Day of Wrath

by Iris Collier

  ‘And I still think it’s unlikely that any of them are involved in this. They’re just not worldly enough. It needs a devious mind to plot the elimination of witnesses. Mind you, there are a lot of drunks from the ale-house ready to do any dirty work required,’ said Jane. ‘Although Pierrepoint, the churchwarden, says that none of them knew anything about the fire at Agnes’s house. After all, it started after the ale-house had closed.’

  ‘Yet I think, and so does the Sheriff,’ said Nicholas, ‘that the Tomkinses know more than they let on. Also the Sheriff’s got the two men in custody whom he thinks started the fire. They were regulars at the ale-house. Sooner or later they’re going to talk.’

  ‘It seems to me that we’re spending a lot of time waiting for people to talk,’ Jane said bitterly.

  ‘And we’ve not much time left. We’ve got to get back to our suspects. You to your spying; me to interviewing the monks.’

  ‘Prior’ll not permit it.’

  ‘He will if I’m doing the interviewing. And if he doesn’t, then he’ll become the chief suspect and I can summon the Sheriff.’

  He turned to go, but Jane paused, her face tense with concentration. ‘You know, I still find it difficult to believe that the monks are involved in this conspiracy, Nicholas. I know they disapprove of the King, and it’s understandable that they object to being ordered out of their own monastery, but they all took the Oath of Supremacy; there was no sign of rebellion then. This all smacks to me of a secular conspiracy.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Jane. Fitzroy’s the obvious suspect. But monks are human beings. They have emotions just like us. They can love, hate, desire vengeance. We mustn’t rule them out just because they seem unlikely suspects.’

  The Sheriff and I did explore Fitzroy’s possible role in this. Now, if you like, let’s take another look at him. He’s put his own steward, Roland Seaward, in Mortimer’s house. Now Seaward could be doing Fitzroy’s dirty work for him. He’s in an excellent position to stir up trouble in the village against Agnes Myles, and prepare the way for when Fitzroy decides to strike.’

  ‘And how’s he going to do that?’

  ‘He raises the muster for the county, remember. They are a band of loyal men, loyal to Fitzroy, that is. They are armed, ready to fight when he gives the order. Arundel is only an hour’s ride away from here. Instead of coming here to guard the King, they could do just the opposite.’

  Jane looked at him in horror. ‘But that would be outright rebellion. You don’t know this for certain, do you, Nicholas?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’m just running through the possible suspects. Fitzroy’s not to be trusted. His only loyalty is to himself. He’s an unscrupulous rogue, only out for what he can get. He shopped Mortimer, remember, who trusted him, and look what happened – he put one of his own men in Mortimer’s house. The only thing that makes me doubt he’s Ultor is that the Sheriff doesn’t think he’s clever enough to be Ultor, and he’s illiterate.’

  ‘But maybe Roland Seaward writes his letters for him. Or someone else could.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to find out.’

  ‘Also Mary Woodman might be able to help us. After all she worked up at Mortimer’s place before your steward enticed her away.’

  ‘Enticed? Surely not. Not Geoffrey!’

  ‘What’s so surprising about that? After all, Cupid’s not fussy where he directs his arrows.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were an expert on Cupid, Jane. But seriously, Mary might be able to tell us something. I wonder how many times over the last few weeks Fitzroy visited Mortimer’s house. I know he said he denied any involvement with Mortimer’s conspiracy, and that fits. He’d want to lead his own conspiracy, not let Mortimer call the shots.’

  ‘You mean he betrayed Mortimer to the King, got his house, and then started plotting to get rid of the King, bring in one of the Yorkist claimants and so put himself in line for a fat reward? God in heaven, Nicholas, could a man be so evil?’

  ‘He could and it’s happened here before, not so long ago. After all, the Tudors have only been on the throne sixty years. They’re relative newcomers. They can’t afford to relax. But I’m quite sure the King’s got the measure of Fitzroy. He’s not mentioned to me that he wants him on the guest list.’

  ‘But the trouble is, somehow I don’t think Fitzroy’s behind this. The time’s not right for him. He’s too obvious a suspect. I can’t see him writing to Pole, who doesn’t have, as far as I can see, any political ambitions at all. No, if Fitzroy’s going to turn traitor, then he’ll be doing so for his own ends and in his own time. However, I’ll go and see Roland Seaward. And you, Jane, back to your squint window. And be careful. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’

  * * *

  Roland Seaward was comfortably installed in Mortimer Lodge. He bemoaned the fact that he’d been left in the lurch by Mary Woodman, but he was able to roast lamb, and Mortimer’s cellars were well stocked with casks of wine and beer. He seemed to be enjoying the life of a country gentleman and he hoped that if Lord Gilbert Fitzroy bought the house from the King for his new hunting lodge, then he could continue to run the place for him. No, he never went down to the ale-house. Why should he? He had everything he wanted closer to hand. No, he’d never heard of Agnes Myles, and no, he couldn’t read or write. He could count and that’s all a steward needed to know. And he used an abacus for numbers over ten when he ran out of fingers. Does Lord Gilbert come and see him often? Nicholas asked. No, he doesn’t, was the reply. Not once, since Mortimer was arrested. What was the point? He’d had his instructions. Look after the property and keep away thieves.

  * * *

  Nicholas rode slowly home. No, he couldn’t see Seaward being involved in any plot to oust the King. Obviously he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise his own comfortable position. But that still didn’t rule out Fitzroy. He could still be planning to attack the King whilst he was staying at his own manor house. Even if the King’s Yeomen of the Guard would be more than a match for Fitzroy’s collection of local layabouts, they would be heavily outnumbered. He knew that the yeomen were trained fighting men, but, even so, they would not be able to ward off an attack until help came from Southampton’s soldiers. And, thank heavens, he thought, his house still had a strong keep and massively strong entrance gate.

  * * *

  Promptly at six, Nicholas presented himself at the Prior’s house and was ushered upstairs by Brother Cyril, the Prior’s steward, to the dining room. The table was laid for seven. Brother Cyril had put out a tray with eight fine Venetian glasses on it and a jug of malmsey wine. Brother Benedict poured Nicholas out a glass and offered it to him with a dazzling smile. Nicholas held the glass up to the light from one of the tapers and admired its translucency.

  ‘The Prior’s got exquisite taste in glass and porcelain,’ said Brother Benedict conversationally.

  He’d do better tonight if he’d used pewter and served a light beer, thought Nicholas, and then thought that the Prior seemed to be setting about his own extinction with remarkable efficiency.

  At that moment, the Prior entered, followed by two dour-looking men. They were of medium height, stocky, strikingly similar in appearance to their master, Thomas Cromwell. They glanced around the room with their keen, observers’ eyes, pausing to look at Brother Benedict and the tray of glasses. The Prior looked gratefully across at Nicholas and with false heartiness introduced the two men.

  ‘My Lord Nicholas, come and meet our two distinguished visitors, Victor Laycock and Henry Wagstaff. They’re a bit weary after their long ride, but I thought they would be ready for a good meal and chat with our noble patron. But first, come over to the fire and have some wine. This is a very fine malmsey, matured over five years. You’ll take a glass, gentlemen, I hope? Brother Cyril, see that our glasses are topped up.

  Wagstaff looked at the wine disapprovingly. ‘Ale will suit me fine,’ he said in a voice that had a strong London accent.

  The P
rior jumped as if he’d been stabbed in the back. ‘Really? How extraordinary. Ale, at this time of night? How about you, Laycock?’

  ‘Ale if you please, if it’s no problem. Wine unsettles my stomach.’

  Nicholas glanced across at the Prior, whose face presented a study in fleeting emotions. With difficulty he checked his urge to burst out laughing. This man was Ultor? No, the idea was preposterous.

  ‘There’s no problem,’ interjected Brother Cyril. ‘I’ll just have to go down to the kitchen to get some.’

  He came back, followed by the miniscule figure of Alfred Hobbes, the Vicar of the parish church, still dressed in his grimy cassock, and Father Hubert. Hobbes too, looked at the wine with distaste, and said he drank nothing but ale. Father Hubert said he preferred water. Nicholas drained his glass and, reaching for another, tried to smile reassuringly at the Prior. ‘Come, a toast,’ he said, after they’d taken their places at the table. ‘To the King, gentlemen.’

  ‘The King,’ they said solemnly as they raised their glasses.

  Nicholas did his best. He sat between Hobbes and Wagstaff and talked pleasantries. He ate a great deal of the Prior’s giant pie made with the best beef and fresh ox kidneys. He drank quantities of Bordeaux wine and congratulated the Prior on the high standard of his cuisine. But he fought an uphill battle. Wagstaff and Laycock ate abstemiously, Father Hubert merely pecked at his food, but the meal was saved by Brother Benedict, who was in high spirits and prattled on regardless of the disapproving looks thrown in his direction.

  When he’d finished, Nicholas pushed aside his plate. ‘Well, gentlemen, what’s the programme for tomorrow?’

  Wagstaff, the more talkative of the two, looked up from his plate. ‘Just a general inspection, my Lord. We’ll attend a chapter meeting if that’s all right with you, Prior, and then move on to the accounts.’

  The Prior winced. ‘You’re welcome to see anything you like. But as to the accounts, you’ll have to talk to Father Hubert about them. I never look at them myself. I never was any good at book-keeping.’

  ‘It appears, Prior, that you keep a fairly liberal regime here.’

  ‘Liberal? What the devil do you mean by that? I’m easy-going, yes. I like happy faces around me, people with strong digestions, wine drinkers, musicians. I can’t abide kill-joys, parsimonious types with long faces. Father Hubert’s one of the best treasurers we’ve had and I leave things to him.’

  ‘And I suppose you have a general audit once a year?’ said Wagstaff pleasantly.

  ‘General audit? Never heard of such a thing. No I consult Father Hubert when we need anything, and he generally accommodates our needs.’

  Laycock pursed his lips disapprovingly and pushed aside the last piece of meat on his plate. ‘It’s not good enough, Prior. All institutions need a yearly audit.’

  ‘How dare you call us an institution,’ shouted the Prior, his face flushing alarmingly.

  ‘What else can we call you?’ said Laycock.

  ‘We’re a community. A community, I’ll have you know, dedicated to the worship of God. I hope you’ve heard of Him!’

  Nicholas felt it was time to intervene. ‘What’s next on your list, gentlemen, after the accounts?’ he said evenly.

  ‘The Treasury. We’ll need to see all the plate. The King, we understand is coming next week, and he’ll want to see an inventory.’

  ‘You must give me time to clean it,’ said Father Hubert who’d been darting hostile looks at the two Commissioners throughout the meal.

  ‘Oh don’t waste your time on cleaning it. We only want to estimate its value.’

  ‘Its value! Do you realise that most of our plate is priceless? Some of it goes back centuries.’

  ‘All the more reason for an inventory,’ said Wagstaff. ‘We’re experienced in up-to-date prices.’

  ‘I must object, Prior,’ said Father Hubert, who was close to tears. ‘These are sacred objects he’s talking about. Master Wagstaff refers to them as if they were bits of junk bought at a Michaelmas Fair.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Father Hubert, our guests only want to take a look,’ said the Prior, who’d managed to get himself under control.

  ‘I still regard it as sacrilege.’

  ‘It seems to me that you regard everything as sacrilege,’ put in Hobbes, who’d been sitting there quietly eating his supper and listening to everything. ‘You won’t lend me a cope for High Mass at Easter, and when the Bishop came you wouldn’t let me borrow a thurible. You said it would be contaminated if I used it on the parish.’

  ‘Quite right, too. We have our things; the parish has theirs, Vicar. It’s always been like that,’ said Father Hubert crossly.

  ‘And you don’t think it’s sacrilege to harbour an old witch on your premises?’ said Hobbes.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Wagstaff, suddenly alert. ‘What old witch is this?’

  ‘She’s just a harmless old crone who’s being persecuted by the village people – you know how superstitious they are – and the Prior is very generously giving her sanctuary,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Hobbes vehemently. ‘Some of the Brothers don’t like it. Not one bit, so they tell me.’

  ‘Who tells you?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Why, all of ’em. Brother Martin doesn’t approve, neither does Brother Michael, nor Father Hubert here. He was moaning on about her to me the other day.’

  The Prior could bear it no longer. He carefully replaced his glass on the table mat put there by the fastidious Cyril, and swung round to face Hobbes.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d leave the matter of Agnes Myles to my judgement, Vicar. She’s on monastic premises and until I have good evidence that she’s dabbling in the black arts she can stay here until the uproar dies down. If I were in your shoes, Vicar, I’d concentrate on preaching to the parishioners on Sundays. They seem to be letting their imaginations run away with them.’

  ‘Still, witchcraft is a serious accusation, Prior,’ said Wagstaff.

  ‘Indeed it is. And if I have proof that she is indeed consorting with Satan I shall have her removed instantly to the Bishop’s gaol. Now, Brother Cyril, have we any dessert? Or are you proposing to serve up yesterday’s leftovers?’

  Fresh strawberries, forced under cover in the Priory gardens, were brought in with a jug of thick cream, followed by fresh goat’s cheese. The Commissioners were visibly mellowing.

  ‘I’ve got a favour to ask of you,’ said Hobbes suddenly. ‘Mistress Jane says she’ll come and sing to the congregation on Sunday. Will you lend me Brother Benedict to sing with her? I hear they go well together.’

  ‘By all means, Vicar,’ said the Prior amiably. ‘As long as you don’t think it’ll be sacrilege.’

  ‘Music can never be sacrilegious,’ said Nicholas firmly.

  ‘Music can incite unseemly passions,’ said Father Hubert primly.

  ‘Nonsense,’ roared the Prior, ‘what do you know about unseemly passions, Father Hubert? Of course you can borrow Brother Benedict,’ he said, turning towards the Vicar. ‘That’s what he’s here for; to entertain us.’

  ‘Does your Rule permit this, Prior?’ said Laycock. ‘I thought St Benedict confined his monks to singing in choir, not going out to entertain the rough peasantry. And I’m sure he wouldn’t approve of one of his monks singing with a woman! You should keep to the Rule, Prior.’

  ‘And you, gentlemen,’ said the Prior, getting to his feet, ‘should mind your own business. Allow me to decide what the blessed St Benedict would approve of, or not approve of. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall retire until I’m called to Matins. You, gentlemen can do as you please. Goodnight, Lord Nicholas.’

  He bowed to Nicholas and stalked out. Nicholas looked helplessly at Brother Benedict, who shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘You must forgive my Lord Prior,’ he said to the company at large, ‘he has much on his mind.’

  And if he behaves like this, thought Nicholas, he’ll have even more on his
mind.

  * * *

  The Commissioners had only been here a few hours, he thought as he rode home, but already they’d collected enough evidence to damn the Prior out of hand; reluctance to show them the church plate; harbouring a suspect witch; enjoying rich and abundant food and fine wines; allowing one of his monks to sing in the parish church in front of a secular congregation – and with a woman; and flying off the handle at the first hint of criticism. The best advice he could give to the monks now was to start packing immediately! And after his recent conversation with Jane, he felt certain he could put out of his head any idea that the Prior was Ultor. The Prior was a man of impulse and emotion; Ultor was devious and calculating. The two were incompatible. Unless the Prior was a very good actor indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At four o’clock the following afternoon, Jane went down to the parish church to rehearse with Brother Benedict. She was in high spirits at the prospect of a pleasant hour making music. She pushed open the church’s heavy wooden door and went in. Inside, it was cool and peaceful; the only sound came from the colony of jackdaws nesting in the tower. The straw on the floor of the nave crackled under her feet, and she jumped when a tiny field mouse scampered out from under the straw and bolted towards the daylight. The afternoon sun poured in through the door, lighting up the brightly coloured frescos which covered the walls of the church: above the door, a beautiful painting of the Holy Family fleeing into Egypt; the donkey, which carried Mary and her child, was huge with large, floppy ears and the expression on its face was one of resigned obedience. On the opposite side of the church a huge figure of the Angel Gabriel appearing to Mary smiled down at the congregation. At the east end, to the left of the altar, was the scene of the Crucifixion and to the right, the scene at the tomb on Easter morning. Jane loved the parish church with all its bright paintings, telling the story of Christ to the villagers who couldn’t read it for themselves.