Day of Wrath (4 page)

Brother Michael's gaunt face creased into a satisfied smile. Although Nicholas couldn't go along with Brother Michael's views on the joys of the ascetic life, he wished heartily that the Prior had some of his qualities. What a pair they made! The Prior, smooth and fat with good living, Brother Michael, lean and gaunt, his breath smelling sour with fasting. The Prior, good humoured and easy-going; Brother Michael, bitter and censorious.

Nicholas walked across to the window and stared out at the surrounding fields where sheep were grazing, and the outhouses where cows were being milked and cheese was being made, and ale brewed. Over in the church, the monks were assembling for the morning Mass.

‘The King wants all this to end, Prior. You, and others like you, are thorns in his side. You may have taken the Oath of Supremacy, but you take the Pope's side in the matter of his divorce and marriage to Anne Boleyn. You didn't make a stand like Sir Thomas More; as you said, you're not made of the stuff of martyrs. No, don't speak,' he said, as Prior Thomas opened his mouth to protest. ‘You'll only say too much. You've got an enviable establishment here, Prior. There are only a dozen or so of you but just think for a moment of your church. Forget Hobbes's parish church. There's nothing much there to tempt the King, but in your monks' choir you have silver plate, candlesticks, priceless vestments and a solid gold chalice.'

‘Given to us by one of your ancestors, my Lord.'

‘Aye, and God knows where he got it from. But I hope the King never sets eyes on it. What he sees, he wants, as Wolsey knew to his cost. And he'll want your treasures, Prior. He'll not be interested in the buildings, except for the lead on the roof – he'll know he can get a good price for that. The stones he'll sell to local people like that jackal Guy Warrener. Cromwell told me that this Priory, although small, is one of the richest, and after the monasteries have been closed down, and their goods confiscated, he'll be able to clear off the King's debts in one go and still have plenty over to furnish the King's fleet. It's not now a case of “if” he closes down the monasteries, but “when”.'

There was silence as the Prior and Brother Michael digested this information. Then the Prior began to pace restlessly up and down the room.

‘Lord Nicholas, I don't doubt for a minute that what you are saying is true. You are a man of the world, and Brother Michael and I are men of God, living quietly in the country, knowing nothing of politics and the ways of the Court. Yet we do know all about human nature and we know that men are capable of every wickedness. Yes, I see now that the Commissioners will come here and they will want our treasures. I shall be sorry to see those priceless things go, but what I am more worried about is my brethren. What's going to happen to them? Some of my monks, Father John, for instance, have lived here all their lives. He couldn't survive for long if he was turned out of here. It would be pure wickedness to inflict that on him.

‘And what about the people who work on the estate?' he said, turning to look at Nicholas, as if he was responsible for the fate of the Priory. ‘And the children in the school, and the poor people in the hospital? Are they to be turned loose to fend for themselves like common vagabonds? It can't happen. The King couldn't be so cruel.'

‘Take care what you say, Prior,' said Nicholas in alarm. ‘You must control your anger, or else you'll say things you'll regret. Your brethren will need all your strength and subtlety if you're going to survive. The King can do what he pleases. Parliament will pass the legislation; there's no doubt about that. It's full of greedy people licking their lips over the promise of rich pickings. There is talk of giving the monks pensions. There's nothing to stop them from joining the secular clergy. They're not suggesting that the parish churches should be closed. They'll continue and they'll need clergy to run them just as they always have. But I do advise you to hide your treasures. I'll help you all I can. I could make the King an offer to buy the bells myself. Come to think of it, I could offer to buy the Priory and in that way we'll keep all our treasures for posterity. I'll also preserve my chantry and Mary can be laid to rest there in peace with no threat of disturbing her. The King would bite if I offered him a good enough price. But this won't save you, Prior, nor your monks. We shall have to get used to an England without monks.'

‘To think that we welcomed King Henry as our anointed Sovereign when he came to the throne. Now he's forfeited that right. He's the devil emissary,' said Brother Michael, scarcely able to control his anger.

Nicholas turned to look at him. Brother Michael looked calm, but his eyes glowed with a deep anger. There was passion in that man, he thought. A deeper, more dangerous passion than the explosive anger of the Prior.

‘You must both control yourselves,' Nicholas said. ‘Never again repeat what you've just said to me in anger, otherwise you'll both suffer a terrible death. You know the penalty for treason. What use will you be to your brethren or the children in your school or the sick in your hospital if you are dragged off to Marchester Heath to be butchered there as an example of what happens when the King is crossed? Look to yourselves and your brethren. I will do my best to help you. If we work together, we shall survive. But hide the Priory treasures. Let's try to keep something of our time to pass on to posterity.'

‘This can't happen. It must not happen,' said Brother Michael furiously.

‘Face the facts, both of you. It is going to happen. Now you must work to save yourselves and this community.'

‘Are you telling us to give in to the King and save our own skins? That's telling us to do the devil's work for him!' exclaimed Brother Michael.

‘Hush, Brother,' interposed the Prior, ‘Lord Nicholas knows the King's mind. Surely, my Lord,' he went on, ‘you could speak to him, tell him how we pray for him daily, and for his family and his kingdom. Surely he will listen to you.'

‘Nothing I do or say, Prior, will make him change his mind. I cannot save you and your brethren from being evicted. Neither can I save your treasure if the Commissioners set eyes on it. I shall be seeing the King again soon. I'll see what I can do about finding benefices for you all. I expect there'll be a cathedral appointment for you, Prior. With your musical talent, you'd make a fine Precentor.'

‘Lord Nicholas, you go too fast. Here am I just trying to grasp the fact that we are to be evicted and you're talking about cathedral appointments.'

‘Time is just what we haven't got. Now give me your blessing and I must get back to Landstock. Remember that I've got a murder investigation on my hands.'

Nicholas bowed his head for the Prior's blessing. He felt immensely sorry for his friend. Impulsive and arrogant as he might be, he had a sincere compassion for all the members of the community in his charge. He was also a devoted friend, and at the time of Mary's death his support and advice had been invaluable. Hard times were coming, but he might just possibly be able to help them. As long as Prior Thomas guarded his tongue. And Brother Michael controlled his anger. Extremists would get nowhere at all in these times. And the King had a swift way of dealing with them.

Chapter Three

Nicholas rode back to Peverell Manor, checking Harry, who fidgeted, wanting Nicholas to give him his head. But Nicholas was in no mood for a joy-ride. All around him the countryside was bursting with life – the hedgerows buried under a haze of cow-parsley punctuated with the bright faces of ragged robins. The coppice, where pigs rooted around for acorns, was carpeted with bluebells, and above him the birds were urging their mates to greater efforts to find food for their demanding fledglings. But all this was lost on him today. His steward had been murdered, his Priory was doomed. His friend, Thomas Rymes, faced an uncertain future. The monks and lay workers would soon have to find work in a cold and unsympathetic world.

He rode on, scarcely aware of the villagers, most of whom were his tenants, who called out cheerful greetings to him, glad to see him safely back from Court. At any other time, this ride would have given him great pleasure. But not today.

Ahead of him, walking along the side of the road, was a girl whom he'd often seen before – Jane Warrener. She was young and slim, dressed simply in a plain linen dress, her long, chestnut-coloured hair hanging unbound down to her waist. As he rode up, she turned round. The sight of her young face, glowing with health and vitality, always had the effect of lifting his spirits. Her skin had a satin sheen to it which reminded him of the petals of his favourite roses. Her eyes, which met his without flinching, were the same colour as the sky on that May morning.

He forced Harry to stand still whilst he dismounted. Not for the first time he marvelled at the trick of nature that such a beautiful girl could spring from old Guy Warrener's loins. Warrener was an irascible and greedy rogue, wealthy, it was rumoured – certainly he lived in one of the largest houses on the edge of the village. His gardens were brimming over with produce and the honey which his bees produced was even more famous than his own. Jane was his only child, and he poured into her all his own pent-up love which had been frustrated ever since his wife died at her birth, eighteen years ago. Work was his consolation and it was said that he had already set his eyes on the stonework of the Priory when the monks were sent packing. When that happened, thought Nicholas ruefully, Warrener would be the first to arrive at the Priory armed with a pickaxe and pushing a wheelbarrow. He'd rebuild his house, and in a few years he'd have a fine stone house which would rival his own and that of his neighbour, Sir Roger Mortimer. How could Jane cope with such a father? he thought, as he walked beside her in companionable silence, leading a resigned Harry. Admittedly, Jane was her father's pride and joy. He'd heard that she was well educated and could read Greek and Latin fluently whilst her father still signed his name with a cross. She could read French also, and made a point of reading all the works of the Protestant reformers she could lay her hands on. Now, at eighteen, she was a beautiful and accomplished young woman, able to entertain her father's guests with a variety of musical instruments. And she had a mind of her own, and wasn't afraid of anyone.

Now she seemed to symbolise that spring morning. She reminded him of the fields full of daffodils, cowslips and wild roses. She was looking at him shyly, too, and he noticed the flush of colour on her face which was spreading down her neck to lose itself in the soft folds of the linen cloth which filled in the square-cut neckline of her dress. It pleased him to realise that she wasn't indifferent to him.

‘Not riding Melissa this morning, Jane?' he said, remembering that her father had bought a white mare from his stables for her sixteenth birthday.

‘No, my Lord. I haven't far to go, and I enjoy the walk. Later, I'll take her out.'

He'd seen her once, cantering Melissa over the springy downland turf and he'd thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful. She rode astride, despising the more seemly sidesaddle which ladies of quality were supposed to adopt.

‘She still serves you well?' he asked.

‘She's the darling of my heart,' said Jane, laughing gaily. ‘And Harry looks full of beans, this morning.' She reached out and stroked Harry's velvety nose and he nuzzled her hand appreciatively.

‘Yes, surprisingly, he's raring to go. We got back from London only last night, and yet he was as bright as a button this morning.'

‘Have you been to Court? Did you see the King? And Queen Anne? Is she as beautiful as they say she is? And the young princesses? Did you see them?'

‘Hold on, lass. One thing at a time. Yes, I spoke with the King. I'm a member of his Council, remember. Yes. I saw Queen Anne. She's not beautiful, but striking. I think she pushes the King too far. There was a nervousness about her that I haven't seen before. The King has a roving eye and she'll have her work cut out to keep him interested, especially if she doesn't give him the son which he wants so desperately.'

‘Do you think she's a witch?'

‘Well, she enchanted the King once. You could call that witchcraft, I suppose.'

‘I don't envy her. She must be surrounded by enemies.'

‘Yes, you could say that. Thank God you live here in the peace and tranquillity of the Sussex countryside. You'd have a rough time at Court. Some old and crabby courtier would snap you up as soon as you arrived, hoping you'd provide him with vigorous heirs.'

‘Oh, they'd take no notice of me,' she laughed. ‘I'm not rich enough. Father says he's not providing me with a huge dowry. Besides, I'll not marry anyone I don't love.'

‘You don't need a dowry, Mistress Warrener. Not with your beauty. You are all the dowry a man could need.'

They'd reached the outskirts of the village, and ahead of them stretched the avenue of oaks which led up to his house. Jane stopped. ‘I have to turn off here to see Agnes Myles, my Lord.'

But Nicholas didn't want her to leave. ‘Why are you going to see that old woman?' he said, scowling. ‘On a day like this you shouldn't be mixing with cantankerous old biddies like Agnes Myles. Come and look at my garden.'

He saw her hesitate, then she shook her head, and turned away. ‘I need some juniper berries,' she said. ‘My father's chest is bad again. He coughs at night and now after weeks of nagging he's agreed to let me help him. Juniper berries work wonders for people with chest trouble, but we've used up all our supplies. Agnes always has plenty in stock.'

‘Say no more,' said Nicholas with a sigh of relief. ‘We've got plenty in our stores, I'm sure.'

‘That's very kind of you, my Lord, but…'

‘No buts, Jane; and I insist you stop calling me “my Lord”. From now on I'm going to call you Jane, so you must call me Nicholas.'