Day of Wrath

by Iris Collier

  Now Jane began to smile. ‘Are there really such men who carry cannons and hold on to them when they fire?’

  ‘Oh yes. Soon every soldier will be equipped with one of these harquebuses as they’re called. The longbow will be obsolete in a few years.’

  ‘Has Southampton got any cannoneers?’

  ‘Bound to. The King’s all for these new inventions. Might help him to win more battles. But they’ve got to get them to fire with greater accuracy. I still think the longbow’s best when speed matters. However, let’s not waste time discussing modern warfare. You get back to Agnes Myles and find out who she’s been seeing over the last few days, and I’ll get off to Portsmouth.’

  They got up and walked over to the door. This time, Nicholas opened it.

  ‘How can I get in touch with you, Jane? Your father won’t take kindly to me coming to your house.’

  ‘He’ll be rude and abusive. I’ll try and report to you daily. I could leave a message with Geoffrey, but he’s out and about so much that I might not catch him. I know – Brother Benedict – he can be our messenger boy. Because he’s only a visitor he’s not under such a strict Rule as the other monks are. I can send him up here with a message when I need to speak to you, and you can give him a message by return.’

  It made sense, but even so, Nicholas had to fight down the now familiar twinge of jealousy. Had she got an ulterior motive in using Benedict?

  She seemed to sense his hesitation. ‘Don’t worry about Benedict. He’s a dear and a very talented musician; and his vocation to the monastic life is genuine. Probably one day he’ll end up as abbot of a great monastery. But now he’s free to come and go as he pleases. People are used to seeing him about and won’t ask any questions.’

  ‘I’m sure you know best. Yes, let’s use him. You’re a wonderful ally, Jane. I think the Sheriff could do with someone like you on his staff. Shall I suggest it when I next see him?’

  ‘I’d do anything for you, Nicholas, but just steer me clear of Sheriff Landstock.’

  She jumped up on Melissa and rode off. Nicholas took Harry round to the stables.

  ‘Give him a good rub down,’ he said to the stable boy. ‘I’ll be needing him soon.’

  ‘You’re not leaving us again, my Lord?’

  ‘Just a short trip to Portsmouth.’

  He went into the house. Geoffrey took his cloak. Suddenly tiredness hit him like a hammer. He tried to pull off his boots but had no strength. Geoffrey knelt down and began to ease them off.

  ‘You look all in, my Lord.’

  ‘I’m just a bit weary. Nothing that a short nap won’t put right. I think I’ll get my head down for a few minutes. Incidentally, don’t worry about the catering arrangements for the King’s visit. The Prior’s got it all under control.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Will he let us use the guest house?’

  ‘No problem. Says he can sleep a hundred people. Now let me get to my bed. Don’t let me oversleep, though. I’ve got to see the Earl of Southampton before today’s over.’

  He went up to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed. In seconds he was asleep. After one hour, Geoffrey Lowe went to wake him up, but took one look at Nicholas’s recumbent body and went away. Nicholas slept on for eleven more hours.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Agnes woke up in the early hours of Saturday morning. This was unusual. She always went to bed shortly after the sun went down and woke up when the first finger of daylight appeared. She lay there trying to accustom herself to the strange feeling of darkness pressing down all around her. The wind, she noted, had got up and one of the branches of the old lilac tree was tapping lightly on her bedroom window. She snuggled down under her warm coverlet and tried to go back to sleep.

  Agnes enjoyed a comfortable life-style. Her bed was a solid four-poster with thick curtains which she could draw in the winter to keep out the draughts. Her windows were filled in with glass and she could open them in the summer to let in the sweet night air. Her bed linen was of good quality and smelt of lavender, and there were woollen rugs on the floor. All these things were the result of quarterly payments of money from an unknown donor presented to her by an attorney who came out from Marchester. They always drank a herbal infusion together and ate sweet cakes, and he asked her if there was anything she needed. She always said she had everything she wanted, so he nodded and went away, leaving a bag of money on the table. He never told her where the money came from and she assumed it was from someone who cared about her but who had never acknowledged her. Sometimes she wished she knew more about the mystery surrounding her birth, but obviously she would never find out now. When other people talked about their relatives she used to feel left out, but now she was glad she had no elderly parents to look after or aunts and uncles to visit. She felt as if she was floating in her own comfortable space where she could get on with the job of studying the properties of plants and healing people.

  The tapping of the branch was preventing her returning to sleep so she got up, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and went over to the window. She drew back the curtains. The weather had certainly changed. Dark clouds now scudded across the face of the waning moon and a summer storm was building up. Good, she thought. Her garden needed rain and the water butts would fill up nicely.

  She went back to bed and drifted back into sleep. When she woke up the night had gone and the pale light of a troubled dawn illuminated the furniture in her bedroom. Unaccustomed to a disturbed night’s sleep, she felt uneasy. Something was wrong. Something was missing. She splashed some water on her face from the bowl on the washstand, put up her hair under a neat white cap, and pulled on her dress. As she slipped her feet into her shoes, she realised what was missing. Ambrose hadn’t come in. Usually he was inside the house well before the dawn. He always lapped up the plateful of milk she left out for him before padding up the stairs and jumping up on to her bed. There he’d curl up and sleep soundly until she stirred. Then, purring loudly, he’d come to her for his early morning welcome.

  She went downstairs and saw he hadn’t drank his milk. She wasn’t particularly worried. He was a good hunting cat and maybe his hunting activities had taken him further afield than usual. At any moment, she thought, he’d come jumping in through the little window she always left open for him in all weathers.

  She put some kindling wood on the fire and blew on the smouldering log until it burst into flames. Then she heated some milk and poured it over some stale bread, adding honey. She sat down to eat it, but her appetite had gone. Was she sickening for something? In that case she would have to make herself a lemon balm infusion, which she knew had a calming effect on the body. The Prior had sent her down a bush which he’d brought back from France the previous year and she loved the delicious delicate flavour of its leaves. She pulled the shawl round her shoulders and went out into the garden to pick some sprigs.

  Outside the wind was creating havoc in the flowerbeds and it caught hold of one end of her shawl and whipped it off. She ran down the path to retrieve it; and then she saw Ambrose. He was dangling from a length of rope tied to a branch of the rowan by the gate. With a cry of despair she ran to him. The rope was tied tightly round his neck and he hung stretched out like a rabbit caught in a snare. His eyes were staring wildly and his mouth was drawn back in a grimace of pain, revealing his sharp pointed teeth. Nailed to his soft, velvety underbelly was a piece of wood with letters scrawled on it. HANG THE CAT. HANG THE WITCH.

  She tried to untie the knot round his neck but it was too tight. In a panic she ran back to the house and picked up a knife. With this, she cut him down. Then she sat down under the tree, cradling Ambrose in her arms like a child. For eight years he’d been her devoted companion. They had shared everything together. No human being had ever got as close to her as Ambrose had.

  With tears streaming down her face, she got up and carried him into the house. She eased off the rope round his neck, flung the piece of wood with its evil message on the floor, and lai
d him out on the table on a clean cloth. Then she closed his staring eyes, pulled his mouth shut and stroked his beautiful velvety coat.

  ‘Ambrose,’ she whispered, ‘my darling Ambrose. Who did this to you?’

  Gradually time passed, the rain began to fall, gently at first, then with greater intensity. She wept for her cat, until she could weep no more. Slowly her grief gave way to anger. She didn’t care what people thought about her. Let them call her a witch if they wanted to. They were all ignorant peasants, anyway. But why should anyone want to hurt a beautiful and harmless cat?

  * * *

  An hour later, Jane knocked at the door and found Agnes still stroking her dead cat. She gave a horrified cry and rushed over to her friend.

  ‘Agnes, what’s happened? When? How did it happen?’

  Agnes looked up, her face distorted with grief. ‘Go away, Jane, and let me be. The devil came here last night and killed Ambrose. He seized hold of him and hanged him up on a tree. What am I going to do without him?’ And she rocked backwards and forwards, locked in her grief.

  Jane put her arms round her, and Agnes didn’t draw away. Then Jane looked down and saw the piece of wood on the floor. She bent down and picked it up.

  ‘It wasn’t the devil who did this; it was a human being. As far as I know the devil doesn’t write messages. Agnes, you are in terrible danger. This is a warning. You must leave your house immediately. Come home with me. You’ll be safe with my father. He has no time for witch-hunts. Let me get you your cloak.’

  Agnes stopped rocking and stared at Jane. ‘Nobody is going to frighten me into leaving my home. I am going to bury Ambrose, and then I shall carry on doing what I’ve always done – make up my herbal remedies. I won’t be terrorised. I’ve done nothing. I know I’m not a regular churchgoer, but I have my own service books and I worship God in my own way. I go to Mass on the blessed feast of Christmas and on the day of Our Lord’s resurrection. For the rest, I can’t abide the ignorant, superstitious gossiping of the other members of the congregation. Does that make me a witch? I don’t think so. I have no knowledge of the black arts, I have no truck with the devil. I lead a simple and, I hope, useful life. Why have I suddenly got so many enemies? Jane, I am going to find out who murdered Ambrose if it’s the last thing I do; and I won’t leave my house. Will you help me bury him?’

  Together they dug a deep hole by the rosemary bushes. They lined it with the heads of marigolds and sprigs of sweet marjoram. Then they wrapped Ambrose in an embroidered linen pillow case and lowered him into the grave. With the wind tearing at their skirts and the rain splattering great heavy drops in their faces, they filled in the hole. Then Agnes tied two pieces of wood together and made a cross and set it up at the head of the grave. Together they stood there praying silently.

  When they’d finished they went back to the house. Agnes built up the fire and they brushed the raindrops off their clothes.

  ‘We’ve got to talk,’ said Jane as she took the beaker of hot lemon balm infusion from Agnes. ‘We’ve got to find out who’s started this persecution. Can you remember who’s been to see you over the last few days? Can you remember what they wanted? You must think carefully. Someone wants to get rid of you. All this witch nonsense is just a smokescreen.’

  Agnes sat down wearily on the chair by the fire. ‘Not now, Jane. My brain’s not working properly. Leave me now to grieve in peace. Sit with me for just a little while and then get on your way. We can talk later, when I gather my wits together.’

  Jane sat with her for a while, then seeing Agnes needed the peace and silence of her own fireside, she left her, telling her to lock her front door and shut all the windows. There was only one person who could persuade Agnes to leave her house. And that was Nicholas. She climbed up on to Melissa’s wet back and rode up to Peverell Manor.

  * * *

  Nicholas woke up late on Saturday morning. He heard the wind howling down the chimney and heard the rain splattering on the window-pane. Cursing Geoffrey, who’d let him sleep so long, he jumped out of bed and looked up at the storm-tossed sky and a reluctant sun. Realising it was late, he dressed hastily and went downstairs, where the servants were vigorously scrubbing the floors as if the King were coming that day.

  Geoffrey appeared with a tankard of ale and a plate of bread and cold meats and stood there stolidly whilst Nicholas berated him for letting him sleep so long.

  ‘You needed your rest, my Lord. A man can’t go on for ever.’

  It was true. He did feel restored. He drank down the ale and wolfed down the food.

  ‘I needed that, too. Now fetch me my cloak, Geoffrey, and tell the grooms to get Harry ready. It’s a good way to Portsmouth and it’s likely to be a rough ride.’

  * * *

  Harry, too, was well rested, and raced along the Portsmouth road, passing the carts of farmers bringing their produce into the towns along the way. They were riding into the strong south-westerly wind and the rain had turned the surface of the road into a muddy swamp. Not that Harry cared. He galloped along, splashing mud everywhere, only snorting with disapproval when a particularly violent gust of wind hit him in the face. It took them two and a half hours to cover the twenty miles to Portsmouth and then they took the lower coastal road to the small castle at Southsea, which the Admiral of the Fleet used when he was in Portsmouth. The sea looked grey and angry that morning and very few fishing vessels had ventured out. But he knew that the King’s fleet was anchored out at Spithead and he felt sorry for the men who were forced to remain on board and tend to the vessels.

  At the castle, an old, crudely built stone keep, one of the army guards led Harry away to the stables. Then Nicholas was taken to a room on the ground floor where men in armour were clustered round the open fire. They stopped talking when he went in, and politely made a space for him to dry off in front of the fire. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps coming down the stone, newel staircase, and Sir Ralph Paget, Lord Admiral of the Fleet and recently created Earl of Southampton by the King, came into the room. He was a big, military-looking man, tough, vigorous, with a short, stumpy brown beard and hair cut short round his bullet head.

  ‘You’re welcome, Lord Nicholas. Come upstairs and we can talk in peace. Here, boy,’ he said to one of the servants, ‘take his Lordship’s cloak and see that you dry it off properly. It’s a foul day, both on land and sea. I pray God that those ships out there won’t end up scattered all over the Solent.’

  Nicholas followed Southampton upstairs to a small room. There was a bed in one corner and a rug on the floor, which made the room appear more comfortable. A log fire smouldered in the stone fireplace, and a servant came in with a tray of food and drink. Southampton kicked the logs into a blaze and invited Nicholas to stand in front of it and dry himself off. With steam rising from his clothes, Nicholas ate the food gratefully and drank deeply from the jug of ale.

  ‘I suppose you’re here in connection with the King’s visit,’ said Southampton when Nicholas had finished eating. ‘I’m not at all happy about it myself. We hoped that with Mortimer out of the way that would mean the end of this conspiracy, but it seems that isn’t so. We now have this new threat and I’m damned if I know what to do. It’s all very well to clear the streets and increase the guard but what’s the use if we don’t know the name of the person we’re after and where he’s operating from.’

  ‘You got on to Mortimer pretty promptly.’

  ‘Yes, but we had a tip-off.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Fitzroy, of course. Lord Gilbert was approached by Mortimer, who wanted him to join the conspiracy. But Fitzroy would have nothing to do with it. Too much to lose, I suppose. Mortimer was a fool to take Fitzroy into his confidence because Fitzroy went straight to the King and told him everything. Then, as soon as I intercepted the letters to Pole with Mortimer’s signature on them, we could run him in. But as you know, Mortimer told us nothing, and Fitzroy says he doesn’t know who Mortimer’s accomplices are.’
/>   ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Have to. Can’t arrest every landowner in the county because we don’t trust him. Have you in next, Peverell. After all, you lived next door to Mortimer and you must have discussed the King’s policy with him.’

  ‘We talked politics, not treason.’

  ‘Amounts to the same thing these days. Keep your mouth shut, Peverell, and confine your conversation to estate management.’

  ‘Thanks, I might take your advice. But what had Fitzroy got against Mortimer that he informed on him?’

  ‘He had to, in order to save his own skin. Otherwise, as soon as the King heard he’d been talking to Mortimer, who’d been under suspicion for some time, he’d order his arrest. As it is, I wouldn’t like to be in Fitzroy’s shoes. He’ll have a job keeping his nose clean. But as he’s Lord Lieutenant of the county, he’s needed to raise a muster when the King comes. I’m uneasy, though. These musters are not made up from trained soldiers. We haven’t got a standing army, as you know. They’re just ordinary citizens armed with pikes and harquebuses if they know how to fire them, which they don’t. We don’t know who they are and one of them could be this Ultor – what a damned stupid name that is! I think we’ll have to confine Fitzroy’s muster to your end of the county. I don’t trust them poking their noses into everything round here.’

  ‘The King’s in just as much danger when he’s with me, as when he’s here with you.’

  ‘It’s not quite the same. You can at least confine him to your house. When he’s reviewing the fleet he’ll be at Domus Dei down on the Hard, right out in the open, standing around for an hour or more. Anyone could take a pot shot at him. I wish to God he’d come to Porchester instead of Portsmouth. He can’t come here. It’s only big enough for a handful of soldiers. Certainly nowhere to entertain the King. It’s just a tower – there are plans afoot to rebuild it, but that’s in the future – and he can’t see the fleet from here. It’ll be a nightmare trying to hold on to him down on Portsmouth Hard.’