Iris Collier: Day of Wrath

Nicholas walked over to the body. ‘Rest in peace, Matthew Hayward,’ he said, looking down into the waxen face. ‘I promise you that I’ll not rest until I catch whoever did this to you. Goodnight, Matthew, the best of stewards.’

Next morning, Nicholas woke up late with the sun streaming in through the window, caressing his face. He opened his eyes and slowly his brain clicked into life. Then he remembered. Matthew lying in the chapel, his demoralised household waiting for instructions, and Landstock on his way from Marchester. And then there was also that urgent news he had to tell Prior Thomas.

He jumped out of bed and reached for his breeches. It was a relief to be back in the country. At Court he had to look his best in velvet doublet, slashed breeches and fine silk hose, but now it was leather breeches and doublet, woollen hose and a warm cloak for outdoors. He pulled on his long boots, still covered in the dust of the execrable Sussex roads and ran his fingers through his short beard, trying to smooth out the tangles in his unruly fair hair. It was always in the mornings that he most missed Mary. She used to lie back on the pillows and watch him dress. Sometimes she would call him over and gently tied the laces on his doublet for him. She enjoyed looking at him, she said, as much as he enjoyed looking at her.

She liked him clean, too, he thought with a guilty start. She always ordered the servants to bring up pails of hot water, saw that the tub was filled and checked the temperature. Then she used to sprinkle herbs in it too, herbs fresh from the garden which they had created together. Their sweet, pungent scent used to fill the house. Impatiently he reined in his imagination. Self-pity was an indulgence and led nowhere. Mary was safe with God. Soon, the chantry chapel he was building in the Priory for both of them would be complete. One day they would lie together under the chapel in the church of which he was patron, in sight of the high altar. He wanted the chapel to be carved with angels – angels playing harps and viols, angels singing and angels blowing trumpets and pipes. The best craftsmen in the county were working on it.

But now, he thought, as he splashed cold water on his face, what was going to happen to the Priory? His interview with Thomas Cromwell, that dour, enigmatic servant of the King, hadn’t been reassuring. The King wanted the monastic revenues, that was for sure. His Priory was small in comparison with the great monasteries of Glastonbury and Malmesbury, but, all the same, the plate, the lead on the roof, the lands which the Priory owned were not inconsiderable. Prior Thomas had to be warned. They were friends, and Nicholas knew that the Prior would expect him to save them, but Nicholas knew he could not oppose the King. No one could. Not now, with the print scarcely dry on the new Treason Act.

He went down into the great hall, and ate the bread and honey which had been laid out for him. The honey was of the best quality and tasted of clover. The ale was freshly drawn. Life was going on; Giles was taking over from Matthew.

He went to find his servants, and found Giles in the kitchen, extracting goose grease from a jar. He looked nervously at Nicholas as if expecting a rebuke. Nicholas checked his irritation. Giles was only trying to do his best.

‘Landstock should be here any minute now, Giles. Have the servants assembled in the hall. Landstock can use my study for the interviews. Oh yes, one thing did occur to me this morning. When I got back last night, the main gate was locked. Now if the thieves murdered Matthew, and then dragged his body over to the tower, how the devil did they get into the courtyard in the first place? No, don’t say it…’ he went on, as Giles’s face flushed with embarrassment. ‘You didn’t lock the main gate yesterday, did you? You forgot. Then Matthew was found, and you locked it. That’s it, isn’t it? The thieves just sauntered in and left at their leisure.’

‘My Lord, we fully intended to, but what with Matthew disappearing, and all the commotion over Joshua hearing things up in the warren, we forgot all about locking the gate.’

‘And how many times did you forget to lock it whilst I was away?’

‘We always locked it before we went to bed.’

‘Too late, too late. What a pack of incompetent oafs I am cursed with for servants! That gate must be locked at all times. And someone must be there to act as gatekeeper. We live in unsettled times and there are desperate men around. But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Get someone to run down to the Prior and tell him I shall be coming to see him shortly, just as soon as Landstock gets on with his business.’

The servants were beginning to drift into the hall. They looked dejected, mumbled their morning greetings, and dropped their eyes when he spoke to them. Nicholas hated to see them like this. He liked a happy household. Peverell Hall had always been a place where he could relax, study the new books which he’d bought from bookshops in London and add to his growing library. But now it seemed that Matthew’s murder had contaminated the whole place, making everyone suspect his neighbour.

He didn’t for one minute think that Matthew’s murderer was a member of his own household. He knew them all. Some, like Geoffrey Lowe, had worked for his father, and their loyalty was unquestionable. Geoffrey’s responsibilities were enormous – he supervised everything round the estate from the growing of corn and barley to seeing that the grazing was sufficient for the cattle and the sheep. He organised the shearing of the wool and sold it at the best prices; he saw that the warren was always well stocked with plump rabbits and game, and that the fishponds were full of carp. He handled money and paid the workers. Yet he had never given Nicholas cause to mistrust him.

He didn’t know the other servants as well as he knew Geoffrey and Matthew, of course. One of them might have harboured a grudge against Matthew. Maybe he’d been wrongly accused, or punished too severely. But that didn’t usually turn a man into a murderer. However, a motive would no doubt emerge and it was Landstock’s business to interview everyone and check on their alibis. He, Peverell, would take over when the wretches were brought before him at Quarter Sessions.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Sheriff Landstock came in, followed by Geoffrey Lowe. Nicholas walked over to greet him. He liked Landstock, although they didn’t always agree. But they’d worked well together in the past, and no doubt would continue to do so now. He’d not rest until he’d tracked down Matthew’s killer.

Landstock looked his usual pugnacious self. He was a short, stocky man, bristling with indignation and radiating energy. His weather-beaten face, bushy eyebrows, short, thrusting ginger beard and hair that stuck straight up like a stiff brush gave him a foxy look which most people found intimidating. He had an extensive knowledge of the local criminal fraternity, who were terrified of him, and he had a keen nose for smelling out the liars and cheats.

‘This is bad news, my Lord,’ Landstock said, giving Nicholas’s hand a vigorous shaking.

‘It is indeed. I’ve lost a good friend and a trustworthy steward.’

‘Where’ve you put him?’

‘In the chapel.’

‘A pity your servants moved him. You know I always like to see where the body was found. Remember that next time you find a corpse on your premises,’ he said, poking Nicholas in the ribs, and giving a loud bray of laughter which he checked when Nicholas glared at him. ‘Oh well, let’s go and see him, then. The Coroner’s on his way. Your bailiff tells me that the cause of death is obvious. Is that so?’

‘Just take a look at the marks on his neck.’