Day of Wrath (10 page)

The choir stopped singing, and Alfred Hobbes, in a surprisingly powerful voice for such a small man, recited the prayers for the dead. At the back of the church people shuffled their feet in the loose straw, coughed and pushed forward for a better view. Then the monks began to chant the Dies Irae, the great sequence for the soul of the departed facing God's judgement. At the words, Dies Irae, Day of Wrath, something clicked in Nicholas's brain. Jane had talked about a conspiracy and given it that name. At the words, ‘Oh what trembling there shall be when the world its Judge shall see, coming in dread Majesty,' he turned to look at her, but she was listening to the music and her face was set in sadness. Guy Warrener gave him a disapproving look, so he quickly turned back to face the altar and tried to concentrate. But he could not pay attention. The word ‘conspiracy' lingered in his mind. Dear God, he prayed, what sort of a conspiracy was she hinting at? Let it not be a rebellion. Not here in peaceful Sussex. Rebellions only took place in the wild and lawless north of England. The people of Sussex had always been easy-going, traditional, content with the
status quo
as long as there was a plentiful supply of bread and ale.

The bier was censed on both sides, each time beginning from the head and proceeding to the feet in the age-old tradition established by the Salisbury rite; Matthew was not to go on his journey without a proper send-off. The Mass proceeded along its well-ordered path, and Nicholas found his thoughts wandering. Through the open doors which linked the parish church to the monks' choir, he could see his chantry chapel, which he had had built for himself and his wife. It wasn't quite finished. The stonemasons still had some finishing touches to do and the figures of the saints which he'd ordered to be placed in their niches round the top part of the chapel weren't yet in place. But the craftsmen had done a beautiful job, he had to admit. The tiny chapel stood there like a beautifully sculptured casket; a church within a church. It took up one bay of the arcade, near the monks' high altar, and with its rich carvings of cherubs acting as shield-bearers, and angels singing praises to God, it would be a fitting memorial to his wife and his family. When Mary's body was removed from the churchyard and placed in the vault underneath the chantry chapel, he would order the monks to sing masses there daily for her. And when the time came and he was laid to rest beside her, they would sing masses for him as well. But was this all a dream? If the monks were driven out, what would happen to their building? Would it be torn down by the likes of Guy Warrener so that he could use the stones to build an even bigger and better house for himself? And he'd be one of many – vultures, waiting for the opportunity and getting ready for the kill. No, it mustn't happen, he thought, as the choir reached the
‘Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna',
and the congregation began to get restless, and those near the back started to leave the church and drift across to the place in the churchyard where the sexton had dug Matthew's grave.

Out in the brilliant May sunshine, with the air crisp and cool like fine white wine, Nicholas stood with the others whilst Matthew was lowered into the grave, and the final prayers were said.

The Prior had offered the use of his solarium for the mourners to partake of some refreshment before they made their way home. The solarium was a fine, south-facing room, attached to the Prior's house, and built by him to house his important visitors. When the service was finished, Nicholas made his way over to the Prior's house, accompanied by Sheriff Landstock.

‘A good send-off,' said Landstock. ‘Matthew would have approved.'

‘A pity there wasn't time to consult him. He wasn't prepared for an early death; and he didn't deserve one. But, down to business, Giles has disappeared,' said Nicholas. ‘I've got a search party looking for him.'

Landstock stopped in his tracks. ‘Then I'll search the county. When a man tells lies and then bolts, it's serious.'

‘You might find him, but he'll not talk.'

‘I'll make him talk all right. Just leave that to me, Lord Nicholas. A few nights in my gaol will soon make him change his mind about not talking.'

‘We might be barking up the wrong tree, Landstock. After all, what have we got so far? A man's murdered. We don't know why. And my under-steward decided to pay my neighbour a visit. What's wrong with that?'

‘But he's run off without leave. And Mistress Jane's been hinting about a conspiracy. That's enough for me to take action.'

They'd reached the solarium where the lay Brothers were handing round tankards of beer and platefuls of cakes baked in the Priory's ovens. Alfred Hobbes, divested of his elegant cope and back in his scruffy cassock, came over to join them.

‘The Prior does us proud,' said Nicholas conversationally.

‘And so he should. His house is big enough to house an army, whilst I've only got a miserable room over the entrance porch.'

‘The Prior needs a big house. After all, he's expected to offer hospitality to all and sundry.'

‘And don't I have to look after the souls of all these parishioners? No one bothers to think about building me a house to live in.'

‘Then you're in the wrong job,' said Landstock jovially. ‘You should have been a monk; better food, better accommodation, a quieter life.'

‘Not for much longer, though. They've got it coming to them.'

‘And about time, too,' said a deep voice behind them. Nicholas groaned. It was Guy Warrener. ‘Parasites the lot of them,' he said, as he took a gulp of the beer which the lay brother had just given him. ‘Kick them out and let them earn their keep. But I can't see Brother Oswald behind a plough or building barns.'

‘Come, come, Warrener,' said Nicholas impatiently. ‘We've been down that track over and over again. Don't keep talking about when the monks leave. There's legislation to be passed. It might not get through.'

‘Of course it will,' said Warrener belligerently. ‘What Harry Tudor wants, he gets. And you'll see to it that he does get it. So here's to him,' he said, raising his tankard. ‘Long live the King; and the devil take his enemies.'

‘I'll drink to that,' said Landstock taking a gulp of beer. ‘Not bad, not bad at all,' he said to Prior Thomas, who'd sauntered over to join them. ‘Mind you, it would be greatly improved if you'd added a few hops. Then you'd get a really excellent brew.'

‘I've heard that you serve a fine beer, Sheriff,' said the Prior. ‘I'd like to try some.'

‘It's good enough for me and Lord Nicholas. But I'll send you over a barrel or two, if you like.'

‘And don't forget me,' said Hobbes querulously. ‘Why should Prior Thomas get all the perks?'

‘Oh stop moaning, Vicar. You do very well. Look how you help yourself to my vegetables.'

‘It's my right. The Bishop says so,' said Hobbes, hopping up and down with annoyance.

‘You made enough fuss about it. You shouldn't have taken it to the Archdeacon's Court. It made me look a right fool. You know you can help yourself to as many vegetables as you like. Personally I can't stand the damn things.'

‘That's not what Brother Cyril says. He threatened me, Prior, said I was stealing the brothers' cabbages and I should go to gaol. Called me a common thief. Me, Vicar of the parish church of Dean Peverell, called a thief. Now I'm reduced to grubbing around in your vegetable garden to find a few cabbage leaves that you lot haven't eaten. It's not right and it's not fair. Of course I took it to the Archdeacon.'

Hobbes had raised his fists and was hopping from one leg to the other like a lightweight boxer in the ring. His face was flushed with anger and he would have punched the Prior had Nicholas not restrained him.

‘Calm down, Vicar. We shouldn't quarrel on a day like this. My steward's just been laid to rest, the sun's shining and we have all this food and drink to enjoy which you have so generously provided, my Lord Prior. Don't keep raking over dead ashes, Vicar. You look very well on whatever you eat, and no doubt the parishioners look after you very well.'

‘I get by,' said Hobbes, controlling himself. ‘Nothing to spare, though. Not like the brethren here. Still, I know my place; baptise, marry 'em, bury 'em. The monks only pray for 'em. And do you know, Lord Nicholas, I'm going to be here long after this lot've all been turned out. One day I'll come into my own.'

‘And what do you mean by that?' shouted the Prior, his thick eyebrows knitting together into a scowl. ‘Surely you're not turning into one of these reformers I hear about. You don't want to change the system, surely? You'd be out of a job.'

Nicholas turned away impatiently. He was sick and tired of the bickering and squabbling that went on between the Vicar and the Prior. If they couldn't live together peacefully side by side, then who could?

Jane was walking across the grass towards him. His spirits lifted and he went to meet her.

‘What's up, Jane? You look anxious.'

‘I've just heard that Giles has disappeared. Nicholas, I'm worried. Did you notice that the Mortimers didn't come to the funeral? They should've been here because they knew Matthew. And Bess couldn't make it. She's ill, Nicholas, and I think it's serious. I know her health's not good and she's grieving for Matthew, but she gets weaker and weaker by the hour. I'm worried about her. She was very close to Matthew. They shared things.'

‘You still think Mortimer's got something to do with Matthew's death.'

‘I'm sure of it. And I think Giles was paid to let the murderers in to your house.'

‘These are wild accusations, Jane. There simply isn't any proof. We can't ask Landstock to arrest Mortimer without proper evidence except the suspicions of his wife's maid and her friend. Let's get on with finding Giles and hope he'll tell us more.'

‘And meanwhile Bess is going to be the next victim.'

Nicholas was conscious that Guy Warrener was watching him closely. Damn the man, was he going to be his daughter's gaoler? Suddenly, he saw one of his servants running across the grass towards them.

‘What is it, William? What's happened?' he said, going to meet him.

‘A messenger's arrived up at the house. From the King, my Lord. You're wanted at Hampton Court immediately.'

‘Tell him to wait and I'll be back as soon as I can.'

‘He says you're to come at once. That's what he said, my Lord. I told him you were at a funeral but he said it was urgent.'

‘Then tell Geoffrey to pack my bag, and get Harry ready.'

‘The King keeps you at his beck and call,' said Jane, who'd followed him.

‘Yes, damn him. I can't think what's so urgent that he wants me to leave immediately.'

‘Then tell him to wait; at least until Giles is found.'

‘Tell him to wait, Jane? Are you out of your mind? I want to keep this head on my shoulders, you know.'

‘But you can't go now. What with Bess ill and Giles still at large.'

‘I can do nothing about Bess, Jane. I'm not a doctor. And Landstock will see to Giles. I can't keep the King waiting.'

‘Then you don't care what happens to us…'

‘Nothing's going to happen to you. Landstock will look after things, and you must keep your ears and eyes open whilst I'm away and report to me when I return. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

‘It'll be too late. I know something terrible's going to happen,' said Jane bitterly.

‘Leaving us so soon, my Lord?' said Warrener, coming up to join them. ‘I'm glad someone's doing something about this lot of parasites. Now get the legislation through Parliament. I can't wait to see them go. But let's drink up their beer and finish up the cakes before you leave. Make hay whilst the sun shines, I say.'

‘I hope to God, man, that the monks will be here long after you and I are dead.'

‘Times are changing, my Lord. New ideas, new men at Court. I'm all for it. It's about time there was an end to all this superstitious nonsense. No more prayers for the dead, no more services in Latin – what's wrong with English, I say? I'm all for this man Martin Luther. He might be German but he's got the right ideas. Down with the Pope. Let's have an English Church with an English King at its head.'

He stopped as a fit of coughing racked his body. Jane came up and took him by the arm. ‘Come home, father. Lord Nicholas has better things to do than to listen to your ranting. The King calls, and he must fly to his side.'

‘Jane, that's unfair. You know that I've got to go.'

She led her father away without another look at Nicholas.

‘Damn! Women! Why are they always so unreasonable?' he said out loud.

‘Because it's their nature, my Lord,' answered Landstock. ‘They're not like us men. I'll say they're unreasonable; you've hit the nail on the head there. And stubborn. And Mistress Warrener's the stubbornest of them all.'

Chapter Seven

‘It's good to see you, Peverell. You shouldn't keep dashing off to that country retreat of yours. Your place is here in the centre of things. You ought to slow down a bit. All this coming and going does you no good; no good at all. Anyway, you're here and just in time for a game of tennis. Come along, man, relax, don't you want to have a body like mine?'

Henry Tudor pulled in his stomach and drew himself up to his full height, three inches shorter than Nicholas. He was dressed for sport – a white shirt, open at the neck, loose-fitting breeches and close-fitting stockings which revealed his well-honed calf muscles. Nicholas, having ridden hard through most of the night, except for a brief nap at Merrow, sighed in resignation.

‘Your Grace, as always, looks in peak condition. But I'm sorry to say that I have ridden seventy miles with just brief stops to change horses in answer to your Grace's command, and I'm a bit stiff, to put it mildly.'