Day of Wrath

by Iris Collier

  Cursing his luck, Peverell returned to the waiting coach. God damn them all, he thought as he ordered the coachman to drive off, he’d get a good dinner at Merrow if it was the last thing he’d do.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There they were again! Three women, outside the ale-house on the corner of the main street where it joined the main coast road. Usually Jane steered well clear of gossips. But that Friday morning there was an air of intensity about them that made her rein in Melissa and dismount. They were so engrossed in their discussion that they hadn’t seen her ride up, until the ale-keeper’s wife, Biddy Tomkins, turned round and noticed her. Biddy was a large, ungainly woman with a figure sagging from the birth of her seven children, four of whom were up in the churchyard. She wore her usual brown dress with a dirty apron fastened round her drooping belly. Her straggly grey hair was partly concealed under a grey cap, and her rugged face was crisscrossed with enlarged veins, the result of an over-enthusiastic sampling of her husband’s brewing. When she recognised Jane her face broke into a deferential smile, revealing a row of blackened teeth which lurched round her mouth like ancient tombstones up in the graveyard.

  ‘My, my, it’s Mistress Warrener. To what do we owe the honour of your company?’

  ‘To bid you good morning.’

  ‘That’s mighty courteous of you.’

  ‘And find out what’s new?’

  ‘Well may you ask,’ said one of the other women, an aged crone, her body almost bent double so that she had to turn her head sideways to look at Jane. Everyone called her Old Emily, and no one knew who her family was and how she’d come to live in Dean Peverell. ‘There’s lots of strange things going on around here. Too many for comfort, I think.’

  ‘Really? Now what can they be, I wonder.’

  ‘Well, for a start, my hen has stopped laying. Just once the old girl produced an egg, and then no more for two weeks now. Whilst her up there, now her hens are laying all the time.’

  ‘Who are you talking about, Emily?’

  ‘Why her, of course. Old Agnes Myles. That stuck-up old bitch who’s too proud to come and talk to us,’ said Biddy, her face flushing angrily.

  ‘Agnes? Don’t be so foolish. She’s done you no harm. Her hens are always good layers, and anyway, at this time of the year, hens are always unpredictable. Just wait a day or two, and yours will be laying nineteen to the dozen.’

  ‘My hens have given up, too,’ said the third woman, the weaver’s skinny wife; someone who Jane always tried to avoid. She had a small, pointed face, a bitter expression and a spiteful tongue. Her name was Matty; ‘And there’s another thing,’ she said, ‘Agnes Myles was there when Abigail Butcher’s latest baby was born, and look what happened to him. He was all twisted and bent like a piece of old thorn bush and couldn’t get his breath properly and he died hours later before they could get the priest to baptise him. Terrible it was. And who’s fault was that, may I ask?’

  ‘Babies often die,’ said Jane impatiently, ‘it’s one of the facts of life. You can’t blame Agnes for that.’

  ‘You can, if she’s a…’ said Biddy ominously.

  ‘A what?’ said Jane, suddenly feeling a prickling of fear. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Why, she’s a witch, Mistress Warrener. That’s what we’re saying. She’s a nasty, evil old witch.’

  ‘Stop this talk at once, all of you. You don’t know what you’re staying. Agnes is a healer. You’ve all benefited from her treatment when you were ill.’

  ‘She didn’t cure my aching bones,’ said Emily resentfully. ‘She said there was nothing she could do for me. Gave me some ointment to rub on my back, and what happened? It got even more crooked.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with Agnes. She can’t make you young again.’

  ‘Now don’t you start telling me what’s right and what’s wrong. We know, don’t we,’ Matty said, turning to the others for support. ‘And we also know what went on up in the woods.’

  ‘Oh, and what nonsense are you going to tell me, now?’

  ‘It’s not nonsense. It’s a fact. They do say that witches can turn themselves into filthy demons if they’ve a mind to. Well, his Lordship was up there in the woods on his horse when out from behind a tree she pounced, disguised as a spirit from hell. Horrible it was. No wonder his Lordship’s horse bolted and he fell off. It was a mercy he didn’t kill himself.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. I found him and got help. He said it was a trick of the light on the leaves that frightened his horse. Spirits, demons, witches! You’re all a poisonous lot of gossips.’

  ‘And you, Mistress Warrener, are riding for a fall, too,’ said Biddy. ‘We all know what you’re up to. You’re always up at the Manor strolling around with his Lordship, even visiting him in his bedroom, so we’ve heard. Well, don’t you come the high and mighty with us. His Lordship’ll tire of you soon, and don’t you come running to us when it all goes wrong. And where will you be, may I ask, when all the great lords and ladies come to his house? Do you think he’ll want to walk out with you then? Oh no, you’ll come creeping back to that old father of yours and no one will ever look at you again.’

  ‘You’ve got a foul mind, Biddy Tomkins. There’s no harm in me talking to Lord Nicholas.’

  ‘Nothing at all, if it’s only talking.’

  The three of them cackled and spluttered and, impatiently, Jane turned to jump up on Melissa’s back.

  ‘That’s right, you ride away on that horse of yours. But don’t say we didn’t warn you. There’s changes coming to this village. They do say that the monks will be kicked out soon, Mortimer’s gone and we don’t know what’ll happen to his place, and now they’re saying the King’s coming. Think of that. And we don’t want any dirty old witch around here putting curses on his Highness.’

  Jane turned and rounded on Biddy. ‘Now what mischief are you saying? The King’s coming here? Who told you that?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge, Mistress Warrener. You ought to talk to us a bit more. A bright girl like you ought to keep up with the news.’

  * * *

  Agnes was in the wooden hut at the end of her garden. She was tying fresh rosemary into bundles ready to hang up on the rafters for use next winter. The room was full of the pungent scent of herbs, like the church after Sunday’s High Mass. She looked up as Jane came in.

  ‘Come in, Jane. It’s good to see you again.’

  Jane walked over to the table and ran her fingers through the pile of herbs, smoothing out the grey-green spiky leaves of the rosemary. Gradually, the anger in her subsided. She picked up a bunch of rosemary and buried her face in it, inhaling deeply. ‘Um, lovely. I envy you your healing talents.’

  ‘It’s nothing special. It’s just a question of knowing which of God’s plants is suitable for any particular ailment. I’ve studied them all my life, remember. Even the dangerous ones have a use if you know the right dosage. But what can I do for you?’

  ‘You’ve heard the news, of course?’

  ‘My dear, the village is buzzing like a beehive with news.’

  ‘Do you know that a whole lot of people from Court are coming to the Manor?’

  ‘Oh that! Yes, I’ve heard, and I feel sorry for Lord Nicholas. He’s going to have his work cut out feeding and entertaining that mob. Master Lowe’s been here and commandeered all my eggs for the next three weeks. Still, he says he’ll give me a good price for them. Seems my hens are the best layers in the village. I hope his Lordship’s coming home soon, otherwise Master Lowe’s mind’s going to give way under the worry of it all.’

  ‘They say that the King’s coming.’

  Agnes put down the bundle of herbs and looked at Jane, suddenly serious.

  ‘Best not to listen to gossip, Jane. Wait until Lord Nicholas tells you himself. There’s all sorts of rumours flying around but no one knows for sure. Only his Lordship, of course. We’ll all be glad if King Henry comes here, not that we’ll see much of him, but it’s best not too ma
ny people know about it. Master Lowe told me nothing and that’s how it should be. The King’s the King, and these are dangerous times. Now, I’ve nothing against Harry Tudor, but others might not agree with me. So steer clear of gossips, Jane.’

  ‘Agnes, there’s something else I must tell you.’

  ‘Why, my dear, how serious you look. Come now, we’ve never kept things from each other, have we, so what is it?’

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Biddy Tomkins…’

  ‘Now what made you do that? Nothing good ever came out of Biddy Tomkin’s mouth. She’s nothing but a bawdy ale-house keeper’s wife, a trouble-maker if ever there was one.’

  Ambrose strolled in, rubbed himself round Jane’s skirts, then sat down in a pool of sunshine in the doorway and proceeded to wash his face and whiskers with delicate precision.

  ‘There are rumours going around…’

  ‘There always are when Biddy Tomkins opens her mouth.’

  ‘Abigail Butcher’s child died recently.’

  ‘I know. The poor, wee babe. But it was only to be expected with his spine twisted all over the place. There was no room in his chest for his breath. But the Lord gives, and the Lord taketh away, and it’s not for us to question His ways. And I daresay it’s better for the babe to be in Heaven with the angels with a good, strong body, than having to endure a wretched life down here with us.’

  ‘You were there when he was born?’

  ‘Yes. Abigail asked me to give the others a hand. It was a bitter labour. Jane, what are you saying?’

  ‘It’s not what I’m saying, it’s what they’re saying. People are also saying that it’s strange that your hens are laying and theirs aren’t.’

  ‘That’s because I feed them on corn and barley which I saved over the winter. Now what’s all this about, my dear?’ she said, as she wiped her hands on her apron and came over to put her arms round Jane’s shoulders. ‘Come on, look at me, and say what you have to say.’

  ‘They say you’re a witch, Agnes. That you cursed Abigail’s child, turned yourself into a demon and frightened Lord Nicholas’s horse up in the woods, and cursed all their hens so that they won’t lay any eggs.’

  Agnes threw back her head and laughed, a full-bodied, merry laugh that made Ambrose stop his ablutions and gaze at her disapprovingly with his huge, yellow eyes.

  ‘I know it sounds preposterous. I know you’re a healer, not a destroyer. I know you’re one of the holiest people I’ve ever met, that you’re on the side of the angels and wouldn’t hurt a living soul. But the rumours are going round, like a fire in a field of dry hay and soon it’ll be roaring through the village. Agnes, I’m afraid for you. Someone’s started these rumours. Someone’s got it in for you. Have you any idea who it could be? Anyone you’ve offended? Perhaps you turned someone away because you couldn’t help him and he resented it. Think hard, Agnes, because we’ve got to put a stop to these rumours. There’s nothing that excites the popular imagination as much as the cry of “witchcraft”. It’s but a short step towards the next cry “Hang the witch!” I feel that you’re in real danger. Why don’t you come and live with us for the time being? My father, as you know, is a bit cantankerous, but he won’t tolerate any superstitious nonsense. You’ll be safe with us.’

  ‘Thank you for coming and warning me, Jane, but I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind. I know only too well what happens to witches. Up on Marchester Heath the bodies of two women condemned for witchcraft still hang from the gibbets. I expect that already they’re saying that Ambrose here is my familiar. But I have a clear conscience. I wouldn’t know how to cast a spell on anyone even if I wanted to, which I don’t. People come here to ask me to help them. Some things I can’t cure, and I always say so. I never give people wrong advice just to keep them happy. Even the holy monks come and consult me sometimes. Ask them if they think I’m a witch! As for babies dying and hens not laying eggs, that’s all part of the natural world; and it’s got nothing to do with me. I know how to prescribe a potion to make people with troubled minds go to sleep, and I know how to ease stiff joints and relieve coughs and fevers, but that’s a gift which comes from God, not His adversary, the devil. Now don’t you worry about me, my dear. Why don’t you come inside and I’ll make you a herbal drink with honey, and we’ll forget all about these gossips.’

  * * *

  Jane left Agnes’s cottage and rode up to the common to give Melissa a good gallop. She wanted to order her mind. Ahead of her was Mortimer Lodge, usually such a peaceful sight; but now an atmosphere of malevolence hung over it which seemed to contaminate the surrounding countryside. She avoided the wood. Something was going wrong in this little community, she thought. A family broken up through one man’s treachery, two innocent people dying because they unwittingly overheard an incriminating conversation, and now a harmless old lady accused of witchcraft. But why pick on Agnes at this particular time? Agnes had always been held in high esteem. People called her a wise woman, even a holy woman. There’d never been a hint of witchcraft. What had she done? Had she, too, overheard something? Was someone trying to get rid of her?

  Deeply perturbed, she turned Melissa back towards home. But first she had to see Prior Thomas. He wanted her to sing to his special guests who were due to arrive at any moment, and she wanted to look through the programme and maybe have a rehearsal with Brother Benedict.

  * * *

  Nicholas slept fitfully whilst the coach lurched and jolted over the rough roads of West Sussex. They reached home just as the servants were waking up and the labourers were setting off to work in the fields. Nicholas climbed stiffly out of the coach, dazed by tiredness, with his body aching from the rough journey and still sore from the fall he’d had in the woods.

  A boy, sleepily rubbing his eyes and frantically trying to tie up the fastening on his trousers, opened the main gate. Nicholas had never seen him before.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Anthony, sir. Geoffrey’s nephew.’

  ‘And where do you come from, and what are you doing here?’

  ‘I live in Marchester, sir, and I’ve been offered a job as general servant. Geoffrey’s had to take on a lot of new hands.’

  At that moment, Geoffrey came running out to meet them. He, too, looked as if he needed a good night’s sleep, although his worried face broke into a smile of relief when he saw Nicholas.

  ‘Welcome home, my Lord. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going at the moment, what with all the provisioning and the preparation of the rooms, I’m at my wits’ end. I need you to guide me.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got things well under control, but let me have something to eat, for God’s sake, before we start on our domestic problems.’

  Over a plateful of fried bacon and half a dozen eggs, Nicholas listened to Geoffrey’s tale of woe: not enough beds, not enough servants, not enough food, not enough chairs … Finally, just as Geoffrey seemed to be on the point of collapse, he blurted out, ‘And they do say, my Lord, that the King’s coming.’

  Nicholas carefully mopped up the last drop of egg yolk with his bread, swung round and looked at Geoffrey.

  ‘I suppose the whole world knows by now?’

  ‘Bound to. The sailors talk about nothing else in the Portsmouth taverns. Seems he’s going to look at the ships on the seventh so I suppose he’ll be coming here on the sixth? It’s too soon, my Lord. I’ll never be ready.’

  ‘Calm down, Geoffrey. I know there’s a lot to do, but I daresay the Prior will come to our rescue. He can put up a whole lot of people on the top floor of the guest house, the servants, the valets. We’ll have the most important people here, the King, of course, and his senior courtiers. Now listen carefully, Geoffrey. I know the problem you have of feeding this mob, but believe me it’s nothing compared to the problem I’m going to have with guarding the King. He’s a difficult man to keep under control and I don’t want him wandering off anywhere on his own. He’s bringing some of the Yeomen of the Guard – no, don’t ge
t alarmed,’ he said as Geoffrey exclaimed in horror. ‘They’ll have to stay here with us, and we’ve got to put them up near the King. They’ll have their instructions, of course, but I want you to co-operate with them one hundred per cent. Now, Geoffrey, I want you to swear that you won’t go round prattling to everybody about this. Let people talk, but don’t give them any information. It would be the most terrible thing if the King should come to any harm in my house. Remember our motto – always loyal.

  ‘I shall need a list of everyone employed in this house; their names and where they’ve come from. Anyone coming here to apply for a job must be turned away. Even if we’re short-handed we must know who our servants are and we must be sure of their loyalty. Now I want that list immediately, as I shall have to check every person on it with you. I must insist on tight security at all times from now on, Geoffrey. If in doubt about anything, consult me. On the sixth of June, I want only those people known to us to be in this house. Anyone not on our list, or not on the King’s list which I shall expect him to send down to me with his steward, is to be sent away. Is that clear? Don’t worry about provisions; I’ll see what the Prior’s got in his store cupboard. But first I must go to Marchester and see Landstock.’

  ‘But surely, my Lord, you should rest first.’

  ‘No time for that. Get Harry saddled up. I can rest later.’

  ‘But where’s the King going to sleep?’

  ‘The King? In my bed of course. Unless he brings his own bed with him.’

  ‘And the Queen?’

  ‘She’ll have to have a room, I suppose.’

  ‘How many meals?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Geoffrey, don’t be such an old woman. I don’t know. At least three feasts, I should think. One when they arrive, one on the seventh, unless Southampton’s going to feed them, one after the hunt on the eighth.’