Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘Where are the rest of the brethren?’ said Nicholas, forcing himself not to look at the two in the alcove, where Brother Benedict was taking off his monastic habit to reveal an elegant doublet and hose underneath.

‘They’ll have said Compline, and will soon be in their beds,’ he said. ‘And that’s where we should be shortly.’

‘Yet it appears that the evening’s just started,’ said Nicholas evenly.

‘For you, yes; but not for me. I’d like to hear that young lass sing, but Brother Benedict’s got no business to sing here. His place is in the choir with the others, not entertaining the Prior as if he were at the royal court.’

‘But I thought the Abbot of Rivières sent him here to sing to the Prior, Father?’

Hubert snorted, his small, pinched face flushing with anger.

‘Not to entertain the Prior, my Lord, but to sing to the glory of God in the right place and at the right time. That’s what a monk’s for. It seems to me that sometimes my Lord Prior forgets this simple fact.’

He made no attempt to lower his voice and Prior Thomas, ensconced in the best chair by the fire, glanced across at him.

‘Come, come, Father Hubert, you’re worse than those kill-joy reformers. Music, as I’m sure Lord Nicholas would agree with me, is sent by God to give us a foretaste of heavenly delights. When you get to heaven, Father, you will be surrounded by choirs playing harps and singing the divine praises. You may as well start getting used to the idea here and now.’

‘I shall sing the divine praises, my Lord Prior, in the church with the others. I have nothing against music – as you say it is one of God’s gifts to us – but to listen to a young monk singing about earthly love accompanied by a girl strumming a lute is not what the Creator intended us to do.’

‘Yet we can worship God in the beauty of his creation and the exquisite music of the Flemish composers. Be off to your choir stall, if you must, Father, and do not judge others lest they judge you.’

Father Hubert stood up, bowed his head in submission, nodded to Nicholas, and left the great hall of the Prior’s house.

There were just the seven of them: the Prior, Brother Jeremy, Brother Oswald, Brother Cyril, himself and the two performers. An exclusive gathering, he thought. No sign of Brother Michael; he was probably waiting for Father Hubert to join the rest of them in church. He stood up and walked across to join the others round the fire, forcing himself not to look towards the alcove where the two musicians were getting ready.

At last the instruments were turned to Jane’s satisfaction, and they walked across to join the company. She was carrying a reed instrument which Nicholas remembered he’d recently seen at Court. Benedict walked behind her, carrying a lute. They were a well-matched pair; well matched in beauty as well as being well matched musically, he felt sure. Jane was looking enchanting in a full-skirted cream dress shot through with gold thread, which glowed in the soft light of the candles which Cyril had placed round that corner of the room. Her copper hair was drawn back gently from her face and held in position by a garland of spring flowers, ox-eye daisies, cowslips and forget-me-nots. The bodice of the dress was tight fitting and cut squarely across her young breasts, revealing a pink satin skin which gleamed in the soft light. She wore no jewellery, and needed none, Nicholas thought.

Benedict had put aside his monk’s habit and was now dressed in a richly embroidered doublet and a dark coloured hose which showed off his well-honed figure to perfection. He wore soft leather shoes, and, had it not been for his monk’s tonsure, almost hidden by his thick curly dark hair, he could have passed as one of the King’s courtiers. Nicholas glanced at the Prior and saw that he was enthralled. His heart sank. One thing was for sure; they would have to hide Brother Benedict when Cromwell’s Commissioners made their inspection. He was sure the Prior led a chaste life – there had been no rumours to the contrary – but Benedict would tempt the Archangel Gabriel himself.

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…’