Iris Collier: Day of Wrath

‘Don’t you dare lecture me about St Benedict,’ shouted the Prior, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Just for one night our guest has put aside his habit to put on clothes more appropriate to the occasion. There’s no harm in that.’

‘Not yet. But evil, my Lord, is insidious. It could quite turn the head of a young monk to sing in the company of a woman and receive the adulation of his superiors. What looks harmless at first sight, could be the beginning of our own damnation.’

‘Oh, be off with you, you sanctimonious old misery. Get back to your bleak dormitory and pray for forgiveness. Remember, Brother Michael, that once you took a vow of obedience.’

Scowling his disapproval, Michael retreated. The spell was broken. Jane said she should go back to her father, and Nicholas said he would escort her to the Prior’s carriage. He thanked the Prior for his hospitality, and went over to Benedict.

‘You sing most beautifully, young man. The King, I’m sure, would love to hear you.’

‘He’s not likely to, my Lord. I haven’t got permission to leave the Priory.’

‘Then maybe you will come and sing to me? I’m sure Prior Thomas would release you for a couple of hours.’

‘That would give me great pleasure,’ said Benedict in his soft voice with its pronounced French accent.

Nicholas shook his hand, and left the hall with Jane. Once outside, she stopped and suddenly became serious.

‘Nicholas. I’ve found out something that might be relevant to your murder investigation. Landstock’s not made an arrest yet, has he?’

Nicholas, who could think of nothing else but the beauty of the music he’d just enjoyed, gave a guilty start.

‘Jane, I’m sorry. We’ve all experienced a glimpse of heaven and now you talk about murder.’

She looked at him impatiently. ‘Of course. You’ve got to get your priorities right, Lord Nicholas. You’ve got a murder investigation on your hands. Don’t say you’ve forgotten all about it?’

‘There’s nothing we can do at the moment, Jane. Don’t be so censorious. It isn’t becoming in a woman. But out with it, what have you found out?’

‘It seems to me, my Lord, that women have a better idea of what’s important and what isn’t. Anyway, I’ve learnt that Giles Yelman has been a frequent visitor to Mortimer’s place. But he wasn’t courting Bess Knowles; or anyone else for that matter.’

‘Then what the hell was my under-steward doing at Roger Mortimer’s house?’

‘That’s for you to find out. I can’t start asking those sorts of questions. It’s not becoming in a woman. I’d be sent packing in no time.’

‘Then I must get over there first thing tomorrow morning. But now let me talk about pleasanter things. You sing divinely, Jane. Perhaps one day you’ll come and sing for me at my house.’

She turned and smiled at him demurely. ‘I’d love to, but my father would never let me come.’

‘Yet he lets you come and sing for the Prior?’

‘He thinks he’s safe.’

‘But surely…’

‘There’s no surely. My father doesn’t like the gentry. Or rather he doesn’t trust them. However, he might just possibly change his mind; but I doubt it.’

‘Then let me talk to him. He can’t keep you locked up like a caged song bird.’

‘He worries about me, that’s all. I’m all he’s got. But now here comes my carriage. It’s very good of the Prior to let me use it. Goodnight, Nicholas.’

And with a sweet smile she jumped up into the carriage, and Nicholas watched the driver urge the horse forward. A young monk fetched Harry from the stable, and feeling suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness, Nicholas climbed into the saddle and rode slowly back to his house.

* * *

Next morning, Nicholas ordered Harry to be brought round to the main door. Harry was in excellent spirits. A slight pressure of Nicholas’s heel and he was off across the fields where the ewes indignantly gathered their lambs together as he romped past them. Then into the wood where Harry’s flying hooves slashed into the succulent bluebells, disturbing a family of woodcock who, uttering shrill cries of annoyance, rose into the air with a frantic whirring of wings. Harry shied skittishly off the path and made for the beech trees, nearly decapitating Nicholas as he bounded under some low branches.

At the far side of the wood, Nicholas reined him in. Already he felt better. The demons which had disturbed his sleep last night had been dispersed by the bright sky and the clear, cold morning air. Ahead of him was the stretch of common land which separated his estate from Sir Roger Mortimer’s, and at the far side was Mortimer Lodge, a solid, low, stone building which crouched at the edge of an artificial lake which Sir Roger’s grandfather had constructed to serve as a moat to separate his property from the common. With difficulty, Nicholas eased Harry down into a walk. For some reason, Harry had taken an instant dislike to the villagers’ pigs, who were rooting around for acorns. With a snort of disdain and an exaggerated toss of his head which sent his mane flying and his bit jangling, he danced over the short turf, narrowly missing the rabbit burrows.

‘Stop it, you fool,’ shouted Nicholas, ‘you’ll have me off. Behave yourself or else I’ll trade you in for a sensible gelding.’

Harry snorted and danced daintily round the edge of the lake towards the main entrance to the house. In the courtyard, Sir Roger was supervising the grooming of his own horse, a splendid bay called Galliard. It was ages since he’d been to Mortimer’s place, Nicholas thought, as he dismounted and handed Harry over to a groom who suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Mortimer was still the same surly devil. Couldn’t be bothered to look up from grooming Galliard’s glossy flanks. Nicholas walked over to him and stood there fuming until Mortimer decided that Galliard’s coat needed no more attention. Then he put down the brush he was using, and stood up.

Mortimer was in his early forties. He had a short muscular body, a dark, lugubrious face which Nicholas had never seen creased in laughter, a shaggy dark beard, and long, straggling black hair. He could never understand why Lady Margot, a lady in her own right, had agreed to leave her father’s estate in East Sussex and come here to look after this gloomy individual. But they’d been married for twelve years and had produced three children, one still a babe in arms.

Sir Roger could ignore Nicholas no longer. His bay was glaring at Harry, who was pawing the ground in eager anticipation of a fight. He handed his horse over to a groom, and looked morosely at Nicholas.

‘So, Henry Tudor’s decided he can do without you for a few days. Now you come to seek out your neighbours. I’m afraid we can’t offer you the sort of hospitality you’ve enjoyed at Court, but you’re welcome to come inside for a jug of ale, or mead if you prefer.’

‘Thank you, ale will do me fine.’

They went into the house, through the hall and into a small room dominated by a large oak desk covered with documents. Tall, narrow windows which seemed designed to let out archers’ arrows rather than let in the sunshine, gave a glimpse of the gardens beyond.

‘So Court life suits you, my Lord,’ said Mortimer as the servant brought in the tankards of ale.

‘I do my duty, Sir Roger, that’s all. Given the choice I’d prefer to live the life of the country gentleman, but the King needs counsellors, and he won’t come to us, so we have to go to him.’

‘A pity he doesn’t choose more wisely.’

‘I’m sorry you think me incompetent.’

‘Nothing personal. I’m sure you’re like all the others who surround the King; courtiers, all of you. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, one eye on your own advancement, and let the country go to the devil.’