Day of Wrath (9 page)

‘I can't remember Bess having a shortage of ideas. But we did have some good times, didn't we? We're two of a pair, and that's why I'm so sad to see her like this. Bess was six when she came here with Lady Margot as her ward, and we've been the best of friends ever since.'

‘Ward, you say?' said Mary giving the soup a hearty stir. ‘Well, I suppose that's one way of putting it. Though why a daughter has to cover up for the sins of her father, I don't know.'

‘Mary, what are you suggesting? Everyone knows Lady Margot adopted Bess when her father disappeared and her mother couldn't cope on her own.'

‘I'll say no more, Mistress Warrener. Bess earns her keep. I'm sorry for her sweetheart's death and I hope she gets better soon.'

Then she banged down the spoon on the table and gave the spit a vigorous turn, sending the fat from the roasting chickens flying on to the flagstones. ‘You'll not be staying for dinner, I take it?' she added.

‘Thank you, no. I must get off home. You could take Bess some of that chicken later, when she wakes up. She might be ready to eat by then.'

‘Let's hope so. She needs feeding up, the poor lass. Good day to you, Mistress Warrener. My regards to that father of yours.'

Jane left Mortimer Lodge, and walked quickly along the road that led to the village. She didn't like leaving Bess. Something was telling her that things were not right. Of course she would be shocked and grief-stricken by Matthew's death, but she had always been physically strong. She'd never even seen her so thin and lethargic. She was also worried about the child. Maybe it was the cause of Bess's weakness. She had to talk to Agnes Myles; there was nothing she didn't know about babies. She used to be the village midwife for years before she got too old.

As she walked along the road where, on either side, the hedgerows were radiant in their bridal veils of white hawthorn flowers, and ragged robins and celandines made a bright patchwork quilt along the verges, she passed a young monk walking in the opposite direction. She nodded to him and he lowered his eyes. She remembered seeing him around. He was Brother Martin, assistant to Brother Michael, the Prior's Infirmarer. Good, she thought, maybe he was taking some fortifying medicine to Bess. The monks were experts in healing herbs.

*   *   *

‘I thought I'd caught the buggers, Lord Nicholas, I really did. Got them last night breaking into the Bishop's wine stocks. However, it turned out that I'd picked up the wrong lot. It seems that they were nowhere near your place on Monday night when Matthew Hayward was murdered. Not if I believe all the rogues who've crawled out of the woodwork to swear that the Bishop's thieves were with them in the Fox and Hounds on the Portsmouth road. I've no reason not to believe them, so I can't charge anyone for murder. Pity. I'd like to clear this case up good and proper.'

Nicholas turned round and frowned at the Sheriff. They were in his house in Marchester, and outside, in the main square, the stonemasons were just putting the finishing touches to the new market cross, built and paid for out of Bishop Radcliffe's privy purse. Already it was in use, and the farmers were just packing away their produce at the end of another busy market day.

‘What are you saying, Landstock? You can't charge people without incontrovertible evidence. This is England, not France. People here have long-established rights.'

‘Only wishful thinking, my Lord. My job is to clean up all the lawless scum in the county. Bang 'em all up, say I. They're all the same, thieves, murderers. I hate the lot of them.'

‘You still need evidence, Landstock; otherwise I can't pass them over to the Assizes. However, you know the score; I'm not teaching you to suck eggs. But let's get down to business. I can't altogether go along with you that Matthew died defending my property. I'm beginning to think that his death's part of a much wider plot. Come on, man, you're in touch with what goes on around here. Have you heard any rumours? Anyone discontented? Any talk of conspiracy?'

‘Conspiracy? Damn me, that's a dangerous word. No one in his right mind would talk about conspiracy today. Mind you, there are lots of discontented people about – there always are – but not many of them are prepared to do anything about it. Now where's that servant of mine? I told him to bring in some beer – some of my own brew, made with Lord Gilbert's hops; much better than that piddling stuff which the monks make.'

He strode over to the door, and wrenched it open. ‘Here, John, where are you, damn your eyes? Lord Nicholas here is dying of thirst.'

A servant came in with two tankards of foaming beer. Then he backed out hastily. Landstock took a gulp of his and beamed at Nicholas.

‘Not at all bad. Goes down like a treat at any time of the day.' And he wiped his foam-flecked ginger beard with the back of his hand. Nicholas took a gulp of his.

‘It's good, Landstock. It's from Gilbert Fitzroy, you say? I didn't know he grew hops on his estate.'

‘Didn't you? Well, he's got a prime site at Arundel. Keeps me stocked up. I did a small favour for him once upon a time, and he's still damn grateful. I hope he stays that way.'

‘A sensible man, Lord Gilbert Fitzroy. Likes to live quietly. He does what his ancestors have always done, looks after the county and supports the King when called upon to do so. And his stewards don't get murdered.'

‘He keeps his head down and his nose clean,' said Landstock, draining his tankard. ‘Mind you, he doesn't have to go to Court like you do.'

‘Lucky man. I wish I could live peacefully in my manor and grow hops. But the King seems to like me around at the moment. I can't think why. Lord Gilbert's a much bigger fish than I am.'

‘He's probably saving him for later; when he's finished with you. The King's after something, that's for sure. He wants your Priory for starters. Watch out he doesn't take your house. Look what happened to Wolsey.'

Nicholas laughed. ‘Peverell Manor's not quite up to the splendour of Hampton Court. Now tell me, Landstock, from your experience, what does it mean if someone's caught out telling lies?'

‘That someone's hiding something, that what he's doing. Who's been lying to you, Lord Nicholas?'

‘My under-steward, Giles Yelman. You probably don't know him; small, insignificant, a bit shifty. Makes himself useful, so I can't complain. Now I've heard a report that he's been seen up at Mortimer's place. I had a go at him this morning, but he swears he's never been there. Now what do you make of that?'

‘Who's your informant?'

‘Jane. Jane Warrener.'

‘Mistress Warrener? Now I can't see her telling lies. She's a bright lass. Sharp tongue, mind. She'll have to control that or else she'll turn into a right shrew. I pity the man who marries her.'

‘That's as may be. Now she told me that Giles has been visiting Mortimer's house. Now why should he do that? And why should he deny it?'

‘I suppose he's every right to go to Mortimer's place.'

‘Not without my permission, he hasn't. Apparently he was there the day Matthew died. I don't like it, Landstock. There's more to Matthew's murder than a chance encounter with thieves.'

‘Now you're back with your conspiracy theory again. I hope you're not going to accuse Sir Roger of treachery. Mind you, I find him a surly bugger. Nice wife though, and three nice children. He wouldn't want to see them come to any harm, would he? What are you implying, Lord Nicholas? That Sir Roger told Giles Yelman to bump off your steward? Doesn't sound likely, does it?'

‘Yelman's no murderer. But he could have let the murderers into my manor house.'

‘On whose orders? Mortimer's? Come off it, Lord Nicholas, I don't expect Mortimer even knows what Giles Yelman looks like. In any case, why should Mortimer want to get rid of your steward?'

‘Matthew was friends with Bess Knowles. The two of them could have overheard something.'

‘And Mortimer wanted him silenced? Sounds a bit farfetched.'

‘Depends what Matthew overheard.'

Landstock looked keenly at Nicholas, his eyes suddenly alert. ‘Well, I suppose we ought to take a closer look at Master Yelman. You say you've spoken to him?'

‘I cross-examined him this morning, but got nowhere. He denied going over to Mortimer's place.'

‘Then let me have a go at him. Hold on to him tonight, and I'll come over to your place tomorrow after the funeral. As you say, someone's lying; and I don't think Mistress Warrener's the lying type. Incidentally, how is Bess? I'm very fond of her.'

‘She's taken Matthew's death very badly. They were going to be wed, you know.'

‘So I heard. It's hard on the lass. It would have been a good match. She's got no dowry, but she's a good-looker and has the support of Lady Mortimer. Hayward had a good position in your household. Now she'll have to look elsewhere.'

‘Has she no family to go to?'

‘None that I know of. They say she's old St John Pearce's daughter by one of his servants. He and his wife brought her up with their only daughter, Lady Margot, and she brought her to Mortimer's place when she married him; God knows why! Bess was lucky. Not many ladies of the manor look after their husband's bastards. My wife wouldn't, that's for sure. She'd throw me out as quick as greased lightning. Not that I own a manor, nor ever likely to. But then the St John Pearces are the sort who close ranks.'

Nicholas left the Sheriff's house and rode the four miles back to Dean Peverell. The road was a good one, running straight as an arrow along the edge of the Downs towards London. Built by the Romans and designed to last.

He arrived at his house and a groom took Harry away. Then he shouted for Giles Yelman and his bailiff, Geoffrey Lowe, came running out, looking more worried than usual.

‘He's gone, my Lord. We can't find him anywhere.'

‘Hell's teeth, I should have anticipated this. Damn! Damn! Get a search party going, Geoffrey, and be quick about it. And for God's sake, when you've got him, don't let him go.'

Chapter Six

‘
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.
' The sonorous chanting of the monks sounded like a choir of angels bringing Matthew home to rest. Nicholas, sitting in his place of honour at the bottom of the sanctuary steps in the parish church, looked through the open doors, one on either side of the altar, to where the black-robed figures, their hoods pulled down over their faces, sat facing each other in their choir, and he thought how privileged he was to be the patron of this Priory church. He remembered how seriously his father had carried out his responsibilities, how he'd looked after the monks, and given the parishioners of Dean Peverell a new roof to their church with a vaulted ceiling so that they could worship in a building that was not only spacious, but dry in wet weather.

And then Nicholas wondered what would happen to the monks if the King ordered them to leave. Some of them, like Father John for instance, had spent their entire lives here. How long would he survive if he had to rely on people's charity? He didn't deserve to die like a stray dog in the bottom of a ditch. The image was an uncomfortable one, and Nicholas knew that he couldn't let that happen; he had to do something. If he couldn't stop the King, then at least he could look after the monks.

At the top of the sanctuary steps, Matthew's body, wrapped tightly in its woollen shroud, rested on a bier, behind which stood the diminutive figure of the Vicar, Alfred Hobbes. Usually dressed in a threadbare cassock, today he was wearing the cope that Nicholas's mother had given him. It was made of black velvet and she had embroidered with her own hands the elaborately entwined flowers which decorated it, using expensive gold and silver thread which she'd ordered from a London haberdasher's. Today, Hobbes's face was glowing with the satisfaction of knowing that this was his church, his service, and that the monks were confined to their own part of the church behind the screen that separated them from the parishioners, and that, for once, the Prior was no longer centre stage. He needed the monks' voices, though. Matthew couldn't be laid to rest without the appropriate chanting of the requiem Mass.

Nicholas raised his eyes from the figure on the bier and looked round. People were pouring in and soon there would be standing room only. Matthew had been popular and friends and relations were coming from Marchester and neighbouring villages; some had arrived before dawn bringing their bundles of food with them. They were perched on benches along the side of the nave like a row of roosters determined not to be removed from their perches.

Sheriff Landstock came in, nodded to Nicholas, and sat down on one of the benches which the verger had placed at the front of the church for the use of the gentry. Then Guy Warrener pushed his way to the front, and pointed to a place just behind Nicholas, where the verger set down his bench. Nicholas smiled a greeting and was treated to a scowl in return. Guy Warrener's large, flat face was crisscrossed with lines of disapproval and he rarely smiled. However, his face softened when Jane came to sit next to him. She looked cool and elegant that morning. She was wearing a grey dress of some soft material with lace at her throat and encircling her cuffs; her hair was covered by a fashionable, square-shaped cap, fringed with starched white lace, that framed her face to perfection. Master Holbein ought to see her now, Nicholas thought, and paint her just as she was, sitting on a rough bench next to her father in a country church; and he'd be the first person to buy the picture. She smiled at Nicholas and he forgot the solemn chanting of the monks and heard only the chorus of the song birds outside in the churchyard, filling the brilliant May morning with their joyful hymns to the spring.

He watched whilst she helped her father settle himself down on the uncomfortable bench, and then she leaned across and straightened out his leather jerkin, which had seen better days. It was an affectionate gesture which made Nicholas's heart miss a beat. She really loved that cantankerous old devil, he thought.