Day of Wrath (28 page)

‘It'll take them that time to prepare the inventory,' said Nicholas, making a mental note to add them to the guest list.

‘You really think it'll take them that long?'

‘I'm sure it will. But don't worry, Prior. The King's coming and you can have a word with him. You'll come to dinner when he's here, won't you?'

‘When have you ever known me to refuse a dinner, my Lord?'

So that was what was bothering the Prior, thought Nicholas. He was getting nervous about the inspection. And so he should. The Commissioners were going to look for faults; even where none existed. They were going to provide the King with a good excuse for destroying the monasteries, so that he could sleep at night with an easy conscience.

*   *   *

Inside the infirmary, the sun streamed in through the narrow, high windows and fell on the beds of the three sick, old men. Wilfrid was there, his shrunken face peaceful in sleep, his breathing shallow but regular. Nicholas picked up his gnarled hand, small and boney like a bird's claw. He shook it gently, but Wilfrid didn't wake up. He was conscious that someone was standing behind him and turned round to see Brother Michael, the Infirmarer, standing there, his pale face twisted into a smile.

‘It's good of you to come and see him, my Lord. He often asks for you.'

‘Well, don't wake him up now. I'll drop in some other time.'

Brother Michael nodded and went back into the apothecary's room. Nicholas went out and joined the Prior, who'd been waiting for him.

‘Come across and have a drink. I need your advice on what to do with these visitors. They've checked out Lewes Priory and now they're going to start on us. Then, I suppose they'll go to Marchester and check on the good friars there. This is a most appalling intrusion.'

As they walked through the cloisters, they met Father Hubert scurrying past them, holding a large wicker basket.

‘That's right, Father,' the Prior said, his face lighting up with a smile of satisfaction, ‘off you go. Make sure they're young and fresh, mind. None of your tough old leaves. He collects fresh sorrel and young nettles for me, my Lord, up in your woods.'

Nicholas stopped. ‘Do you go every day?'

‘No, my Lord, just sometimes. When the Prior says he needs fresh green leaves.'

‘They're excellent, Lord Nicholas. Nothing like fresh nettles, simmered for just a few seconds in boiling water. Good for the bowels at this time of the year,' the Prior said, patting his substantial belly.

‘Did you go up in the woods last week, Father Hubert?' said Nicholas. ‘Let's say, the Monday of last week, in the afternoon? I think I might have seen you there.'

‘You might have done, my Lord, but I can't remember. I still feel a bit weak…'

‘I warned you. You'll addle your brain with all that bleeding. I expect he was up there, Lord Nicholas. He goes up most days.'

So that was one mystery solved, thought Nicholas as he followed the Prior into his house. Just harmless old Father Hubert gathering plants to ease the Prior's bowels. He'd look just like a patch of shade up under the trees. No wonder Merlin started. Nothing more sinister than that. He laughed with relief. How good it would be if everything could be solved as simply as that.

‘Come and see me when you get back, Father,' said the Prior. ‘I shall want all the silver cleaned for the Commissioners' inspection.'

Father Hubert stopped and looked at the Prior anxiously. ‘I'll do my best. But I can't get everything cleaned before they come. Will they really want to see everything?'

‘Everything. That's why they're coming. Now, my Lord, just tell me what I'm going to do with them. Bloody civil servants! I can't abide them.'

*   *   *

Nicholas rode slowly home, deep in thought. Much as he liked the Prior, he deplored his light-hearted attitude towards the imminent arrival of Thomas Cromwell's Commissioners. Didn't he realise that they meant business? he thought as he trotted up the deserted street. No longer were there groups of villagers shouting out greetings and swapping news. It was as if the events of the last few days had cast a deep gloom over the place. The arrival of Thomas Cromwell's men would unsettle everyone even more.

The Prior didn't seem to know what these men were capable of, he thought. They would pry into every nook and cranny of the Priory's affairs, study the account books, scrutinise the daily life of the monks, note down who attended services, who stayed away. They'd inspect the kitchens, raise eyebrows at the Prior's well-stocked cellar, gloat over the number of horses the Prior kept in his stables, exclaim over the carriage which the Prior used when visiting neighbouring parishes over which he had jurisdiction. They'd note the amount of lead on the church roof, the number, weight and size of the bells, and the amount and value of the church furnishings.

And one thing was clear – the Commissioners would not take kindly to the harbouring of a suspected witch on the monastic premises. Maybe, he thought, as he turned in to his driveway, the Prior could pass her off as a holy anchoress. But the monks would object. No, time was running out for Agnes Myles, as it was running out for him. And that was just what Ultor was reckoning on. He'd framed Agnes, that was for sure. He wanted her disposed of; and he was setting about it very efficiently.

When he got back, Geoffrey was waiting for him with a message which had just arrived from the Sheriff. The messenger had left saying no answer was necessary.

‘Lord Nicholas,' he read. ‘I'm holding on to Bovet and Perkins for the time being. I'm sure they know more than they let on. They do admit that they often go to the ale-house in your village, so it might be useful if you could talk to the ale-house keeper and see if he overheard anything significant last Saturday night. Our two suspects could've been paid to start the fire, of course. The ale-house keeper could've seen money changing hands. There's still that burn mark on Perkins's sleeve not accounted for. Send for me if there's any more trouble. Landstock.'

Nicholas finished reading, and called for his horse again. He rode back down the street, arriving at the ale-house just as Josh Tomkins was getting ready for his afternoon nap. He was a big, florid-faced man, with sparse black hair, and a dirty apron tied round his enormous girth. Small, piggy eyes looked at Nicholas nervously as he ducked his head under the door lintel and went into the dim, smoked-filled interior.

‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit, my Lord?' Tomkins said obsequiously. ‘You know my licence is in order. There've been no complaints about the quality of my ale, I hope? I only use the best malt.'

‘It's not your ale I'm interested in,' said Nicholas, pushing aside two mongrels who were snarling over the bits dropped on the floor by the customers. Biddy Tomkins was famous for her boiled bacon hocks, which went down well with the travellers along the main coast road. Tomkins wiped over a table top with a corner of his apron, and pushed a chair over to Nicholas, who shook his head.

‘A drink, my Lord?'

‘No thanks. I'm not staying. You get a good crowd in here, don't you?'

‘Most days we're full up.'

‘People come here from Marchester?'

‘Sometimes. Not often. They've got their own places to go to.'

‘Do you know two men called Tim Bovet and Will Perkins?'

Tomkins looked shifty. ‘Might do. They come here to give the monks a hand with the lambing. What've they been up to?'

‘Were they in here last Saturday night? The night before the fire in Agnes Myles's shed?'

Again the cautious look. Careful now, thought Nicholas. Don't frighten him off. ‘I can't remember,' said Tomkins, busily wiping down the tables. ‘There are always lots of people here on Saturday nights.'

‘Come on, man. It's not all that long ago. Think hard.'

‘Well, I suppose they could've been. After all, they're regulars when they come to work here.'

‘Did you hear them, or anyone else for that matter, talking about starting a fire?'

‘Oh no, my Lord,' he said, polishing a table with unnecessary vigour. ‘I never heard nothing like that. And if I did,' he said, standing up and looking at Nicholas indignantly, ‘I would've chucked them out. We don't have such talk in here. Burning down other people's property indeed!'

‘So you heard no talk of fire. And no one, in his cups, boasting about starting one?'

‘I certainly did not. Ah, here comes Biddy. Come over here a minute,' he said as Biddy Tomkins, flushed and perspiring, came in to collect the empty tankards. ‘Lord Nicholas wants to know if we heard anyone talking about starting a fire up at old Agnes's house last Saturday night?'

Biddy came over and dropped a curtsy to Nicholas. ‘I didn't hear anyone talk about a fire. It started well after we'd closed and Josh and me were tucked up in bed. We only woke up when one of the servants came hammering on our door and calling out “fire”. We got up and went along to Agnes's house, but we were too late to help, of course.'

Nicholas cursed his luck. They were too glib. They'd had time to get their act together.

‘You know Sheriff has Perkins and Bovet in custody?'

‘We'd heard the rumour. What're they supposed to've done?' said Tomkins, trying to look unconcerned.

‘They were reluctant to help put out a fire and they slandered Agnes Myles.'

‘Well, that's only to be expected,' said Biddy indignantly. ‘What right has a nasty old witch like her to expect people to help her put out a fire? It was only her shed, after all, that went up in smoke. Good riddance to it, I say. Put paid to all her spells for a bit. I can't see why you bother yourself with all this, my Lord. She oughtn't to be here. Best place for her is up on Marchester Heath.'

‘And I say it's a monstrous injustice to accuse someone before they're proved guilty. Agnes Myles is a harmless old woman and most of the people around here have been grateful for her help. Didn't you go and see her, Tomkins, when your face sprouted boils last Christmas?'

‘She said my blood needed cleaning,' he mumbled, not meeting Nicholas's gaze.

‘And they all cleared up, if I remember rightly?'

‘She gave me a herbal drink.'

‘Well now, would a wicked witch do that?'

‘Could've done,' put in Biddy. ‘Witches are well known to be two-faced. Look how she frightened your horse up in the woods and nearly killed you.'

‘Don't be such a fool and stop spreading such rumours. I had a fall, that's all. One of the monks was up in the woods collecting herbs and my horse was taken by surprise and shied, throwing me to the ground. But enough of this talk. Let's get back to Saturday night. So you heard no one talk about starting a fire?'

‘No, my Lord. Just the usual crowd, out for a drink and a laugh.'

‘And you saw nothing suspicious? No money changing hands, for instance?'

‘Money? Oh no, my Lord, if there was any money around it would've come in my direction.'

‘And no laughing about burning an old witch?'

‘Oh no, we wouldn't have allowed such talk, would we Biddy?'

‘Certainly not. Why waste breath on the likes of her?'

There was no point in probing any further, Nicholas thought as he turned to go. The two had closed ranks. They stood in the doorway watching him mount Harry, who swirled around impatiently. ‘Well, let me know if you do hear anything. We want to know who started the fire. Someone must know. Bovet and Perkins might know and sooner or later they'll start talking. There's a reward, you know, for any information leading to the capture of the arsonists. I'll see that it's a good one.'

He pulled Harry round, and rode off. He didn't see the look which the Tomkinses exchanged with one another.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Just take a look at this lot, my Lord. Where's the money coming from?' said Geoffrey, hovering anxiously over Nicholas, who was sitting at a table with a pile of bills in front of him. Nicholas flipped through the pile, paused to read an invoice from the Prior for four butts of Burgundy, then he pushed them aside.

‘Where's the money coming from? From me, of course. Who do you think's going to pay 'em? The King? But don't bother me with these now. If it means that I'll have to sell the top field, so be it. At least I know old Warrener'll snap it up, and I'll see he pays a good price for it. Now who the devil's this?'

A clatter of hooves in the courtyard; the sound of metal scraping on stone as a horse slithered to a halt; then Anthony burst in, breathless with excitement.

‘A messenger, my Lord, from the Earl of Southampton,' he stammered.

‘Well, don't keep him waiting. Just put these somewhere safe, Geoffrey,' he said, pushing the pile of bills towards him, ‘and I'll see to them later.'

Geoffrey shuffled the pile together and fastened them with a cord. Anthony returned, followed by a young man in leather breeches and jerkin covered in dust. He handed Nicholas a leather pouch.

‘From the Earl, my Lord. Shall I wait for a reply?'

‘You'd better hang around. Geoffrey, fetch this young man some food and something to drink. Sit down and rest yourself.'

The young man sank down gratefully on the chair which Nicholas pushed towards him and Nicholas opened the bag and took out the message.

‘Peverell,' he read. ‘No more communications from Ultor. I don't like it. Either he's using another port, or he's gone to ground. That means he's feeling secure. He's made his plans and he's waiting for the right moment to strike. You must check on everyone; and I mean everyone. The King's coming next week, remember. Destroy this letter immediately. Paget.'

Nicholas cursed under his breath. He was sick and tired of people telling him what to do. And did Southampton take him for a fool? Of course he knew the King was coming. Hadn't he got a pile of bills to prove it?