Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

He watched whilst she helped her father settle himself down on the uncomfortable bench, and then she leaned across and straightened out his leather jerkin, which had seen better days. It was an affectionate gesture which made Nicholas’s heart miss a beat. She really loved that cantankerous old devil, he thought.

The choir stopped singing, and Alfred Hobbes, in a surprisingly powerful voice for such a small man, recited the prayers for the dead. At the back of the church people shuffled their feet in the loose straw, coughed and pushed forward for a better view. Then the monks began to chant the Dies Irae, the great sequence for the soul of the departed facing God’s judgement. At the words, Dies Irae, Day of Wrath, something clicked in Nicholas’s brain. Jane had talked about a conspiracy and given it that name. At the words, ‘Oh what trembling there shall be when the world its Judge shall see, coming in dread Majesty,’ he turned to look at her, but she was listening to the music and her face was set in sadness. Guy Warrener gave him a disapproving look, so he quickly turned back to face the altar and tried to concentrate. But he could not pay attention. The word ‘conspiracy’ lingered in his mind. Dear God, he prayed, what sort of a conspiracy was she hinting at? Let it not be a rebellion. Not here in peaceful Sussex. Rebellions only took place in the wild and lawless north of England. The people of Sussex had always been easy-going, traditional, content with the status quo as long as there was a plentiful supply of bread and ale.

The bier was censed on both sides, each time beginning from the head and proceeding to the feet in the age-old tradition established by the Salisbury rite; Matthew was not to go on his journey without a proper send-off. The Mass proceeded along its well-ordered path, and Nicholas found his thoughts wandering. Through the open doors which linked the parish church to the monks’ choir, he could see his chantry chapel, which he had had built for himself and his wife. It wasn’t quite finished. The stonemasons still had some finishing touches to do and the figures of the saints which he’d ordered to be placed in their niches round the top part of the chapel weren’t yet in place. But the craftsmen had done a beautiful job, he had to admit. The tiny chapel stood there like a beautifully sculptured casket; a church within a church. It took up one bay of the arcade, near the monks’ high altar, and with its rich carvings of cherubs acting as shield-bearers, and angels singing praises to God, it would be a fitting memorial to his wife and his family. When Mary’s body was removed from the churchyard and placed in the vault underneath the chantry chapel, he would order the monks to sing masses there daily for her. And when the time came and he was laid to rest beside her, they would sing masses for him as well. But was this all a dream? If the monks were driven out, what would happen to their building? Would it be torn down by the likes of Guy Warrener so that he could use the stones to build an even bigger and better house for himself? And he’d be one of many – vultures, waiting for the opportunity and getting ready for the kill. No, it mustn’t happen, he thought, as the choir reached the ‘Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna’, and the congregation began to get restless, and those near the back started to leave the church and drift across to the place in the churchyard where the sexton had dug Matthew’s grave.

Out in the brilliant May sunshine, with the air crisp and cool like fine white wine, Nicholas stood with the others whilst Matthew was lowered into the grave, and the final prayers were said.

The Prior had offered the use of his solarium for the mourners to partake of some refreshment before they made their way home. The solarium was a fine, south-facing room, attached to the Prior’s house, and built by him to house his important visitors. When the service was finished, Nicholas made his way over to the Prior’s house, accompanied by Sheriff Landstock.

‘A good send-off,’ said Landstock. ‘Matthew would have approved.’

‘A pity there wasn’t time to consult him. He wasn’t prepared for an early death; and he didn’t deserve one. But, down to business, Giles has disappeared,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve got a search party looking for him.’

Landstock stopped in his tracks. ‘Then I’ll search the county. When a man tells lies and then bolts, it’s serious.’

‘You might find him, but he’ll not talk.’

‘I’ll make him talk all right. Just leave that to me, Lord Nicholas. A few nights in my gaol will soon make him change his mind about not talking.’

‘We might be barking up the wrong tree, Landstock. After all, what have we got so far? A man’s murdered. We don’t know why. And my under-steward decided to pay my neighbour a visit. What’s wrong with that?’

‘But he’s run off without leave. And Mistress Jane’s been hinting about a conspiracy. That’s enough for me to take action.’

They’d reached the solarium where the lay Brothers were handing round tankards of beer and platefuls of cakes baked in the Priory’s ovens. Alfred Hobbes, divested of his elegant cope and back in his scruffy cassock, came over to join them.

‘The Prior does us proud,’ said Nicholas conversationally.

‘And so he should. His house is big enough to house an army, whilst I’ve only got a miserable room over the entrance porch.’

‘The Prior needs a big house. After all, he’s expected to offer hospitality to all and sundry.’

‘And don’t I have to look after the souls of all these parishioners? No one bothers to think about building me a house to live in.’

‘Then you’re in the wrong job,’ said Landstock jovially. ‘You should have been a monk; better food, better accommodation, a quieter life.’

‘Not for much longer, though. They’ve got it coming to them.’

‘And about time, too,’ said a deep voice behind them. Nicholas groaned. It was Guy Warrener. ‘Parasites the lot of them,’ he said, as he took a gulp of the beer which the lay brother had just given him. ‘Kick them out and let them earn their keep. But I can’t see Brother Oswald behind a plough or building barns.’

‘Come, come, Warrener,’ said Nicholas impatiently. ‘We’ve been down that track over and over again. Don’t keep talking about when the monks leave. There’s legislation to be passed. It might not get through.’

‘Of course it will,’ said Warrener belligerently. ‘What Harry Tudor wants, he gets. And you’ll see to it that he does get it. So here’s to him,’ he said, raising his tankard. ‘Long live the King; and the devil take his enemies.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Landstock taking a gulp of beer. ‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ he said to Prior Thomas, who’d sauntered over to join them. ‘Mind you, it would be greatly improved if you’d added a few hops. Then you’d get a really excellent brew.’

‘I’ve heard that you serve a fine beer, Sheriff,’ said the Prior. ‘I’d like to try some.’

‘It’s good enough for me and Lord Nicholas. But I’ll send you over a barrel or two, if you like.’

‘And don’t forget me,’ said Hobbes querulously. ‘Why should Prior Thomas get all the perks?’

‘Oh stop moaning, Vicar. You do very well. Look how you help yourself to my vegetables.’

‘It’s my right. The Bishop says so,’ said Hobbes, hopping up and down with annoyance.

‘You made enough fuss about it. You shouldn’t have taken it to the Archdeacon’s Court. It made me look a right fool. You know you can help yourself to as many vegetables as you like. Personally I can’t stand the damn things.’

‘That’s not what Brother Cyril says. He threatened me, Prior, said I was stealing the brothers’ cabbages and I should go to gaol. Called me a common thief. Me, Vicar of the parish church of Dean Peverell, called a thief. Now I’m reduced to grubbing around in your vegetable garden to find a few cabbage leaves that you lot haven’t eaten. It’s not right and it’s not fair. Of course I took it to the Archdeacon.’