by Iris Collier
‘Very pretty and very nippy. Now what’s this Frenchman’s name?’
‘Pierre Lamontagne,’ said a soft, heavily accented voice behind him.
Nicholas turned round and saw a small, slightly built man with a shrewd face, twinkling eyes, curly dark hair and a small, perfectly trimmed beard. He wore fashionable clothes, a dark blue doublet with sleeves slashed to reveal a silk shirt underneath, blue slashed breeches, and a neat pair of soft leather shoes on his small feet, each shoe decorated with a blue rose on the front. He removed his blue, soft woollen hat with its curling feather and bowed gracefully. ‘At your service, my Lord. The King sent me to help with the arrangements. This man,’ he said pointing a contemptuous finger at Geoffrey, ‘will not co-operate. The woman, now she’s different. She’ll be very useful, in time, when I’ve tamed her.’
‘Tame Mary,’ roared Geoffrey, ‘just you try. You’ll not tame an English lass with your foreign ways. I’m steward here. Getting ready for the King’s my business.’
‘And just in case you’ve forgotten,’ said Nicholas, fighting back a smile, ‘this happens to be my house, and I’ll give the orders. Now Monsieur Pierre, we’ll show you your room – I take it your coachman can look after himself – rest yourself, and come and join us for dinner tonight. Why not taste what we can provide, and then tomorrow you can show us some of your recipes.’
Monsieur Pierre bowed low and allowed himself to be led away. Nicholas went into the kitchen where Mary was in her usual place by the fire, stirring a pot. But today she looked different. She was smiling.
* * *
‘Mary,’ Nicholas said, with a bowl of soup in his hand, ‘I want you to forget, just for a moment, the charming Monsieur Pierre and think back to when you were over at Mortimer’s place.’
‘Those days are over and done with, my Lord. I’d much rather work here. Me and Monsieur Pierre will get on famously. He knows how to treat a woman. Geoffrey treats me like one of his servants. Now I’m to teach Monsieur Pierre some of our English recipes and he says he’ll teach me how to make some real fancy dishes which the King likes. I’ve forgotten all about Sir Roger Mortimer – wicked man that he was; although he always seemed so holy.’
‘Holy? I didn’t think he went to church regularly?’
‘He’d not go down to the church, not with all those common people. He had his own chapel, didn’t he? Father Hubert came and said Mass for the family. If he couldn’t come then the Prior’d send another priest. Even the old one who sits by people when they’re dying. Sir Roger liked the monks. He said they were the real holy ones, nearer to God than the Vicar.’
‘So Father Hubert used to come and see him? Who else came from the Priory, Mary?’
‘Oh lots of them. I don’t know all their names. The old one, I think he’s called Father John, then Brother Martin came with his tonics and purges when any of the servants got bunged up.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Someone came after dark. Real sinister it was. I never knew his name because he always pulled his cowl over his face. He’d come to say the night prayers with Sir Roger. Prayer, that’s a laugh, isn’t it? Much good it did him when he was hauled away to London. I only hope to God Lady Margot’s all right; and the children. They say she’s returned to her family the other side of the county. Let’s hope she’s left in peace. I still can’t get over Sir Roger. Wicked he was. Much he cared about his family.’
Nicholas finished his soup and went into his study. Now, he thought, he was making progress. Several monks had visited Mortimer’s house. Now he had to find out who the night visitor was – the one with the cowl pulled over his face. Mary made him sound sinister. But he knew that, unfortunately, all the monks covered their faces when they went out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nicholas’s temper wasn’t improved on Friday morning, after a disturbed night’s sleep, by the sight of Monsieur Pierre hovering over him as he ate his breakfast.
‘My Lord, today is the first of June. We have six days, six days, to get this…’ he paused as he looked contemptuously round the great hall of Peverell Manor. ‘This – barnyard cleared out,’ he finished on a note of triumph.
Nicholas, who had become accustomed to living in a corner of the hall nearest the fire and had neglected the rest of the house, stared at him in astonishment. ‘Barnyard? I see no animals.’
‘See this straw?’ said Pierre, kicking aside a scattering of straw which covered the cold flagstones of the floor. ‘Look, it crawls with animals. When did Monsieur Lowe last put down clean straw?’
Nicholas shuffled the straw under his feet. As far as he could remember, the straw hadn’t been changed since Mary died. What was the point? It never got wet; it served its purpose well enough. Then, much to Pierre’s delight, a mouse scampered out from under Nicholas’s feet, immediately pounced upon by the family of cats who had taken up residence by the fire.
‘See, animals!’ he said. And then, ‘Poof! The odour, my Lord. How can you stand it?’
Sure enough, in disturbing the straw Nicholas had released various sinister smells. Nicholas glared at Pierre. ‘Oh come now, it’s not that bad,’ he said as Pierre drew out an elegant handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose.
‘Bad? It’s terrible. And I’ll have you know the King does not like bad smells. Nor does he like animals under his feet.’
‘Well, what do you suggest?’
‘We replace it all. Now is the time for fresh herbs and flowers. The fields are full of them. Your barns must be stuffed with last autumn’s straw for the animals. Well, get it out. Clean out this ordure,’ he said waving his arms theatrically, ‘and put down fresh straw. But first you must scrub the floor. Then, just before the King arrives, we gather fresh herbs and lay them down for the King to crush under his feet. In this way, his Majesty’s nostrils will be assailed by sweet smells, not this foul stench. The King tells me he wants no fuss, just simple bucolic pleasures. But simplicity, my Lord, is difficult to achieve. It means using only the best materials. Now where is Monsieur Lowe? He has much work to do.’
And so the whirlwind struck. The great hall was cleared of all its debris. The floor was scrubbed, fresh straw laid down. The cats were banished, the dogs kicked out. Then it was the turn of the sleeping quarters. The bedroom floors were scrubbed, the woodwork polished. The tapestries which had hung on the walls and over the doors to keep out the draughts for as long as Nicholas could remember, were taken down, hung out on posts in the yard at the back of the house, and beaten black and blue. Many of them were so worn that in some places the daylight came through, and then Geoffrey Lowe was sent off to find women from the village who knew how to sew valuable materials.
Then Pierre wanted to inspect the store cupboards and cellars, and Geoffrey, white-faced with anger, led the way. Pierre, with a slate in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other, wrote down a list of what was needed: more pigs, especially the newly born suckling piglets, wild boar, venison for pies, fowl of every sort, woodcock, duck, chickens, swans, larks and other song birds. ‘And then,’ said Pierre looking triumphantly at Nicholas, who had joined them in the cellars, ‘we must have a surprise pie. The King expressly wishes to have a surprise pie.’
‘And what the hell’s that?’ said Geoffrey irritably.
‘Why Monsieur Lowe, you call yourself a steward and yet you don’t know what a surprise pie is?’
‘Once upon a time, I was a mere bailiff. That suited me well enough until I got involved with Frenchmen and their fancy menus.’
‘Now, now, Monsieur Lowe, no tantrums please. A surprise pie, is a great pie, made with suet, and divided into compartments. In each compartment there is a different sort of meat. Now one of the compartments is left blank, and just before the pie is served, you add something spectacular. Once we put two live blackbirds in the empty compartment and that made the King laugh because he said it reminded him of the monks. We could put anything you like in it – one of those kittens, for insta
nce; that will make the ladies laugh.’
‘We’ll put a dove in it,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘A symbol of peace.’
‘Very clever, my Lord. The King will be delighted.’
And I feel like Noah, thought Nicholas, stocking up the Ark.
When he’d finished his inspection, Pierre turned to Geoffrey. ‘And now, Monsieur Lowe, we go to market. When we come back, Mary will make us all an omelette; like I showed you,’ he said to Mary, who’d joined them on their rounds. ‘Remember, twelve eggs,’ he added, treating her to one of his dazzling smiles, ‘and keep it soft. As soft as a woman’s breast.’
Mary blushed and curtsied. Geoffrey clenched his fists. Then, much to Nicholas’s relief, Pierre set off for the courtyard, calling out that they would go in his carriage, and there was room for Geoffrey if he didn’t mind squashing up beside him.
Nicholas took one look at his house being torn to pieces by his servants, and felt very much in the way. He decided to go and see the Prior.
At the Priory, he found very much the same situation. Cromwell’s Commissioners were into everything. The services were disrupted, the Prior had to be always on hand to receive complaints about the account books or the sumptuous nature of his store cupboard. He was too bothered to talk to Nicholas, so there was nothing for it but to go home. Maybe he could find peace in his herb garden, Nicholas thought, before it was denuded of herbs to strew on the floors.
A messenger was waiting for him when he got back. It was the same young man who’d come before. He was in the kitchen eating the fresh bread and cheese Mary had given him and he jumped up when Nicholas went in.
‘From my Lord of Southampton,’ the young man said, handing Nicholas the leather pouch which held a letter. Nicholas took it over to the window and took out the contents.
‘Peverell,’ he read. ‘We have intercepted a letter at the Port of Littlehampton. It was written to Reginald Pole and signed Ultor. He says that the Day of Wrath is at hand. In fact he gives the day a date. The seventh of June. I think he’s getting over-confident. Almost boastful, don’t you think? I don’t have to tell you how serious this is. It means that Ultor has not given up. We must not let the King out of our sight all the time he is with us. I’ve sent a message to him advising him not to come, and I think you should do the same. But I’m not hopeful. He never changes his plans. As to your letter, of course I don’t want him staying the night with me. He wants to stay with you and find out how much your Priory’s worth. I’ll send him packing as soon as I decently can. Burn this letter, and be vigilant. Take no risks. Remember you must have all his food tasted before it gets to him. Paget.
N.B. We caught the messenger – he was one of Mortimer’s servants – but he jumped over the side of the ship and got away. The tide swept him along the coast, but Fitzroy’s confident he’ll be picked up.’
Nicholas swore under his breath. The stupid fools – to get the letter, to lose the messenger. Terrible news indeed, he thought as he burned the letter. Ultor still with them, and getting ready to strike in six days’ time. And he still didn’t know who they were looking for.
* * *
Matins, the first service of the new day, came to an end, the monks filed out of their choir and climbed up the night stair to their dormitory over the chapter house. They entered through a small door high up in the north transept. It was a warm night, the air still and oppressive with a hint of thunder around. Each monk went to his own cubicle, separated from the others by a low wooden partition. They took off their night shoes, and lay down on the rough straw pallet on their truckle beds. In seconds, they were all asleep.
But Brother Benedict couldn’t sleep. His mind wouldn’t relax. Highly sensitive, he couldn’t get the images out of his mind of Jane singing with her clear, bell-like voice, the noise of the jackdaws and the sound of the falling stone. He relived the shock he felt when he saw Jane fall to the floor when the stone hit her and the anguish he felt when he saw her lying white-faced in her bed. He knew he couldn’t love her like a man loves a woman, he’d renounced all that when he took his vows, but Jane was special. Not only was she beautiful, but she was blessed with an independent mind and intelligence, like the women he’d heard about at the Burgundian Court. It was madness, he thought, to involve her in politics. This was a serious situation: a conspiracy, no less, against the King himself. Lord Nicholas should know better.
He grew even more awake as time passed, and soon it would be time for Prime. But someone else was awake. As he looked down the rows of cubicles, he saw someone get up, bend down to put on his night shoes, and then go towards the night stair. It was Father Hubert, who always slept in the bed nearest the stairs because, as Sacristan, he would have to ring the bell to wake the monks up and lead them down to the choir for the next service.
At first Benedict thought nothing of it. Father Hubert was elderly, he’d been much weakened through bleeding, and maybe he wanted the latrines. Perhaps, Benedict thought with growing concern, he wasn’t feeling well and might need help. He got out of bed, put on his shoes, and silently made his way past the sleeping brethren and followed Father Hubert. Not wanting to embarrass him if he wanted to use the latrines, Benedict paused half-way down the stairs, and watched where Hubert was going. Much to his surprise, he didn’t go out into the cloisters, which he would have done if he needed to relieve himself, but instead he went to the sacristy and opened the door. Benedict came down the stairs and hid behind one of the pillars in the north transept. Moments later, Hubert emerged carrying something which was hidden under a piece of cloth. He then walked past Benedict and went out into the cloister by the little door in the west end of the north transept.
Much disturbed, Benedict wondered whether he should follow him, but not wanting to be seen stalking a senior member of the community who had every right to visit the sacristy even if it was in the middle of the night, he went back up the stairs and lay down on his bed. This time he fell into a deep sleep which lasted until Father Hubert rang the bell for Prime.
* * *
Late on Saturday morning, after another disturbed night’s sleep, Nicholas decided to go and see Sheriff Landstock again. Everything seemed to have come to a dead end. Tomkins and his wife weren’t talking, Bovet and Perkins weren’t talking either, Agnes Myles couldn’t collect her wits, and Ultor’s messenger was drifting around in the sea somewhere along the south coast. Someone, soon, would have to talk. Much as he hated cruelty of all kinds, he knew he would have to recommend sterner measures to the Sheriff if they were ever going to break the stalemate.
As he went to get Harry from the stables, Monsieur Pierre’s little coach, drawn by a sturdy, piebald cob, came hurtling into the courtyard. Nicholas paused, then went over to meet him.
‘Good morning, Monsieur Pierre, any progress in your department?’
Monsieur Pierre grimaced. ‘Not good. I get up at dawn to seek out the best produce but everything is too dear. It’s as if they know who I am and whom I’m buying for, and they want to cheat me. There’s also a shortage of song birds, but I’m glad to say I’ve bought some barrels of live eels. We can do something with those. Some hot eel pies on the night the King arrives might go down well, I think.’
‘Sounds perfect. Now listen carefully to me, Monsieur Pierre, I’m sure you understand that we have to take every precaution to ensure the King’s safety when he’s here with us.’
‘Of course. I’m here to see that security arrangements are fully carried out.’
‘We’ll do our best to see that they are. Now, one other thing, we shall also have to see that everything the King eats will be tasted beforehand.’
Monsieur Pierre gave Nicholas a withering look. ‘My Lord,’ he said with an elaborate bow. ‘I am the King’s taster. That’s why he sent me here.’
And with that, he stalked off. Nicholas watched him go. So the King was no fool, he thought. He knew all the risks, and yet he still wanted to come. Was he really interested in reviewing the fleet? he wondered.
He could do that at any time. Why now, when he knew there was still a conspiracy at large? Did he really want to discuss south coast defences with Southampton, or was he coming deliberately to draw out Mortimer’s successor? He was brave indeed to put his head in the noose. Brave? Or foolish? But Nicholas knew that it didn’t do to underestimate the King. He’d probably weighed up the risks and decided that between the Sheriff, Nicholas, and Southampton, he would be in safe hands. Still, it was a fearsome responsibility.
* * *
He collected Harry, who, newly groomed with his coat shining like jet in the strong sunlight, was in fine form. He led him back into the courtyard and was just about to mount when Brother Benedict came in through the main gate. Nicholas felt a sudden surge of fear. Jane? Had anything happened to her? He almost ran to meet the young monk.
‘The Prior sends for you, my Lord. Can you come at once?’
‘What’s happened? Is it Jane…?’
‘Calm yourself. Mistress Jane is recovering rapidly. No, it’s one of the old monks. He’s near death – he’s already received the last rites – and wants to see you.’
‘Brother Wilfrid?’
‘That’s right. He approaches his end quite calmly but keeps asking for you. Can you come?’
‘I’ll come straight away.’ After all, Nicholas thought, as he set off for the Priory, Landstock’s not going anywhere and Brother Wilfrid won’t be with us much longer.
* * *
Leaving Harry with the gatekeeper, Nicholas walked over to the infirmary. Inside, all was peaceful. Two monks stood on either side of Brother Wilfrid’s bed, reciting the office for the Dying. Wilfrid’s eyes were closed, his hands folded on a crucifix placed on his chest. Nicholas looked down at the tiny, parchment-yellow face, and was glad that Wilfrid’s passing was so serene. He bent down to listen to his breathing, which was so faint that it scarcely lifted his chest.