by Iris Collier
‘And will they want entertainment?’
‘Bound to. Something simple. Jane Warrener can sing to them with Brother Benedict. Some dancing, I suppose. Nothing vigorous, the Queen’s not into dancing these days. The Prior and the Precentor can rustle up some musicians between them, I expect. Now off with you and get me Harry.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘Ah, Lord Nicholas,’ said Richard Landstock, jumping to his feet. ‘I hoped you’d come today. You’ve become damned elusive. You’re too much away at Court, my Lord. We need you here. Sit down, man, you look all in. Too much roistering, I suppose! Let me get you some ale.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nicholas accepting the tankard of ale which Landstock poured out for him from the jug on the table. ‘God, that’s good,’ he said as he drank deeply, wiping away the line of froth along his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘Now let’s get this straight. I haven’t been roistering, as you call it, but witnessing a barbaric interrogation sanctioned by our legal system.’
‘There speaks the Justice of the Peace. I hope you’re not going to turn soft on us, my Lord. Our safety depends on suspects owning up to their crimes. How else can we catch criminals? Or don’t you want them caught? Perhaps you don’t mind your barns raided and your stewards murdered?’
‘Of course I want them caught. It’s just sickening to watch someone under torture.’
‘Teach the others a lesson, though. You’d think twice about raising a hand against the King once you’ve seen what you’ve just seen, wouldn’t you?’
‘I could no more lift my hand against the King than fly to the moon.’
‘There you are, then. It worked. You’ll stay loyal to the end of your life. But now, let me tell you what’s been happening here. Whilst you’ve been away, I’ve been sorting out your affairs.’
‘My affairs?’
‘Concerning your steward, or rather your erstwhile steward, Matthew Hayward, or have you forgotten all about him?’
‘I thought we’d cleared that up.’
‘Not entirely. We know Giles Yelman let the killers in to your house. We’ve now got the killers. We sent Yelman to Lewes for interrogation, but fortunately, he’s no hero. In fact, he named the killers as soon as he saw the manacles in Lewes prison. Now he’s in custody waiting for the Assize judge to come. The hangman’ll be the last man he’ll see.’
‘Who are the killers?’
‘Two labourers who worked for Mortimer. They had a good alibi but we’ve cracked that. They said they were in the ale-house in the cattle market here in Marchester Monday of last week – the night Hayward was killed – but a witness says that he saw them walking along the road to your house. I checked with the ale-house keeper and his cronies, but no one could say for certain that the two men were there that night. Probably they didn’t hand out enough free ale. You’ve got to be generous when you want someone to tell lies for you.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Here in Marchester, in my prison. No need to send them to Lewes. They’ll come up before you at Quarter Sessions in June.’
‘You’ve done well, Richard. By the way, have you got any further with the investigation into Bess Knowles’s death?’
‘There is no investigation. Coroner was quite sure: death through natural causes. Aren’t you satisfied?’
‘I’ve got an open mind. She was Matthew’s intended, as you know. She probably knew as much as Matthew about what was going on here.’
‘That’s as maybe. She’s in the churchyard now, and that’s the end of the road, unless new evidence comes forward. But any more news about Sir Roger? His arrest caused quite a stir, I can tell you.’
‘He died yesterday in the Tower.’
‘Are you sure of that, my Lord?’
‘Quite sure. I was there; so was his wife.’
‘What the hell did they do to him?’
‘What do you expect? He died on the rack, under interrogation.’
‘What was he accused of?’
‘Treason. High treason.’
‘Is that true?’
‘Oh, quite true. His name was on letters addressed to Reginald Pole. Unfortunately for Mortimer, Southampton picked them up before they reached the Continent, read them and passed the information on to the King.’
‘Do they know who else was in the conspiracy?’
‘No. Mortimer wouldn’t speak.’
‘He wouldn’t. He was too much of a fanatic. Now we’ve got the King coming, and we don’t know for sure if the conspiracy’s been well and truly stamped out. Someone might be out there ready to carry on where Mortimer left off. I don’t envy you, my Lord.’
‘Thanks for the sympathy. But we are not entirely in the dark. Mortimer wouldn’t betray his accomplices, but we do know the code name of one of them, and the name of the conspiracy.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s called The Day of Wrath. The leader signs himself Ultor.’
‘What the hell does that mean? Latin means nothing to me.’
‘It means avenger, punisher.’
‘Good God, to think this is all happening here in Marchester, a place where usually nothing happens except drunken brawling and petty theft.’
‘Well, now you’ve got something to get your teeth into, Sheriff.’
‘What I can’t understand is why Mortimer should support Reginald Pole, for heaven’s sake? I’ve heard he’s more interested in a cardinal’s hat than the King’s crown.’
‘You could be right, but it’s more a case of who he is than what he wants. You know that the mother of the Pole brothers is the Countess of Salisbury, who, in turn is the daughter of George, brother to Edward IV, the King’s grandfather. So they are the King’s cousins and, more to the point, they’re Yorkists through and through. If the Pole brothers aren’t interested in the crown, then Lord Montague, their brother, would certainly risk his life for it. If the King doesn’t stamp out this family, then they will be a constant thorn in his side. I can see the time coming when the Countess of Salisbury and two of her sons will all mount the scaffold on Tower Green. If Reginald Pole accepts a cardinal’s hat and stays on the Continent until times change, he’ll be the only one in that family to survive. The King, Richard, is not secure on his throne as long as there are any Yorkists left. And that’s why Lady Mortimer will never be reinstated in her husband’s house. Her family are all related to the Countess of Salisbury. The King promised to be merciful, though, and she’ll go back to live with her children at the other end of the county.’
‘A pity all these Yorkists chose to live around here. My God, Peverell, what are we going to do?’
‘Protect the King; and find Ultor. And we start now. I want you to get your spies out. Get them into the ale-houses, particularly the Portsmouth ones, and tell them to pin their ears back. We’ve got just ten days to sort this lot out. Just think of the consequences if this Ultor gets the King.’
‘You’ve got to guard your house well, my Lord.’
‘I’ll do my best. Henry Tudor isn’t an easy man to guard. He’ll be at his most vulnerable when he leaves me on the seventh of June to ride to Portsmouth Point. He’s bound to go on horseback as it isn’t very far and he’ll want to show himself off to his people. An admirable quality, but I’d be a lot happier if he decided to keep his Queen company in the royal coach. The Yeomen of the Guard can protect a coach, but not a man on a horse who wants to show off to the watching crowd.’
‘I’ll get the constables out…’
‘That’s a start. Get Fitzroy to raise a muster. At least we can line the Portsmouth road with bowmen. They’ll have to check all travellers.’
‘We could stop all traffic on the road until the King’s clear.’
‘He’ll never allow that. As far as he’s concerned, his subjects love him and he wants them to see him. I can just hear him – let no one be inconvenienced! Except me, that is.’
‘I wouldn’t change place with you, my Lord, even if they handed me
Peverell Manor on a plate.’
‘Play your cards right, Richard, and it just might happen. If I make one slip, then I, too, will end up in the Tower; and next time, I won’t come out. Oh, and one other thing,’ Nicholas said turning to go, ‘who’s the best haberdasher in Marchester, Richard?’
‘You’re not thinking of buying a new wardrobe for the King’s visit? You’ve cut it a bit fine.’
‘Someone needs a new coat. I said I’ll see what I can do. Now, be a good friend, Richard, and find me a haberdasher. I want a green velvet coat, with slashed sleeves, and fine quality lining.’
Richard Landstock whistled. ‘That’ll cost you something.’
‘Just a drop in the ocean,’ Nicholas said wearily.
‘Who’s it for? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘You can ask, but I won’t tell you. But tell this haberdasher friend of yours to come and see me. I’ve no time to go looking for him. Oh, and tell him to come soon – like today – and bring some samples of his best quality cloth. He ought to start stitching immediately if it’s to be finished by the sixth of June.’
‘You’re a man of many parts, Peverell. But I’ll see what I can do. How big’s this friend of yours?’
Nicholas looked Landstock up and down. ‘Your size, a bit taller, I think, but certainly he’s got your chest on him.’
‘Sensible man. Can I order myself one too at your expense, of course? Sort of commission? After all, I shall have to be presented to the King. He always wants to see his Sheriffs.’
‘And doesn’t expect them to look fashionable. Order yourself a new coat, by all means, Richard; but don’t send me the bill.’
* * *
Feeling relieved that he could rely on Richard Landstock, Nicholas rode back to Dean Peverell. The sun was already high in the sky so the main Mass of the day would be over and the Prior would probably be at work in the chapter house. Brother Ambrose opened the gate and one of the lay Brothers led Harry away to the Prior’s stables.
‘He’s in the church, my Lord,’ said Brother Ambrose deferentially. ‘You’ll almost certainly find him in the sacristy with Father Hubert.’
He thanked the elderly monk and went into the monks’ church, a beautiful tall building rebuilt two hundred years ago, and paid for by one of his ancestors. He glanced up at the painted ceiling which he had commissioned as a memorial to his wife, and once again admired the design of heraldic shields entwined with some of the wild flowers which grew in the surrounding fields and hedgerows: succulent bunches of blackberries, delicate fritillaries, honeysuckle and wild roses. He felt a rush of emotion as he saw the sun streaming through the stained glass windows, falling on his chantry chapel, lighting up the sculptured figures of cherubs and angels clutching their lutes and harps. Whatever else happened, he thought, King Henry must never get his hands on this place.
The door of the sacristy was open and he heard the Prior’s voice talking excitedly to Father Hubert.
‘Now don’t agitate yourself, Father, it’ll do you no good in your condition. This all belongs to us. It was given to us over the years by our friends and patrons. The King’s not going to rob us of all our sacred vessels.’
‘If the King should see this…’ he heard Father Hubert say in his distinctive nasal twang.
Nicholas forced himself to remove his eyes from the chantry chapel and walked over to the sacristy. He looked in. There on a footstool sat the Prior, and in front of him, laid out on a cloth, were the church treasures. The cupboard in the corner of the sacristy where all the things were kept was open, and Father Hubert was on his knees facing the Prior and cradling the beautiful gold chalice in his arms. There were tears in his red-rimmed eyes, which were sunken into his bony face, a result of too much fasting and a recent blood letting. Both looked up when they saw Nicholas, and Father Hubert clutched the chalice more closely to his chest as if Nicholas were King Henry himself about to wrench it from him.
‘Welcome home, Lord Nicholas,’ said the Prior, beaming broadly. ‘We’re just going through the inventory before our guests arrive to inspect us,’ he said exploding with laughter. ‘Well, they’ll be welcome. We’ve got nothing to hide, though Father Hubert’s a bit nervous about our altar furnishings. I’ve told him to relax; they can’t just walk off with them, can they?’
‘No, they’ll simply write them down on a list and hand it over to Thomas Cromwell, who’ll show it to the King.’
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. Everything here belongs to us. It’s all down in the inventories going back time immemorial. We’ve not pilfered anything.’
‘Only that chalice and the icon,’ said Nicholas evenly, ‘but they were pilfered a long time ago from Constantinople – by one of my ancestors, as it happens.’
He picked up the jewel-encrusted icon and kissed it reverently. The head of the Virgin was crowned with rubies, and the Christ-child was picked out in gold leaf.
‘Oh that was centuries ago,’ said the Prior dismissively. ‘Besides, your ancestor was on a crusade – he was fighting the Infidel – of course he was going to do a bit of pilfering. They all did. If he hadn’t picked it up, someone else would. Great heavens, my Lord, it might have ended up in some foreign church! At least it’s got a good home here.’
‘My ancestor might have fought against the Infidel, but there’s no doubt that this icon came from a Christian church.’
‘Christian?’ roared the Prior, ‘Don’t be stupid. There are no Christians in Constantinople; they’re Greeks!’
Nicholas said nothing. No use trying to argue with Prior Thomas. Father Hubert stood the chalice reverently on the floor. ‘Whoever it belonged to,’ he said softly, ‘we’ve had it for three hundred years and Our Lord’s blood is offered up in it every important feast day and holy day.’
Nicholas noticed how frail the Sacristan looked, how pale and emaciated his face was with the bones of his skull protruding like a death’s head. The Prior noticed Nicholas’s look of concern.
‘Yes, he’s gone too far this time. Look at his arms.’ Nicholas saw the wizened arms, the wrists bound in blood-stained bandages. ‘Too much fasting, and too much blood letting. You’ve hardly got any blood in that poor old body of yours, father,’ he said, getting up off the stool. ‘That Infirmarer of mine likes nothing better than to line us all up and extract our blood. I won’t let him get his hands on me, though. God gives us our blood, and He means us to hold on to it. Hubert’s given so much that he’s had to have two days in the infirmary to get over it. Now God doesn’t want you to make yourself ill, does He?’
‘It’s good to bring the body to order, Prior. I feel close to the Holy One after a blooding.’
‘Of course you do, you old fool! You are nearer to God. One more drop out of that dried-out frame of yours and you’ll be standing in front of His throne in His Heavenly Kingdom. Now let’s put these things away and I’ll go and talk to Lord Nicholas. I’m sure he hasn’t come here just to admire the church furniture.’
‘We could hide them, Prior,’ said the Sacristan tentatively.
‘Hide them? What on earth for?’
‘So that they won’t be listed on the inventory and the King won’t know what we’ve got.’
‘I’ve told you, Father, the King’s not a common thief. Why should he take them?’
‘Because these things are valuable,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’s short of money. The fleet, his pride and joy, is going to consume every penny in the Exchequer. Cromwell’s already saying that with the sale of the monastic church furniture he can pay off the national debt.’
Father Hubert whimpered plaintively and picked up the chalice. ‘Not this, oh not this. Not to fit out a fleet of war ships. It’ll be sacrilege. Let me hide it, Prior.’
‘Oh, put it back in that cupboard and let’s hear no more of this. No one’s going to sell something as precious as that chalice. The King can have the altar frontals; my cope, too, if necessary. That’ll make him a fine cloak. Should keep him quiet for a b
it.’
Leaving Father Hubert to lock away the church ornaments, the Prior and Nicholas walked back through the church and out into the cloister, where several monks were busily copying out manuscripts in their beautiful, elaborate handwriting.
‘Now then, my Lord, what can I do for you? I’ve heard all sorts of rumours about the King coming to stay up in your house. I suppose he’s bringing half the Court with him and there’ll be feasting and all sorts of goings-on.’
‘Not if I can help it. Already I’m beginning to think that I’ll have to sell the high field to pay for all this. I suppose old Warrener’ll be creeping up to me and offering to buy it off me for some knock-down price. The King’s staying two to three nights at the most, and I should be grateful, Prior, if you could help me out.’
‘Well, out with it. What do you want?’
‘Can you sleep some of the guests?’
‘No problem. Send them down here and we can stick them up in the attic of my house. The floor’ll take a hundred or so packed together. The nights are warm now and I’ll get fresh straw down on the floor. Do you need help in your kitchen?’
‘I could do with help in every department.’
‘Then I’ll send down my lay brothers. You can have Brother Cyril for a couple of days. I can manage on some cold cuts.’
‘You’re welcome to join us, Prior. You could then have a chance to talk to the King.’
‘Good idea. I’ll put him straight about what we do here. Have you got a good stock of wine and ale?’
‘I’ve sent Geoffrey off to buy some…’
‘Oh, he’s got no idea about buying wine. Those Marchester merchants will rip you off something cruel. Help yourself to mine. I can always slip over to France and re-stock later in the summer. I could, of course, send Benedict back to Rivières to cadge some more wine from his abbot, but he might not let him come back. I’m only too pleased to help. After all, it was your ancestors who built our church and sent for the monks to come and start our community. You yourself have provided the money to have our ceiling painted and build the lovely chantry. It’s the least I can do. Just leave things to me. Send Lowe along and we’ll concoct some menus. I’ve got a barrel of lambs’ tongues just arrived. Marvellous with a good pastry top and a rich gravy. My cook can rustle up some concoctions for puddings. Pity it’s too early for grapes, but the strawberries! My Lord, you should take a look at the strawberries in my garden. I’ll get the Brothers to cover the beds with straw and you take your pick.’