by Iris Collier
The Prior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards and he stared in amazement at Nicholas. Then he jumped to his feet and confronted him, stabbing his podgy fingers into his chest.
‘Now this really is sacrilege, my Lord. Are you telling me that this traitor could be one of us?’
‘I think so, and I would like you now to assemble all the Brothers together and ask each one, under oath, where they were at four o’clock this afternoon. Brother Benedict and I will then check out their alibis.’
‘You take the most appalling liberties, my Lord,’ the Prior roared, his face flushing alarmingly. ‘What’s Brother Benedict got to do with this? He’s our guest.’
‘He’s also agreed to be my assistant, until Jane recovers.’
‘Your assistant? Over my dead body. Since when have monks been asked to assist in tracking down traitors?’
‘Calm yourself, Prior. I’m sure there are precedents. Brother Benedict seems to think he’s answerable only to his own abbot. But it’s only for a short time. Jane will be on her feet very soon, I’m sure. Now, if you please, will you assemble all the brethren?’
‘Certainly not. It doesn’t please me at all. It’s supper time, and I can’t keep them waiting.’
‘It won’t take long. All I want you to ask them is where they all were at four this afternoon.’
‘We don’t have to go to all the trouble of calling an assembly. I know where they were at four. In the choir, of course, singing Vespers.’
Nicholas sighed. Another blind alley. ‘Were they all present, Prior?’
‘How should I know? I wasn’t there. I was dealing with Wagstaff and Laycock.’
‘Then who checked all the monks into choir?’
‘Usually Father Hubert presides when I’m busy. But I sent him off to collect more young nettles. I can’t do without them at the moment after a winter of salt meat and dry fish. So today, I asked Brother Oswald to lead them.’
‘Then we must send for Brother Oswald and you’ll soon be able to get to your table.’
* * *
Brother Oswald arrived looking flustered after this disruption to his routine. He looked nervously from Nicholas to the Prior.
‘You want to speak to me, Prior?’
‘Yes. You took Vespers this afternoon, I gather?’
‘Yes, I always do when Father Hubert is otherwise engaged,’ he said with a faint hint of disapproval in his voice.
‘What time did you begin?’ said Nicholas.
‘The usual time, four o’clock,’
‘Was everyone present?’
‘Nearly everyone. Brother Benedict had been given permission to rehearse in the parish church. Father Hubert was up in the woods, and Brother Michael was visiting Old Eddie up in High Dean.’
‘What’s the matter with Old Eddie?’ said Nicholas.
‘He can scarcely draw breath, my lord, after all that smoke he’s been breathing in all his life. It’s the lot of charcoal burners to die before their time because their lungs give up. Brother Michael gives him something to ease the pain.’
‘So there you are, my Lord,’ said the Prior triumphantly. ‘We’re all accounted for. Now can I please ask Brother Cyril to serve supper. Oh, and by the way, send my regards to Mistress Warrener and I hope she soon recovers.’
* * *
Nicholas collected Harry from the gatekeeper, who had brought him over from Warrener’s house. He mounted and trotted off up the street towards the woods and the neighbouring village of High Dean.
The charcoal burner lived in a clearing in the woods, in a beehive shaped house made of wattles. Beside the house, the great kiln which slowly reduced the wood to charcoal, smouldered and crackled, belching out smoke which hung over the clearing like a heavy pall. Harry sneezed and backed away from the furnace, and Nicholas dismounted, tied him to a tree, and went across the glade to the cottage. Inside, he saw, in the far corner, a dim figure lying on a mat. He went across and spoke quietly to Eddie, whose breath was coming in huge laboured gasps which racked his body.
‘Eddie. It’s Nicholas Peverell. Can you speak?’
‘I’m sorry, my Lord. My lungs are playing me up,’ came the wheezing reply.
‘I’m sorry to see you like this. Can I bring you anything to help?’
‘Thank you, my Lord. But one of the monks has been with some medicine. It’ll soon make me feel a lot better. Don’t worry about me, I’ll soon be up and about. When this lot of wood’s done, I’ll let the kiln go out for a bit, and then my breathing comes easy.’
‘Do you remember which of the monks came to see you?’
‘The same one who’s been before. Brother Michael, the miserable-looking one. But he knows how to make people feel better.’
‘Do you know what time it was when he came?’
‘Oh Lord, how should I know? Everyday’s the same to me. The sun rises, and I gets up, or tries to. When it’s overhead I eats a bit of bread and cheese, if I’m up to it. I goes to sleep when the sun does. That’s my day. He came, if you really want to know, after the time when I usually eats my dinner, and before bed time. About two hours ago, I suppose.’
A terrible burst of coughing stopped him from saying any more. He tried to sit up, and Nicholas handed him the little jar of medicine which stood by the mattress and removed the stopper. Eddie drank a mouthful with a sigh of relief and sank back on to his bed and shut his eyes. It would be cruel to ask him any more questions, so Nicholas left him and walked back to where he’d tethered Harry. So Brother Michael had been to see Eddie; but what time it was was anybody’s guess.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘I can’t hang on to ’em for ever, my Lord,’ said Sheriff Landstock tersely. ‘They keep moaning about their rights; and they have every reason to. I haven’t arrested them yet because a burn on a sleeve of a jacket’s not enough evidence and unless we have a witness who comes forward and says that they actually saw Bovet and Perkins start the fire I can’t hold them for questioning much longer. I can’t make ’em talk, you know.’
‘I thought you had ways of making people talk,’ said Nicholas, who was standing at the window of the Sheriff’s office in Marchester watching the crowds surging round the nearly completed market cross.
‘I’ve done what I can, within the law. I’ve kept them in the dark and starved ’em. I can threaten them with the manacles but I can’t move them to Lewes to use them. We need some proper evidence. What about the ale-house keeper and his wife? Any joy from them?’
‘None at all. But I’m sure they know something, and in time, they will probably come out with it. But not yet. Everyone seems frightened; everyone’s clammed up. You know how it is. Who are all those people out there, Sheriff?’ said Nicholas, leaning forward to get a better look at the crowd outside.
‘God knows. They come to look at the cross, I suppose. They make a lot of work for us – thieves, vagabonds, muggers – ale-houses working all hours; more trouble when they close and the drunks roam the streets. People have heard that the King’s coming and rumours are flying around that he’s coming here to Marchester. What do you think, my Lord?’
‘I’m quite sure he’ll be giving Marchester a wide berth. All that business with the cathedral Precentor, Rodney Catchpole, has put him off coming here for a long time. Besides, we’re running a tight schedule. Because of the dangerous security situation, Southampton wants him off his territory as quickly as possible. I think we’ll get him to leave most of his retinue behind and ride to Portsmouth with just a handful of people he can trust. The King’s quite capable of riding the twenty miles to Portsmouth and back on fast horses. It’s probably safer keeping him moving than letting him lumber along in a coach where he could be ambushed. I know Southampton says he’s providing soldiers to line the route, but he hasn’t enough men to cover every square inch of the way. There’s bound to be gaps.’
‘Fitzroy wants to bring his men here. Says we’ll need extra men to guard the King. What do you feel about that?’
‘Tell Fitzroy to stay where he is until we need him. I don’t trust him; and neither does the King.’
‘My sentiments exactly. Southampton’ll give us enough men. He’s edgy enough as it is and wants to put bowmen all along the route and cannoneers at Portsmouth Point; much good they’ll be!’
‘They can be deadly if the ball lands in the right place.’
‘Let’s hope the beggars know how to aim straight. In any case the King won’t be standing on his own for long. He wants to see the fleet sail past – God willing. Let’s hope the wind changes direction by this time next week – it’s coming from the east at this moment, and that’s hopeless. Let’s hope, too, that it doesn’t give up altogether, or work itself up into a storm and scatter the fleet all over the Solent.’
‘Cheer up, Sheriff, I didn’t know you were such a pessimist.’
‘A pessimist? Aye, that’s the right word. It’s because I’m losing sleep over this visit. I don’t like it one little bit. The sooner next Thursday’s over, the happier I shall be. Then it’s back to the thieves and muggers again – child’s play! Oh, by the way,’ he went on, looking across at Nicholas sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry about this lass of yours. I hope she’s not too badly hurt. A pretty girl, if I remember rightly.’
‘Yes, she is. It was a wretched business; and what’s more, I don’t think it was an accident. Someone tried to kill her, Sheriff.’
‘Now that’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it? No one takes a wench seriously.’
‘They do if she’s the one person a key witness is likely to talk to.’
‘You mean that old witch of yours. I thought you put her safely out of harm’s way.’
‘She’s under lock and key, but it now appears there’s more than one key, so she’s not entirely safe. Fortunately she’s still confused, but when she comes to her senses, it’ll be Jane she’ll talk to – provided nothing happens to her in the meantime.’
‘Better keep an eye on both of ’em then; just like I do with Bovet and Perkins. How is the lass?’
‘She’ll recover. I’m going to see her after I leave here, provided that old bear of a father lets me in. Now Sheriff, I’ve got something to tell you that’s going to shock you. But just hold still until I’m finished.’
‘Shock me? Sheriff of Marchester? Never. I’ve seen everything. Mind you, I was pretty shocked when Mortimer was arrested.’
‘Then you’ll be even more shocked when I tell you that I am beginning to think that our traitor, who took over when Mortimer was arrested, could be one of the monks.’
The Sheriff whistled. ‘Now that does take a bit of swallowing. And I hope to God, Lord Nicholas, you know what you’re doing. But you’ve got a good head on those shoulders of yours, even if you’re not too keen on using it. Now what makes you think that this fellow with the damn silly Latin name is one of the holy monks?’
‘Because, in the first place, they’ve got a motive. They’ve got a grudge against the King. Secondly they’re all literate and quite capable of carrying on a correspondence with Reginald Pole. They know Latin. They know the King’s coming, and they’re on the spot. And they know how to poison people with harmless-looking herbs, and they know they are above suspicion.’
‘And they’re also enclosed behind the monastic walls.’
‘Not all the time. The Prior’s very lax. They visit the sick, collect herbs in the woods, and one of them runs messages for me.’
‘Let’s hope it’s not the Prior?’
‘It’s possible, but I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s capable of murder. He’s far too easy-going. This Ultor, like Mortimer, is a ruthless fanatic. He’s not afraid to die if he’s caught in the attempt to murder the King. In fact, he’s probably training up someone else to take over should he get caught before the King arrives.’
‘This is bad, my Lord. And very worrying. Damn me, it’s time we got some good ale down our throats.’
He called for a servant who came with a jug and two tankards in hand. Both men drank in silence.
‘If you’re saying that our Latin friend is one of the monks, then why would he want to get rid of Agnes Myles? Bess Knowles, I understand. The poor lass was a witness. But Agnes Myles? Come off it, Lord Nicholas!’
‘Agnes Myles is a holy woman, a healer. She makes potions, balms for the whole village. She also knows about poisons. She buys valuable medicinal products from a merchant in Portsmouth. Everyone comes to her for some sort of healing. Now if anyone came to her for something a bit out of the ordinary, she’d remember. Then she might tell us if we jog her memory. And that person could be Ultor.’
‘Yes, I’m with you. But I don’t think Ultor would visit Agnes Myles on his own. He’d send someone else, surely?’
‘He wouldn’t if he’s well known to Agnes. And I think Ultor works alone. He does the planning, but uses others to do his dirty work. He also knows human nature, and knows how to work on the prejudices of the local people.’
‘But there’s no evidence that he is a monk. Hell’s teeth, Lord Nicholas, I can only work with evidence; not supposition.’
Nicholas sighed and drained his tankard. ‘No, no evidence at all. Just a hunch. However, anything can happen, and I want to be there when it does. Now I must be off. I’ve got to check up on Jane.’
‘I hope she’s soon better. And, by God, Lord Nicholas, I hope this fellow is one of your monks – he’ll be outside my jurisdiction until the Bishop passes him over to me for hanging!’
* * *
When Nicholas arrived at Jane’s house, she was out of bed and sitting in an armchair in the main living room, impatiently stabbing at a piece of embroidery with a needle. She got to her feet when Nicholas went in and he saw her wince with pain. He also saw her face flush with pleasure and thought how marvellous it was to be given such a welcome.
‘Thank God you’ve come, Nicholas. I was worried about you.’
‘There’s no need. I take good care of myself. More than you do, I see. Shouldn’t you be up in bed resting?’
‘Resting? I’ve done enough of that. How’s Agnes? How’s Benedict? Have you seen the Sheriff? What’s the news?’
‘Hold on, Jane, you’ve got to take life quietly.’ He kissed her lightly on the forehead and firmly pushed her down into the chair. ‘Agnes is fine; Benedict’s looking after her. And you must rest, otherwise you’ll not be well enough to sing to the King.’
‘And you, Lord Nicholas, can leave my house immediately,’ said an angry voice behind him. ‘It’s bad enough having a daughter who won’t stay in bed without you coming along and talking to her about singing to the King. She’s still frail. And you’re not helping her, my Lord.’
‘Father, don’t be such an old woman. Of course I’ll be well enough. My back’s a bit sore, but that’ll soon go. Now please leave us; we’ve important things to talk about.’
‘Oh? Since when have you and Lord Nicholas had important things to discuss? Get on with your embroidery, lass. As soon as Brother Martin comes, we’ll get you back into bed.’
‘I refuse to go.’
‘You will, my wench, even if I have to carry you up there myself.’
Nicholas smiled at Jane’s furious face. ‘Don’t worry, Jane; we’ll talk later. Go carefully, now. You’re safe in here. And I must ask you to lock your door, Master Warrener,’ he said, turning to look at Jane’s father, who was scowling at him like an angry boar. ‘We don’t want any intruders in here.’
‘I’ve never locked my door in the daytime, and I’m not going to start locking it now,’ said Warrener, walking across to the door and flinging it wide open.
‘I’m sorry, Nicholas, he means well. But do you think this really was an accident?’ said Jane softly.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Nicholas said, glancing across at Warrener, who was getting increasingly impatient for him to leave.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘he’s very deaf. Listen, I think there was someone up in the tower when we were t
here. Now I didn’t see anyone but the birds were more restless than usual. Did you come across anything when you looked round?’
‘I found the place where the stone was removed. It was very neatly prised out of the wall. It was carried to the edge of the platform and dropped on you. Thank God you moved when you did. There was no evidence that the stone had been accidentally dislodged. In fact I would say that it couldn’t have been. Now stay here and get strong and I’ll come back when there’s anything to report.’ He bent down to kiss her and she lifted her face to his embrace.
‘And God go with you, Nicholas. And take care. You’re in more danger than all of us.’
* * *
Nicholas rode home through the silent village. No groups of chattering women. No one sitting outside enjoying the sunshine. Front doors tightly shut. No one setting off to walk to Marchester. Everyone had turned inward, frightened to leave their cottages. It was as if the plague had struck; the same atmosphere of suspicion and fear. Fear of the unknown; fear of the supernatural.
* * *
Geoffrey was waiting for Nicholas when he rode up to his main gate.
‘My Lord, he’s come, he’s here,’ said Geoffrey, looking white-faced and tense. ‘He drove into our courtyard without a by-your-leave, and he’s making himself at home checking everything. The cheek of it!’
‘Who’s come?’ said Nicholas patiently, as he dismounted and summoned over a groom to take Harry away.
‘Why the Frenchie fellow. The King’s sent him, so he says. Calls himself a steward. He’s in our kitchen already taking the lids off our pots and telling Mary she doesn’t know how to make proper custard. He’s upset us all. He’s got his own carriage. Look over there. Just look at all those arty drawings on it. He’s got a fine strong horse, though.’
Nicholas glanced across the courtyard and saw a small, lightly built coach, designed to hold just one person. It was made of painted wood with long shafts and a seat for a coachman. The door panels were decorated with angels and cherubs, picked out in gold paint and blowing trumpets and playing harps.