Day of Wrath (17 page)

‘I won't have you saying that,' she said firmly. ‘Lord Nicholas hardly knows me.'

‘I daresay he doesn't,' he said as he accepted the herbal drink she offered him. ‘But I've seen you talking to him, and I don't like the way he looks at you. Keep away from him, lass. He's up in London with the King and all those grand people. I hear he's bringing them all down to his house soon, so I've been told. All that cleaning and polishing and baking and brewing … Geoffrey Lowe says there's no end to it. He's at his wits' end with worry. Damn me, they even want to go hunting. Prior'll have to lend some of his horses, I shouldn't wonder, along with the contents of his cellar too.'

Jane stared at her father in consternation. ‘What are you saying, father? Lord Nicholas has got some people coming to stay with him? Who told you this?'

‘It's common knowledge. Geoffrey Lowe's been going round finding people to come and lend a hand with the cooking and the waiting at table. They're planning a great feast, I've heard. I'm sorry if I've upset you,' he said, noticing her stricken look, ‘but I thought he would have told you. He'll no doubt want you to go up there and sing to all his noble friends. Now don't take it to heart, lass, it's all for the best. I don't want you upset by the likes of Lord Peverell. The gentry pleases itself, as it always does and always will do. Now, we ought to get ourselves ready for poor Bess's funeral. You're coming, I take it?'

‘Yes, father. We'll go together. Best to stick to one's own.'

‘That's right, lass. You stick with me and you'll come to no harm.'

*   *   *

Late on Tuesday evening, Nicholas woke up. His head had stopped aching, he could think clearly, and when he sat up, his body no longer hurt. He got out of bed and pulled on his breeches. Quickly he splashed water on his face from the ewer which Geoffrey had placed ready for him, and turned to find the rest of his clothes. The door opened and Geoffrey came in, looking worried.

‘I'm glad to see you're better, sir. There's a messenger downstairs, just arrived from the King. You've got to leave for London, sir. This time they've sent a coach, and after the horses have rested the man says he wants to leave. Oh my Lord, you're not…'

Nicholas sighed and finished dressing. ‘No, I'm not being arrested, yet. Thank God there's not a drop of Yorkist blood in my veins. Now go and look after the coachman, see that his horses are fed and watered, and get some food ready. I could eat a good cut of beef nicely grilled over the fire, then pack my bags – I'll want some warm clothes as it'll be cold where I'm going. Oh, and Geoffrey…'

‘Yes, my Lord,' he said with a long-suffering look. ‘What else?'

‘Did Mistress Jane come back?'

‘After you went to sleep? No, my Lord. There's been no sign of her all day.'

‘Now I wonder where she's gallivanted off to! I wanted to have a word with her. Never mind, it can't be helped. Now go along, Geoffrey. There's no time to lose.'

Chapter Twelve

‘Peverell,' the letter began. The King had written the letter himself; the handwriting was unmistakable, elegant and clear. ‘We want this tiresome disturbance in your part of the country obliterated; not one spark left to light another conflagration. To achieve this, we must get Mortimer to speak. We want you to persuade him to reveal the names of his fellow conspirators. We order you to proceed to our Tower in London and try to reason with him. So far, under the gentler tortures he has said nothing. When we proceed to the worst, he might weaken. His wife is with him in the Tower. If you think it necessary, take her with you when you go to see him. Her presence might just achieve the desired effect. Nothing can save him from eventual execution, but should he co-operate with us, we could release him from the full rigours of a traitor's death. When you've extracted the vital information, come to see us at Hampton Court on the way home. We are looking forward to a period of relaxation in the country when we come to visit your house in the very near future.

Yours Henry T.'

Nicholas read the letter again, then carefully placed it on the glowing log in the fireplace and watched it turn to ashes. Then he turned to Geoffrey Lowe.

‘An extra cloak, Geoffrey.'

‘It's done, my Lord.'

‘Are the horses rested?' he asked the coachman, who was finishing off a plateful of bread, cheese and cold beef.

‘Well enough,' he said, brushing the crumbs off his jacket. ‘I picked up fresh horses at Duncton on the way down, they should get us to Merrow.'

‘Then let's go. And Geoffrey…'

‘My Lord?'

‘I might be away longer than usual. See to it that this place is ready for guests by the time I come back. I'll want to see the stock cupboards full, the cellars replenished and the staff briefed.'

‘Is it to Hampton Court you're going, my lord?'

‘Not this time, Geoffrey. Where I'm going, there's no laughter, no dancing, no music. I'm going to hell, but God willing I won't be staying there long. I'll be back as soon as I can. Oh, and tell Mistress Jane to guard herself. Oh, one other thing…'

‘My Lord?'

‘Tell her I'll miss her.'

*   *   *

The maze of fetid streets and lanes, usually teeming with people, were strangely quiet that stiflingly hot day, as the coach made its way through the city and up Tower Hill. London was in the grip of the sweating sickness, the Court had moved to Hampton Court and most people either stayed indoors or took to the river. As the mighty postern gate swung open to receive them, Nicholas shuddered. When he heard it clang shut behind him he thought of those words of Dante's written over the entrance to hell – Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Philip Digby, an elderly, military figure with thinning hair and grizzled beard, greeted him and personally conducted him to his room. At least, Nicholas thought, he hadn't had to arrive by the river entrance, the traitor's gate. That was reserved for the Mortimers of this world.

His room was at the top of one of the smaller towers in the inner courtyard. It was a small room with immensely thick stone walls, small windows, with a narrow bed, a table with an ewer on it, and a chair. But at least there was a rug on the floor and the coverlet on the bed was clean.

‘I trust you have everything you need here,' said Digby courteously. ‘I'll send someone to light the fire for you. These rooms are always cold.'

Nicholas nodded. Yes, he thought, the sun's warmth would never penetrate these walls.

‘Thomas Cromwell's just one floor below you, Lord Nicholas. His room's next to the council chamber, which we reserve for the use of the King's ministers. One of the guards will escort you to him when you're ready. I hope you'll come and dine with me later on when this grim business is over?'

‘Thank you, Sir Philip, I should be delighted, but I doubt that I shall have much appetite.'

Digby left him, and he washed his face and hands, laid his two cloaks on the bed, and went out to meet Thomas Cromwell.

*   *   *

Cromwell was in his usual place, behind a desk. He looked up as Nicholas went in and his coarse, putty-coloured face with its bulbous nose, creased into a smile. He stood up, rubbing his hands together nervously as he always did. Dressed in a grey robe with a fur trimming at its neck, the front fastened with a silver brooch bearing the Tudor rose, he seemed to blend in perfectly with the sombre grey walls of the Tower.

‘Come in, come in, Lord Nicholas,' he said with his usual
bonhomie.
‘It's good to see you again. I hope you had a good journey and everything here is to your satisfaction.'

‘Apart from the inconvenience of being dragged up here when I could be at home working on my estate, yes.'

‘Duty calls, my Lord. The King needs you at this moment,' said Cromwell, going over to kick up the logs on the fire, and lifting the back of his robe, he took up his position with his back to the flames. ‘Now let's not beat about the bush…'

‘I appreciate that, Master Cromwell. The sooner I am given my instructions, the sooner I can leave this place.'

‘Quite. You know, of course, we have a prisoner here – a neighbour of yours, I understand – who's guilty of the heinous crime of treason.'

‘So, is it coming to this, that we now pass sentence on people without trial?'

‘Of course he'll stand trial when the time comes, but the evidence against Sir Roger Mortimer is overwhelming. His signature is on several letters to Reginald Pole. Southampton, as you know, has been intercepting this correspondence for some time now, and the evidence has been piling up against Mortimer. But before he stands trial, it's imperative we extract information from him. As we said before, you nourish a nest of hornets in your part of the world. We've got the main ringleader, now we have to flush out the others.'

‘Maybe there are no others. Maybe the conspiracy ends with Mortimer and Catchpole.'

‘Don't live in a fool's paradise, my Lord. The conspiracy is not over. Mortimer was one of the instigators; Catchpole's a fool. He knows nothing, but he's a babbler and he refuses to recognise the King's lawful claim to be head of our Church. His name has never been found in any of the Pole correspondence. He'll end up at Tyburn. But Mortimer's a different kettle of fish. He was plotting with Pole to remove the King from the throne, and there are others who worked with him. And they are still out there. Just listen to this. I received it from Southampton two days ago. I'll only read the bit which concerns you.

‘It's been brought to my attention that Lord Nicholas Peverell is soon going to entertain a great concourse of people from Court. Some say that the King himself is coming. Is this true? If it is, then I am deeply worried that his life could be in danger. My men have intercepted a letter to Pole telling him, about these events, and the writer asks for instructions. He signs himself ULTOR.'

Cromwell looked up. ‘How's your Latin, my Lord?'

‘Good enough to know that
ultor
means avenger, punisher. Who the hell is this fellow?'

‘That's for you to find out.'

‘It's impossible.'

‘Mortimer will know. Get him to tell you.'

‘And if he doesn't?'

‘Then you will have to face up to the prospect of having the King coming to stay with you and there's someone out there planning to assassinate him.'

‘We don't know that for sure.'

‘I think there's no doubt that that's what this Ultor's instructions will be. And may I remind you, my Lord, it's your fault we're in this mess.'

‘What the hell do you mean? I didn't ask the King to come and stay with me.'

‘No, but you let your servant babble to all and sundry and now everyone knows the King's coming to your place.'

‘Now let's get this clear. I have never mentioned the King's name to anyone, not even to my bailiff. I told him to get the place ready, to hire servants, to stock up with food. And that's what he's been doing, and that's what everyone's been noticing. People aren't stupid and in a small village like Dean Peverell they notice everything. No one knows that the King's coming. The writer of that letter, this Ultor, isn't even sure.'

‘No, but he suspects, and this puts the King in great danger. We shall hold you responsible for his safety when he's with you.'

‘I live in a country house, Master Cromwell. It's not a fortress. I have no retainers to guard the King's person. You'll have to dissuade the King from coming.'

‘If you think I can do that, then you don't know the King. He's set his heart on this visit. The fleet are expecting him. But out there in those woods and fields which surround your house, an assassin lurks. You must find out who he is and deal with him before the King gets to you.' Only Mortimer knows his name, and you must make him give it to you.'

‘If you think Mortimer will betray an accomplice, then you don't know Mortimer.'

‘Don't be so sure. He's already had two days' torture with the manacles, and he's almost broken. A couple of turns on the rack and he'll be ready to tell us everything we need to know.'

‘And if he still doesn't talk?'

‘Well, if needs must, we have Lady Mortimer here in the Tower. We could bring her along to talk to her husband, and when he sees her he'll talk. They always do.'

‘This is barbarous,' shouted Nicholas, appalled at the prospect of Lady Margot having to endure the sight of her husband being tortured.

‘Maybe, but the law is the law. Treason is a hideous crime, the penalties must be severe. Now, if you're ready, perhaps you'd like to have a chat with Mortimer and see what you can do.'

Cromwell summoned the guard, and Nicholas was asked to follow him. Sick at heart, Nicholas followed him out to the great central keep, built by the first King William to defend London against invaders, and down steep, stone steps to the dungeons below.

*   *   *

At first, Nicholas didn't recognise him. Sir Roger had been starved, hung up by his hands from manacles fixed to the wall, which had torn his wrists, and the iron gauntlets, which he'd been forced to wear, had broken his hands. But he had not revealed the names of his fellow conspirators. Now, in the dungeon of the central keep of the Tower, he'd been stretched out upon a great oak frame which was raised from the ground. His wrists and ankles were attached by cords to rollers at each end of the frame. Two men wearing blood-splattered leather aprons stood by the levers which turned the rollers and stretched the body on the rack until the bones cracked and arms and legs were dislocated, if necessary.

The low, vaulted room was dimly lit by guttering rush lights and the walls dripped with moisture on to the stone floor, as the dungeon was almost at the level of the Thames. The room stank of sweat and terror and unimaginable pain. Overwhelmed, Nicholas sank down on his knees by the side of Mortimer's ravaged face, which was almost obscured by the sweat-soaked dark hair. Where was the strong, middle-aged man he'd seen only last week polishing the gleaming chestnut-coloured flanks of his horse, Galliard? In a matter of days he'd been reduced to this ghastly wreck, a travesty of a human being.