Day of Wrath (34 page)

‘We'll put a dove in it,' said Nicholas firmly. ‘A symbol of peace.'

‘Very clever, my Lord. The King will be delighted.'

And I feel like Noah, thought Nicholas, stocking up the Ark.

When he'd finished his inspection, Pierre turned to Geoffrey. ‘And now, Monsieur Lowe, we go to market. When we come back, Mary will make us all an omelette; like I showed you,' he said to Mary, who'd joined them on their rounds. ‘Remember, twelve eggs,' he added, treating her to one of his dazzling smiles, ‘and keep it soft. As soft as a woman's breast.'

Mary blushed and curtsied. Geoffrey clenched his fists. Then, much to Nicholas's relief, Pierre set off for the courtyard, calling out that they would go in his carriage, and there was room for Geoffrey if he didn't mind squashing up beside him.

Nicholas took one look at his house being torn to pieces by his servants, and felt very much in the way. He decided to go and see the Prior.

At the Priory, he found very much the same situation. Cromwell's Commissioners were into everything. The services were disrupted, the Prior had to be always on hand to receive complaints about the account books or the sumptuous nature of his store cupboard. He was too bothered to talk to Nicholas, so there was nothing for it but to go home. Maybe he could find peace in his herb garden, Nicholas thought, before it was denuded of herbs to strew on the floors.

A messenger was waiting for him when he got back. It was the same young man who'd come before. He was in the kitchen eating the fresh bread and cheese Mary had given him and he jumped up when Nicholas went in.

‘From my Lord of Southampton,' the young man said, handing Nicholas the leather pouch which held a letter. Nicholas took it over to the window and took out the contents.

‘Peverell,' he read. ‘We have intercepted a letter at the Port of Littlehampton. It was written to Reginald Pole and signed Ultor. He says that the Day of Wrath is at hand. In fact he gives the day a date. The seventh of June. I think he's getting over-confident. Almost boastful, don't you think? I don't have to tell you how serious this is. It means that Ultor has not given up. We must not let the King out of our sight all the time he is with us. I've sent a message to him advising him not to come, and I think you should do the same. But I'm not hopeful. He never changes his plans. As to your letter, of course I don't want him staying the night with me. He wants to stay with you and find out how much your Priory's worth. I'll send him packing as soon as I decently can. Burn this letter, and be vigilant. Take no risks. Remember you must have all his food tasted before it gets to him. Paget.

N.B. We caught the messenger – he was one of Mortimer's servants – but he jumped over the side of the ship and got away. The tide swept him along the coast, but Fitzroy's confident he'll be picked up.'

Nicholas swore under his breath. The stupid fools – to get the letter, to lose the messenger. Terrible news indeed, he thought as he burned the letter. Ultor still with them, and getting ready to strike in six days' time. And he still didn't know who they were looking for.

*   *   *

Matins, the first service of the new day, came to an end, the monks filed out of their choir and climbed up the night stair to their dormitory over the chapter house. They entered through a small door high up in the north transept. It was a warm night, the air still and oppressive with a hint of thunder around. Each monk went to his own cubicle, separated from the others by a low wooden partition. They took off their night shoes, and lay down on the rough straw pallet on their truckle beds. In seconds, they were all asleep.

But Brother Benedict couldn't sleep. His mind wouldn't relax. Highly sensitive, he couldn't get the images out of his mind of Jane singing with her clear, bell-like voice, the noise of the jackdaws and the sound of the falling stone. He relived the shock he felt when he saw Jane fall to the floor when the stone hit her and the anguish he felt when he saw her lying white-faced in her bed. He knew he couldn't love her like a man loves a woman, he'd renounced all that when he took his vows, but Jane was special. Not only was she beautiful, but she was blessed with an independent mind and intelligence, like the women he'd heard about at the Burgundian Court. It was madness, he thought, to involve her in politics. This was a serious situation: a conspiracy, no less, against the King himself. Lord Nicholas should know better.

He grew even more awake as time passed, and soon it would be time for Prime. But someone else was awake. As he looked down the rows of cubicles, he saw someone get up, bend down to put on his night shoes, and then go towards the night stair. It was Father Hubert, who always slept in the bed nearest the stairs because, as Sacristan, he would have to ring the bell to wake the monks up and lead them down to the choir for the next service.

At first Benedict thought nothing of it. Father Hubert was elderly, he'd been much weakened through bleeding, and maybe he wanted the latrines. Perhaps, Benedict thought with growing concern, he wasn't feeling well and might need help. He got out of bed, put on his shoes, and silently made his way past the sleeping brethren and followed Father Hubert. Not wanting to embarrass him if he wanted to use the latrines, Benedict paused half-way down the stairs, and watched where Hubert was going. Much to his surprise, he didn't go out into the cloisters, which he would have done if he needed to relieve himself, but instead he went to the sacristy and opened the door. Benedict came down the stairs and hid behind one of the pillars in the north transept. Moments later, Hubert emerged carrying something which was hidden under a piece of cloth. He then walked past Benedict and went out into the cloister by the little door in the west end of the north transept.

Much disturbed, Benedict wondered whether he should follow him, but not wanting to be seen stalking a senior member of the community who had every right to visit the sacristy even if it was in the middle of the night, he went back up the stairs and lay down on his bed. This time he fell into a deep sleep which lasted until Father Hubert rang the bell for Prime.

*   *   *

Late on Saturday morning, after another disturbed night's sleep, Nicholas decided to go and see Sheriff Landstock again. Everything seemed to have come to a dead end. Tomkins and his wife weren't talking, Bovet and Perkins weren't talking either, Agnes Myles couldn't collect her wits, and Ultor's messenger was drifting around in the sea somewhere along the south coast. Someone, soon, would have to talk. Much as he hated cruelty of all kinds, he knew he would have to recommend sterner measures to the Sheriff if they were ever going to break the stalemate.

As he went to get Harry from the stables, Monsieur Pierre's little coach, drawn by a sturdy, piebald cob, came hurtling into the courtyard. Nicholas paused, then went over to meet him.

‘Good morning, Monsieur Pierre, any progress in your department?'

Monsieur Pierre grimaced. ‘Not good. I get up at dawn to seek out the best produce but everything is too dear. It's as if they know who I am and whom I'm buying for, and they want to cheat me. There's also a shortage of song birds, but I'm glad to say I've bought some barrels of live eels. We can do something with those. Some hot eel pies on the night the King arrives might go down well, I think.'

‘Sounds perfect. Now listen carefully to me, Monsieur Pierre, I'm sure you understand that we have to take every precaution to ensure the King's safety when he's here with us.'

‘Of course. I'm here to see that security arrangements are fully carried out.'

‘We'll do our best to see that they are. Now, one other thing, we shall also have to see that everything the King eats will be tasted beforehand.'

Monsieur Pierre gave Nicholas a withering look. ‘My Lord,' he said with an elaborate bow. ‘I am the King's taster. That's why he sent me here.'

And with that, he stalked off. Nicholas watched him go. So the King was no fool, he thought. He knew all the risks, and yet he still wanted to come. Was he really interested in reviewing the fleet? he wondered. He could do that at any time. Why now, when he knew there was still a conspiracy at large? Did he really want to discuss south coast defences with Southampton, or was he coming deliberately to draw out Mortimer's successor? He was brave indeed to put his head in the noose. Brave? Or foolish? But Nicholas knew that it didn't do to underestimate the King. He'd probably weighed up the risks and decided that between the Sheriff, Nicholas, and Southampton, he would be in safe hands. Still, it was a fearsome responsibility.

*   *   *

He collected Harry, who, newly groomed with his coat shining like jet in the strong sunlight, was in fine form. He led him back into the courtyard and was just about to mount when Brother Benedict came in through the main gate. Nicholas felt a sudden surge of fear. Jane? Had anything happened to her? He almost ran to meet the young monk.

‘The Prior sends for you, my Lord. Can you come at once?'

‘What's happened? Is it Jane…?'

‘Calm yourself. Mistress Jane is recovering rapidly. No, it's one of the old monks. He's near death – he's already received the last rites – and wants to see you.'

‘Brother Wilfrid?'

‘That's right. He approaches his end quite calmly but keeps asking for you. Can you come?'

‘I'll come straight away.' After all, Nicholas thought, as he set off for the Priory, Landstock's not going anywhere and Brother Wilfrid won't be with us much longer.

*   *   *

Leaving Harry with the gatekeeper, Nicholas walked over to the infirmary. Inside, all was peaceful. Two monks stood on either side of Brother Wilfrid's bed, reciting the office for the Dying. Wilfrid's eyes were closed, his hands folded on a crucifix placed on his chest. Nicholas looked down at the tiny, parchment-yellow face, and was glad that Wilfrid's passing was so serene. He bent down to listen to his breathing, which was so faint that it scarcely lifted his chest.

‘Brother Wilfrid,' he said softly, ‘it's me, Nicholas. I've come to thank you for everything you taught me when I was a child. Now go to God; He's waiting for you.'

Wilfrid opened his eyes, which, although clouded over by death, were still surprisingly blue. He turned his head to look at Nicholas.

‘Thank you,' he said, his voice just the merest whisper. ‘Those were happy days. Pity about the lass.'

For a moment Nicholas thought he was talking about Jane. But Wilfrid went on. ‘They did their best for her. Brother Martin made the potions and took it to her. It was strange, though, when the other monk added something; it was later, after Brother Martin had gone inside. It wasn't right, was it? Why be so secretive if it was harmless? The next thing, she was dead. I saw it. It worries me…'

His voice faded, and Nicholas, with growing agitation, bent down to listen.

‘Which monk? Brother Wilfrid, try to remember.'

‘Which monk? Why the old one…'

And then he stopped. He tried to take another gasp of air, but the effort was too much. When Nicholas put his head to the old man's chest, his heart had stopped.

Chapter Twenty-Five

On Sunday morning, Jane went to Mass as usual. She still ached all over and her head felt woozy, but she was determined to get back to normal as quickly as possible. After Mass was over and she'd managed to extract herself from the congregation, who were fussing and exclaiming over her, she went to see Agnes.

She had her own key to the cell, and after knocking, she let herself in. Agnes was up and dressed, her hair knotted neatly at the back of her head, and she'd washed her face and hands from the clean water in the pail by her bed. She beamed with pleasure when Jane went in.

‘I'm so glad you're better, my dear. Brother Benedict, what a nice young man he is, told me about your accident. You really shouldn't go climbing around in these old buildings, they're very unstable.'

‘I'll live. I'm just a bit stiff. But some of that oil of peppermint which you gave me to rub on my father's legs will soon loosen me up. Are you being well looked after?'

‘Couldn't be better. Brother Benedict's been very kind. But I'd like to go home now, if you please. I ought to be out in the garden gathering up the herbs for next winter; this is the best time to pick them, as you know. And I must see to Ambrose.'

Jane's heart sank. Agnes was still confused. Would her brain ever function normally? She knew that deep shock could wipe out the recent past. Of course, Agnes couldn't go home; not yet, not until she was ready to face up to reality. And not until they'd caught Ultor.

‘You see, Jane,' Agnes went on, ‘I don't know if anyone has been feeding Ambrose properly. You've been laid up, and I can hardly ask Brother Benedict to feed a cat. Ambrose does so enjoy a good dinner, although no real harm can come to him as he's a good mouse-catcher. But he'll miss not coming up on my bed in the mornings, and he does so like taking a little nap on my lap before he goes out at night. It's nice of you to give me this holiday, but it's really time I went home.'

Jane stood the basket she was carrying on the table, and lifted the cloth which covered it. The smell of chicken and fresh bread and new cheese filled the room and Agnes exclaimed with pleasure. Jane took out an earthenware jug and poured out a beaker of milk, which she handed to Agnes.

‘Don't talk about going home yet, Agnes. I'll see to Ambrose and make sure he's all right. Now come and eat some dinner and tell me something about yourself. We've not had a talk for ages, have we?'

‘I don't know what I've done to deserve such treatment,' Agnes said, as she accepted a plateful of food. ‘I've had such a wonderful rest here. Listen, you can hear the monks chanting. I watched them say Mass this morning and I hear them chanting the night offices. It's very soothing. I know most of the monks, you know. They used to come and visit me at Thyme Cottage and ask for advice when they had to treat difficult cases. I wish I could understand Latin so that I could follow the words of the singing.'