Day of Wrath
Page 22
* * *
Nicholas rode slowly home, deep in thought. Much as he liked the Prior, he deplored his light-hearted attitude towards the imminent arrival of Thomas Cromwell’s Commissioners. Didn’t he realise that they meant business? he thought as he trotted up the deserted street. No longer were there groups of villagers shouting out greetings and swapping news. It was as if the events of the last few days had cast a deep gloom over the place. The arrival of Thomas Cromwell’s men would unsettle everyone even more.
The Prior didn’t seem to know what these men were capable of, he thought. They would pry into every nook and cranny of the Priory’s affairs, study the account books, scrutinise the daily life of the monks, note down who attended services, who stayed away. They’d inspect the kitchens, raise eyebrows at the Prior’s well-stocked cellar, gloat over the number of horses the Prior kept in his stables, exclaim over the carriage which the Prior used when visiting neighbouring parishes over which he had jurisdiction. They’d note the amount of lead on the church roof, the number, weight and size of the bells, and the amount and value of the church furnishings.
And one thing was clear – the Commissioners would not take kindly to the harbouring of a suspected witch on the monastic premises. Maybe, he thought, as he turned in to his driveway, the Prior could pass her off as a holy anchoress. But the monks would object. No, time was running out for Agnes Myles, as it was running out for him. And that was just what Ultor was reckoning on. He’d framed Agnes, that was for sure. He wanted her disposed of; and he was setting about it very efficiently.
When he got back, Geoffrey was waiting for him with a message which had just arrived from the Sheriff. The messenger had left saying no answer was necessary.
‘Lord Nicholas,’ he read. ‘I’m holding on to Bovet and Perkins for the time being. I’m sure they know more than they let on. They do admit that they often go to the ale-house in your village, so it might be useful if you could talk to the ale-house keeper and see if he overheard anything significant last Saturday night. Our two suspects could’ve been paid to start the fire, of course. The ale-house keeper could’ve seen money changing hands. There’s still that burn mark on Perkins’s sleeve not accounted for. Send for me if there’s any more trouble. Landstock.’
Nicholas finished reading, and called for his horse again. He rode back down the street, arriving at the ale-house just as Josh Tomkins was getting ready for his afternoon nap. He was a big, florid-faced man, with sparse black hair, and a dirty apron tied round his enormous girth. Small, piggy eyes looked at Nicholas nervously as he ducked his head under the door lintel and went into the dim, smoked-filled interior.
‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit, my Lord?’ Tomkins said obsequiously. ‘You know my licence is in order. There’ve been no complaints about the quality of my ale, I hope? I only use the best malt.’
‘It’s not your ale I’m interested in,’ said Nicholas, pushing aside two mongrels who were snarling over the bits dropped on the floor by the customers. Biddy Tomkins was famous for her boiled bacon hocks, which went down well with the travellers along the main coast road. Tomkins wiped over a table top with a corner of his apron, and pushed a chair over to Nicholas, who shook his head.
‘A drink, my Lord?’
‘No thanks. I’m not staying. You get a good crowd in here, don’t you?’
‘Most days we’re full up.’
‘People come here from Marchester?’
‘Sometimes. Not often. They’ve got their own places to go to.’
‘Do you know two men called Tim Bovet and Will Perkins?’
Tomkins looked shifty. ‘Might do. They come here to give the monks a hand with the lambing. What’ve they been up to?’
‘Were they in here last Saturday night? The night before the fire in Agnes Myles’s shed?’
Again the cautious look. Careful now, thought Nicholas. Don’t frighten him off. ‘I can’t remember,’ said Tomkins, busily wiping down the tables. ‘There are always lots of people here on Saturday nights.’
‘Come on, man. It’s not all that long ago. Think hard.’
‘Well, I suppose they could’ve been. After all, they’re regulars when they come to work here.’
‘Did you hear them, or anyone else for that matter, talking about starting a fire?’
‘Oh no, my Lord,’ he said, polishing a table with unnecessary vigour. ‘I never heard nothing like that. And if I did,’ he said, standing up and looking at Nicholas indignantly, ‘I would’ve chucked them out. We don’t have such talk in here. Burning down other people’s property indeed!’
‘So you heard no talk of fire. And no one, in his cups, boasting about starting one?’
‘I certainly did not. Ah, here comes Biddy. Come over here a minute,’ he said as Biddy Tomkins, flushed and perspiring, came in to collect the empty tankards. ‘Lord Nicholas wants to know if we heard anyone talking about starting a fire up at old Agnes’s house last Saturday night?’
Biddy came over and dropped a curtsy to Nicholas. ‘I didn’t hear anyone talk about a fire. It started well after we’d closed and Josh and me were tucked up in bed. We only woke up when one of the servants came hammering on our door and calling out “fire”. We got up and went along to Agnes’s house, but we were too late to help, of course.’
Nicholas cursed his luck. They were too glib. They’d had time to get their act together.
‘You know Sheriff has Perkins and Bovet in custody?’
‘We’d heard the rumour. What’re they supposed to’ve done?’ said Tomkins, trying to look unconcerned.
‘They were reluctant to help put out a fire and they slandered Agnes Myles.’
‘Well, that’s only to be expected,’ said Biddy indignantly. ‘What right has a nasty old witch like her to expect people to help her put out a fire? It was only her shed, after all, that went up in smoke. Good riddance to it, I say. Put paid to all her spells for a bit. I can’t see why you bother yourself with all this, my Lord. She oughtn’t to be here. Best place for her is up on Marchester Heath.’
‘And I say it’s a monstrous injustice to accuse someone before they’re proved guilty. Agnes Myles is a harmless old woman and most of the people around here have been grateful for her help. Didn’t you go and see her, Tomkins, when your face sprouted boils last Christmas?’
‘She said my blood needed cleaning,’ he mumbled, not meeting Nicholas’s gaze.
‘And they all cleared up, if I remember rightly?’
‘She gave me a herbal drink.’
‘Well now, would a wicked witch do that?’
‘Could’ve done,’ put in Biddy. ‘Witches are well known to be two-faced. Look how she frightened your horse up in the woods and nearly killed you.’
‘Don’t be such a fool and stop spreading such rumours. I had a fall, that’s all. One of the monks was up in the woods collecting herbs and my horse was taken by surprise and shied, throwing me to the ground. But enough of this talk. Let’s get back to Saturday night. So you heard no one talk about starting a fire?’
‘No, my Lord. Just the usual crowd, out for a drink and a laugh.’
‘And you saw nothing suspicious? No money changing hands, for instance?’
‘Money? Oh no, my Lord, if there was any money around it would’ve come in my direction.’
‘And no laughing about burning an old witch?’
‘Oh no, we wouldn’t have allowed such talk, would we Biddy?’
‘Certainly not. Why waste breath on the likes of her?’
There was no point in probing any further, Nicholas thought as he turned to go. The two had closed ranks. They stood in the doorway watching him mount Harry, who swirled around impatiently. ‘Well, let me know if you do hear anything. We want to know who started the fire. Someone must know. Bovet and Perkins might know and sooner or later they’ll start talking. There’s a reward, you know, for any information leading to the capture of the arsonists. I’ll see that it’s a good one.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Just take a look at this lot, my Lord. Where’s the money coming from?’ said Geoffrey, hovering anxiously over Nicholas, who was sitting at a table with a pile of bills in front of him. Nicholas flipped through the pile, paused to read an invoice from the Prior for four butts of Burgundy, then he pushed them aside.
‘Where’s the money coming from? From me, of course. Who do you think’s going to pay ’em? The King? But don’t bother me with these now. If it means that I’ll have to sell the top field, so be it. At least I know old Warrener’ll snap it up, and I’ll see he pays a good price for it. Now who the devil’s this?’
A clatter of hooves in the courtyard; the sound of metal scraping on stone as a horse slithered to a halt; then Anthony burst in, breathless with excitement.
‘A messenger, my Lord, from the Earl of Southampton,’ he stammered.
‘Well, don’t keep him waiting. Just put these somewhere safe, Geoffrey,’ he said, pushing the pile of bills towards him, ‘and I’ll see to them later.’
Geoffrey shuffled the pile together and fastened them with a cord. Anthony returned, followed by a young man in leather breeches and jerkin covered in dust. He handed Nicholas a leather pouch.
‘From the Earl, my Lord. Shall I wait for a reply?’
‘You’d better hang around. Geoffrey, fetch this young man some food and something to drink. Sit down and rest yourself.’
The young man sank down gratefully on the chair which Nicholas pushed towards him and Nicholas opened the bag and took out the message.
‘Peverell,’ he read. ‘No more communications from Ultor. I don’t like it. Either he’s using another port, or he’s gone to ground. That means he’s feeling secure. He’s made his plans and he’s waiting for the right moment to strike. You must check on everyone; and I mean everyone. The King’s coming next week, remember. Destroy this letter immediately. Paget.’
Nicholas cursed under his breath. He was sick and tired of people telling him what to do. And did Southampton take him for a fool? Of course he knew the King was coming. Hadn’t he got a pile of bills to prove it?
He called for pen and a sheet of parchment and sat down and wrote.
‘My Lord. I am well aware of the urgency of the situation. I also would like to see Ultor flushed out. Rest assured I will do all I can to ensure the King’s safety. Would you send me more precise details of the King’s timetable for the seventh, please. Are you planning to feed him after the review and put him up for the night? Peverell.’
Then he got up, gave his letter to the young man wolfing down a plateful of cold meats, and put the Earl’s letter on the fire, kicking up the logs to make sure every scrap of it was destroyed.
Anthony had returned and was standing awkwardly by the door. ‘Not you again,’ Nicholas said, ‘who is it this time?’
‘That monk, my lord. The one who came before. He wants to see you.’
‘Finish your food,’ he said to the messenger as he left the room. ‘Then get back to your master. I shall see you again soon.’
* * *
Nicholas went out into the courtyard where Brother Benedict was waiting for him. He bowed to Nicholas.
‘A message from Mistress Warrener, my Lord. She wants to see you. Can she come straight away?’
‘Tell her, yes. Tell her I’ll meet her in the usual place.’
Benedict bowed and waited. ‘What now?’ said Nicholas impatiently.
‘Prior says will you come and have supper with us tonight. He says he’d appreciate your help with his visitors.’
I’m sure he would, said Nicholas under his breath. ‘Tell him I’ll be delighted to come. What time?’
‘Six. Just an informal supper, he says.’
That means only four courses, thought Nicholas as he watched Benedict leave the house. He paused for a moment, watching the retreating figure of the monk. He needed to speak with Jane, to mull over events, to use her sharp mind. There were so many possible suspects. Brother Benedict, for instance. What did anyone know about him? A visitor from France; always going backwards and forwards to his mother house. He could be in communication with Reginald Pole. He was allowed to roam freely round the village, was the Prior’s favourite and probably knew what was in the Prior’s mind. Could he be Ultor? Or, at least, could he be working for Ultor? So many suspects; so little time to find the right one.
Jane was waiting for him by the stone seat in the orchard. She came over to meet him.
‘We must talk, Nicholas. It’s Agnes.’
That name again, he thought. Somehow he knew instinctively that this old lady was going to lead them to Ultor. ‘How is she, Jane?’ he said.
‘Still confused; but getting stronger. The isolation suits her. She’s beginning to feel safe. But I am worried about her. She’s a key witness, Nicholas. If she remembers the names of all the people who came to see her over the last two weeks and what they wanted, one of them could be the person we’re looking for – the person who killed Bess Knowles, who tried to kill you up in the woods, and is planning to kill again. Agnes could have supplied him with the means. He’ll want her out of the way. And everyone knows where she is and it’s only a matter of time before someone gets her out of that room. It’s very strongly built, but it wouldn’t be difficult to smoke her out or break down the door. And the Prior is under pressure to get rid of her.
‘I know this, because something happened yesterday. I took her some food as usual. She was asleep so I shut the door and waited. Suddenly I heard voices. Now, as you know, there is a small window at the back of the cell so that the anchoress who used to live there could watch Mass being sung. Now I heard two of the Brothers talking. I stood on a chair and saw Father Hubert talking to Brother Michael and the upshot of it was that both said they wanted to get rid of Agnes. They called her names, old hag, dirty witch, and so on, and then went on to discuss the King’s visitors who are coming today. They talked about ours being a godless society; you know how they witter on. Then they started talking about Agnes again and how she was putting a curse on the place and they would all be destroyed if they didn’t throw her out. Utter nonsense, of course. Agnes isn’t capable of cursing anyone, even if she knew how to.’
Nicholas stared intently at Jane. ‘I wonder…’ he began.
‘You wonder what?’
‘Perhaps we’ve not been concentrating on the right place. Perhaps we’re being blind. Perhaps Ultor’s here, in our community, in the Priory.’
‘One of the monks? Surely not.’
‘Why not, Jane? They might be holy, but they’re human. And they’re about to be sent packing. From the Prior downwards, they are all against the King’s policy. And, by God, Jane, the Prior’s coming to dine with us on the seventh. The Prior! If he’s Ultor – and he’s got the brains for it – there’s his opportunity handed to him on a plate. All he’d have to do would be to slip one of Brother Michael’s concoctions into the King’s drink.’
‘Surely there’s a royal taster?’
‘That’s true, but there would be an opportunity later on when everyone’s relaxed. No, it’s not as ridiculous as it seems. Just think of it, for a moment. He’s literate. Everyone respects him. He has his own coach and travels round the county. He could be responsible for starting all these rumours against Agnes and everyone would believe him. I know he agreed to have her in his Priory, but that could just be a cover to put us off the scent.
‘Now he could have consulted Agnes about which herbs were lethal, and of course, would want to shut her up. Yes, it makes sense. He might balk at the idea of killing her himself, but by spreading rumours that she’s a witch, he can leave it to the community to take the law into its own hands.
‘And Jane, don’t you see that when she talks, she’s going to talk to you, and that puts your life in danger.’
‘Oh don’t worry about
me. As I said before, I’m only a woman, and therefore quite harmless.’
‘I’m not so sure. If Ultor is my Lord Prior, he’ll know you’ve got a mind as sharp as nails – equal to any man’s.’
She gave him a sideways look, and he wondered what he’d said wrong. She bobbed him a curtsy. ‘Thanks, Nicholas. I’m glad you’ve got confidence in me. But, just stop and think before we’re carried away by supposition. The Prior! Nicholas, he’s such a softy! He loves beautiful things: music, paintings, food and good-looking people. Ultor stands for all that’s ugly, destructive. How can he be the Prior?’
‘Jane, just because the Prior admires music doesn’t rule out the fact that he could be deeply resentful that his Priory is going to be closed down and all his monks turned out, and his luxurious life-style would come to an end. Besides, he might also regret that he ever took the Oath of Supremacy and might seize any opportunity of getting rid of the King. Jane, he could be the man we’re looking for.’
‘He could be, I suppose, Nicholas, but I don’t believe you.’
‘Well, maybe Agnes can help us.’
‘If her memory comes back in time. But memories are strange things, and Agnes has had two severe shocks. Let’s hope the Prior doesn’t give in to popular pressure and evict her before her memory returns. She needs rest and quiet. To move her again would set us back days.’
‘And we can’t afford that. I’ll make sure the Prior doesn’t evict her. But all right, I take your point. The Prior looks, on the surface, too relaxed and easy-going to be our man. But now let’s take a look at his monks. All of them could be involved in this conspiracy. All of them are against the King. But realistically, most of them are unaware of the trouble that’s coming their way. They trust the Prior implicitly to look after them. But some of them could be more worldly and want to do something to put a stop to the King’s policy. Brother Benedict, for instance – yes, I know it’s unlikely,’ he said noticing her astonishment, ‘but what do we know about him? Not much. He frequently crosses the Channel, ostensibly to top up the Prior’s cellar when it runs dry. It’s a good excuse, isn’t it? He could be under the Pope’s orders to do anything he can to put a stop to the King’s destruction of the monasteries. Then take Father Hubert, for instance. Yes, Jane, you may well look surprised, but he’s just told me that he was up in the woods collecting herbs when my horse bolted, but, just think, he could have seen me and seized his opportunity to get rid of me. That branch could have caught me on the neck or round the chest and I wouldn’t be here with you now. After all, I seem to have the reputation of being the King’s favourite. A reluctant favourite, I must say! But all the same, my death could have been a warning to the King that if he doesn’t give up his policy of closing down the monasteries, the same fate awaits him. I’m not saying that Father Hubert is Ultor; but I am saying that he might know who he is, and be working for him. So, there are three people from the Priory whom we know about, who could be Ultor – if we count the Prior – or know who he is.’