Day of Wrath

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Day of Wrath Page 2

by Iris Collier


  But now, he thought, as he splashed cold water on his face, what was going to happen to the Priory? His interview with Thomas Cromwell, that dour, enigmatic servant of the King, hadn’t been reassuring. The King wanted the monastic revenues, that was for sure. His Priory was small in comparison with the great monasteries of Glastonbury and Malmesbury, but, all the same, the plate, the lead on the roof, the lands which the Priory owned were not inconsiderable. Prior Thomas had to be warned. They were friends, and Nicholas knew that the Prior would expect him to save them, but Nicholas knew he could not oppose the King. No one could. Not now, with the print scarcely dry on the new Treason Act.

  He went down into the great hall, and ate the bread and honey which had been laid out for him. The honey was of the best quality and tasted of clover. The ale was freshly drawn. Life was going on; Giles was taking over from Matthew.

  He went to find his servants, and found Giles in the kitchen, extracting goose grease from a jar. He looked nervously at Nicholas as if expecting a rebuke. Nicholas checked his irritation. Giles was only trying to do his best.

  ‘Landstock should be here any minute now, Giles. Have the servants assembled in the hall. Landstock can use my study for the interviews. Oh yes, one thing did occur to me this morning. When I got back last night, the main gate was locked. Now if the thieves murdered Matthew, and then dragged his body over to the tower, how the devil did they get into the courtyard in the first place? No, don’t say it…’ he went on, as Giles’s face flushed with embarrassment. ‘You didn’t lock the main gate yesterday, did you? You forgot. Then Matthew was found, and you locked it. That’s it, isn’t it? The thieves just sauntered in and left at their leisure.’

  ‘My Lord, we fully intended to, but what with Matthew disappearing, and all the commotion over Joshua hearing things up in the warren, we forgot all about locking the gate.’

  ‘And how many times did you forget to lock it whilst I was away?’

  ‘We always locked it before we went to bed.’

  ‘Too late, too late. What a pack of incompetent oafs I am cursed with for servants! That gate must be locked at all times. And someone must be there to act as gatekeeper. We live in unsettled times and there are desperate men around. But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Get someone to run down to the Prior and tell him I shall be coming to see him shortly, just as soon as Landstock gets on with his business.’

  The servants were beginning to drift into the hall. They looked dejected, mumbled their morning greetings, and dropped their eyes when he spoke to them. Nicholas hated to see them like this. He liked a happy household. Peverell Hall had always been a place where he could relax, study the new books which he’d bought from bookshops in London and add to his growing library. But now it seemed that Matthew’s murder had contaminated the whole place, making everyone suspect his neighbour.

  He didn’t for one minute think that Matthew’s murderer was a member of his own household. He knew them all. Some, like Geoffrey Lowe, had worked for his father, and their loyalty was unquestionable. Geoffrey’s responsibilities were enormous – he supervised everything round the estate from the growing of corn and barley to seeing that the grazing was sufficient for the cattle and the sheep. He organised the shearing of the wool and sold it at the best prices; he saw that the warren was always well stocked with plump rabbits and game, and that the fishponds were full of carp. He handled money and paid the workers. Yet he had never given Nicholas cause to mistrust him.

  He didn’t know the other servants as well as he knew Geoffrey and Matthew, of course. One of them might have harboured a grudge against Matthew. Maybe he’d been wrongly accused, or punished too severely. But that didn’t usually turn a man into a murderer. However, a motive would no doubt emerge and it was Landstock’s business to interview everyone and check on their alibis. He, Peverell, would take over when the wretches were brought before him at Quarter Sessions.

  Suddenly, the door swung open, and Sheriff Landstock came in, followed by Geoffrey Lowe. Nicholas walked over to greet him. He liked Landstock, although they didn’t always agree. But they’d worked well together in the past, and no doubt would continue to do so now. He’d not rest until he’d tracked down Matthew’s killer.

  Landstock looked his usual pugnacious self. He was a short, stocky man, bristling with indignation and radiating energy. His weather-beaten face, bushy eyebrows, short, thrusting ginger beard and hair that stuck straight up like a stiff brush gave him a foxy look which most people found intimidating. He had an extensive knowledge of the local criminal fraternity, who were terrified of him, and he had a keen nose for smelling out the liars and cheats.

  ‘This is bad news, my Lord,’ Landstock said, giving Nicholas’s hand a vigorous shaking.

  ‘It is indeed. I’ve lost a good friend and a trustworthy steward.’

  ‘Where’ve you put him?’

  ‘In the chapel.’

  ‘A pity your servants moved him. You know I always like to see where the body was found. Remember that next time you find a corpse on your premises,’ he said, poking Nicholas in the ribs, and giving a loud bray of laughter which he checked when Nicholas glared at him. ‘Oh well, let’s go and see him, then. The Coroner’s on his way. Your bailiff tells me that the cause of death is obvious. Is that so?’

  ‘Just take a look at the marks on his neck.’

  ‘Really? Then I’ll not take long. I’ll need to see all the servants, of course. One at a time. Have a room ready for me. Oh, a jug of your mulled ale will be welcome.’

  ‘Giles will see to it. Meanwhile, if I’m not wanted for the time being, I must get down to see Prior Thomas. Bad things are coming to the Priory and I must warn him. Not that he’ll take a blind bit of notice. He’s seen it coming for years and has done nothing about putting his house in order.’

  ‘What’s up? You’ve heard something at Court? Mind you, I’m all for change. Especially where the clergy’s concerned. Bloody parasites the lot of them, especially the monks.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion. But we’re talking about matters of state here, Richard. I’m just back from Hampton Court – the King’s gone there to avoid the sickness – and I was able to talk to Thomas Cromwell. He’s holding the reins of power at the moment; it won’t be long before he’s made Lord Privy Seal.’

  ‘What does the King see in him?’ said Landstock, as they made their way to the chapel.

  ‘Oh, he’s useful right enough. Knows which side’s his bread’s buttered. When the good Sir Thomas More is condemned, as condemned he will be, and soon, there’ll be no stopping Cromwell. But he’ll not last long, mark my words. He’s making too many enemies.’

  ‘These are dangerous times, my Lord.’

  ‘You can say that again. But I thank God that we’ve got a strong King. He’ll never let the country sink into civil war as it did in my father’s time. But he’s self-willed, and more to the point, he’s short of money. And that’s where our friend Cromwell comes in. He knows how to keep the King happy – provide him with enough money to pay for his lavish life-style and his fleet of warships out on the Solent.’

  ‘If he thinks he’ll get enough money by kicking out a lot of lazy monks, then good luck to him, say I.’

  ‘Richard, Richard, how can you say that? Haven’t you any feelings for the Priory? Haven’t you any sense of tradition? Our Priory’s been here for centuries. Remember it was my ancestors who founded it. The Peverells have always been its patrons. Just stop for a moment and think of what the monks do. They run the only school in the district. Their hospital is overflowing at the moment because of all the sickness around. They hand out alms. They’re good employers. Take away the Priory and you take away the village of Dean Peverell.’

  They paused at the chapel door. ‘That’s how you see it, my Lord. I see a collection of lazy men living on the money which our people can ill afford. I see gold and silver plate used in their services whilst most people round here live in poverty. I’m told that my Lo
rd Prior even uses silver plate at his table. I see wealth in the midst of poverty, and exploitation of humble people – for instance the prices they charge for the use of their mill in Marchester are higher than any one else’s. As for prayer, I’m told Thomas Rymes enjoys archery contests rather more than saying his prayers and a good meal rather than fasting. No, my Lord, I’m not with you on this one. Kick the lazy bastards out, I say. Let them work for a living for a change.’

  ‘You and Guy Warrener make a fine pair. He thinks the same way as you do.’

  ‘I know, and I admire him for speaking his mind. He’s a realist, like me. We must move with the times, my Lord. As for the monks, their days are over. Now let’s have a look at your unfortunate steward.’

  * * *

  Later, when the Coroner had arrived and the cause of death had been confirmed, the Sheriff and his clerk started on the lengthy process of taking statements from the servants. There was no obvious need for Nicholas to stay at home. He’d only get in everyone’s way. Meanwhile, he had to see the Prior. For once, Nicholas dreaded the interview. Thomas Rymes was a stubborn man. He lived in the past, that was his trouble, thought Nicholas, as he went over to the stables. Now Landstock, insensitive and brash as he was, was typical of the new type of man emerging. Pragmatic, materialistic, always chasing after new ideas coming over from the Continent, always looking for the main chance. He’d survive, though, as long as he kept his nose clean, and that was more than you could say about idealists like Sir Thomas More, locked up in the Tower preparing to meet his Maker, and Prior Thomas, refusing to see changes coming until he was overwhelmed by them.

  Harry greeted him with a joyful whinny. He was fully recovered after yesterday’s gruelling ride. The grooms had fed him well, and his black coat shone like a mirror. Nicholas loved all his horses, but he favoured Harry more than the others. There was a big dash of Arab blood in him, which, coupled with the strength of the English war horse, made a formidable combination of beauty, swiftness and strength. Once again, Nicholas sent up a prayer of thanks to his crusading ancestor who had come back from the wars against the Infidel, bringing with him a pair of Arab horses. From these two he’d built up a stock of horses which were the best in the county.

  He saddled Harry himself, mounted, and one of the grooms opened the main gate. Then he rode down the long drive towards the village of Dean Peverell.

  The first Lord Peverell had built his house at the foot of the South Downs from where he could see the five channels of Marchester harbour shining like bright swords in the summer sunshine. The village was just a single street with cottages on either side. A track led up to the Priory which the first Lord Peverell had founded, bringing the first monks over from his local abbey in Normandy. As the low tower appeared above the surrounding trees, Nicholas reined in Harry. Suddenly, he saw the Priory as if for the first time. It was doomed. King Henry was set on its destruction. And he was going to justify his act of vandalism by trumping up charges of licentious behaviour against the monks. Charges which, he knew in advance, would be grossly exaggerated. Admittedly the Prior was over-fond of the pleasures of the table and drank too freely of the fine Bordeaux wines which he bought from the French vintners. But there was no harm in that, thought Nicholas as he rode up to the gatehouse of the Priory. After all, most of the other pleasures were denied him; surely he was entitled to one harmless indulgence.

  It was unfortunate that the Priory, even if it was small, represented a great deal of wealth, he thought. There were only seventeen monks but over the centuries they had acquired lands in other parishes and collected rents from mills and quarries all over the county. Also there was a fine collection of church furnishings – a gold altar frontal, silver candlesticks, a jewel-encrusted icon of the Virgin and Child brought back from the East after the sack of Constantinople. And then there was the chalice, solid gold and encrusted with rubies. Now that was beyond price. He had to warn Prior Thomas about that. Cromwell’s inspectors must not set eyes on it. Even if he couldn’t stop the King from closing the Priory, he could urge the Prior to hide its treasures.

  The gatekeeper welcomed him and took Harry’s reins.

  ‘The Prior, my Lord, is in his house. We are all pleased to see you back safe and sound.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother Ambrose. Peace be with you.’

  As always, the tranquillity of the Priory moved him as he walked across the cloisters where some of the Brothers were at work on their manuscripts, making the most of the fine day. The Prior’s house stood apart from the main monastic buildings, because it also served as a guest house and it was undesirable that the monks should be in too close a proximity to the visitors from the outside world. Built at a later time than the rest of the buildings, it stood in its own grounds, a large three-storeyed building, built of local flint-stone, its thick walls pierced by elegant windows with pointed arches. The entrance door stood open, and he went into the kitchen area where a fire burned in the great fireplace, and a pig rotated on a spit in front of the flames. Brother Cyril, the Prior’s steward, smiled a greeting and took him upstairs to the first floor, where Prior Thomas had his study. The door was open, and Nicholas went in.

  Thomas Rymes was a big man in the prime of life. His good-natured face radiated health, the result of a good digestion. He was wearing a black robe, belted round his ample girth with a cord. A large, silver cross hung down on to his expansive chest.

  ‘Welcome home, Lord Nicholas,’ he said glancing up from a document he was reading. ‘What news of the King?’

  He indicated the jug of ale beside him on the desk, and Nicholas helped himself. He was at ease with Prior Thomas. He approved of his philosophy, which was that you gave due respect to God, worked hard at whatever work God sent you, and then you celebrated with your friends when work was over. And celebrate they did. Nicholas had enjoyed some fine dinners in this house. The Prior liked prime-quality beef and on fast days he made full use of his stock of fat carp in his fishponds. Now, thought Nicholas, this idyll was going to be shattered. It was heartbreaking.

  ‘The King, Prior Thomas, thrives, as always.’

  ‘Thanks be to God. If the King thrives, the kingdom thrives. There’s nothing worse than a sickly king, especially when the heir to the throne is a mere girl.’

  ‘The Queen’s infant daughter, Elizabeth, is a healthy lass.’

  The Prior looked puzzled, then, when he understood, his expression turned to one of disapproval. ‘The Queen, my Lord? Surely you mean the King’s whore, Mistress Anne Boleyn?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Prior, guard your tongue. I mean Queen Anne. Catherine lives in retirement, poor lady. In bad health, so they say, with her daughter ignored by everyone.’

  ‘It’s monstrous, monstrous,’ roared the Prior, his face flaming with anger. ‘I will never call that whore, Queen. How can King Henry flout the Pope’s wishes! Nothing good will come of this illegal, adulterous liaison. Some say that she’s a witch.’

  ‘Prior, hold your tongue. It’s dangerous to say such things. Henry divorced his first wife. Thomas Cranmer married him to Anne Boleyn, and there’s an end to it. One day their daughter might be Queen of England. Do you want to end up in the Tower of London?’

  ‘The King’ll not dare to touch me.’

  ‘Not dare! Are you mad? He dared to arrest Cardinal Wolsey and seized his house. He dared to arrest Thomas More, and he’s been in the Tower for thirteen months now. He will sign your death warrant without a second thought should he hear what you’ve just said. It’s just as well that I’m a good friend of yours.’

  ‘The King over-reaches himself,’ said Prior Thomas, sinking back into his chair. ‘He should be made aware of his own mortality.’

  ‘And who’s going to do that? Not me, that’s for sure. No one can tell the King he’s only a man.’

  ‘We’re all only men, my Lord,’ said the Prior wearily. ‘One day we’ll all have to face our Maker.’

  ‘And I don’t intend to do that just yet. Not if
I can help it.’

  ‘Amen to that, Lord Nicholas. But come now, let’s talk of other things. I am sorry to hear about your steward. He was a good man. Your stock cupboards are almost as good as mine. Your honey’s certainly better than mine. One day I’ll come and take a look at that garden of yours and see what’s growing there. Your lamb is excellent, also.’

  ‘I’ll see Giles sends some cuts, Prior, when we do the slaughtering. Yes, it’s bad news about Matthew. I shall miss him.’

  ‘Killed defending your warren, I’ve heard. A dreadful thing. There are far too many thieves around. That Sheriff fellow ought to be more vigilant. They’re always trying to get into our barns.’

  ‘Strangely enough, we’ve got no signs of a break-in.’

  ‘Really? Then what’s the motive?’

  ‘That’s what Landstock’s trying to find out at this very moment. I’ve left him to it as I had to come and warn you.’

  ‘Warn me? About thieves? I don’t need to be warned about them. We’re always on our guard. As you should be. You mustn’t let things slip when you’re away, Lord Nicholas.’

  ‘I’m not warning you about guarding your warren, Prior. There is another matter…’

  There was a knock on the study door, and Prior Thomas sighed irritably. ‘Come in, come in,’ he called out impatiently.

  The door opened and a monk came in. He was tall, gaunt, with a long, melancholy face. His black robe hung loosely on his bony frame, and, unlike the other monks, his head was untonsured because he was completely bald. Brother Michael. Nicholas knew him well. Once again, he reminded Nicholas of one of the gargoyles which spouted rain-water from the gutters on the tower.

 

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