Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘Perhaps he came to complain about something; Sir Roger’s cattle straying across to Lord Nicholas’s land, for instance.’

‘Then surely the bailiff would come, not Giles. He’s nothing; just a slimy toad of a man, always peering under stones. Jane, I’m so frightened. What will become of Lady Margot and the children if anything should happen to Sir Roger?’

‘I’ll speak to Lord Nicholas, Bess, when I next see him. He’ll soon sort this out. But now you mustn’t think about Giles Yelman. Just close your eyes and sleep.’

The effort of talking had exhausted Bess and she sank back on her pillow and closed her eyes. Jane watched as Bess’s body relaxed and she sank into a deep sleep. Then she picked up the bowl of soup and the bread and went down to the kitchen.

Mary looked at the uneaten food and shook her head. ‘She can’t live on air, Mistress Warrener. The poor child’s already as thin as a reed.’

‘She’s very weak, Mary, and I’m worried about her. She was always so full of life; it’s dreadful to see her like this.’

‘I can remember you both as small girls playing together out in the garden. You picked peas for me, and shelled them, eating more than you put in the bowl. You helped yourselves to strawberries, too, stuffing them into your mouths until the juice dribbled all down your smocks. You were always the forward one, mind. Bess got all her ideas from you.’

‘I can’t remember Bess having a shortage of ideas. But we did have some good times, didn’t we? We’re two of a pair, and that’s why I’m so sad to see her like this. Bess was six when she came here with Lady Margot as her ward, and we’ve been the best of friends ever since.’

‘Ward, you say?’ said Mary giving the soup a hearty stir. ‘Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Though why a daughter has to cover up for the sins of her father, I don’t know.’

‘Mary, what are you suggesting? Everyone knows Lady Margot adopted Bess when her father disappeared and her mother couldn’t cope on her own.’

‘I’ll say no more, Mistress Warrener. Bess earns her keep. I’m sorry for her sweetheart’s death and I hope she gets better soon.’

Then she banged down the spoon on the table and gave the spit a vigorous turn, sending the fat from the roasting chickens flying on to the flagstones. ‘You’ll not be staying for dinner, I take it?’ she added.

‘Thank you, no. I must get off home. You could take Bess some of that chicken later, when she wakes up. She might be ready to eat by then.’

‘Let’s hope so. She needs feeding up, the poor lass. Good day to you, Mistress Warrener. My regards to that father of yours.’

Jane left Mortimer Lodge, and walked quickly along the road that led to the village. She didn’t like leaving Bess. Something was telling her that things were not right. Of course she would be shocked and grief-stricken by Matthew’s death, but she had always been physically strong. She’d never even seen her so thin and lethargic. She was also worried about the child. Maybe it was the cause of Bess’s weakness. She had to talk to Agnes Myles; there was nothing she didn’t know about babies. She used to be the village midwife for years before she got too old.

As she walked along the road where, on either side, the hedgerows were radiant in their bridal veils of white hawthorn flowers, and ragged robins and celandines made a bright patchwork quilt along the verges, she passed a young monk walking in the opposite direction. She nodded to him and he lowered his eyes. She remembered seeing him around. He was Brother Martin, assistant to Brother Michael, the Prior’s Infirmarer. Good, she thought, maybe he was taking some fortifying medicine to Bess. The monks were experts in healing herbs.

* * *

‘I thought I’d caught the buggers, Lord Nicholas, I really did. Got them last night breaking into the Bishop’s wine stocks. However, it turned out that I’d picked up the wrong lot. It seems that they were nowhere near your place on Monday night when Matthew Hayward was murdered. Not if I believe all the rogues who’ve crawled out of the woodwork to swear that the Bishop’s thieves were with them in the Fox and Hounds on the Portsmouth road. I’ve no reason not to believe them, so I can’t charge anyone for murder. Pity. I’d like to clear this case up good and proper.’

Nicholas turned round and frowned at the Sheriff. They were in his house in Marchester, and outside, in the main square, the stonemasons were just putting the finishing touches to the new market cross, built and paid for out of Bishop Radcliffe’s privy purse. Already it was in use, and the farmers were just packing away their produce at the end of another busy market day.

‘What are you saying, Landstock? You can’t charge people without incontrovertible evidence. This is England, not France. People here have long-established rights.’

‘Only wishful thinking, my Lord. My job is to clean up all the lawless scum in the county. Bang ’em all up, say I. They’re all the same, thieves, murderers. I hate the lot of them.’

‘You still need evidence, Landstock; otherwise I can’t pass them over to the Assizes. However, you know the score; I’m not teaching you to suck eggs. But let’s get down to business. I can’t altogether go along with you that Matthew died defending my property. I’m beginning to think that his death’s part of a much wider plot. Come on, man, you’re in touch with what goes on around here. Have you heard any rumours? Anyone discontented? Any talk of conspiracy?’

‘Conspiracy? Damn me, that’s a dangerous word. No one in his right mind would talk about conspiracy today. Mind you, there are lots of discontented people about – there always are – but not many of them are prepared to do anything about it. Now where’s that servant of mine? I told him to bring in some beer – some of my own brew, made with Lord Gilbert’s hops; much better than that piddling stuff which the monks make.’

He strode over to the door, and wrenched it open. ‘Here, John, where are you, damn your eyes? Lord Nicholas here is dying of thirst.’

A servant came in with two tankards of foaming beer. Then he backed out hastily. Landstock took a gulp of his and beamed at Nicholas.

‘Not at all bad. Goes down like a treat at any time of the day.’ And he wiped his foam-flecked ginger beard with the back of his hand. Nicholas took a gulp of his.

‘It’s good, Landstock. It’s from Gilbert Fitzroy, you say? I didn’t know he grew hops on his estate.’

‘Didn’t you? Well, he’s got a prime site at Arundel. Keeps me stocked up. I did a small favour for him once upon a time, and he’s still damn grateful. I hope he stays that way.’

‘A sensible man, Lord Gilbert Fitzroy. Likes to live quietly. He does what his ancestors have always done, looks after the county and supports the King when called upon to do so. And his stewards don’t get murdered.’

‘He keeps his head down and his nose clean,’ said Landstock, draining his tankard. ‘Mind you, he doesn’t have to go to Court like you do.’

‘Lucky man. I wish I could live peacefully in my manor and grow hops. But the King seems to like me around at the moment. I can’t think why. Lord Gilbert’s a much bigger fish than I am.’

‘He’s probably saving him for later; when he’s finished with you. The King’s after something, that’s for sure. He wants your Priory for starters. Watch out he doesn’t take your house. Look what happened to Wolsey.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Peverell Manor’s not quite up to the splendour of Hampton Court. Now tell me, Landstock, from your experience, what does it mean if someone’s caught out telling lies?’

‘That someone’s hiding something, that what he’s doing. Who’s been lying to you, Lord Nicholas?’