Day of Wrath (3 page)

‘If he thinks he'll get enough money by kicking out a lot of lazy monks, then good luck to him, say I.'

‘Richard, Richard, how can you say that? Haven't you any feelings for the Priory? Haven't you any sense of tradition? Our Priory's been here for centuries. Remember it was my ancestors who founded it. The Peverells have always been its patrons. Just stop for a moment and think of what the monks do. They run the only school in the district. Their hospital is overflowing at the moment because of all the sickness around. They hand out alms. They're good employers. Take away the Priory and you take away the village of Dean Peverell.'

They paused at the chapel door. ‘That's how you see it, my Lord. I see a collection of lazy men living on the money which our people can ill afford. I see gold and silver plate used in their services whilst most people round here live in poverty. I'm told that my Lord Prior even uses silver plate at his table. I see wealth in the midst of poverty, and exploitation of humble people – for instance the prices they charge for the use of their mill in Marchester are higher than any one else's. As for prayer, I'm told Thomas Rymes enjoys archery contests rather more than saying his prayers and a good meal rather than fasting. No, my Lord, I'm not with you on this one. Kick the lazy bastards out, I say. Let them work for a living for a change.'

‘You and Guy Warrener make a fine pair. He thinks the same way as you do.'

‘I know, and I admire him for speaking his mind. He's a realist, like me. We must move with the times, my Lord. As for the monks, their days are over. Now let's have a look at your unfortunate steward.'

*   *   *

Later, when the Coroner had arrived and the cause of death had been confirmed, the Sheriff and his clerk started on the lengthy process of taking statements from the servants. There was no obvious need for Nicholas to stay at home. He'd only get in everyone's way. Meanwhile, he had to see the Prior. For once, Nicholas dreaded the interview. Thomas Rymes was a stubborn man. He lived in the past, that was his trouble, thought Nicholas, as he went over to the stables. Now Landstock, insensitive and brash as he was, was typical of the new type of man emerging. Pragmatic, materialistic, always chasing after new ideas coming over from the Continent, always looking for the main chance. He'd survive, though, as long as he kept his nose clean, and that was more than you could say about idealists like Sir Thomas More, locked up in the Tower preparing to meet his Maker, and Prior Thomas, refusing to see changes coming until he was overwhelmed by them.

Harry greeted him with a joyful whinny. He was fully recovered after yesterday's gruelling ride. The grooms had fed him well, and his black coat shone like a mirror. Nicholas loved all his horses, but he favoured Harry more than the others. There was a big dash of Arab blood in him, which, coupled with the strength of the English war horse, made a formidable combination of beauty, swiftness and strength. Once again, Nicholas sent up a prayer of thanks to his crusading ancestor who had come back from the wars against the Infidel, bringing with him a pair of Arab horses. From these two he'd built up a stock of horses which were the best in the county.

He saddled Harry himself, mounted, and one of the grooms opened the main gate. Then he rode down the long drive towards the village of Dean Peverell.

The first Lord Peverell had built his house at the foot of the South Downs from where he could see the five channels of Marchester harbour shining like bright swords in the summer sunshine. The village was just a single street with cottages on either side. A track led up to the Priory which the first Lord Peverell had founded, bringing the first monks over from his local abbey in Normandy. As the low tower appeared above the surrounding trees, Nicholas reined in Harry. Suddenly, he saw the Priory as if for the first time. It was doomed. King Henry was set on its destruction. And he was going to justify his act of vandalism by trumping up charges of licentious behaviour against the monks. Charges which, he knew in advance, would be grossly exaggerated. Admittedly the Prior was over-fond of the pleasures of the table and drank too freely of the fine Bordeaux wines which he bought from the French vintners. But there was no harm in that, thought Nicholas as he rode up to the gatehouse of the Priory. After all, most of the other pleasures were denied him; surely he was entitled to one harmless indulgence.

It was unfortunate that the Priory, even if it was small, represented a great deal of wealth, he thought. There were only seventeen monks but over the centuries they had acquired lands in other parishes and collected rents from mills and quarries all over the county. Also there was a fine collection of church furnishings – a gold altar frontal, silver candlesticks, a jewel-encrusted icon of the Virgin and Child brought back from the East after the sack of Constantinople. And then there was the chalice, solid gold and encrusted with rubies. Now that was beyond price. He had to warn Prior Thomas about that. Cromwell's inspectors must not set eyes on it. Even if he couldn't stop the King from closing the Priory, he could urge the Prior to hide its treasures.

The gatekeeper welcomed him and took Harry's reins.

‘The Prior, my Lord, is in his house. We are all pleased to see you back safe and sound.'

‘Thank you, Brother Ambrose. Peace be with you.'

As always, the tranquillity of the Priory moved him as he walked across the cloisters where some of the Brothers were at work on their manuscripts, making the most of the fine day. The Prior's house stood apart from the main monastic buildings, because it also served as a guest house and it was undesirable that the monks should be in too close a proximity to the visitors from the outside world. Built at a later time than the rest of the buildings, it stood in its own grounds, a large three-storeyed building, built of local flint-stone, its thick walls pierced by elegant windows with pointed arches. The entrance door stood open, and he went into the kitchen area where a fire burned in the great fireplace, and a pig rotated on a spit in front of the flames. Brother Cyril, the Prior's steward, smiled a greeting and took him upstairs to the first floor, where Prior Thomas had his study. The door was open, and Nicholas went in.

Thomas Rymes was a big man in the prime of life. His good-natured face radiated health, the result of a good digestion. He was wearing a black robe, belted round his ample girth with a cord. A large, silver cross hung down on to his expansive chest.

‘Welcome home, Lord Nicholas,' he said glancing up from a document he was reading. ‘What news of the King?'

He indicated the jug of ale beside him on the desk, and Nicholas helped himself. He was at ease with Prior Thomas. He approved of his philosophy, which was that you gave due respect to God, worked hard at whatever work God sent you, and then you celebrated with your friends when work was over. And celebrate they did. Nicholas had enjoyed some fine dinners in this house. The Prior liked prime-quality beef and on fast days he made full use of his stock of fat carp in his fishponds. Now, thought Nicholas, this idyll was going to be shattered. It was heartbreaking.

‘The King, Prior Thomas, thrives, as always.'

‘Thanks be to God. If the King thrives, the kingdom thrives. There's nothing worse than a sickly king, especially when the heir to the throne is a mere girl.'

‘The Queen's infant daughter, Elizabeth, is a healthy lass.'

The Prior looked puzzled, then, when he understood, his expression turned to one of disapproval. ‘The Queen, my Lord? Surely you mean the King's whore, Mistress Anne Boleyn?'

‘For God's sake, Prior, guard your tongue. I mean Queen Anne. Catherine lives in retirement, poor lady. In bad health, so they say, with her daughter ignored by everyone.'

‘It's monstrous, monstrous,' roared the Prior, his face flaming with anger. ‘I will never call that whore, Queen. How can King Henry flout the Pope's wishes! Nothing good will come of this illegal, adulterous liaison. Some say that she's a witch.'

‘Prior, hold your tongue. It's dangerous to say such things. Henry divorced his first wife. Thomas Cranmer married him to Anne Boleyn, and there's an end to it. One day their daughter might be Queen of England. Do you want to end up in the Tower of London?'

‘The King'll not dare to touch me.'

‘Not dare! Are you mad? He dared to arrest Cardinal Wolsey and seized his house. He dared to arrest Thomas More, and he's been in the Tower for thirteen months now. He will sign your death warrant without a second thought should he hear what you've just said. It's just as well that I'm a good friend of yours.'

‘The King over-reaches himself,' said Prior Thomas, sinking back into his chair. ‘He should be made aware of his own mortality.'

‘And who's going to do that? Not me, that's for sure. No one can tell the King he's only a man.'

‘We're all only men, my Lord,' said the Prior wearily. ‘One day we'll all have to face our Maker.'

‘And I don't intend to do that just yet. Not if I can help it.'

‘Amen to that, Lord Nicholas. But come now, let's talk of other things. I am sorry to hear about your steward. He was a good man. Your stock cupboards are almost as good as mine. Your honey's certainly better than mine. One day I'll come and take a look at that garden of yours and see what's growing there. Your lamb is excellent, also.'

‘I'll see Giles sends some cuts, Prior, when we do the slaughtering. Yes, it's bad news about Matthew. I shall miss him.'

‘Killed defending your warren, I've heard. A dreadful thing. There are far too many thieves around. That Sheriff fellow ought to be more vigilant. They're always trying to get into our barns.'

‘Strangely enough, we've got no signs of a break-in.'

‘Really? Then what's the motive?'

‘That's what Landstock's trying to find out at this very moment. I've left him to it as I had to come and warn you.'

‘Warn me? About thieves? I don't need to be warned about them. We're always on our guard. As you should be. You mustn't let things slip when you're away, Lord Nicholas.'

‘I'm not warning you about guarding your warren, Prior. There is another matter…'

There was a knock on the study door, and Prior Thomas sighed irritably. ‘Come in, come in,' he called out impatiently.

The door opened and a monk came in. He was tall, gaunt, with a long, melancholy face. His black robe hung loosely on his bony frame, and, unlike the other monks, his head was untonsured because he was completely bald. Brother Michael. Nicholas knew him well. Once again, he reminded Nicholas of one of the gargoyles which spouted rain-water from the gutters on the tower.

‘Brother Michael, I've given orders that I'm not to be disturbed when Lord Nicholas is with me.'

‘I'm sorry, my Lord Prior, but Hobbes insisted that I should tell you the news immediately.'

‘The Vicar? Giving orders? What impertinence! Well as you're here, you'd better get it out.'

‘The King's Commissioners have arrived in Lewes. It won't be long before they're here.'

‘Is that all? Stop your fussing, Brother Michael, and get back to your patients. There've been rumours flying around for months now.'

‘This time it's true,' interrupted Nicholas. ‘At last we're getting down to business. Brother Michael is quite right to take this matter seriously. How did Alfred Hobbes hear about the King's Commissioners?'

‘Oh you know Hobbes,' said Brother Michael with more than a hint of disapproval in his voice. ‘He always loves a gossip. A babbler. A frequenter of ale-houses if I didn't keep an eye on him. He was up at Mortimer's place to complain about his tithe, as he always does, and Sir Roger told him.'

‘Then Sir Roger is right for once. The King's inspectors are in Lewes and they will be coming here. This is what I was going to tell you, Prior. The King is set on closing down the monasteries, for reasons of his own. Your only hope of escaping closure, Prior, is to see that everything is in order when they come. See to it that the monks observe the Rule strictly. There must be no grounds for criticism on that front. Restrain your enthusiasm for archery competitions, keep a modest table, and keep the dairymaids out of the monastic buildings.'

‘I'll do no such thing,' said Prior Thomas, rising to his feet. ‘No one, not even the King, has the right to tell me how to run my own Priory.'

‘We could, however, observe a fast…' said Brother Michael tentatively, ‘and stop the secular music.'

‘Over my dead body,' shouted the Prior. ‘Fasting's for Lent. Now's the time to give thanks for the fresh food. You can eat your gruel and vegetables, Brother Michael, but don't expect us all to live as frugally as you do. Good God, Brother, you could do with some red meat inside you. Do you bleed yourself when you bleed the other brothers? You look like a model for Brother Alfred's painting of the dance of death. Now, go away and read the Rule. St Benedict didn't disapprove of meat.'

‘Only for the sick and old,' said Brother Michael meekly.

‘And you fit the bill on both counts. Now get out, and don't come back here again with your miserly comments.'

‘But the music, my Lord Prior. I was told you had a singer here the other night. Brother Benedict, playing a lute and singing about the joys of love.'

‘And very beautifully he sang, too. There's nothing wrong with love, Brother Michael. It's God's greatest gift to man.'

‘But it could be misconstrued.'

‘Evil, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. Brother Benedict is a gift from God, sent to bring us all joy. This Priory has a musical tradition, as you well know, Brother. I intend asking Lord Nicholas over to hear our beloved Benedict sing. Tonight, my Lord? The young suckling pig will be delicious.'

‘I should be delighted, Prior, if the Sheriff doesn't need me. But you mustn't ignore what's staring you in the face. The Commissioners will soon be here. They won't like suckling pigs and won't take kindly to love songs at mealtimes. They'll use it against you. Don't make it easy for them. For a few weeks you would do well to observe the Rule of your founder. The King wants the monasteries closed. Let me make myself quite clear. Thomas Cromwell has been instructed to deal with the matter. Don't give his Commissioners any grounds for criticism. Listen to Brother Michael.'