Day of Wrath (21 page)

‘I'll get the constables out…'

‘That's a start. Get Fitzroy to raise a muster. At least we can line the Portsmouth road with bowmen. They'll have to check all travellers.'

‘We could stop all traffic on the road until the King's clear.'

‘He'll never allow that. As far as he's concerned, his subjects love him and he wants them to see him. I can just hear him – let no one be inconvenienced! Except me, that is.'

‘I wouldn't change place with you, my Lord, even if they handed me Peverell Manor on a plate.'

‘Play your cards right, Richard, and it just might happen. If I make one slip, then I, too, will end up in the Tower; and next time, I won't come out. Oh, and one other thing,' Nicholas said turning to go, ‘who's the best haberdasher in Marchester, Richard?'

‘You're not thinking of buying a new wardrobe for the King's visit? You've cut it a bit fine.'

‘Someone needs a new coat. I said I'll see what I can do. Now, be a good friend, Richard, and find me a haberdasher. I want a green velvet coat, with slashed sleeves, and fine quality lining.'

Richard Landstock whistled. ‘That'll cost you something.'

‘Just a drop in the ocean,' Nicholas said wearily.

‘Who's it for? Or shouldn't I ask?'

‘You can ask, but I won't tell you. But tell this haberdasher friend of yours to come and see me. I've no time to go looking for him. Oh, and tell him to come soon – like today – and bring some samples of his best quality cloth. He ought to start stitching immediately if it's to be finished by the sixth of June.'

‘You're a man of many parts, Peverell. But I'll see what I can do. How big's this friend of yours?'

Nicholas looked Landstock up and down. ‘Your size, a bit taller, I think, but certainly he's got your chest on him.'

‘Sensible man. Can I order myself one too at your expense, of course? Sort of commission? After all, I shall have to be presented to the King. He always wants to see his Sheriffs.'

‘And doesn't expect them to look fashionable. Order yourself a new coat, by all means, Richard; but don't send me the bill.'

*   *   *

Feeling relieved that he could rely on Richard Landstock, Nicholas rode back to Dean Peverell. The sun was already high in the sky so the main Mass of the day would be over and the Prior would probably be at work in the chapter house. Brother Ambrose opened the gate and one of the lay Brothers led Harry away to the Prior's stables.

‘He's in the church, my Lord,' said Brother Ambrose deferentially. ‘You'll almost certainly find him in the sacristy with Father Hubert.'

He thanked the elderly monk and went into the monks' church, a beautiful tall building rebuilt two hundred years ago, and paid for by one of his ancestors. He glanced up at the painted ceiling which he had commissioned as a memorial to his wife, and once again admired the design of heraldic shields entwined with some of the wild flowers which grew in the surrounding fields and hedgerows: succulent bunches of blackberries, delicate fritillaries, honeysuckle and wild roses. He felt a rush of emotion as he saw the sun streaming through the stained glass windows, falling on his chantry chapel, lighting up the sculptured figures of cherubs and angels clutching their lutes and harps. Whatever else happened, he thought, King Henry must never get his hands on this place.

The door of the sacristy was open and he heard the Prior's voice talking excitedly to Father Hubert.

‘Now don't agitate yourself, Father, it'll do you no good in your condition. This all belongs to us. It was given to us over the years by our friends and patrons. The King's not going to rob us of all our sacred vessels.'

‘If the King should see this…' he heard Father Hubert say in his distinctive nasal twang.

Nicholas forced himself to remove his eyes from the chantry chapel and walked over to the sacristy. He looked in. There on a footstool sat the Prior, and in front of him, laid out on a cloth, were the church treasures. The cupboard in the corner of the sacristy where all the things were kept was open, and Father Hubert was on his knees facing the Prior and cradling the beautiful gold chalice in his arms. There were tears in his red-rimmed eyes, which were sunken into his bony face, a result of too much fasting and a recent blood letting. Both looked up when they saw Nicholas, and Father Hubert clutched the chalice more closely to his chest as if Nicholas were King Henry himself about to wrench it from him.

‘Welcome home, Lord Nicholas,' said the Prior, beaming broadly. ‘We're just going through the inventory before our guests arrive to inspect us,' he said exploding with laughter. ‘Well, they'll be welcome. We've got nothing to hide, though Father Hubert's a bit nervous about our altar furnishings. I've told him to relax; they can't just walk off with them, can they?'

‘No, they'll simply write them down on a list and hand it over to Thomas Cromwell, who'll show it to the King.'

‘Then there's nothing to worry about. Everything here belongs to us. It's all down in the inventories going back time immemorial. We've not pilfered anything.'

‘Only that chalice and the icon,' said Nicholas evenly, ‘but they were pilfered a long time ago from Constantinople – by one of my ancestors, as it happens.'

He picked up the jewel-encrusted icon and kissed it reverently. The head of the Virgin was crowned with rubies, and the Christ-child was picked out in gold leaf.

‘Oh that was centuries ago,' said the Prior dismissively. ‘Besides, your ancestor was on a crusade – he was fighting the Infidel – of course he was going to do a bit of pilfering. They all did. If he hadn't picked it up, someone else would. Great heavens, my Lord, it might have ended up in some foreign church! At least it's got a good home here.'

‘My ancestor might have fought against the Infidel, but there's no doubt that this icon came from a Christian church.'

‘Christian?' roared the Prior, ‘Don't be stupid. There are no Christians in Constantinople; they're Greeks!'

Nicholas said nothing. No use trying to argue with Prior Thomas. Father Hubert stood the chalice reverently on the floor. ‘Whoever it belonged to,' he said softly, ‘we've had it for three hundred years and Our Lord's blood is offered up in it every important feast day and holy day.'

Nicholas noticed how frail the Sacristan looked, how pale and emaciated his face was with the bones of his skull protruding like a death's head. The Prior noticed Nicholas's look of concern.

‘Yes, he's gone too far this time. Look at his arms.' Nicholas saw the wizened arms, the wrists bound in blood-stained bandages. ‘Too much fasting, and too much blood letting. You've hardly got any blood in that poor old body of yours, father,' he said, getting up off the stool. ‘That Infirmarer of mine likes nothing better than to line us all up and extract our blood. I won't let him get his hands on me, though. God gives us our blood, and He means us to hold on to it. Hubert's given so much that he's had to have two days in the infirmary to get over it. Now God doesn't want you to make yourself ill, does He?'

‘It's good to bring the body to order, Prior. I feel close to the Holy One after a blooding.'

‘Of course you do, you old fool! You are nearer to God. One more drop out of that dried-out frame of yours and you'll be standing in front of His throne in His Heavenly Kingdom. Now let's put these things away and I'll go and talk to Lord Nicholas. I'm sure he hasn't come here just to admire the church furniture.'

‘We could hide them, Prior,' said the Sacristan tentatively.

‘Hide them? What on earth for?'

‘So that they won't be listed on the inventory and the King won't know what we've got.'

‘I've told you, Father, the King's not a common thief. Why should he take them?'

‘Because these things are valuable,' said Nicholas, ‘and he's short of money. The fleet, his pride and joy, is going to consume every penny in the Exchequer. Cromwell's already saying that with the sale of the monastic church furniture he can pay off the national debt.'

Father Hubert whimpered plaintively and picked up the chalice. ‘Not this, oh not this. Not to fit out a fleet of war ships. It'll be sacrilege. Let me hide it, Prior.'

‘Oh, put it back in that cupboard and let's hear no more of this. No one's going to sell something as precious as that chalice. The King can have the altar frontals; my cope, too, if necessary. That'll make him a fine cloak. Should keep him quiet for a bit.'

Leaving Father Hubert to lock away the church ornaments, the Prior and Nicholas walked back through the church and out into the cloister, where several monks were busily copying out manuscripts in their beautiful, elaborate handwriting.

‘Now then, my Lord, what can I do for you? I've heard all sorts of rumours about the King coming to stay up in your house. I suppose he's bringing half the Court with him and there'll be feasting and all sorts of goings-on.'

‘Not if I can help it. Already I'm beginning to think that I'll have to sell the high field to pay for all this. I suppose old Warrener'll be creeping up to me and offering to buy it off me for some knock-down price. The King's staying two to three nights at the most, and I should be grateful, Prior, if you could help me out.'

‘Well, out with it. What do you want?'

‘Can you sleep some of the guests?'

‘No problem. Send them down here and we can stick them up in the attic of my house. The floor'll take a hundred or so packed together. The nights are warm now and I'll get fresh straw down on the floor. Do you need help in your kitchen?'

‘I could do with help in every department.'

‘Then I'll send down my lay brothers. You can have Brother Cyril for a couple of days. I can manage on some cold cuts.'

‘You're welcome to join us, Prior. You could then have a chance to talk to the King.'

‘Good idea. I'll put him straight about what we do here. Have you got a good stock of wine and ale?'

‘I've sent Geoffrey off to buy some…'

‘Oh, he's got no idea about buying wine. Those Marchester merchants will rip you off something cruel. Help yourself to mine. I can always slip over to France and re-stock later in the summer. I could, of course, send Benedict back to Rivières to cadge some more wine from his abbot, but he might not let him come back. I'm only too pleased to help. After all, it was your ancestors who built our church and sent for the monks to come and start our community. You yourself have provided the money to have our ceiling painted and build the lovely chantry. It's the least I can do. Just leave things to me. Send Lowe along and we'll concoct some menus. I've got a barrel of lambs' tongues just arrived. Marvellous with a good pastry top and a rich gravy. My cook can rustle up some concoctions for puddings. Pity it's too early for grapes, but the strawberries! My Lord, you should take a look at the strawberries in my garden. I'll get the Brothers to cover the beds with straw and you take your pick.'

‘Prior, I'm indebted to you.'

‘No more than we're indebted to you and your family. I can also send Brother Benedict up to entertain the King with that lass of yours. By the way, they're both here at the moment, in my solarium rehearsing. I've got guests coming, you know, before yours. Great heavens, this is going to require some organisation. No lambs' tongues for my guests, though; they're only government officials. Roast lamb, that'll do for them. A good fat carp from our ponds. No strawberries, of course. Some custards; Cyril's good at custards.'

Deeply grateful that his catering arrangements were in such capable hands, Nicholas walked across to the gatehouse. The Prior called him back.

‘Don't go yet,' he said. ‘Don't you want to hear Mistress Jane and my Benedict sing? But before that, there's one act of Christian charity I want you to do before you relax and enjoy yourself. One of my old monks is drawing nearer to God and he's asked to see you. He's Brother Wilfrid, and I think you know him. He speaks often about you and a brief visit would make him very happy.'

Nicholas only half heard him. His mind was racing. Jane, here, with Benedict! It seemed ages since he'd seen her. Had she deserted him for the charms of a romantic-looking young monk?

‘Of course I'll see him,' he managed to say.

‘Good, good. Then come and join us afterwards. I'll get Cyril to send over some bread and cheese. You must be famished after all your gallivanting around the country on that horse of yours.'

*   *   *

Brother Wilfrid's bed was at the far end of the ward, near the apothecary's room. Nicholas walked up to him, nodding at the monk who was sitting at the foot of the bed, keeping vigil with him. Brother Wilfrid was lying quite still with his eyes closed. It was obvious he hadn't much longer to live. His body had shrunk down to the size of a child, and his skin was paper thin with no flesh underneath. When Nicholas bent down to hear if his heart was still beating, there was the merest flutter and his breathing was just a faint sigh. He picked up one of the gnarled old hands which had written so many words and beaten out the rhythm of Latin words on his head when he was a boy resenting being in the monastery schoolroom rather than outside in the fresh air.

The attendant monk tactfully withdrew and Nicholas looked down with affection at the shrunken face of the old monk. He remembered how they'd laughed together over the antics of the classical gods which they'd read in the Latin texts, and how, once, the Prior had reprimanded Wilfrid for corrupting him, Nicholas, with stories of Jove's amorous pursuits. He'll not laugh any more, Nicholas thought. Only when he arrived in Heaven and then he could entertain St Peter and the angels.

Suddenly, Wilfrid's eyelids fluttered open and he stared at Nicholas. ‘I'm not gone yet,' he whispered. ‘It's good to see you Nicholas, my boy. You look fine. You always were a robust child, though you didn't like Latin, did you?'