Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

It was obvious he wanted Jane to leave. He was nervously edging them both out of the apothecary’s room into the main ward, where an old man with the closely shaven head of a monk raised his head as they walked past. His body, under the thin blanket, was skeletally thin, and his hands, lying on top of the blanket, were twisted and clawed like the twigs on a hazel tree in winter. But his eyes were bright and blue and he took in everything. Nicholas recognised him. He was Brother Wilfrid, who’d given him his first reading lessons. He stopped to give him a greeting, then followed Brother Michael and Jane down the long ward and out into the sunshine.

‘Thank you for doing what you could for Mistress Knowles, Brother Michael,’ Nicholas said as they turned to leave. ‘She looks so young, lying in the chapel waiting for burial.’

‘She’s with God, Lord Nicholas, and His holy angels. May she rest in peace.’

* * *

They walked towards the gatehouse, where they’d left their horses. The gate stood open and a carriage swept in and the genial face of the Prior looked out at them from the window. He shouted to the driver to stop, and the horse came to a sudden halt, skidding back on his haunches.

‘Lord Nicholas, welcome home. And Mistress Warrener, when are you coming to sing to us again?’

Jane bobbed a curtsy. ‘I am at your bidding, my Lord Prior.’

‘Good, good, that’s what I like to hear. I’ll arrange something soon. I’ve got visitors coming, Lord Nicholas. They’re on their way from Lewes. Coming to see how we run our Priory. Well, well, we’ll give them a good run for their money. They’ll soon get fed up getting out of bed for Matins. But we’ll feed them well. They’ll not say they weren’t welcome here. You’ll come and dine with me tonight, my Lord? It’s not good to be up in that great house all on your own. Besides, I want to hear what the King said to you.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’

‘Good, good. By the way, what brings you here? Did you want anything in particular?’

‘I wanted to arrange a time to speak to you, but I shall see you tonight. We’ve also seen all we wanted.’

‘And what was that?’

‘The body of Bess Knowles. A sad case.’

‘A tragedy. I’m only sorry we couldn’t help her. Well, I must be off. Tonight, about six.’

He rapped on the carriage roof, and it rumbled off. ‘He’s incorrigible,’ said Nicholas. ‘Inspectors from the King coming to report on his Priory and he doesn’t give a damn.’

‘They’ll enjoy every minute of it,’ said Jane. ‘But now I must go and see Agnes Myles.’

‘That old crone?’

‘She might be getting on a bit, but she’s the unofficial apothecary in these parts. Not so long ago, she delivered all the babies and laid out the dead; now she lives alone and makes her own herbal medicines. I want to ask her about the other sort of herbs, the bad ones, the dangerous ones.’

‘A good idea, but it’s not going to help us much in Bess Knowles’s case. We’ve just sampled the medicine she was prescribed and we’re both still standing.’

‘She might know more than the monks when it comes to pregnant women. There might be some herbs that should never be prescribed in pregnancy.’

‘That’s possible. Well, you get off to your old witch, and I’ll get over to Mortimer’s place. Fitzroy’s put one of his stewards in and I want to see if everything is in order.’

‘What will happen if Mortimer is found guilty and executed?’

‘The house will go to the King and he can dispose of it as he pleases. That’s one of the penalties for treason; the whole family suffers.’

* * *

Two lay Brothers led out their horses and he watched as Jane mounted Melissa and rode up the street towards Agnes Myles’s cottage. He felt uneasy about her. She already knew too much and if she continued to ask questions, she could be in real danger. But he couldn’t keep her under lock and key; Jane had a mind of her own. Forcing himself to stop worrying about her, he jumped up on Merlin’s solid back and turned his head towards Mortimer Lodge.

Jane had known Agnes Myles all her life. Agnes had brought her into the world, and helped her mother into the next. She knew how to cure most illnesses, how to alleviate stiff joints, prescribe soothing syrups for every type of cough. It was rumoured that she even knew how to cure the plague. Jane regarded her as a wise friend who possessed healing gifts; her enemies said she was a witch.

Jane tied Melissa to the gatepost of Agnes’s cottage, which was at the end of a lane just off the main Marchester road. Most of the villagers lived in timber-framed houses with walls made of wattle and daub. The poor cottagers lived in houses made mostly of mud reinforced with wood and dung. Very few people could afford to live in a stone house. Agnes was one of these. She’d lived in Thyme Cottage as long as Jane could remember, and she knew very little about her past. Rumour had it that she’d been born the wrong side of the blanket; maybe she was a child of one of the clergy – the Dean of Marchester had been suggested – or one of the local gentry. Her mother had lived in Thyme Cottage and had never appeared short of money to buy bread and chickens and a clutch of geese, which the young Agnes had steered across the road and out on to the common land where they rooted around with the villagers’ pigs.

Agnes was now in her sixties, a small, brisk figure collecting eggs at the top of the garden. Jane walked along the stone path between the raised beds of lavender and hyssop and the sweet-smelling thyme bushes. The bed of marigolds glowed like a rich coverlet and all around the bees were joyfully collecting nectar, and the butterflies hovered like bits of brightly coloured mosaic. Ahead of her, she could see the small, white-capped head of Agnes bobbing over the herb bushes. At the end of the path, she watched as Agnes fussed over the hens, stroking one, looking closely at another who was coming to the end of her life. She was wearing a simple woollen dress with a white apron tied round her waist, and the wisps of hair which had escaped from the neat cap which framed her healthy, pink face, were white. She straightened up when she noticed Jane and smoothed down her apron.

‘What brings you here, Jane? Not that father of yours again, I hope? He’s had enough cough syrup to last him a lifetime. Take him some of these eggs – the hens are laying well – and there’s nothing better than an egg to build up an ailing man.’

Her voice was soft and melodious with only a faint trace of the local accent. There was something different about her that set her apart from the other villagers – an air of refinement and contented self-sufficiency. Jane followed her into the cottage and once again marvelled at the cosiness and cleanliness of the living room, where brass and pewter pots and pans gleamed on the shelves, a fire crackled in the fireplace and a pot hung on a chain over it, bubbling and steaming and filling the room with a wonderful smell of boiled rabbit and onions.

‘You’ll take some refreshment?’ she said to Jane, putting down the basket of eggs on the wooden dresser. ‘There’s a blackcurrant cordial, some syrup made from rose hips, or water from my well?’

She put a wooden scoop into the pot standing on the floor by the fire, and raised it to her mouth, drinking the water with a sigh of pleasure. Then she put the scoop back into the pot, filled it and offered it to Jane, who drank it gratefully.

‘Now what is it this time?’ she said watching Jane closely with her bright, twinkling blue eyes. ‘A wash for your hair? No, you don’t need it. A love potion? Surely not. You’d have no need of that once you’d set your heart on someone. There, there, have I touched a raw spot? There’s no need to blush; it’s time you thought about marriage and raising a family. But take your time and don’t rush into anything. Make the wrong choice, and you’ve a lifetime of pain ahead of you. But take no notice of me; I’m only an old woman. You’ll choose well, I know. God’s given you a good brain and you know how to use it.’