by Iris Collier
Chapter Four
A pity the King wasn’t here to enjoy this meal, thought Nicholas, as Brother Cyril plunged his knife into the rich suet crust of the great pie, releasing a delicious aroma of rabbits and chickens stuffed with dried plums and raisins, cooked slowly in red wine. He would have enjoyed it enormously. Nicholas was hungry. It seemed a long time ago since he’d eaten his last proper meal at Court, and yet it was only yesterday. And now he was drinking the King’s health in a fine claret, polishing off the pie, and gleefully anticipating the arrival of the suckling pig.
He loosened the fastenings of his doublet and turned to the monk who was sitting next to him.
‘You keep a well-stocked cellar, Brother Jeremy. Do you personally sample all the casks before you buy?’
‘If I did, my Lord, I wouldn’t be sitting here at this moment reasonably in command of my wits. No, I leave the sampling to Prior Thomas. He’s a better judge than me. I just place the order. Do you like this one?’
‘It’s one of the best I’ve tasted. It complements the pig to perfection.’
‘Then I’ll have a word with the Prior and see that you get a cask in time to celebrate the feast of Corpus Christi. Brother Benedict brought us over some casks of a new wine from the vineyards of Rivières. They are a present from his abbot.’
Ah, Brother Benedict, thought Nicholas, as, through the steam from the pie and the smoke from the woodfire burning at one end of the great hall, he looked across to the other side of the table where a young monk of outstanding beauty was sitting next to the Prior. Prior Thomas had draped an arm affectionately round the young man’s shoulders, but Brother Benedict’s dark eyes were fixed on Jane Warrener, who had left the table and was busy tuning a lute in one of the alcoves at the far end of the hall. Suddenly, Nicholas felt indignant. No monk should look at a woman like that, he thought. The Prior would have to get rid of that young man before the King’s inspectors arrived.
The arrival of the suckling pig put an end to such thoughts. Brother Giles had cooked it to perfection and Nicholas tackled his plateful of steaming meat with gusto. One of the steward’s underlings brought in jugs of a different wine, a full-blooded claret from the vineyards around Bordeaux, and Nicholas gave himself up to the pleasures of the table. The pig was soon demolished, the bones thrown down on the rush-strewn floor, where the Prior’s lapdogs snapped and snarled at each other as they fought over the scraps with glee. Later, when the tables had been cleared, the servants would let in the most favoured of the Prior’s hounds to clear up the remains.
By the time Brother Cyril brought in a great tray of sweetmeats, honey cakes filled with walnuts and lightly dusted with cinnamon, and marzipan fashioned into the shapes of small birds and woodland creatures, Nicholas’s head was spinning. He looked round at the flushed faces of the monks and the thought entered his head as to what their founder, St Benedict, would have thought of these proceedings. And he also thought how oblivious they all were to the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. No wonder the reformers regarded the monasteries as fair game.
The servants were removing the empty dishes. Prior Thomas pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘Come Benedict, my beloved guest from distant France, finish your wine and let us hear that fine voice of yours.’
Benedict forced his attention away from Jane and back to the Prior.
‘No, my Lord, my singing is nothing but the croaking of a frog in comparison with Jane Warrener. She has the sweetest voice I have ever heard. Don’t you agree with me, Brother Oswald?’ he said, addressing one of the monks, whose black habit was tightly stretched across his pendulous belly, his huge moonface glowing with good living. Brother Oswald pursed his lips and considered his answer for a few moments.
‘Mistress Warrener sings well – for a girl. But there is nothing to beat the purity of the male voice; especially a light tenor, Brother, which you possess.’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Brother Oswald, as usual,’ said the Prior, patting Benedict’s head approvingly. ‘The male voice wins hands down. It has a special purity which the female voice with its emotional undertones cannot compete with.’
‘But when the two are in harmony,’ said Nicholas smiling across at the Prior, ‘they are incomparable.’
‘Then let us settle the argument by putting it to the test,’ said Prior Thomas genially. ‘Come, fill up the tray of sweetmeats, Brother Cyril, and bring us some more jugs of wine, and tune up the instruments. Come, my Lord,’ he said turning to Nicholas, ‘we’ll go and sit over by the fire and let the young entertain us.’
He walked unsteadily over to Brother Oswald and helped him out of his chair. Then, clutching a jug of wine each, they staggered over to the fireplace at the far end of the room where some finely carved oak armchairs had been arranged on both sides of the crackling log fire.
Nicholas hung back for a moment, watching Benedict join Jane in the alcove. She greeted him with a broad smile and handed him a lute which she’d been tuning. Nicholas scowled. Fighting down a feeling of resentment, he turned to Father Hubert, the elderly Sacristan who acted as sub-Prior when Prior Thomas was incapacitated. Hubert had not touched the sweetmeats and had eaten only a small portion of the pie. He had only exchanged a few words with Nicholas during the meal and had passed him the jug of wine when his glass was empty but hadn’t touched a drop himself. Now he made no move to join the others round the fire.
‘Where are the rest of the brethren?’ said Nicholas, forcing himself not to look at the two in the alcove, where Brother Benedict was taking off his monastic habit to reveal an elegant doublet and hose underneath.
‘They’ll have said Compline, and will soon be in their beds,’ he said. ‘And that’s where we should be shortly.’
‘Yet it appears that the evening’s just started,’ said Nicholas evenly.
‘For you, yes; but not for me. I’d like to hear that young lass sing, but Brother Benedict’s got no business to sing here. His place is in the choir with the others, not entertaining the Prior as if he were at the royal court.’
‘But I thought the Abbot of Rivières sent him here to sing to the Prior, Father?’
Hubert snorted, his small, pinched face flushing with anger.
‘Not to entertain the Prior, my Lord, but to sing to the glory of God in the right place and at the right time. That’s what a monk’s for. It seems to me that sometimes my Lord Prior forgets this simple fact.’
He made no attempt to lower his voice and Prior Thomas, ensconced in the best chair by the fire, glanced across at him.
‘Come, come, Father Hubert, you’re worse than those kill-joy reformers. Music, as I’m sure Lord Nicholas would agree with me, is sent by God to give us a foretaste of heavenly delights. When you get to heaven, Father, you will be surrounded by choirs playing harps and singing the divine praises. You may as well start getting used to the idea here and now.’
‘I shall sing the divine praises, my Lord Prior, in the church with the others. I have nothing against music – as you say it is one of God’s gifts to us – but to listen to a young monk singing about earthly love accompanied by a girl strumming a lute is not what the Creator intended us to do.’
‘Yet we can worship God in the beauty of his creation and the exquisite music of the Flemish composers. Be off to your choir stall, if you must, Father, and do not judge others lest they judge you.’
Father Hubert stood up, bowed his head in submission, nodded to Nicholas, and left the great hall of the Prior’s house.
There were just the seven of them: the Prior, Brother Jeremy, Brother Oswald, Brother Cyril, himself and the two performers. An exclusive gathering, he thought. No sign of Brother Michael; he was probably waiting for Father Hubert to join the rest of them in church. He stood up and walked across to join the others round the fire, forcing himself not to look towards the alcove where the two musicians were getting ready.
At last the instruments were turned to Jane’s satisfac
tion, and they walked across to join the company. She was carrying a reed instrument which Nicholas remembered he’d recently seen at Court. Benedict walked behind her, carrying a lute. They were a well-matched pair; well matched in beauty as well as being well matched musically, he felt sure. Jane was looking enchanting in a full-skirted cream dress shot through with gold thread, which glowed in the soft light of the candles which Cyril had placed round that corner of the room. Her copper hair was drawn back gently from her face and held in position by a garland of spring flowers, ox-eye daisies, cowslips and forget-me-nots. The bodice of the dress was tight fitting and cut squarely across her young breasts, revealing a pink satin skin which gleamed in the soft light. She wore no jewellery, and needed none, Nicholas thought.
Benedict had put aside his monk’s habit and was now dressed in a richly embroidered doublet and a dark coloured hose which showed off his well-honed figure to perfection. He wore soft leather shoes, and, had it not been for his monk’s tonsure, almost hidden by his thick curly dark hair, he could have passed as one of the King’s courtiers. Nicholas glanced at the Prior and saw that he was enthralled. His heart sank. One thing was for sure; they would have to hide Brother Benedict when Cromwell’s Commissioners made their inspection. He was sure the Prior led a chaste life – there had been no rumours to the contrary – but Benedict would tempt the Archangel Gabriel himself.
Jane sang first, Benedict accompanying her with his lute. She sang a simple song about spring and joy in God’s creation. Her sweet, soprano voice had a bell-like quality and as she sang a satisfied smile spread over Brother Oswald’s face, and when the song finished he applauded more enthusiastically than anyone else.
‘I wrote that,’ he said, turning to Nicholas.
‘Beautifully composed, and beautifully sung. But as you are Precentor of the Priory, I would have expected nothing less. Have you composed many songs like the one we’ve just heard?’
‘Volumes of them,’ roared the Prior. ‘He keeps all the brethren up to scratch by making them copy out his manuscripts. You should take a look at our library; it’s bulging with all his compositions.’
‘All to the glory of God, my Lord,’ said Brother Oswald with a smug smile of satisfaction. ‘And I thank Him for giving me the talent.’
‘And we thank Him for sending you into our midst. But come now, another song. Let Benedict hand the lute over, Mistress Warrener. Let’s hear one of the chansons of the divine Josquin. He’s a Flemish composer,’ the Prior said pedantically to Nicholas. ‘Benedict brought some of his songs over with him.’
Jane picked up the lute, and nodded to Benedict when she was ready. He sang a beautiful song about the Virgin Mary, ‘Ave maris stella’, and his honey-sweet tenor voice flowed seductively over them and brought tears of pure joy to the Prior’s eyes. He was indeed a charmer, thought Nicholas; and wouldn’t be out of place at the Court of King Henry.
After the applause, Jane picked up the shawm. Nicholas, who knew it was a difficult instrument to play, felt nervous on her behalf. But he needn’t have worried. From the first plaintive note which echoed round the great hall, she proved herself an accomplished performer. The instrument had an eerie quality to it, and Benedict sang a song about war and death and the futility of human conflict. It made Nicholas think of the horrors he’d seen in the streets of London, as the plague took its toll of the citizens. He remembered the scenes at Tyburn where traitors were butchered and put on public display, and then, as the song went on about the sadness of losing a loved one, his mind turned to his beloved wife and the child who’d only lived for a few hours. When the song came to an end, and Jane put down the shawm, the group was silent, everyone lost in his own thoughts.
But not for long. The next song was a duet, and they sang about happier things, the love of a man for a maid, comparing the joys of human love with the bliss of divine love. The couple were indeed perfectly matched, and Jane’s pure soprano blended with Benedict’s mellifluous tenor, creating a glorious harmony. Nicholas could have stayed there all night listening to the pair, but the end came abruptly. There was a sound of footsteps coming up the stone stairs to the hall, the door flew open and Brother Michael stood there, his lean face stern with disapproval.
‘What is it, Brother Michael?’ said the Prior impatiently. ‘I told you not to interrupt us. We have been in the company of the angels and your long face is the only discordant note we’ve had this evening.’
‘My Lord, the brethren are waiting for your blessing. Compline’s finished and they are ready for sleep.’
‘Tell them I’ll join them for Matins. Father Hubert can bless them tonight.’
‘But you always…’
‘Well, just for once, I can’t come. Be off with you, man, can’t you see we’re busy?’
‘I can see that you’re enjoying yourselves. And what’s Brother Benedict doing here? In secular dress too, I see. This is outrageous. Brother Benedict is a monk, my Lord, a holy man of God. He should never put aside his habit. St Benedict…’
‘Don’t you dare lecture me about St Benedict,’ shouted the Prior, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Just for one night our guest has put aside his habit to put on clothes more appropriate to the occasion. There’s no harm in that.’
‘Not yet. But evil, my Lord, is insidious. It could quite turn the head of a young monk to sing in the company of a woman and receive the adulation of his superiors. What looks harmless at first sight, could be the beginning of our own damnation.’
‘Oh, be off with you, you sanctimonious old misery. Get back to your bleak dormitory and pray for forgiveness. Remember, Brother Michael, that once you took a vow of obedience.’
Scowling his disapproval, Michael retreated. The spell was broken. Jane said she should go back to her father, and Nicholas said he would escort her to the Prior’s carriage. He thanked the Prior for his hospitality, and went over to Benedict.
‘You sing most beautifully, young man. The King, I’m sure, would love to hear you.’
‘He’s not likely to, my Lord. I haven’t got permission to leave the Priory.’
‘Then maybe you will come and sing to me? I’m sure Prior Thomas would release you for a couple of hours.’
‘That would give me great pleasure,’ said Benedict in his soft voice with its pronounced French accent.
Nicholas shook his hand, and left the hall with Jane. Once outside, she stopped and suddenly became serious.
‘Nicholas. I’ve found out something that might be relevant to your murder investigation. Landstock’s not made an arrest yet, has he?’
Nicholas, who could think of nothing else but the beauty of the music he’d just enjoyed, gave a guilty start.
‘Jane, I’m sorry. We’ve all experienced a glimpse of heaven and now you talk about murder.’
She looked at him impatiently. ‘Of course. You’ve got to get your priorities right, Lord Nicholas. You’ve got a murder investigation on your hands. Don’t say you’ve forgotten all about it?’
‘There’s nothing we can do at the moment, Jane. Don’t be so censorious. It isn’t becoming in a woman. But out with it, what have you found out?’
‘It seems to me, my Lord, that women have a better idea of what’s important and what isn’t. Anyway, I’ve learnt that Giles Yelman has been a frequent visitor to Mortimer’s place. But he wasn’t courting Bess Knowles; or anyone else for that matter.’
‘Then what the hell was my under-steward doing at Roger Mortimer’s house?’
‘That’s for you to find out. I can’t start asking those sorts of questions. It’s not becoming in a woman. I’d be sent packing in no time.’
‘Then I must get over there first thing tomorrow morning. But now let me talk about pleasanter things. You sing divinely, Jane. Perhaps one day you’ll come and sing for me at my house.’
She turned and smiled at him demurely. ‘I’d love to, but my father would never let me come.’
‘Yet he lets you come and sing for the Prior?’
‘He thinks he’s safe.’
‘But surely…’
‘There’s no surely. My father doesn’t like the gentry. Or rather he doesn’t trust them. However, he might just possibly change his mind; but I doubt it.’
‘Then let me talk to him. He can’t keep you locked up like a caged song bird.’
‘He worries about me, that’s all. I’m all he’s got. But now here comes my carriage. It’s very good of the Prior to let me use it. Goodnight, Nicholas.’
And with a sweet smile she jumped up into the carriage, and Nicholas watched the driver urge the horse forward. A young monk fetched Harry from the stable, and feeling suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness, Nicholas climbed into the saddle and rode slowly back to his house.
* * *
Next morning, Nicholas ordered Harry to be brought round to the main door. Harry was in excellent spirits. A slight pressure of Nicholas’s heel and he was off across the fields where the ewes indignantly gathered their lambs together as he romped past them. Then into the wood where Harry’s flying hooves slashed into the succulent bluebells, disturbing a family of woodcock who, uttering shrill cries of annoyance, rose into the air with a frantic whirring of wings. Harry shied skittishly off the path and made for the beech trees, nearly decapitating Nicholas as he bounded under some low branches.
At the far side of the wood, Nicholas reined him in. Already he felt better. The demons which had disturbed his sleep last night had been dispersed by the bright sky and the clear, cold morning air. Ahead of him was the stretch of common land which separated his estate from Sir Roger Mortimer’s, and at the far side was Mortimer Lodge, a solid, low, stone building which crouched at the edge of an artificial lake which Sir Roger’s grandfather had constructed to serve as a moat to separate his property from the common. With difficulty, Nicholas eased Harry down into a walk. For some reason, Harry had taken an instant dislike to the villagers’ pigs, who were rooting around for acorns. With a snort of disdain and an exaggerated toss of his head which sent his mane flying and his bit jangling, he danced over the short turf, narrowly missing the rabbit burrows.