Son of the Morning (78 page)

Behind him, at the trot, came more boar men.

‘Lord Sloth?’ said Montagu to Tom as the procession tumbled by.

‘Indeed, sir. The Iron Lion himself. He serves God. We’ve had it all explained.’

‘Indeed.’

‘If you want the evidence, see how he’s taken the revolutionaries. That’s the Black Priest, I’ll wager, and his dam Greatbelly. They’ve been stirring rebellion here for months. It’ll be good to see them hang. If he hangs them.’

‘What else might he do?’

‘He ate the last one he captured alive. Took his time about it. If I had a choice I’d let them draw and quarter me. A quieter death.’

‘Get me that horse.’

‘Yes, lord.’

In a few moments Tom returned with the jennet. My God, it was difficult to mount. How would he get on one of Edward’s destriers in the morning? He must, somehow, even if they had to tie him on.

The saddle had a very high pommel and cantle – a war saddle designed to be difficult to fall out of. He’d take that tomorrow. In ordinary tilting Montagu preferred a low back to his saddles – better to be knocked out of the seat than held firm against the lance. But he would be too groggy to sit in one of those. A proper battle saddle was designed to keep the rider in the seat no matter what. That would do for him.

Getting on was another matter; a mounting block had to be brought and Tom had to shove Montagu from below. Finally he was on.

Sloth’s drums were unceasing, dizzying and loud, like a second heartbeat thumping in the chest. The devil wheeled his charger at the centre of the prisoners – the terrified captives scattering from the stamping hooves, only to be pushed back by the ring of boar men. Sloth threw back his head and roared.

‘See, see how I have brought the rebels to pay! Tomorrow we’ll hang ’em high and I shall suck on their entrails! Now pray with me, boys!’ There were screams from the prisoners, some voices raised to call for help from Lucifer, others repenting and asking God for forgiveness.

Sloth dropped from his charger and kneeled. ‘Dear God, who made Heaven and earth and Hell, we have delivered these rebels to you. We will part their souls from their bodies so they may descend to the lake of fire where your punishment will be visited upon them. You, the great and mighty Lord, strengthen us to downthrow your enemies as you downthrew the impostor Lucifer. Amen!’

The boars all said amen and set about tying the Luciferians to each other. Sloth prowled around examining knots, crying out ‘Good and tight boys – tie ’em good and tight!’ and sniffing at the terrified people.

Montagu rode forward. Now he could see the Luciferians close up they didn’t seem nearly as frightening as Edward had suggested. Overthrow the king and upset God’s order? They didn’t look capable of overthrowing a plum pudding.

The lion looked across at him. Montagu was seated on the horse but Sloth was at eye level. His breath stank of rotting meat.

‘Lord Sloth,’ said Montagu.

‘Lord Montagu, I take it, by your eye,’ said Sloth, bowing. ‘You are a servant of God, I know it well. I am honoured to meet you.’

‘How did you find the rebels?’

‘How one finds anything: by fear. Chew on enough guts and you get the answers you want well enough.’

Montagu’s head was spinning. The lion’s voice had the quality of a cymbal struck close to the ear.

‘The king bids us fight tomorrow,’ said Montagu.

Sloth licked at his lips, appraising Montagu.

‘Then he wants you dead.’

‘I believe he does.’

‘I’ll be glad to oblige him. Enough of talk, I’m going for food.’ The lion gave a little bow and strode off through the camp, a boar man leading his destrier behind.

Sloth chilled him. It was as if he’d come back to a different world, where everything he’d known had been turned on its head. Montagu had never thought to ask why, if angels could walk the earth, devils didn’t too. Now it seemed that they did. What had reduced England to reliance on these abominations? He thought of the mercenary in the east and the boy. How long would it take to find old Edward and to kill him? Young Edward would surely use his angels to rout this scum as soon as they came back to him.

His horse, led by the squire, took him through the camp. Men hailed him as he went. Already talk of his God-granted escape from the French dungeon was circulating the camp. Edward was nowhere to be seen.

‘You’ll put these devils in their place tomorrow, sir!’

A man-at-arms saluted him. It was all Montagu could do to incline his head in acknowledgement. So the word was spreading, he would fight in the tournament. He wondered where Edward was.

He did long to see his friend, to talk of their struggles together. Who had he loved in his life? His wife, certainly. His sons, undoubtedly. His feelings for Isabella were not love, nothing as healthy. She was a fever and he was sick with her. But apart from that, who? Edward. Best friend. Confidant. King. Montagu always knew he would gladly have given his life for the king, should it have been demanded. And now it was demanded. So be it.

Montagu wanted to be useful to his friend, even on the eve of his death. The lion would never get anything of worth out of the prisoners. On campaign, Montagu had seen enough men tortured to prise out information on secret routes, supply lines and expected dates of reinforcement. He thought it a useless practice. Such truths as were revealed were caught up in a web of desperate invention and willingness to please.

Negotiation, however, and bribes, worked well. Offer a man a way out of a lifetime’s toil if he would betray the lord for whom he toiled and you had a good chance of success. Knights, despite their vows, could be bought as easily as any other man, grievances exploited, ambitions piqued.

‘Let’s go back to the prisoners,’ he said.

The group were tied, fearful faces peering out in the light of the camp fires like the damned souls in Hell they were so shortly to become. Montagu had sometimes actually felt sorry for the poor who had been captured in war – rather than being slaughtered on the spot. Not their war, not their quarrel, nothing more to gain from risking their lives than a few pennies’ pay. But these were different: they were not content with their God-given station. They had ambition and ambition was the preserve of high men.

The great fat woman and the thin priest were tied at the edge of the group. Montagu felt impelled to talk to them. ‘Get those two out. I want to speak to them in my pavilion.’ Montagu ordered the stinking boar man looking up at him with his piggy red eyes.

Montagu felt he might vomit. His head pounded and his hands shook on the reins.

‘The prisoners are to remain here, so says Lord Sloth!’ Its voice was a squeak, like a swollen door on flagstones.

‘I am the Lord Marschall of England. I don’t care what Lord Sloth says – if I want to interview a prisoner, I will. Bring me the prisoners.’

‘The prisoners are to remain here, so says Lord Sloth.’

‘Do you want me to kill this devil for his presumption?’ Tom had his hand on his sword.

‘That won’t be necessary, Tom,’ said Montagu. ‘I’ll kill it myself if I have to. I won’t repeat myself. Do as I say.’

Another boar man spoke. ‘The prisoners are to remain here …’

‘So says Lord Sloth,’ said Montagu. ‘I am Lord Marschall of England, therefore second only to the king in God’s appointed order. Lord Sloth is a devil of Hell, no more than one of God’s employees, not, unlike an angel, of the same substance. In the name of the right invested in me by God on high, you will do as I say.’

The boars glanced at each other. ‘He’ll kill us for this,’ said one.

‘But we must respect God’s holy order,’ said the other, who wore a black-plumed helmet. The boars began to argue and squeak among themselves.

‘Tom …’ said Montagu, gesturing with his eyes to the prisoners. Tom slid past the quarrelling boar men.

‘Hey! We’ll cut you down for that,’ said a boar man.

‘Did Lord Sloth command that?’ said Montagu.

The boar man hesitated, his tusks seeming to twitch. ‘He left no instructions,’ he said.

‘Well, I don’t see how you can proceed without orders,’ said Montagu.

There was a deal of head-scratching and miserable squeaking from the boars.

‘Go and ask him,’ said one.

‘He’s at his feast. You can’t disturb him during his feast – he definitely has left orders about that,’ said another.

Tom freed the priest and the fat woman and led them through the ranks of the grumbling devils.

They had been badly beaten, both had swollen faces and the priest had a large untreated cut across his forehead. Montagu, feeling slightly more steady, turned his horse for his pavilion. He didn’t like the sensation of turning – it was as if a part of him stayed in the direction he had originally been facing while most of him wheeled about, the laggardly part jerking back to join the rest with a dizzying snap.

At the pavilion he dismounted with difficulty and all but crawled back to sit on his bed. Tom brought in the prisoners.

‘Kneel before the lord.’

‘No need for that, Tom, no, no. They can sit if they find it more comfortable.’

Both prisoners slumped to the ground, the woman clutching the carpet.

‘Fetch them a drink, Tom, beer and a little bread.’

The squire raised his eyebrows but left the tent to do as he was asked.

‘You’ve caused us a deal of trouble,’ said Montagu. The eyes of the priest weren’t on Montagu but behind him, where lay the angel feather cloak. Neither prisoner replied.

‘What do you want? We’re all Englishmen in the best modern way now. I can speak a different language to you but I am as wedded to this country as you are. Surely we should fight together against our common enemy, not be at each other’s throats.’

Again nothing.

‘If you refuse to set out your demands then your enemies have a clear field to insist on theirs. I ask again, what do you want?’

‘Food for our children. Clothes, shoes,’ said the fat woman.

‘You must labour for them. That is the station God appointed to you.’

‘To have the lords take everything from us? To be taxed on top for wars we don’t want to fight. Why has the king greater need of my wool than I? This carpet on which you wipe the shit from your shoes is finer than any bed my children have ever known.’ The woman was not cowed, he noted. She spoke with passion and intensity, her great arms quivering as she wrung her hands. Beside her the priest glowered, his face like a skull in the flickering lamplight. Perhaps, thought Montagu, she took all his food.

‘What is your name?’

‘Joanna Greatbelly.’

‘Joanna Greatbelly, lord,’ he corrected her.

‘I would once have called you lord, but no more. I have seen the truth of creation and I know that the one who will lead us to the promised land is here on earth.’

‘You have a leader?’

‘Not a leader,’ interjected the priest. His head came forward, as if to butt the words into Montagu – he looked like a starving guard dog straining against its leash.

‘I’m not sure I like your tone,’ said Montagu. ‘I’ve treated you civilly, now I’d thank you to do the same. What then, if not a leader?’

‘A friend.’

‘And this friend will downthrow all God’s order?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who is he?’

‘My apprentice. Dowzabel.’

‘The mercenary’s squire? I wouldn’t put your faith too strongly in him.’

‘He will go to the king in the east. He will take the banner that will overthrow the high men. Ask yourself why the skies fill with demons, why devils come to earth, why the angels are nowhere to be seen. Lucifer is coming and he has sent his harbinger,’ said the priest.

‘Surely you must want to prevent this? What is it you want from us?’

‘Your humility,’ said the priest. ‘Confess how you have leeched off ordinary men, stolen and deceived. Confess. Learn the lessons Christ Lucifer gave you in the Bible “But woe unto you that are rich! For ye have received your consolation. Woe unto you, ye that are full now for ye shall hunger.”’

‘My remembrance of the beatitudes is that they encourage people to love those who hate them. Do you?’

‘We do not seek your blood. Where are our soldiers? We have five hundred Welsh bowmen who would gladly fight for us, but we ask them not to.’

‘Why do you quote Christ?’

‘Christ was Lucifer, come to earth. His message was peace and reconciliation. You turned it to war.’

Montagu felt uncertain. Two years before he would have believed nothing of what the fallen priest was telling him. But so much of it had proved to be true. Demons were different from devils – he had seen as much, heard as much. He found it easy to feel he sided with angels but not with the likes of Sloth, Despenser and the boar men. He was no Bible scholar, not at all, but what king followed Christ’s injunction to poverty? Christ had said to a prince, ‘If you want to be perfect, sell everything that you have, and give to the poor, and you shall have treasure in Heaven, and come and follow me.’ The passage had always troubled Montagu. On the eve of his death, it troubled him exceedingly.

When had he been happiest? In the camp, among his soldiers, at a fireside or in the counsel of war, cajoling his men, encouraging the timid and speaking wisdom to the foolhardy. The night before a battle hadn’t the ordinary observations of rank and place melted away a little? It was as important to speak to the bowman and foot soldier as it was to the knight. No luxury there, no soft bed and fine wine. But he had been happy, through his care for others, not himself. He wondered how George was. He’d forgotten to ask in all the night’s tumult.

‘All holy men tell us the king is the head of the body of the nation,’ he said.

‘The same holy men who welcome in these devils with their whips and their knives. Sloth killed five men in the Smithfield market yesterday just in interrogating them. Then he took mass at St Margaret’s, welcomed in by the priest,’ said Greatbelly.

‘He is God’s servant.’

‘He is that,’ said Greatbelly, ‘but could Christ have sent one such as he?’

‘How does God, who smites so many in the Old Testament, become so loving in the New? They are not the same being. Lucifer is love and compassion and forgiveness. God loves blood,’ said Edwin. ‘Once it would have pained me to say that, but I have won this knowledge by hard study and sacrifice.’