged.

‘If God wills it.’

‘Hang on, he could have me killed! I was an unwitting gull in all this but I know kings. Edward will not see it that way.’

‘Rest easy. I promise I will petition him that you die quickly, if that is his will. They may even grant that you die by the sword, not the axe.’

Bardi was pale. ‘There are courses of action that the young king’s friends might take that he could not sanction. Some friends might think the old king better dead. Young Edward would have to oppose that, no matter what the personal cost to him. But whether he knows already that old Edward might be alive or if he discovers it, he would prefer him dead. In his heart, he will want him dead – I am sure.’

At Castle Rising, Montagu had awoken before Isabella and known even then he was lost. Nothing would ever compete with the sight of her sleeping, naked, as the sun rose through the window, the birds sang and the smell of the wet grass filled the chamber. No point seeking chivalrous old Montagu any more. He had gone. Now the Earl was simply a man doing an impression of his former self.

‘I could not sanction the death of the old king. He would have to be brought back here, no matter the chaos that would cause.’ But he couldn’t help himself, and had to continue, ‘You talk of what the king wants in his heart. I want what is in the king’s heart. The king’s position is my own. I am sure of that. The king’s position is my own.’
God’s hot piss, William, how clumsy can you be? Why not ask the man to choose from a range of daggers?

The mass was dismissed and the priest uttered his final blessing.

‘Of course,’ said Bardi. His face was frozen in the candlelight, unmoving, a hideous smile of complicity carved into it like a scar into the skin of an apple. Montagu longed to wipe it away. Other men would have scorned Montagu’s hypocrisy. Bardi appreciated it. He understood the meaning behind what Montagu had said, Montagu knew it, but he would not retract it – not with the memory of the injustices
she
had suffered.

Montagu felt himself colouring with self-disgust. He reminded himself he was under the eyes of God. A business begun in this church could only proceed with the Lord’s blessing. And old Edward could not die if God did not will it.
Don’t gild it or lie to yourself. You dog, William, you dog.

‘I will inform my servants. We will search for an elegant solution,’ said Bardi.

‘Do not kill him.’

‘No. Too simple a solution for Florentine tastes anyway.’

‘Swear you won’t kill him.’

‘I swear I won’t kill him.’

Montagu knew well that he was leaving the door wide open for Bardi’s servant to kill him. Make him swear he won’t even command his death. The earl couldn’t get the words out.

Bardi gave a little bow.

‘Is that all, my lord?’

It’s done,
thought Montagu. Best not think of old Edward as the king. Best think of him as
her
enemy. He looked up at the rose windows. He’d tear God from His throne for her if he had to.

‘Yes. Now get out of my sight, you perfumed toad,’ said Montagu. Bardi bowed and was gone like a wisp of incense. Montagu strode to the altar and kneeled to pray – but not for Edward, for Isabella.

3

Bardi was admitted to the dingy hall of the priest’s house. It was cleaner than the last time he’d visited, he noted, but comfortless – no rug, no wall hanging, nothing but the bare boards. You could believe no one lived there.

In truth, Bardi was sorely troubled. Firstly, he had received a letter from his father that morning, imploring him to get payment out of Edward – but Bardi knew that wasn’t going to be possible. His father spoke of ‘grave dangers’. That, Bardi thought, meant the bank was as good as sunk.

He was not sure of Montagu. The only way to get a return on his investment was an English victory over the French. That meant Edward must have angels. But if Edward knew that his father was alive, and that others suspected it, then he might very well move to protect him. Or he might move to protect the secret – particularly if Montagu was indiscreet. This placed Bardi himself in a mightily vulnerable position, somewhere he did not intend to remain. Montagu had promised him that he would be murdered nicely. That might be a consolation to earls but it was scant comfort to this merchant.

Bardi considered Montagu an idiot. Going before the king with his great secret, earnest, willing to act. To Edward he might appear as a viper to be crushed beneath his foot. Montagu relied on his friendship with the king to protect him. But kings don’t have friends, Bardi well knew. A threat to Edward was more than something personal – it was a threat to his whole line, to the state, to England. Killing Montagu would leave Edward in a fearfully bad mood and, when kings lose their temper, they look for targets for their wrath. Would he torture Montagu to get the names of others? Might Montagu reveal those letters, showing where Bardi had first encountered Good Jack and the service he had done Despenser? Edward couldn’t just kill Bardi out of hand to cancel his debts, but if Bardi was convicted of a crime, with letters to prove the truth of the accusation, the king would be free of a huge financial burden.

Consequently, Bardi had spent the morning drafting a letter to Joan of Navarre to ensure Montagu would never reach the king on the continent. The banker reflected on his correspondence with the queen. He had used bank contacts to offer her the Drago. She said she would not be interested and to address all correspondence to her husband. That letter had been signed and officially sealed. Then, unsigned, and with a standard French court seal, had come another letter in the same handwriting. It mentioned no one by name but said that certain alliances might be possible – that the French crown’s aims were not that of all its allies. It called Philip a usurper and said that anything that could be done to hurt him should be done. So she
might
buy the Drago. Joan had money. Enough to save a bank? It would certainly be a big help. Interestingly enough, the letter mentioned the boy Dowzabel and asked for him to be sent to France. How had she heard of him? Bardi had been around long enough to realise that great queens don’t request to see vagabonds without great reason.