Day of Wrath

by Iris Collier

  ‘The King’s got a mind of his own, and he’ll not change it. God, man, if you think you’ve got a job keeping the King under control, just think of me. When I last saw him he was talking about going hunting!’

  Southampton whistled. ‘This is getting worse by the minute. I suppose he sneers at travelling in a coach and will want to ride here on horseback?’

  ‘That’s the general idea. Wants to show himself off to his loyal subjects, and ignores the fact that anyone not so loyal could shoot him down.’

  ‘Then there’s only one thing we must do, and that’s find Ultor damn smartly. I wonder if the devil lives locally or is he only an infrequent visitor?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say I think he lives in my area. Could be a Marchester man, of course. There’s a nest of traitors in the cathedral as I’m sure that traitor, Catchpole, the Precentor, wasn’t the only one to murmur against the King’s policy. Let me remind you that my steward and his girlfriend overheard Mortimer talking to someone, probably Fitzroy, as it happens. The poor devils were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hayward, my steward, was murdered. We know now that Mortimer ordered his death. But the girlfriend, Bess Knowles, died after Mortimer’s arrest. This implies that someone else stepped into Mortimer’s shoes and took over where he left off. And he’s still at large.’

  ‘So this Ultor took over straight away after Mortimer’s arrest?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he made a pact with Mortimer. Should Mortimer fall, his mantle would fall on Ultor’s shoulders. But this is all speculation. So far we have no proof that Bess Knowles’s death had any connection with her boyfriend’s murder. She was pregnant. The Coroner said the death was due to natural causes.’

  ‘Still, it’s a coincidence. You’ll have to keep a good eye on your patch. Get some spies out there, people you can trust, someone who can talk to everyone and not arouse suspicion.’

  ‘I’ve got just the right person.’

  ‘Good. Who is he? One of your servants?’

  ‘No, a girl.’

  ‘Good God, man, are you mad? Look here, Peverell, this is a serious matter. We’re talking about high politics, not a church outing. Whatever made you think that a girl could be any use at all in espionage?’

  ‘She’s intelligent, well informed, independently minded. Gets around on her own horse, is liked by everyone, and no one suspects her. She’s already investigating something that I admit is a bit far-fetched, but she thinks it’s important and she might be right. After all, we have to keep an open mind if we’re to find Ultor before the King comes.’

  ‘I agree with you about that, Peverell, but a girl!’ He looked keenly at Nicholas. ‘I suppose she’s in love with you; and by God, you’re in love with her, aren’t you? This is no time for romance, Peverell. You’ll get nowhere with all this airy-fairy romantic nonsense. You always were too soft for your own good. Wake up, man. We’re talking about the King’s life here.’

  ‘Love doesn’t come into it, Sir Ralph. I like her, and she goes everywhere and reports to me. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, what is she investigating at the moment?’

  ‘She wants to know why an old lady who’s never done anyone any harm should suddenly be suspected of witchcraft.’

  Southampton laughed derisively and slapped Nicholas on the back. ‘Sometimes, Peverell, you drive me mad. You live right up in the clouds. Witches are two a penny. Apart from putting the old curse on someone, I’ve never known them to dabble in treason. Unless they put a curse on the King, of course, then we’d string them up.’

  ‘She’s done nothing. She’s more of a local healer than a witch.’

  ‘Then tell that girl of yours to stop wasting time on her. I say, Peverell, is she pretty?’

  ‘I suppose she is, but that’s not the point. She’s as sharp as any man.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you. If you’re going to have a female spy it’s just as well if she’s pretty. No trouble in getting people to talk if you’ve got a pretty face. However, I think I’ll place my bet on the Sheriff if we’re going to find this Ultor. Wenches are all very well in their place but best kept away from politics. Now, if you’ve eaten sufficient, let’s go through the security arrangements for the King’s visit. You know you’ll have to increase the number of guards on your house?’

  ‘The King’s sending down some of his yeomen.’

  ‘Thank God for that. They, at least, can be trusted. Don’t let anyone get near the King whom you don’t know. Treat all strangers with suspicion. You can rest assured that no harm will come to the King when he’s under my protection. I can’t say the same when he’s with you. Now let’s get down to business. I’ve got a chart over there with all the King’s movements mapped out on it. As far as I’m concerned he’s not going to take one step outside proscribed limits. If I were you, I’d do the same.’

  ‘I’ve just told you, my Lord, he wants to go hunting.’

  ‘Then you must try to dissuade him, Peverell. Remember William Rufus.’

  * * *

  Jane arrived at Peverell Manor only to be told by Geoffrey that Nicholas had long been gone.

  ‘Can I ask where he’s gone to?’

  ‘You can ask, but I can’t tell you. More than my life’s worth. Let’s just say that he headed west.’

  Then she remembered he’d said he had to see the Earl of Southampton. Well, she thought, there was nothing for it, she’d have to conduct her own investigations. Someone wanted Agnes out of the way and was setting about it in a devious way. But she was going to find him whether Nicholas helped her or not.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was still raining when Jane arrived at Abigail Butcher’s house. She lived in a tiny, timber-framed house, its walls made of a daub of clay and dung mixed with straw and twigs. A pig was rooting around in the piles of rubbish which littered the yard, and she scuttled off grunting and squealing when she saw Melissa. Jane tied her horse to a tree and went into the yard. The rickety front door was open and she peered into the dark interior where a woman was crouched in front of a smouldering log fire, stirring the contents of an iron pot. She looked up when Jane knocked and smiled. Jane was well known to her. The Butchers were one of the few really poor families in the village and Jane often dropped in a batch of eggs or some honey when she went past.

  The wind was blowing the smoke back through the hole in the roof, and Jane could only just see the two boys and the girl, sitting on the damp mud floor watching the pot with hungry eyes, like three cats. Two chickens, perched on the wooden bed head, started up in surprise as she went in and flew out of the front door, squawking angrily. The children jumped up to welcome her. They were polite children, as Abigail was strict with them, and they tried not to look too eagerly at the pots of honey she’d brought with her. Jane hugged them all, and gave the eldest boy one of the pots.

  ‘Here, Simon, go and share this with your brother and sister.’

  Simon took the pot and they rushed to the table where they greedily scooped out the honey with their fingers, licking up every drop.

  ‘Don’t eat it all,’ said their mother. ‘Save some to put on your gruel when it’s ready.’

  They grinned across at her and went on eating. Jane went over the fire and looked closely at Abigail, who was still weak from childbirth. She was a young woman, still in her twenties, but already the strain of bearing four children in five years was beginning to show in her tired, worn face. Her long hair hung in lank strands round her face and her torn brown dress was mud-stained and hardly covered her body. However, she was pleased to see Jane and told her to bring up a stool and dry herself off.

  ‘The fire’s got the sulks today,’ Abigail said, giving it a poke. ‘It takes a long time to get the food cooked. It’s good of you to come, Mistress Warrener. Just take a look at those three with the honey.’

  Jane waved across at the children. ‘How are you, Abigail? Are you getting a bit stronger after Daniel’s birth?’

  ‘Ah, the poor darling.
He was just a wee bit of a thing. Didn’t really know who we were or where he was. But the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’

  ‘You’re not angry about his death?’

  ‘Angry? Lord, Mistress, why should I be angry? These things happen; and it’s best that it turned out the way it did. How could I cope with a child with a twisted body? He’ll be up in Heaven now, with a beautiful straight body and a fine pair of wings on him. He was fair, you know; not like my three darlings over there. Daniel was meant to be an angel.’

  ‘You don’t blame the midwife who delivered him?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s not to blame. He was a bit upside down when he was inside me and we had a struggle to get him out. But Mistress Agatha was very clever and Agnes Myles was very helpful too with her potions. At one stage, when the pains were real bad, she gave me something to drink which knocked me out. The next thing I remember Daniel was born. He’s happy now, and that’s an end to it. Some wicked people are saying that Agnes put a curse on him, but I don’t believe that. She loves babies and has never harmed anyone. No, God wanted Daniel for his own.’

  Jane stayed until the gruel was bubbling in the pot. Then she got up and went over to talk to the children, who were now extracting the final smears of honey from the jar. The two little boys were sturdy and lively and she asked if they were going to the monks’ school. Abigail looked across at them.

  ‘Yes, the Prior says they can start soon. I want them all to read and write. Neither Jack nor I can. Will you teach little Rose to read when she’s a bit older?’

  ‘Of course I will. It opens up a whole new world when you learn how to read.’

  ‘I’ve told them that. It’s the only way out of this dreary life we lead. Just think of all the people who live in this village. How many of them can read and write? Most people just scrape around for a living as best they can.’

  Jane left the Butchers’ house and untied Melissa. So that was that. She was quite sure that none of the Butcher family would harm Agnes Myles. But who, in the village, she thought as she jumped up on Melissa, could read and write? The priest, of course, the churchwarden, the monks Geoffrey Lowe. Not many people, but, of course, someone else could have written that message. Someone from outside the village. Lots of people could read and write in Marchester.

  She rode off. Already it was time to see to her father’s midday meal. Later, when he took his afternoon nap she’d go and see the churchwarden. Not that she could visualise Edgar Pierrepoint skulking out in the middle of the night to string up a cat.

  * * *

  Edgar Pierrepoint was also taking an afternoon nap when Jane knocked on his door. He lived in a large, timber-framed house next to the church and, as a freeholder, he enjoyed a comfortable life-style. After a few minutes, he opened the door, recognised Jane and ushered her in to his front room. His wife, Phyllis, who was overweight and found it difficult to get about these days, was upstairs asleep. As Jane went in, a large tabby cat stood up on the settee where he’d been curled up asleep, arched his back, yawned and jumped down on to the floor where he proceeded to rub himself round Jane’s legs, purring loudly.

  ‘He’s a beautiful cat,’ she said as Edgar indicated a chair by the fire.

  ‘Yes, he’s got some fine markings on him. We’re very fond of him, as you know. He’s a good ratter. Getting on a bit, like us.’

  ‘You’ve heard the news about what happened to poor Agnes Myles’s cat?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m really angry about that. I’ve been down to see her and she’s very cut up. There are wicked people around, Mistress Warrener. Who’d want to harm a cat who never bothered anyone, and who keeps down the vermin? Agnes might not be a regular churchgoer but she’s a good Christian soul all the same. It’s wicked what people are saying about her.’

  ‘So you’ve heard the rumours too. Do you know who started them?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But I intend to find out. I’m going to start with the ale-house. A lot of rogues get together down there and there’s always trouble after they’ve had a few jars. I’ll get to the bottom of it even if it takes me the rest of the summer. I can’t abide persecution of innocent people; and I can’t abide cruelty to harmless animals. Don’t you fret yourself, Mistress Warrener, I’ll sort this out.’

  * * *

  Once again, she’d drawn a blank. Pierrepoint and his wife would no more kill a cat than fly to the moon. Maybe he’d find out something from the ale-house regulars.

  * * *

  It was after dark when Nicholas got back to Peverell Manor. Geoffrey Lowe was waiting up for him. When he helped him off with his boots and brought him a tray of food, he told him about what had happened to Agnes Myles’s cat.

  ‘Mistress Warrener came looking for you this morning. I expect it was about this. It’s a wicked thing to happen and I hope the devils who did it are found. Not much you can do tonight, sir,’ he said, as Nicholas reached out for his boots. ‘Master Warrener wouldn’t take kindly to you bothering his daughter at this hour. Best go and see her tomorrow.’

  Wearily, Nicholas went up to his room. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Just after midnight, he was woken up by a loud banging on the door and Geoffrey came in.

  ‘Wake up, my Lord. There’s a fire down in the village. You can see it from the gatehouse. Seems to be coming from the direction of Agnes Myles’s house.’

  Nicholas leapt out of bed and threw on some clothes. Then he went to the gatehouse and saw the flames which were lighting up the night sky over Agnes Myles’s cottage. Already his servants were running down towards the blaze. Fire was everybody’s dread, and everyone had a responsibility to try to put it out. Unfortunately the rain had stopped, but at least Agnes had her own well in her garden.

  A groom brought round one of the other horses, and Nicholas mounted and galloped off down to the village.

  Agnes’s garden was full of dark figures, some, mostly his own servants, were already filling buckets of water from the well. Someone was trying to get people to form a chain. Others did nothing. Nicholas jumped off his horse and shouted to them.

  ‘Come on. Everyone’s needed. Do you want to see her house go up in flames?’

  It was the wooden shed which was burning furiously. Fortunately the wind had died down and the flames had not yet reached the house.

  ‘She’s an old witch,’ said someone from the back of the crowd. ‘She’ll be the next one to burn, and serves her right.’

  ‘Get hold of that man,’ shouted Nicholas to Geoffrey, who’d joined them. ‘And don’t let him go. Now where’s the old lady?’

  ‘She’s inside,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Mistress Warrener’s with her.’

  ‘Geoffrey, get this lot organised. Seize hold of anyone who won’t co-operate. And get someone over to the Sheriff. Tell him he’s needed urgently.’

  He ran into the house, where Agnes Myles was sitting defiantly in her chair. Jane was on her knees in front of her. She looked up as Nicholas came in.

  ‘She won’t leave this house. She could have a bed with us. My father can’t stand cruelty. Try and persuade her, Nicholas.’

  Nicholas took hold of Agnes’s hands. They were cold and she was shivering with shock.

  ‘I want you to come with me, Agnes. There are evil people outside who want to harm you. Now I know somewhere where you can be safe until we’ve caught the people who want to harm you. There’s a place in the Priory where she’ll be safe, Jane,’ he said. ‘I don’t want her staying with anyone in the village. It would be too dangerous both for her and the people she’s staying with. Come, let me lift you up, Agnes. You’ll be safe with me.’

  Suddenly her body seemed to crumple and she fell forward. Before he could stop her she collapsed on the floor. The strain had been too much for her frail body, and she fainted with the horror of it all. He stooped down and picked her up in his arms and carried her outside, where already Geoffrey’s organised team was bringing the fire under contr
ol. Some people cheered when they saw him. Others hissed. There were cries of ‘Witch, witch, burn the witch,’ but Nicholas took no notice. He carried Agnes to his horse, laid her carefully on its back, and led her down to the Priory. Jane walked with him, leading Melissa.

  The frightened gatekeeper let them in and went to fetch the Prior, who’d just finished Matins. He came out straight away.

  ‘What’s this, my Lord? Am I expected to provide lodgings for all the old women in the village?’

  ‘No, Prior. Agnes Myles needs a refuge. People are burning her property; they could start on her next. They are calling her a witch, and you know that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Of course it is. Mistress Myles doesn’t know anything about witchcraft. I know she’s on our side, not the devil’s. Brother Michael thinks the world of her. Some ignorant mischief-maker is spreading these rumours. I know, let’s put her in the anchorite’s cell. There’s a bed in there and a chair, and we can lock the door.’

  ‘And give me the key,’ said Jane firmly. ‘I’ll be the only person who has access to her. I can bring her food every day, and see she has everything she wants.’

  ‘Good idea. I can’t have the monks looking after her. That wouldn’t do at all.’

  They carried Agnes round to the little hermit’s cell, which had been built on the southern side of the priory. It was a small stone room, with a window cut into the wall of the Priory for the occupant to see Mass being celebrated on the high altar. It had been occupied for twenty years when the last occupant had died, but the bed was still firm and dry and there was a comfortable chair. Jane said she’d fetch some bed clothes and a rug for the floor. They laid Agnes down on the bed and Nicholas covered her with his cloak. She was still unconscious. They left her and went out, locking the door. Jane put the key in her pocket.