Day of Wrath (7 page)

Jane sang first, Benedict accompanying her with his lute. She sang a simple song about spring and joy in God's creation. Her sweet, soprano voice had a bell-like quality and as she sang a satisfied smile spread over Brother Oswald's face, and when the song finished he applauded more enthusiastically than anyone else.

‘I wrote that,' he said, turning to Nicholas.

‘Beautifully composed, and beautifully sung. But as you are Precentor of the Priory, I would have expected nothing less. Have you composed many songs like the one we've just heard?'

‘Volumes of them,' roared the Prior. ‘He keeps all the brethren up to scratch by making them copy out his manuscripts. You should take a look at our library; it's bulging with all his compositions.'

‘All to the glory of God, my Lord,' said Brother Oswald with a smug smile of satisfaction. ‘And I thank Him for giving me the talent.'

‘And we thank Him for sending you into our midst. But come now, another song. Let Benedict hand the lute over, Mistress Warrener. Let's hear one of the chansons of the divine Josquin. He's a Flemish composer,' the Prior said pedantically to Nicholas. ‘Benedict brought some of his songs over with him.'

Jane picked up the lute, and nodded to Benedict when she was ready. He sang a beautiful song about the Virgin Mary, ‘Ave maris stella', and his honey-sweet tenor voice flowed seductively over them and brought tears of pure joy to the Prior's eyes. He was indeed a charmer, thought Nicholas; and wouldn't be out of place at the Court of King Henry.

After the applause, Jane picked up the shawm. Nicholas, who knew it was a difficult instrument to play, felt nervous on her behalf. But he needn't have worried. From the first plaintive note which echoed round the great hall, she proved herself an accomplished performer. The instrument had an eerie quality to it, and Benedict sang a song about war and death and the futility of human conflict. It made Nicholas think of the horrors he'd seen in the streets of London, as the plague took its toll of the citizens. He remembered the scenes at Tyburn where traitors were butchered and put on public display, and then, as the song went on about the sadness of losing a loved one, his mind turned to his beloved wife and the child who'd only lived for a few hours. When the song came to an end, and Jane put down the shawm, the group was silent, everyone lost in his own thoughts.

But not for long. The next song was a duet, and they sang about happier things, the love of a man for a maid, comparing the joys of human love with the bliss of divine love. The couple were indeed perfectly matched, and Jane's pure soprano blended with Benedict's mellifluous tenor, creating a glorious harmony. Nicholas could have stayed there all night listening to the pair, but the end came abruptly. There was a sound of footsteps coming up the stone stairs to the hall, the door flew open and Brother Michael stood there, his lean face stern with disapproval.

‘What is it, Brother Michael?' said the Prior impatiently. ‘I told you not to interrupt us. We have been in the company of the angels and your long face is the only discordant note we've had this evening.'

‘My Lord, the brethren are waiting for your blessing. Compline's finished and they are ready for sleep.'

‘Tell them I'll join them for Matins. Father Hubert can bless them tonight.'

‘But you always…'

‘Well, just for once, I can't come. Be off with you, man, can't you see we're busy?'

‘I can see that you're enjoying yourselves. And what's Brother Benedict doing here? In secular dress too, I see. This is outrageous. Brother Benedict is a monk, my Lord, a holy man of God. He should never put aside his habit. St Benedict…'

‘Don't you dare lecture me about St Benedict,' shouted the Prior, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Just for one night our guest has put aside his habit to put on clothes more appropriate to the occasion. There's no harm in that.'

‘Not yet. But evil, my Lord, is insidious. It could quite turn the head of a young monk to sing in the company of a woman and receive the adulation of his superiors. What looks harmless at first sight, could be the beginning of our own damnation.'

‘Oh, be off with you, you sanctimonious old misery. Get back to your bleak dormitory and pray for forgiveness. Remember, Brother Michael, that once you took a vow of obedience.'

Scowling his disapproval, Michael retreated. The spell was broken. Jane said she should go back to her father, and Nicholas said he would escort her to the Prior's carriage. He thanked the Prior for his hospitality, and went over to Benedict.

‘You sing most beautifully, young man. The King, I'm sure, would love to hear you.'

‘He's not likely to, my Lord. I haven't got permission to leave the Priory.'

‘Then maybe you will come and sing to me? I'm sure Prior Thomas would release you for a couple of hours.'

‘That would give me great pleasure,' said Benedict in his soft voice with its pronounced French accent.

Nicholas shook his hand, and left the hall with Jane. Once outside, she stopped and suddenly became serious.

‘Nicholas. I've found out something that might be relevant to your murder investigation. Landstock's not made an arrest yet, has he?'

Nicholas, who could think of nothing else but the beauty of the music he'd just enjoyed, gave a guilty start.

‘Jane, I'm sorry. We've all experienced a glimpse of heaven and now you talk about murder.'

She looked at him impatiently. ‘Of course. You've got to get your priorities right, Lord Nicholas. You've got a murder investigation on your hands. Don't say you've forgotten all about it?'

‘There's nothing we can do at the moment, Jane. Don't be so censorious. It isn't becoming in a woman. But out with it, what have you found out?'

‘It seems to me, my Lord, that women have a better idea of what's important and what isn't. Anyway, I've learnt that Giles Yelman has been a frequent visitor to Mortimer's place. But he wasn't courting Bess Knowles; or anyone else for that matter.'

‘Then what the hell was my under-steward doing at Roger Mortimer's house?'

‘That's for you to find out. I can't start asking those sorts of questions. It's not becoming in a woman. I'd be sent packing in no time.'

‘Then I must get over there first thing tomorrow morning. But now let me talk about pleasanter things. You sing divinely, Jane. Perhaps one day you'll come and sing for me at my house.'

She turned and smiled at him demurely. ‘I'd love to, but my father would never let me come.'

‘Yet he lets you come and sing for the Prior?'

‘He thinks he's safe.'

‘But surely…'

‘There's no surely. My father doesn't like the gentry. Or rather he doesn't trust them. However, he might just possibly change his mind; but I doubt it.'

‘Then let me talk to him. He can't keep you locked up like a caged song bird.'

‘He worries about me, that's all. I'm all he's got. But now here comes my carriage. It's very good of the Prior to let me use it. Goodnight, Nicholas.'

And with a sweet smile she jumped up into the carriage, and Nicholas watched the driver urge the horse forward. A young monk fetched Harry from the stable, and feeling suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness, Nicholas climbed into the saddle and rode slowly back to his house.

*   *   *

Next morning, Nicholas ordered Harry to be brought round to the main door. Harry was in excellent spirits. A slight pressure of Nicholas's heel and he was off across the fields where the ewes indignantly gathered their lambs together as he romped past them. Then into the wood where Harry's flying hooves slashed into the succulent bluebells, disturbing a family of woodcock who, uttering shrill cries of annoyance, rose into the air with a frantic whirring of wings. Harry shied skittishly off the path and made for the beech trees, nearly decapitating Nicholas as he bounded under some low branches.

At the far side of the wood, Nicholas reined him in. Already he felt better. The demons which had disturbed his sleep last night had been dispersed by the bright sky and the clear, cold morning air. Ahead of him was the stretch of common land which separated his estate from Sir Roger Mortimer's, and at the far side was Mortimer Lodge, a solid, low, stone building which crouched at the edge of an artificial lake which Sir Roger's grandfather had constructed to serve as a moat to separate his property from the common. With difficulty, Nicholas eased Harry down into a walk. For some reason, Harry had taken an instant dislike to the villagers' pigs, who were rooting around for acorns. With a snort of disdain and an exaggerated toss of his head which sent his mane flying and his bit jangling, he danced over the short turf, narrowly missing the rabbit burrows.

‘Stop it, you fool,' shouted Nicholas, ‘you'll have me off. Behave yourself or else I'll trade you in for a sensible gelding.'

Harry snorted and danced daintily round the edge of the lake towards the main entrance to the house. In the courtyard, Sir Roger was supervising the grooming of his own horse, a splendid bay called Galliard. It was ages since he'd been to Mortimer's place, Nicholas thought, as he dismounted and handed Harry over to a groom who suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Mortimer was still the same surly devil. Couldn't be bothered to look up from grooming Galliard's glossy flanks. Nicholas walked over to him and stood there fuming until Mortimer decided that Galliard's coat needed no more attention. Then he put down the brush he was using, and stood up.

Mortimer was in his early forties. He had a short muscular body, a dark, lugubrious face which Nicholas had never seen creased in laughter, a shaggy dark beard, and long, straggling black hair. He could never understand why Lady Margot, a lady in her own right, had agreed to leave her father's estate in East Sussex and come here to look after this gloomy individual. But they'd been married for twelve years and had produced three children, one still a babe in arms.

Sir Roger could ignore Nicholas no longer. His bay was glaring at Harry, who was pawing the ground in eager anticipation of a fight. He handed his horse over to a groom, and looked morosely at Nicholas.

‘So, Henry Tudor's decided he can do without you for a few days. Now you come to seek out your neighbours. I'm afraid we can't offer you the sort of hospitality you've enjoyed at Court, but you're welcome to come inside for a jug of ale, or mead if you prefer.'

‘Thank you, ale will do me fine.'

They went into the house, through the hall and into a small room dominated by a large oak desk covered with documents. Tall, narrow windows which seemed designed to let out archers' arrows rather than let in the sunshine, gave a glimpse of the gardens beyond.

‘So Court life suits you, my Lord,' said Mortimer as the servant brought in the tankards of ale.

‘I do my duty, Sir Roger, that's all. Given the choice I'd prefer to live the life of the country gentleman, but the King needs counsellors, and he won't come to us, so we have to go to him.'

‘A pity he doesn't choose more wisely.'

‘I'm sorry you think me incompetent.'

‘Nothing personal. I'm sure you're like all the others who surround the King; courtiers, all of you. Wouldn't say boo to a goose, one eye on your own advancement, and let the country go to the devil.'

Nicholas placed his pewter tankard carefully down on the desk. With difficulty he controlled himself. No use matching insult with insult. ‘I can't see any signs that the devil is up to his tricks; no more than usual, that is.'

‘The King, my Lord, is plunging England into anarchy, heresy walks abroad unchecked, and he does nothing. And you, and those who are supposed to advise him, also do nothing.'

‘You use strong words, Sir Roger. Watch out that the King doesn't hear them.'

‘I don't care if he does. Someone's got to tell him. I've heard that he's going to close down our monasteries and turn the holy monks out to beg their bread in the street. He's already severed us from His Holiness the Pope – soon he'll close down the churches, and we shall be excommunicated and left to rot. These are terrible times, terrible times, and no one tries to stop the King.'

‘The King, Sir Roger, goes his own way. No one can stop him. But I promise I shall do my best to try and save our Priory.'

The door opened and a lady came in, carrying a baby of about ten months old. Nicholas watched as Mortimer's severe face softened. There was no doubt about it; he loved his wife, Margot. She smiled at Nicholas and not for the first time he was struck by her placid beauty. She was still in her twenties, but her body was matronly with childbearing. Unlike her husband's, her face was smooth and pink; her sleek brown hair was drawn back tightly from her face and held in position under a neat cap. She was wearing a dark-coloured dress made of fine linen, and she handled the baby with the competence which comes from long practice. Nicholas felt his annoyance evaporate. Margot had been so kind to his wife, Mary, who had been the opposite of her in every way. Mary with her slender body not designed for childbearing. Margot had given her strength throughout the troubled pregnancy, and had been there at the birth, and supported him when both Mary and his son died, and he felt that life was not worth living.

‘It's good to see you again, Margot. How well you look, and how beautiful your little girl is,' he said, going over to kiss her on the cheek and lift back the edge of the shawl which was wrapped around the child.

‘Yes, she's a joy. A good child, I'm delighted to say. But I heard you arrive, and I just wanted to say how sorry we were to hear about the death of Matthew. He was always welcome here, you know, and Bess was very fond of him. In fact, we hoped to see them both wed in the near future. What happened? I've heard he was killed by thieves, is that so?'