Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘Peverell,’ the letter began. The King had written the letter himself; the handwriting was unmistakable, elegant and clear. ‘We want this tiresome disturbance in your part of the country obliterated; not one spark left to light another conflagration. To achieve this, we must get Mortimer to speak. We want you to persuade him to reveal the names of his fellow conspirators. We order you to proceed to our Tower in London and try to reason with him. So far, under the gentler tortures he has said nothing. When we proceed to the worst, he might weaken. His wife is with him in the Tower. If you think it necessary, take her with you when you go to see him. Her presence might just achieve the desired effect. Nothing can save him from eventual execution, but should he co-operate with us, we could release him from the full rigours of a traitor’s death. When you’ve extracted the vital information, come to see us at Hampton Court on the way home. We are looking forward to a period of relaxation in the country when we come to visit your house in the very near future.

Yours Henry T.’

Nicholas read the letter again, then carefully placed it on the glowing log in the fireplace and watched it turn to ashes. Then he turned to Geoffrey Lowe.

‘An extra cloak, Geoffrey.’

‘It’s done, my Lord.’

‘Are the horses rested?’ he asked the coachman, who was finishing off a plateful of bread, cheese and cold beef.

‘Well enough,’ he said, brushing the crumbs off his jacket. ‘I picked up fresh horses at Duncton on the way down, they should get us to Merrow.’

‘Then let’s go. And Geoffrey…’

‘My Lord?’

‘I might be away longer than usual. See to it that this place is ready for guests by the time I come back. I’ll want to see the stock cupboards full, the cellars replenished and the staff briefed.’

‘Is it to Hampton Court you’re going, my lord?’

‘Not this time, Geoffrey. Where I’m going, there’s no laughter, no dancing, no music. I’m going to hell, but God willing I won’t be staying there long. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Oh, and tell Mistress Jane to guard herself. Oh, one other thing…’

‘My Lord?’

‘Tell her I’ll miss her.’

* * *

The maze of fetid streets and lanes, usually teeming with people, were strangely quiet that stiflingly hot day, as the coach made its way through the city and up Tower Hill. London was in the grip of the sweating sickness, the Court had moved to Hampton Court and most people either stayed indoors or took to the river. As the mighty postern gate swung open to receive them, Nicholas shuddered. When he heard it clang shut behind him he thought of those words of Dante’s written over the entrance to hell – Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Philip Digby, an elderly, military figure with thinning hair and grizzled beard, greeted him and personally conducted him to his room. At least, Nicholas thought, he hadn’t had to arrive by the river entrance, the traitor’s gate. That was reserved for the Mortimers of this world.

His room was at the top of one of the smaller towers in the inner courtyard. It was a small room with immensely thick stone walls, small windows, with a narrow bed, a table with an ewer on it, and a chair. But at least there was a rug on the floor and the coverlet on the bed was clean.

‘I trust you have everything you need here,’ said Digby courteously. ‘I’ll send someone to light the fire for you. These rooms are always cold.’

Nicholas nodded. Yes, he thought, the sun’s warmth would never penetrate these walls.

‘Thomas Cromwell’s just one floor below you, Lord Nicholas. His room’s next to the council chamber, which we reserve for the use of the King’s ministers. One of the guards will escort you to him when you’re ready. I hope you’ll come and dine with me later on when this grim business is over?’

‘Thank you, Sir Philip, I should be delighted, but I doubt that I shall have much appetite.’

Digby left him, and he washed his face and hands, laid his two cloaks on the bed, and went out to meet Thomas Cromwell.

* * *

Cromwell was in his usual place, behind a desk. He looked up as Nicholas went in and his coarse, putty-coloured face with its bulbous nose, creased into a smile. He stood up, rubbing his hands together nervously as he always did. Dressed in a grey robe with a fur trimming at its neck, the front fastened with a silver brooch bearing the Tudor rose, he seemed to blend in perfectly with the sombre grey walls of the Tower.

‘Come in, come in, Lord Nicholas,’ he said with his usual bonhomie. ‘It’s good to see you again. I hope you had a good journey and everything here is to your satisfaction.’

‘Apart from the inconvenience of being dragged up here when I could be at home working on my estate, yes.’

‘Duty calls, my Lord. The King needs you at this moment,’ said Cromwell, going over to kick up the logs on the fire, and lifting the back of his robe, he took up his position with his back to the flames. ‘Now let’s not beat about the bush…’

‘I appreciate that, Master Cromwell. The sooner I am given my instructions, the sooner I can leave this place.’

‘Quite. You know, of course, we have a prisoner here – a neighbour of yours, I understand – who’s guilty of the heinous crime of treason.’

‘So, is it coming to this, that we now pass sentence on people without trial?’

‘Of course he’ll stand trial when the time comes, but the evidence against Sir Roger Mortimer is overwhelming. His signature is on several letters to Reginald Pole. Southampton, as you know, has been intercepting this correspondence for some time now, and the evidence has been piling up against Mortimer. But before he stands trial, it’s imperative we extract information from him. As we said before, you nourish a nest of hornets in your part of the world. We’ve got the main ringleader, now we have to flush out the others.’

‘Maybe there are no others. Maybe the conspiracy ends with Mortimer and Catchpole.’

‘Don’t live in a fool’s paradise, my Lord. The conspiracy is not over. Mortimer was one of the instigators; Catchpole’s a fool. He knows nothing, but he’s a babbler and he refuses to recognise the King’s lawful claim to be head of our Church. His name has never been found in any of the Pole correspondence. He’ll end up at Tyburn. But Mortimer’s a different kettle of fish. He was plotting with Pole to remove the King from the throne, and there are others who worked with him. And they are still out there. Just listen to this. I received it from Southampton two days ago. I’ll only read the bit which concerns you.

‘It’s been brought to my attention that Lord Nicholas Peverell is soon going to entertain a great concourse of people from Court. Some say that the King himself is coming. Is this true? If it is, then I am deeply worried that his life could be in danger. My men have intercepted a letter to Pole telling him, about these events, and the writer asks for instructions. He signs himself ULTOR.’

Cromwell looked up. ‘How’s your Latin, my Lord?’

‘Good enough to know that ultor means avenger, punisher. Who the hell is this fellow?’

‘That’s for you to find out.’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘Mortimer will know. Get him to tell you.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘Then you will have to face up to the prospect of having the King coming to stay with you and there’s someone out there planning to assassinate him.’

‘We don’t know that for sure.’

‘I think there’s no doubt that that’s what this Ultor’s instructions will be. And may I remind you, my Lord, it’s your fault we’re in this mess.’