Day of Wrath (27 page)

‘Time's running out. There'll be no rest until we find Ultor. One thing's clear, that's for sure, he wants Agnes Myles silenced. And he's setting about it in a devious way. He wants other people to do his work for him. He could've burned down her house with her in it, but no, he sets her shed on fire. Now why? Did he know she kept something in there which could incriminate him? I wonder … is the shed completely destroyed?'

‘I could check on my way home.'

‘I'll come with you, Jane. Has Agnes said anything to you, yet?'

‘Of course not. The poor soul's been frightened out of her mind. She can't remember anything at the moment, except what happened to Ambrose and the fire. But I'll keep trying.'

‘And Jane, take care. If it gets around that you are seeing Agnes regularly, then your life could be in real danger. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.'

He took hold of her hands and examined her slender fingers one by one. ‘These hands are made to play the lute, not to put out fires. One day, when this is all over, Jane, you must come here and play just to me. And we will talk of music and dancing and love, and forget all these horrors.'

She flashed him a smile and withdrew her hands. ‘I would love that, Nicholas, but there's just one small problem.'

‘And what's that?'

‘I've got an old and crabby father whom I happen to love, but who loathes the gentry. You'll have to get round him first before he'll let me come up here and play music to you. He's trying to find me a nice respectable wool merchant, someone he can gossip with; someone who won't make him feel inferior.'

‘We can soon put a stop to all that. He can call me Nicholas like you do.'

‘That'll be the day, my Lord,' she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘Maybe he'll mellow as he gets older. But let's get down to Agnes's cottage.'

*   *   *

They rode together down to the village. Thyme Cottage hadn't been touched by the fire, but the shed was almost destroyed. Only a couple of corner posts were still standing looking like two blackened teeth. They picked their way over the charred wood and the smashed bottles, their contents spilled out and congealed on the floor. There was nothing here that they could salvage.

‘I don't know what she kept in here. I don't think she ever made an inventory, but I think there was a row of pottery jars on a shelf over there. There's no sign of them now. Of course, Agnes could have rearranged her stock before the fire, but I think that someone knew what was in those jars and came back after the fire was over and took them away. Anyway, there's nothing left now.'

‘It sounds like Ultor wanted to destroy the evidence in those bottles. Maybe he came back in the early hours of the morning. Maybe he hid somewhere until everyone had gone home. Damn, how stupid I've been! I should've put a guard on the house.'

‘You weren't to know there was anything important to steal in the shed. After all, it was completely destroyed. I wonder if Agnes can remember anything about the contents of those jars. Nicholas, I pray to God that she's safe in her little room.'

‘It must be the safest place in the county, Jane. She's in a strongly built room with no outside window, attached to a Priory. And you have the key.'

‘You're quite right. I'll try not to worry about her. But I'm terrified he might strike again.'

They stood there looking at the blackened heap of rubbish that was once Agnes's apothecary's store. The shadows were creeping across the garden; evening was drawing in. Jane shivered.

‘Who is this Ultor, Nicholas? He's clever, literate and ruthless. He'll not hesitate to get rid of an old woman who might be a witness.'

‘And he's devious,' said Nicholas. ‘And dangerous, Jane. He must never suspect you're involved in all this.'

‘He'll not suspect a feeble woman. I'm only doing what all charitable women do – visiting the sick. No, I don't think I'm in any danger. You are much more vulnerable.'

‘He wants me alive, right enough. I'm necessary to his plans. After all, the King's coming to stay in my house. Of course if, God forbid, he succeeds in his plotting, he'll get rid of me later on.'

‘We must find him, Nicholas. But where do we go from here?'

‘You tell me, Jane.'

‘Me? But I'm only a feeble woman. How should I know?'

Chapter Twenty

‘Forty people!' exclaimed Geoffrey Lowe.

‘At least,' said Nicholas looking at him impatiently. ‘Oh stop panicking; you're acting like an old woman. Use your imagination. This is the King we're talking about. He'll have at least ten personal servants; the Queen about the same. She's expecting a child, remember, and will have extra ladies-in-waiting. Then there are the six yeomen, the King's personal bodyguard. We must invite the Prior, the Sheriff plus two of his side-kicks; and then there's Warrener. He'll have to be invited, I suppose.'

‘Why the hell do we have to ask him?'

‘Because his daughter's going to sing for us. Oh yes, that means Brother Benedict will have to come; and there'll be some musicians as well. Damn! That means we ought to ask the Bishop; but on second thoughts, no. There's been enough trouble in the cathedral lately. So get it into your head that there'll be at least forty people sitting down to dinner on the night of the seventh. Then don't forget the servants and the lay brothers; they'll want soup and small beer and cold meats.'

‘My Lord, what about the night of the sixth? They won't expect a banquet surely?'

‘No, with any luck, they'll all be tired. They'll need a good selection of roasts – the King's got a good appetite – nothing elaborate, mind. The Queen'll not want to stay up late.'

‘What's the timetable for the seventh, my Lord? I'm not prying into matters that are none of my business,' he said, seeing Nicholas's look of surprise. ‘I only want to know what time the King's going to want his dinner.'

‘Don't worry. It hasn't occurred to me that you might be a spy. I'm afraid I can only give you an approximate time. It all depends on the King's whim. It's not unknown for him to order a banquet and then not turn up because something else has caught his fancy. But I think high water's around midday, and the fleet will only have a couple of hours to sail past before they'll have to make their offing.'

‘A tight timetable, my Lord. The King'll be worn out.'

‘King Harry? Exhausted? That'll be the day.'

‘The Queen'll surely not want to go with him; the Portsmouth road is terrible after the recent storm.'

‘Oh there you go again! Just stop worrying, Geoffrey. It's not going to happen until next week. The road'll dry out by then. Now tell me what you're going to feed us on and be quick as I've got work to do.'

‘I've put aside ten lambs, still suckling. Six kids. Two oxen. A barrel of salt eels. We'll need half a dozen pigs, at least. Very useful they are when it comes to feeding large numbers. Mary makes good sausages, port meat, mixed with fresh herbs and stuffed into the pig's entrails…'

‘Mary?'

Geoffrey gave a guilty start and looked away. ‘Mary Woodman – you know, Mortimer's cook. She's tired of looking after Roland, Fitzroy's steward, and she's offered to come over and help us. She's over here most days giving me a hand. She's a marvellous cook; great with fruit and honey desserts; we're lucky to have her.'

‘Why not ask Fitzroy's steward to come over and help us out?'

‘Not on your life, sir. We don't want the likes of him poking his nose into everything.'

A knock on the door, and Anthony, Geoffrey's nephew, came in. He shuffled his feet nervously, not wanting to interrupt.

‘Well, what is it?' said Nicholas.

‘There's a man come to see you, my Lord. Says you sent for him.'

‘Me? I haven't sent for anyone as far as I know. Well, did you ask his name?'

‘He says he's Amos Cartwright.'

‘Well, I don't know him.'

‘He's the haberdasher, my Lord. You know, you asked me to find you one,' said Geoffrey.

Nicholas gave a start. Of course, the King's new doubt-let. How could he have forgotten it?

‘Oh yes, now I remember. Well, tell him to come in.'

Anthony left the room, returning minutes later with one of the strangest men Nicholas had ever seen. He was tiny, with a neat, slim body, a sharp, pointed face, and a receding hairline. His skinny legs were encased in woollen stockings, brown with an orange pattern on them of trailing vines. A beautifully fitting jacket made of brown wool of the finest quality, the sleeves slashed to reveal a fine cream shirt underneath. A young man, with a long-suffering expression, staggering under the weight of several bales of cloth, accompanied him. They looked like a couple from elfin land, and Nicholas had a job to stop himself from bursting out laughing.

‘Good morning, my Lord,' said the little man. ‘Cartwright from Marchester. Tailor and haberdasher. This is my assistant, Christopher. You want me to make a jacket, I understand.'

‘You're very welcome. Now, put those bales of cloth on the table, and we'll take a look at them. Stay with us, Geoffrey. We'll need you as a model.'

‘Me, my Lord? I can't afford a jacket.'

‘It's not for you. I owe the King a new doublet and he's not likely to forget. Now measure up my steward, Master Cartwright, whilst I take a look at the cloth. The King's about your size round the chest and belly,' he said, poking Geoffrey in the middle. ‘He's a bit shorter than me. Now get it right, Master Cartwright. The King's very particular about his clothes.'

Cartwright was visibly shaken. He clutched hold of the back of a chair and gazed helplessly at Nicholas. ‘The King, did you say?'

‘That's right. Didn't you know? Don't panic, man. This is the chance of a lifetime. The King of England comes to Dean Peverell and you've been asked to make him a coat. It'll get you a royal warrant and your descendants will be the most envied tailors in the whole of Sussex.'

‘My Lord, I'm not worthy…' babbled Cartwright. ‘I'm overcome with the honour.'

‘Oh, pull yourself together,' said Nicholas impatiently. ‘It's only a coat. Let's get on with it.'

Whilst the two men set about measuring Geoffrey Lowe, Nicholas studied the bales of cloth. Eventually he chose a soft velvet fabric, the colour of fresh green leaves in spring. He held it up to the sunlight and shafts of light played over it, making it shimmer like a rainbow over a waterfall.

‘This is the one. It'll go with his red hair. Good country colour. Make it fit Geoffrey. Have ties down the front so that it can give an inch or two if necessary. Make a good collar. The King likes collars.'

‘When's the King coming, my Lord?' said Cartwright nervously.

‘I'll need to have it here by the fifth. The King's got a habit of suddenly changing his plans.'

‘But that only gives me eight days,' Cartwright wailed.

‘Plenty of time. Now what are you waiting for? Hurry up and do your measuring. Give Master Cartwright and his assistant some beef and beer when they're finished, Geoffrey. Now I must get over to the stables and see to the horses.'

Anthony had slipped in quietly again and glanced across at Nicholas.

‘A monk to see you, my Lord.'

‘A monk! What sort of monk?'

‘They all look the same to me.'

‘Don't be a fool. Young? Old? Fat? Thin?'

‘Young, my lord. Dark hair, thin.'

‘Brother Benedict! Now what the devil does he want?'

*   *   *

‘The Prior'd like to see you, Lord Nicholas,' said Brother Benedict, bowing deferentially.

‘Did he say what he wants?'

Brother Benedict looked at him reproachfully. ‘No, my Lord. It's not for me to know what's in the Prior's mind.'

‘Well, I suppose I ought to get down to see what he wants. Did you come on horseback?'

‘Me? Oh no. Monks don't ride horses.'

‘Well, you can hitch a lift behind me if you like.'

‘Oh I couldn't do that. What'll the Prior say if he sees me? I shall have to make a public penance in front of all the Brothers in the Chapter House.'

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders, collected Harry from the stables and rode down to the Priory, Benedict walking briskly behind him.

*   *   *

The Prior was waiting for them at the gatehouse. He looked his usual benevolent self, but Nicholas could sense an air of anxiety about him.

‘How much longer do I have to put up with this old woman on my premises, Lord Nicholas? It won't do, you know. The brethren don't like it. Some of them think she's a witch. A very bad witch; in league with the devil. Mind you, I keep an open mind on such matters. I'm very tolerant, easy-going to a fault, I think. I need evidence before I condemn someone, and Agnes Myles seems quite harmless to me. But I'd still like her out of here.'

‘What's bothering you, Prior? She's out of your way. Mistress Warrener's looking after her. She's harmless.'

‘That remains to be seen. And that's another thing, Mistress Jane's down here a bit too often for comfort. Some of the brothers are getting restless. She's upsetting them. Brother Martin's taken to sneaking out of the infirmary to wait for her. Brother Michael will have to start bleeding them again. Well, whilst we're here, we might as well take a look in the infirmary. Brother Wilfrid keeps asking for you, my Lord. He's taking a mighty long time to take his leave of us. Still, God knows when He wants Brother Wilfrid to join Him.'

They strolled over to the infirmary, which was close to the gatehouse. At the door, the Prior stopped suddenly and turned to face Nicholas. ‘The Commissioners will be here tomorrow, my Lord. What am I going to do with 'em, eh? I'm told they're going to be here for two weeks. Two weeks! What the hell are they going to do in two weeks?'