by Iris Collier
‘Your Grace, I’m honoured to have you here. I’m delighted that you find everything to your satisfaction, but the fact remains that you are in grave danger. You know we’re not sure we’ve caught this traitor who calls himself Ultor.’
‘Rubbish. I thought you’d caught the man. A monk, I hear. Bears a grudge against me – I can’t think why!’
‘We’ve arrested someone but I’m not one hundred per cent sure he’s the man we’re looking for.’
‘Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we? And if it’s a monk out to get me, then I’m not in the least bit worried.’
‘Shouldn’t your Grace seriously consider cancelling your visit to Portsmouth tomorrow?’
‘Cancel my visit to Portsmouth? What nonsense is this? I’m not a bit worried by a demented monk. I intend to rise early, leave the Queen here – Monsieur Pierre will look after her – and you and I, Peverell, will ride together to Portsmouth. I want to build a castle there, you know – a good strong one to replace that feeble tower at Southsea. Porchester’s too far away. Got to defend the realm – we need more defences along the south coast. Damned French are stirring up trouble again. So I must see Southampton, and set a few things in motion. Besides, think of the scene, Peverell, my ships sailing past me, dipping their flags in salute. Will it not be a brave sight?’
‘It will indeed. But there’s just one problem…’
‘Which is?’
‘Look around you, sir. Is it not a beautiful night?’
‘Wonderful. If the Queen were feeling better, I’d have her out here dancing on this velvety grass.’
‘But what’s missing?’
‘Nothing’s missing, you great worrier, Peverell. This is just what I wanted, simple, rustic pleasures.’
‘There’s no wind, your Grace. Not a breath of it. No wind expected tomorrow. So how is the fleet to sail past?’
‘Oh, don’t be such an old woman! Those fellows can row their damn ships past me. Or I can be rowed out to them, like we do on the Thames at Hampton Court. I’ll get Southampton to rustle up a barge or two. Just get this into that thick head of yours, Peverell, nothing’s going to deter me from visiting my fleet. Especially not an absence of wind.’
* * *
Jane woke early on Thursday morning. She hadn’t slept well. The King was here, she’d seen the commotion, heard the hunting horns. She knew Nicholas shared the same doubts as she did, and she knew that if Ultor was going to strike, today was the day. The Day of Wrath he’d called it. Dies Irae. She had to have another talk with Agnes. She knew she’d be awake early as she liked to listen to the monks chanting Prime.
She crept out into the garden where the birds were singing their dawn chorus as the sun appeared over the horizon. She walked down to the Priory and went round to the little room at the back. All was quiet. She knocked gently and unlocked the door. She went in and put down the jug of milk she’d brought for Agnes’s breakfast on the table. Agnes was just waking up. She sat up and smiled at Jane.
‘Have you come to listen to Prime, Jane? How strange, the monks haven’t come down yet. They always do at sunrise, you know. Let me take a look.’
She climbed up on the bed and looked through the tiny window. Then she turned and looked at Jane. ‘No sign of them. Well, well, not like them to be late.’
She drank the beaker of milk Jane handed her and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Agnes, tell me once again the names of those people who came to see you just before the fire. Try to remember. It’s very important. Can you remember the fire? Is it coming back to you? We also want to find out who killed Ambrose. You see, he’s not with us any more. Someone murdered him. Someone strung him up on a tree. Try to remember, Agnes. We are relying on you.’
Suddenly Agnes bowed her head and began to cry bitterly with great sobs that racked her frail body. ‘Oh yes, my darling Ambrose,’ she sobbed. ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he? And that little girl, too. Brother Benedict told me what had happened. All that noise and shouting, it was quite horrible. I felt sure that any moment the mob would break down that door.’
‘Lord Nicholas wouldn’t let that happen. Now try to think, Agnes. Who came to see you recently, just before the fire? Please, please, try to remember.’
Suddenly, Agnes stopped crying. She lifted her head and looked intently at Jane. There was something different about her; a new strength which showed itself in the keenness of her gaze.
‘Well, I’ve told you about Father Hubert – poor man, do you really think he could have killed my Ambrose? Then there was Brother Martin who worked in the Infirmary with Brother Michael. Now he used to come often.’
‘What did he want, Agnes?’
‘Oh, he always wanted my opiates. I kept them in the shed, in a special place. Brother Michael sometimes came, and used to help himself. He bought up a lot of my stock just before dear Ambrose died.’
Brother Michael, thought Jane with growing excitement; the tall, intense Infirmarer, with his ugly face and bald head. Yes, it was just possible.
Telling Agnes to rest quietly, Jane went out, locking the cell door. She ran over to the gatehouse. The door was locked. There was no sign of the gatehouse keeper. The sun had now risen and still there was no sound from the monks’ choir. Something was wrong.
She ran round to the parish church and hammered on the Vicar’s door. Hobbes was an early riser and opened the door immediately. He gazed in astonishment when he recognised Jane.
‘Why, Mistress Warrener, what’s happened?’
‘There’s something wrong in the Priory. The monks haven’t come down for Prime, and there’s no one in the gatehouse.’
‘Not yet sung Prime? Good heavens, they must’ve over-slept. Come into the church and wait here. I’ll see what’s up.’
He opened one of the connecting doors and disappeared. Minutes later he came running back. ‘Quick, quick, fetch the Prior. They’re all there, asleep in their beds. I can’t wake them up.’
‘They’re not…?’
‘Oh no, they’re breathing all right. Some of them snoring.’
They went across to the Prior’s house, where he was up and grumbling at the disturbance of having an extra twenty people to feed at breakfast. He stared in astonishment when he saw Jane and the Vicar.
‘Not up for Prime?’ he said when he’d listened to them. ‘Things always go wrong when I’m especially busy. I gave instructions to Brother Michael to fill in whilst Father Hubert’s away. Well, you’d better take me to them, Vicar, and I’ll wake them up all right.’
Together they went back to the Priory church. The Prior dashed up the night stairs into the dormitory and came down looking very angry. ‘They’re all asleep, and I can’t wake them up. Someone’s given them something lethal to drink last night. And the devil of it is, Brother Michael’s not with them. His bed’s empty.’
Then Jane knew that she had to warn Nicholas. She ran home to fetch Melissa, and rode up the street, past Edgar Pierrepoint’s house. He was standing at his front door, scratching his head and filling his lungs with fresh, morning air. He waved when he saw her.
‘What’s the hurry, Mistress Warrener? You’re the second person I’ve seen up at the crack of dawn today.’
She reined in Melissa. ‘Who else have you seen?’
‘Why, the ugly old devil, that Infirmarer. I had to get up early this morning, for natural reasons, you know – I’m not as young as I used to be – and I heard the sound of horses’ hooves and ran to the window to take a look. And there he was, riding one of the Prior’s horses as if the devil himself were after him.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Well before first light. Two hours ago, I suppose. He took the Portsmouth road.’
Worse and worse. Jane galloped up to the manor. The courtyard was seething with horses and dogs, and in the middle of it all, sat King Henry on Nicholas’s horse, Harry. Nicholas, looking furious, was mounted on a bay stallion, the prime mount from the Prior’s stable.
She pulled Melissa to a halt. Nicholas came over.
‘Jane, what is it? What’s happened?’
She told him the news. ‘Brother Michael’s had a head start. He’s well mounted and he took the Portsmouth road. Tell the King he mustn’t go to Portsmouth.’
‘And who’s this wench that says King Harry mustn’t go to Portsmouth?’ said the King, who’d ridden over to join them.
‘Mistress Jane Warrener, your Grace. You’ll hear her sing tonight. But she brings bad news. You can’t go to Portsmouth, Sire.’
‘Can’t go? You tell your King that he can’t review his fleet? Just because a disgruntled monk’s after him? It’s too late, Peverell. This is a fine horse you’ve lent me. Come, I intend to race you to Portsmouth. We’ll get fresh horses from Southampton to bring us back. Mistress Jane, my compliments, I look forward to making your acquaintance tonight.’
He blew her a kiss, Harry pawed the ground restlessly, and without waiting for Nicholas, the King set off down the road towards the village and the main coast road. Nicholas, with a despairing look at Jane, followed. He had no choice.
* * *
They reached Portsmouth at midday. Both horses were exhausted, but not King Henry. He rode up to the gatehouse of Domus Dei, the hospital, founded three hundred years previously for the relief of pilgrims going to Canterbury, Winchester and Chichester, now run by twelve brethren under the control of a warden. Since its foundation it had accumulated wealth with which the brethren had built extra buildings – a brewery, a forge, a smithy, a captain’s chamber and a great chamber, a pigeon house, and a house for visiting dignitaries. This complex stood near the Hard, where, out across the blue waters of Portsmouth Harbour, tucked away in the lee of the western shore, King Henry’s warships placidly sat on the still water, with not a drop of wind to fill their sails. Southampton had ordered out the towing boats to drag the vessels nearer the shore, but the great wooden tubs hardly moved despite the frantic efforts of the crews.
Unperturbed, King Henry made himself comfortable in the presence chamber of the visitors’ house and ate game pie and cold chicken and quaffed flagons of ale.
‘This is a damnable state of affairs,’ he said to Nicholas, who was breathing a sigh of relief that, with no wind, the King would have to look at his ships from the comparative safety of the visitors’ house. ‘You said there’d be no wind, and no wind it is. Never mind,’ he said turning to Southampton. ‘Get the Admiral’s barge ready, and whilst we’re waiting we can go through those plans I sent you for the castle I want built to the east of here, and some forts along the entrance to the harbour.’
Whilst the King pored over the plans, Nicholas had a word with the Captain of the Guard. ‘Keep a good look-out for a tall, bald-headed monk,’ he said.
The Captain laughed and shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘The place is full of monks, my Lord. This is a resting place for pilgrims, you know. We’ve got every kind of monk – French ones, Spanish, and even Italian monks. And what’s more, they all pull those hoods over their faces when they go out, so how the devil are we going to find out if they’ve got bald heads or not? Don’t worry, sir, if the King stays here, we’ll take him up on top of the gatehouse when he wants to see his ships, and he’ll be as safe as houses. No one can get in here. Everyone’s been checked out.’
Reassured, Nicholas began to relax. The King could discuss his plans with Southampton, refresh himself, take a look at his ships, then, with fresh horses, they could ride back to Dean Peverell and get there in good time for supper. It was all going to plan.
A continuous stream of messengers was coming and going from the hospital. Southampton read the despatches and passed them over to his secretary for a reply, if that were necessary. But one despatch held his attention. He came over to Nicholas.
‘Here we are, Lord Nicholas. We’ve got the messenger we lost at Littlehampton. One of Fitzroy’s men found him in a barn at Shoreham. He was in a bad state so it didn’t take Fitzroy long to get the information out of him. He said he was employed by a monk – one of your monks, it seems. He said his name was Brother Michael, the Infirmarer. Seems this Brother Michael is a formidable character. His messenger calls him the Avenging Angel and says that he took over Mortimer’s work when he was arrested. So now, at least, we know who we’re looking for.’
Brother Michael, how blind he’d been. He should have guessed long ago. Sour, fanatical, familiar with all the Infirmarer’s potions. Passionately against the King and his policies; why had they overlooked him? Passion was the key word, Nicholas thought. All the monks were against the King’s policies, but only Brother Michael had the passion to do anything about it. Then recently all the evidence had pointed to Father Hubert, and that was probably just what Brother Michael had planned. But where was he now? Had he realised that, with the capture of his messenger, the game was up and he’d fled the country? Somehow Nicholas didn’t think Brother Michael was the type to give up so easily.
‘The messenger?’ he said to Southampton. ‘What was he like?’
‘Tall, not tonsured. Called himself a lay brother. Apparently he’d worked for Mortimer and Brother Michael had taken him on. Infernal devil! He cursed the King, my Lord, even as they dragged him away. God, how I hate these fanatical types. They give us all a lot of trouble.’
The King folded away the charts, finished his ale, and stared out of the window. Then he strode across to Nicholas.
‘Come on, Peverell, stop looking so miserable. I thought that ride would’ve cheered you up a bit. Now, is the barge ready, Paget?’
Nicholas started. He’d forgotten the barge.
‘It’s ready and waiting, Sire,’ said Southampton.
‘Good. If the ships can’t get to us, we’ll have to go out to them, eh, Paget? Do us good – rowing on the Thames; do the sailors good too, to see their King.’
‘Your Grace, stop. This isn’t the Thames. We can’t guard you on open water,’ said Nicholas with growing panic.
‘Don’t be a fool, Peverell. Do you think I’m afraid of a miserable monk who wants to take a swipe at me? Of course you can guard me. Are you telling me that all those bowmen and cannoneers are useless? Come on now, let’s be off.’
He walked swiftly out of the presence chamber, went through the gatehouse, where the guards were too astonished to stop him, and out on to the Hard. The three sally ports were just four hundred yards away. Outside Domus Dei the crowds had gathered. The whole of Portsmouth had come to see its King. The crowd was good-humoured and people were chatting cheerfully with the guards who held them back. On top of the gatehouse stood several bowmen with bows drawn back at the ready. On the Hard itself, lined up against the sea wall, were the cannoneers with their clumsy hand-held cannons, and matches at the ready. Nicholas measured the distance to the first of the sally ports, where the top of the royal ensign on the Admiral’s barge could just be seen hanging limply in the still air.
The King, with a wave of a hand to the crowd, who roared their appreciation, set off towards the sally port. With his heart beating wildly, hardly aware of what he was doing, Nicholas drew his sword.
Just then, as they almost reached the sally port, a tall figure ran straight out of the crowd. His hood had fallen back and Nicholas caught a glimpse of a pale face, contorted with hatred.
‘Death,’ the man shouted, ‘Death to Anti-Christ!’
He held a dagger in his hand and he launched himself at the King. But Nicholas was there before him, and just as the monk was about to strike, Nicholas knocked him sideways and struck him across the arm and shoulders with his sword. Immediately arrows fell all around them. There was the sound of an explosion and a puff of smoke came out of one of the cannons.
‘Don’t kill him, Peverell,’ said Southampton’s voice behind him. ‘We need him to talk. Take him away, and keep him alive,’ he said to the guard, who was starting to drag the monk away, Brother Michael turned his head to glare at Nicholas, who recoiled from his look of conce
ntrated malevolence.
‘Why? Why have you risked everything?’ Nicholas said.
‘Because we’ve lost everything,’ Brother Michael answered.
The King drew a deep breath and put his arm round Nicholas’s shoulders. ‘Well done, Peverell. Remarkably quick of you to spot that fellow. Now that you’ve got your man, let’s take a look at these ships of ours.’
* * *
Twilight was falling when they arrived back at Dean Peverell. Wearily, they trooped up the drive and into the courtyard, where waiting grooms seized the horses and led them away for a much-needed rest. Nicholas felt a pang of remorse that Harry had been left behind in Portsmouth to be collected later, but King Henry had ridden him hard, and he’d beaten them all in the race to Portsmouth Hard.
The King, for once, looked weary as he walked stiffly into the great hall, his arm draped familiarly across Nicholas’s shoulders. Once inside, Nicholas came to a sudden halt. The house was unrecognisable. The air smelt fresh and clean, the wild flowers and herbs strewn on the rushes on the floor had released their heady scents. Monsieur Pierre, dressed in a doublet of many colours, advanced and bowed low.
‘Welcome home, Sire,’ he said, ‘welcome home, my Lord.’
Henry glanced round. ‘Seems you’ve done us well, Pierre. Now I must freshen myself up, then we’ll be down to see what you’ve concocted for us. A special meal tonight,’ he said, raising his voice so that all the servants could hear, ‘because your master saved your King’s life. Now that’s some news for you, isn’t it?’ he said, smiling at the row of astonished faces. ‘Now I hope you’ve ordered some hot water, Pierre. I need a full tub with sprigs of fresh rosemary in it. You’ve got a damn fine house here, Peverell, and that stallion of yours is a damn fine horse. Pity we had to leave him with Southampton. I might have made you an offer for him.’
Thanking his lucky stars that Harry was out of reach of the King, Nicholas went up to his own tiny room, wedged under the eaves, and put on a clean doublet and hose. Then he combed his hair and went down to meet the guests.