by Iris Collier
The Prior had offered the use of his solarium for the mourners to partake of some refreshment before they made their way home. The solarium was a fine, south-facing room, attached to the Prior’s house, and built by him to house his important visitors. When the service was finished, Nicholas made his way over to the Prior’s house, accompanied by Sheriff Landstock.
‘A good send-off,’ said Landstock. ‘Matthew would have approved.’
‘A pity there wasn’t time to consult him. He wasn’t prepared for an early death; and he didn’t deserve one. But, down to business, Giles has disappeared,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve got a search party looking for him.’
Landstock stopped in his tracks. ‘Then I’ll search the county. When a man tells lies and then bolts, it’s serious.’
‘You might find him, but he’ll not talk.’
‘I’ll make him talk all right. Just leave that to me, Lord Nicholas. A few nights in my gaol will soon make him change his mind about not talking.’
‘We might be barking up the wrong tree, Landstock. After all, what have we got so far? A man’s murdered. We don’t know why. And my under-steward decided to pay my neighbour a visit. What’s wrong with that?’
‘But he’s run off without leave. And Mistress Jane’s been hinting about a conspiracy. That’s enough for me to take action.’
They’d reached the solarium where the lay Brothers were handing round tankards of beer and platefuls of cakes baked in the Priory’s ovens. Alfred Hobbes, divested of his elegant cope and back in his scruffy cassock, came over to join them.
‘The Prior does us proud,’ said Nicholas conversationally.
‘And so he should. His house is big enough to house an army, whilst I’ve only got a miserable room over the entrance porch.’
‘The Prior needs a big house. After all, he’s expected to offer hospitality to all and sundry.’
‘And don’t I have to look after the souls of all these parishioners? No one bothers to think about building me a house to live in.’
‘Then you’re in the wrong job,’ said Landstock jovially. ‘You should have been a monk; better food, better accommodation, a quieter life.’
‘Not for much longer, though. They’ve got it coming to them.’
‘And about time, too,’ said a deep voice behind them. Nicholas groaned. It was Guy Warrener. ‘Parasites the lot of them,’ he said, as he took a gulp of the beer which the lay brother had just given him. ‘Kick them out and let them earn their keep. But I can’t see Brother Oswald behind a plough or building barns.’
‘Come, come, Warrener,’ said Nicholas impatiently. ‘We’ve been down that track over and over again. Don’t keep talking about when the monks leave. There’s legislation to be passed. It might not get through.’
‘Of course it will,’ said Warrener belligerently. ‘What Harry Tudor wants, he gets. And you’ll see to it that he does get it. So here’s to him,’ he said, raising his tankard. ‘Long live the King; and the devil take his enemies.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Landstock taking a gulp of beer. ‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ he said to Prior Thomas, who’d sauntered over to join them. ‘Mind you, it would be greatly improved if you’d added a few hops. Then you’d get a really excellent brew.’
‘I’ve heard that you serve a fine beer, Sheriff,’ said the Prior. ‘I’d like to try some.’
‘It’s good enough for me and Lord Nicholas. But I’ll send you over a barrel or two, if you like.’
‘And don’t forget me,’ said Hobbes querulously. ‘Why should Prior Thomas get all the perks?’
‘Oh stop moaning, Vicar. You do very well. Look how you help yourself to my vegetables.’
‘It’s my right. The Bishop says so,’ said Hobbes, hopping up and down with annoyance.
‘You made enough fuss about it. You shouldn’t have taken it to the Archdeacon’s Court. It made me look a right fool. You know you can help yourself to as many vegetables as you like. Personally I can’t stand the damn things.’
‘That’s not what Brother Cyril says. He threatened me, Prior, said I was stealing the brothers’ cabbages and I should go to gaol. Called me a common thief. Me, Vicar of the parish church of Dean Peverell, called a thief. Now I’m reduced to grubbing around in your vegetable garden to find a few cabbage leaves that you lot haven’t eaten. It’s not right and it’s not fair. Of course I took it to the Archdeacon.’
Hobbes had raised his fists and was hopping from one leg to the other like a lightweight boxer in the ring. His face was flushed with anger and he would have punched the Prior had Nicholas not restrained him.
‘Calm down, Vicar. We shouldn’t quarrel on a day like this. My steward’s just been laid to rest, the sun’s shining and we have all this food and drink to enjoy which you have so generously provided, my Lord Prior. Don’t keep raking over dead ashes, Vicar. You look very well on whatever you eat, and no doubt the parishioners look after you very well.’
‘I get by,’ said Hobbes, controlling himself. ‘Nothing to spare, though. Not like the brethren here. Still, I know my place; baptise, marry ’em, bury ’em. The monks only pray for ’em. And do you know, Lord Nicholas, I’m going to be here long after this lot’ve all been turned out. One day I’ll come into my own.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ shouted the Prior, his thick eyebrows knitting together into a scowl. ‘Surely you’re not turning into one of these reformers I hear about. You don’t want to change the system, surely? You’d be out of a job.’
Nicholas turned away impatiently. He was sick and tired of the bickering and squabbling that went on between the Vicar and the Prior. If they couldn’t live together peacefully side by side, then who could?
Jane was walking across the grass towards him. His spirits lifted and he went to meet her.
‘What’s up, Jane? You look anxious.’
‘I’ve just heard that Giles has disappeared. Nicholas, I’m worried. Did you notice that the Mortimers didn’t come to the funeral? They should’ve been here because they knew Matthew. And Bess couldn’t make it. She’s ill, Nicholas, and I think it’s serious. I know her health’s not good and she’s grieving for Matthew, but she gets weaker and weaker by the hour. I’m worried about her. She was very close to Matthew. They shared things.’
‘You still think Mortimer’s got something to do with Matthew’s death.’
‘I’m sure of it. And I think Giles was paid to let the murderers in to your house.’
‘These are wild accusations, Jane. There simply isn’t any proof. We can’t ask Landstock to arrest Mortimer without proper evidence except the suspicions of his wife’s maid and her friend. Let’s get on with finding Giles and hope he’ll tell us more.’
‘And meanwhile Bess is going to be the next victim.’
Nicholas was conscious that Guy Warrener was watching him closely. Damn the man, was he going to be his daughter’s gaoler? Suddenly, he saw one of his servants running across the grass towards them.
‘What is it, William? What’s happened?’ he said, going to meet him.
‘A messenger’s arrived up at the house. From the King, my Lord. You’re wanted at Hampton Court immediately.’
‘Tell him to wait and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘He says you’re to come at once. That’s what he said, my Lord. I told him you were at a funeral but he said it was urgent.’
‘Then tell Geoffrey to pack my bag, and get Harry ready.’
‘The King keeps you at his beck and call,’ said Jane, who’d followed him.
‘Yes, damn him. I can’t think what’s so urgent that he wants me to leave immediately.’
‘Then tell him to wait; at least until Giles is found.’
‘Tell him to wait, Jane? Are you out of your mind? I want to keep this head on my shoulders, you know.’
‘But you can’t go now. What with Bess ill and Giles still at large.’
‘I can do nothing about Bess, Jane. I’m not a doctor
. And Landstock will see to Giles. I can’t keep the King waiting.’
‘Then you don’t care what happens to us…’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. Landstock will look after things, and you must keep your ears and eyes open whilst I’m away and report to me when I return. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘It’ll be too late. I know something terrible’s going to happen,’ said Jane bitterly.
‘Leaving us so soon, my Lord?’ said Warrener, coming up to join them. ‘I’m glad someone’s doing something about this lot of parasites. Now get the legislation through Parliament. I can’t wait to see them go. But let’s drink up their beer and finish up the cakes before you leave. Make hay whilst the sun shines, I say.’
‘I hope to God, man, that the monks will be here long after you and I are dead.’
‘Times are changing, my Lord. New ideas, new men at Court. I’m all for it. It’s about time there was an end to all this superstitious nonsense. No more prayers for the dead, no more services in Latin – what’s wrong with English, I say? I’m all for this man Martin Luther. He might be German but he’s got the right ideas. Down with the Pope. Let’s have an English Church with an English King at its head.’
He stopped as a fit of coughing racked his body. Jane came up and took him by the arm. ‘Come home, father. Lord Nicholas has better things to do than to listen to your ranting. The King calls, and he must fly to his side.’
‘Jane, that’s unfair. You know that I’ve got to go.’
She led her father away without another look at Nicholas.
‘Damn! Women! Why are they always so unreasonable?’ he said out loud.
‘Because it’s their nature, my Lord,’ answered Landstock. ‘They’re not like us men. I’ll say they’re unreasonable; you’ve hit the nail on the head there. And stubborn. And Mistress Warrener’s the stubbornest of them all.’
Chapter Seven
‘It’s good to see you, Peverell. You shouldn’t keep dashing off to that country retreat of yours. Your place is here in the centre of things. You ought to slow down a bit. All this coming and going does you no good; no good at all. Anyway, you’re here and just in time for a game of tennis. Come along, man, relax, don’t you want to have a body like mine?’
Henry Tudor pulled in his stomach and drew himself up to his full height, three inches shorter than Nicholas. He was dressed for sport – a white shirt, open at the neck, loose-fitting breeches and close-fitting stockings which revealed his well-honed calf muscles. Nicholas, having ridden hard through most of the night, except for a brief nap at Merrow, sighed in resignation.
‘Your Grace, as always, looks in peak condition. But I’m sorry to say that I have ridden seventy miles with just brief stops to change horses in answer to your Grace’s command, and I’m a bit stiff, to put it mildly.’
‘Then it’s time to loosen up. You’re out of condition with all that soft country living. Come along, man, don’t bother to change. Plenty of time for all that later.’
King Henry strode off in the direction of his newly built tennis court, of which he was inordinately proud. Nicholas knew there was no escape. Reluctantly, he handed his cloak to a waiting servant and followed the King towards the walled tennis court.
Henry’s energy was legendary. He played hard and he liked to win. But Nicholas had the advantage of being younger than the King by ten years, and he was fitter. Also the physical results of an over-keen appetite were taking their toll on the King. After half an hour’s hard play in which Nicholas held his own, the King stopped suddenly, threw down his racket and beckoned a servant to bring over warm towels.
‘I think we’re well-matched, Peverell,’ he said, mopping his face. ‘But I can see the journey has taken it out of you. I don’t want to risk ruining your health. Here, have a drink,’ he said, handing Nicholas one of the tankards which another servant had brought over.
‘Your Grace is very kind,’ said Nicholas, grateful that he’d been let off the hook so lightly. He enjoyed playing tennis, but preferably not after a ten-hour ride on a series of horses that had got progressively worse since he’d left his own horse, Harry, at Petworth. He drained his tankard and decided to make the first move whilst the King seemed in good humour. ‘I’m delighted to be back at Court; but what was it you wanted to see me about, your Grace?’
‘I always want to see you, Peverell,’ said the King, putting an arm affectionately round Nicholas’s shoulders. ‘You ought to come to Court more often. The Queen was asking after you only last night. What keeps you away from us down in Sussex?’
‘Your Grace, I have only been away three days. I have an estate to run, cases to hear, a murder enquiry to investigate…’
‘It’s time you relaxed, Peverell. I know what’s wrong with you, it’s time you married again. You’re still young. It’s time to take a bonny wife and rear a clutch of children. A man needs a wife, you know. Take a good look at me. See how happy I am now that my matrimonial difficulties have been sorted out. The Queen and I are like two turtle doves and soon, God willing, we’ll have a son to bless our union. A brother to the Princess Elizabeth. He’ll have my looks, my intelligence and my creative talents! What a royal prince he’ll be. Good God, man, you don’t know what you’re missing without a wife. Calm down a bit, stop all this dashing around. Come and take your pick of our Court beauties tonight at dinner. We’ll have some dancing later on. The Queen can’t dance at the moment – she can’t take any risks with the child she’s carrying – but there are lots who will be only too pleased to frisk around with you. I’ve written some new canzonets, you know; I’d like your opinion on them. I’ve introduced some new harmonies. Bring you up to date a bit. You’re wasting yourself vegetating in rural Sussex.’
‘I look forward to hearing your compositions, your Grace, but I’m sure you didn’t bring me all this way to lecture me about the new trends in music and my matrimonial prospects.’
‘No, of course not, Peverell. I want to consult you about affairs of state. But not now, man. Hell’s teeth, why are you always so eager? You’ve no sense of timing. You’ve only just got here. Relax, take it easy, find yourself a bed for the night; a comfortable one. You’re going to be here for a few days. Then come and join us for dinner. Enjoy yourself. You look like an exhausted fox who’s gone to earth. Keep a grip on yourself. You should get yourself fit, like me.’
He tapped Nicholas playfully on his shoulder with his racket and bounded off. It was always like this, thought Nicholas bitterly. The King’s moods were as changeable as mercury. The same man who put his arm round you today could order you to the Tower tomorrow. Never be fooled by the King’s charm, he thought, as he followed the servant to the room they’d prepared for him. He was most to be feared when most affectionate.
His room was at the top of a turreted tower at the far end of the great palace which Wolsey had built for his own use and had handed over to the King as a peace-offering only a few years ago. The King had accepted the house and turned it into a royal palace, but its founder was now mouldering away in his grave a hundred miles away.
Once in his room, Nicholas threw his cloak down on the narrow bed, and looked out of the window into the courtyard below. He thought of Wolsey and then of Sir Thomas More in the Tower about to be executed; both had been the King’s friends. Would he be the next one to follow in their footsteps? Not if he could help it.
* * *
That night, Nicholas feasted in the great hall, which had only just been completed. A never-ending stream of servants carried in course after course: haunches of venison, huge pies containing succulent young rabbits seethed in onions, whole spring lambs and an endless stream of chickens and ducks, and fish from the royal stews. As soon as his goblet was empty a servant re-filled it and soon Nicholas found his senses reeling, and his eyes seemed to gravitate towards the plump white bosom of the lady sitting opposite him, Lady Frances Bonville, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting and strategically placed there by r
oyal command.
The Queen was seated next to the King at the top of the table and whatever rumours were flying around that the King was tiring of her, that night they looked the perfect loving couple. Queen Anne still retained her dark-eyed beauty, and the elegant head-dress covered in the lustrous pearls that so suited her olive complexion framed her oval face to perfection. That night she was lively and vivacious and Nicholas could see how she had enthralled the King to such an extent that their affair had rocked both Church and State. There were also shadows under her eyes and when the dancing started she got up and kissed the King and said she was retiring for the night. She was still as slim as a willow wand and the child she was carrying hardly showed, but Nicholas could see how anxious she was and he realised how desperately she wanted their child to be a son, and he feared the consequences if once again the King was disappointed.
Lady Frances smiled at him invitingly across the table, and he rose unsteadily to his feet and took her hand and together they danced an elegant gavotte that brought the house down. But Lady Frances was duty-bound to follow Queen Anne and Nicholas was free to drink the King’s health in endless goblets of fine Bordeaux and listen to the music of William Cornish and the songs which the King himself had written.
It wasn’t long before the King retired and Nicholas was able to go to his room. A hunt was arranged for tomorrow. How long, he thought, as he threw himself down on his bed, was he expected to stay at Court? Why had the King summoned him? Not to play tennis and flirt with Lady Frances, that was for sure. As he fell asleep his mind was filled with an image of another woman, someone who beckoned him and then turned away contemptuously.
It wasn’t until Sunday, after Mass in the royal chapel that the King sent a message to Nicholas that he was to come immediately to his private study. When he got there, the King was standing looking out of the window, and when he turned to greet Nicholas, his face was stern. Playtime was over.