Day of Wrath (19 page)

‘Only one sleeve, your Grace.'

‘One sleeve! Damn it, you've got a cheek. You've ruined the whole garment, you fool. You'll have to replace it for me.'

Nicholas bowed, mentally adding the cost of buying a new doublet to the already huge cost of entertaining the King. The servant eased off the boots, and the King stood up in his stockinged feet.

‘Well, Peverell,' he said, turning to confront Nicholas. ‘It seems you've been a disappointment to me.'

‘Your Grace…'

‘Oh, don't start making excuses, it's not your style. I've heard that Mortimer died under torture despite my express wish that he should live. A dead traitor who's kept his mouth shut is no use to me. That fool Digby…'

‘Mortimer was very near the end, your Grace. His heart couldn't take any more. Four days of torture and starvation had weakened him too much.'

‘Digby should've slowed down the last bit.'

‘The last bit dislocated both legs.'

‘Oh spare me the details, Peverell.'

‘And it wasn't a good idea to bring in Lady Mortimer. She fainted, and Mortimer gave up at that point. He'd begged us not to let his wife see him in that condition. I fear that the memory of those last few minutes will haunt Lady Mortimer for the rest of her life.'

‘Oh don't be so melodramatic, Peverell. Mortimer was a traitor. Unfortunately for you there are others out there and we don't know who they are.'

‘I'll do my utmost to track them down.'

‘You'd better, Peverell. Remember I'm coming to stay with you in ten days' time. You've got that time to catch the devils. Well, what are you waiting for? I'm ravenous and you've got a long journey ahead of you. You're dismissed,' he shouted as Nicholas still stood there.

‘Your Grace, Lady Mortimer … will you allow her to return to her house? After all, she's done nothing.'

‘That soft heart of yours will be the death of you, Peverell. What happens to Mortimer's house and his widow is entirely my business. But don't fret, man, you know I'm a merciful man. I'll send a coach to take her home to her family. They live in the other end of your county, I hear. She'll be reunited with her children, never fear. She might even marry again as she's still young. Now, don't mention this matter to me again. It bores me, and I can hardly concern myself with the fate of the wives and families of traitors. Now get away with you, man.'

Nicholas bowed and backed away from the King. Henry Tudor was a hard taskmaster, he thought. No offer of dinner, no accommodation, just a kick up the backside.

‘Oh, and Peverell…'

‘Your Majesty?'

‘Don't forget my new coat. See what the Marchester haberdashers can come up with. Green, I think, suitable for the country. Velvet, of course, with slashed sleeves. White silk lining. Just right for a summer idyll.'

‘I'll do my best.'

‘See that it's a good one. Oh, one other thing. I'll be bringing along a handful of my Yeomen of the Guard. See to it that they're given suitable accommodation. After all, with your county crawling with assassins, I shall need some protection.'

Cursing his luck, Peverell returned to the waiting coach. God damn them all, he thought as he ordered the coachman to drive off, he'd get a good dinner at Merrow if it was the last thing he'd do.

Chapter Fourteen

There they were again! Three women, outside the ale-house on the corner of the main street where it joined the main coast road. Usually Jane steered well clear of gossips. But that Friday morning there was an air of intensity about them that made her rein in Melissa and dismount. They were so engrossed in their discussion that they hadn't seen her ride up, until the ale-keeper's wife, Biddy Tomkins, turned round and noticed her. Biddy was a large, ungainly woman with a figure sagging from the birth of her seven children, four of whom were up in the churchyard. She wore her usual brown dress with a dirty apron fastened round her drooping belly. Her straggly grey hair was partly concealed under a grey cap, and her rugged face was crisscrossed with enlarged veins, the result of an over-enthusiastic sampling of her husband's brewing. When she recognised Jane her face broke into a deferential smile, revealing a row of blackened teeth which lurched round her mouth like ancient tombstones up in the graveyard.

‘My, my, it's Mistress Warrener. To what do we owe the honour of your company?'

‘To bid you good morning.'

‘That's mighty courteous of you.'

‘And find out what's new?'

‘Well may you ask,' said one of the other women, an aged crone, her body almost bent double so that she had to turn her head sideways to look at Jane. Everyone called her Old Emily, and no one knew who her family was and how she'd come to live in Dean Peverell. ‘There's lots of strange things going on around here. Too many for comfort, I think.'

‘Really? Now what can they be, I wonder.'

‘Well, for a start, my hen has stopped laying. Just once the old girl produced an egg, and then no more for two weeks now. Whilst her up there, now her hens are laying all the time.'

‘Who are you talking about, Emily?'

‘Why her, of course. Old Agnes Myles. That stuck-up old bitch who's too proud to come and talk to us,' said Biddy, her face flushing angrily.

‘Agnes? Don't be so foolish. She's done you no harm. Her hens are always good layers, and anyway, at this time of the year, hens are always unpredictable. Just wait a day or two, and yours will be laying nineteen to the dozen.'

‘My hens have given up, too,' said the third woman, the weaver's skinny wife; someone who Jane always tried to avoid. She had a small, pointed face, a bitter expression and a spiteful tongue. Her name was Matty; ‘And there's another thing,' she said, ‘Agnes Myles was there when Abigail Butcher's latest baby was born, and look what happened to him. He was all twisted and bent like a piece of old thorn bush and couldn't get his breath properly and he died hours later before they could get the priest to baptise him. Terrible it was. And who's fault was that, may I ask?'

‘Babies often die,' said Jane impatiently, ‘it's one of the facts of life. You can't blame Agnes for that.'

‘You can, if she's a…' said Biddy ominously.

‘A what?' said Jane, suddenly feeling a prickling of fear. ‘What are you saying?'

‘Why, she's a witch, Mistress Warrener. That's what we're saying. She's a nasty, evil old witch.'

‘Stop this talk at once, all of you. You don't know what you're staying. Agnes is a healer. You've all benefited from her treatment when you were ill.'

‘She didn't cure my aching bones,' said Emily resentfully. ‘She said there was nothing she could do for me. Gave me some ointment to rub on my back, and what happened? It got even more crooked.'

‘That's got nothing to do with Agnes. She can't make you young again.'

‘Now don't you start telling me what's right and what's wrong. We know, don't we,' Matty said, turning to the others for support. ‘And we also know what went on up in the woods.'

‘Oh, and what nonsense are you going to tell me, now?'

‘It's not nonsense. It's a fact. They do say that witches can turn themselves into filthy demons if they've a mind to. Well, his Lordship was up there in the woods on his horse when out from behind a tree she pounced, disguised as a spirit from hell. Horrible it was. No wonder his Lordship's horse bolted and he fell off. It was a mercy he didn't kill himself.'

‘That's rubbish. I found him and got help. He said it was a trick of the light on the leaves that frightened his horse. Spirits, demons, witches! You're all a poisonous lot of gossips.'

‘And you, Mistress Warrener, are riding for a fall, too,' said Biddy. ‘We all know what you're up to. You're always up at the Manor strolling around with his Lordship, even visiting him in his bedroom, so we've heard. Well, don't you come the high and mighty with us. His Lordship'll tire of you soon, and don't you come running to us when it all goes wrong. And where will you be, may I ask, when all the great lords and ladies come to his house? Do you think he'll want to walk out with you then? Oh no, you'll come creeping back to that old father of yours and no one will ever look at you again.'

‘You've got a foul mind, Biddy Tomkins. There's no harm in me talking to Lord Nicholas.'

‘Nothing at all, if it's only talking.'

The three of them cackled and spluttered and, impatiently, Jane turned to jump up on Melissa's back.

‘That's right, you ride away on that horse of yours. But don't say we didn't warn you. There's changes coming to this village. They do say that the monks will be kicked out soon, Mortimer's gone and we don't know what'll happen to his place, and now they're saying the King's coming. Think of that. And we don't want any dirty old witch around here putting curses on his Highness.'

Jane turned and rounded on Biddy. ‘Now what mischief are you saying? The King's coming here? Who told you that?'

‘It's common knowledge, Mistress Warrener. You ought to talk to us a bit more. A bright girl like you ought to keep up with the news.'

*   *   *

Agnes was in the wooden hut at the end of her garden. She was tying fresh rosemary into bundles ready to hang up on the rafters for use next winter. The room was full of the pungent scent of herbs, like the church after Sunday's High Mass. She looked up as Jane came in.

‘Come in, Jane. It's good to see you again.'

Jane walked over to the table and ran her fingers through the pile of herbs, smoothing out the grey-green spiky leaves of the rosemary. Gradually, the anger in her subsided. She picked up a bunch of rosemary and buried her face in it, inhaling deeply. ‘Um, lovely. I envy you your healing talents.'

‘It's nothing special. It's just a question of knowing which of God's plants is suitable for any particular ailment. I've studied them all my life, remember. Even the dangerous ones have a use if you know the right dosage. But what can I do for you?'

‘You've heard the news, of course?'

‘My dear, the village is buzzing like a beehive with news.'

‘Do you know that a whole lot of people from Court are coming to the Manor?'

‘Oh that! Yes, I've heard, and I feel sorry for Lord Nicholas. He's going to have his work cut out feeding and entertaining that mob. Master Lowe's been here and commandeered all my eggs for the next three weeks. Still, he says he'll give me a good price for them. Seems my hens are the best layers in the village. I hope his Lordship's coming home soon, otherwise Master Lowe's mind's going to give way under the worry of it all.'

‘They say that the King's coming.'

Agnes put down the bundle of herbs and looked at Jane, suddenly serious.

‘Best not to listen to gossip, Jane. Wait until Lord Nicholas tells you himself. There's all sorts of rumours flying around but no one knows for sure. Only his Lordship, of course. We'll all be glad if King Henry comes here, not that we'll see much of him, but it's best not too many people know about it. Master Lowe told me nothing and that's how it should be. The King's the King, and these are dangerous times. Now, I've nothing against Harry Tudor, but others might not agree with me. So steer clear of gossips, Jane.'

‘Agnes, there's something else I must tell you.'

‘Why, my dear, how serious you look. Come now, we've never kept things from each other, have we, so what is it?'

‘I've just been talking to Biddy Tomkins…'

‘Now what made you do that? Nothing good ever came out of Biddy Tomkin's mouth. She's nothing but a bawdy ale-house keeper's wife, a trouble-maker if ever there was one.'

Ambrose strolled in, rubbed himself round Jane's skirts, then sat down in a pool of sunshine in the doorway and proceeded to wash his face and whiskers with delicate precision.

‘There are rumours going around…'

‘There always are when Biddy Tomkins opens her mouth.'

‘Abigail Butcher's child died recently.'

‘I know. The poor, wee babe. But it was only to be expected with his spine twisted all over the place. There was no room in his chest for his breath. But the Lord gives, and the Lord taketh away, and it's not for us to question His ways. And I daresay it's better for the babe to be in Heaven with the angels with a good, strong body, than having to endure a wretched life down here with us.'

‘You were there when he was born?'

‘Yes. Abigail asked me to give the others a hand. It was a bitter labour. Jane, what are you saying?'

‘It's not what I'm saying, it's what they're saying. People are also saying that it's strange that your hens are laying and theirs aren't.'

‘That's because I feed them on corn and barley which I saved over the winter. Now what's all this about, my dear?' she said, as she wiped her hands on her apron and came over to put her arms round Jane's shoulders. ‘Come on, look at me, and say what you have to say.'

‘They say you're a witch, Agnes. That you cursed Abigail's child, turned yourself into a demon and frightened Lord Nicholas's horse up in the woods, and cursed all their hens so that they won't lay any eggs.'

Agnes threw back her head and laughed, a full-bodied, merry laugh that made Ambrose stop his ablutions and gaze at her disapprovingly with his huge, yellow eyes.

‘I know it sounds preposterous. I know you're a healer, not a destroyer. I know you're one of the holiest people I've ever met, that you're on the side of the angels and wouldn't hurt a living soul. But the rumours are going round, like a fire in a field of dry hay and soon it'll be roaring through the village. Agnes, I'm afraid for you. Someone's started these rumours. Someone's got it in for you. Have you any idea who it could be? Anyone you've offended? Perhaps you turned someone away because you couldn't help him and he resented it. Think hard, Agnes, because we've got to put a stop to these rumours. There's nothing that excites the popular imagination as much as the cry of “witchcraft”. It's but a short step towards the next cry “Hang the witch!” I feel that you're in real danger. Why don't you come and live with us for the time being? My father, as you know, is a bit cantankerous, but he won't tolerate any superstitious nonsense. You'll be safe with us.'