Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘It’s nothing, really, my Lord, but I thought I ought to warn you. The King was beaten in the archery competition by the Earl of Surrey. He’s in a very bad humour. Then, on the way home, his horse stumbled and he fell off in front of everybody. It wasn’t a bad fall, just a blow on his shoulder, but it’s put him in a right foul mood. Do you still want the horses stabled for the night?’

‘By the sound of it, I’ll not be long with the King. Give the horses a feed and I’ll be with you soon. We’ll put up at Merrow.’

‘I’ll see to it, my Lord. And … good luck.’

Feeling like a naughty schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study, and resenting every minute of it, Nicholas followed the servant into the King’s presence. Why, he thought, hadn’t he the courage to tell coachman John to bring round the coach immediately and drive home as fast as possible? Anything was better than this humiliating treatment for something he hadn’t done.

Henry was still in his riding clothes. A servant was doing his best to tug off his long, leather riding boots slippery with mud. The King had unbuttoned his doublet and was roundly cursing everyone who tried to make him comfortable. He glared at Nicholas with his small, piggy eyes, and continued berating the unfortunate servant, who was trying to get his undamaged arm out of the doublet.

‘God’s teeth, man, take care. My shoulder’s as sore as hell. Do you want to kill me? Aaa…’

The man had removed one arm and was now eyeing the other apprehensively.

‘Oh get out of here, you lumbering fool,’ he shouted. ‘Come here, Peverell, make yourself useful for once and get me out of this coat.’

The servant fled, and Nicholas approached the King. Gently he began to ease the coat over the King’s shoulder.

‘A nasty bruise you’ve got there, your Majesty.’

‘That brute of a horse was all over the place. Take care, Peverell, it hurts.’

Then Nicholas had a flash of inspiration. ‘Allow me,’ he said. He took out his knife, which he always carried on a belt round his waist, and with one slash, cut away the material of the sleeve. The arm appeared as neatly as a sausage from its skin. The King looked at the two halves in astonishment, then roared with laughed. ‘So, you’ve cut the Gordian knot, Peverell. You’re a right Alexander the Great. Mind you, you’ll have to buy me a new coat.’

‘Only one sleeve, your Grace.’

‘One sleeve! Damn it, you’ve got a cheek. You’ve ruined the whole garment, you fool. You’ll have to replace it for me.’

Nicholas bowed, mentally adding the cost of buying a new doublet to the already huge cost of entertaining the King. The servant eased off the boots, and the King stood up in his stockinged feet.

‘Well, Peverell,’ he said, turning to confront Nicholas. ‘It seems you’ve been a disappointment to me.’

‘Your Grace…’

‘Oh, don’t start making excuses, it’s not your style. I’ve heard that Mortimer died under torture despite my express wish that he should live. A dead traitor who’s kept his mouth shut is no use to me. That fool Digby…’

‘Mortimer was very near the end, your Grace. His heart couldn’t take any more. Four days of torture and starvation had weakened him too much.’

‘Digby should’ve slowed down the last bit.’

‘The last bit dislocated both legs.’

‘Oh spare me the details, Peverell.’

‘And it wasn’t a good idea to bring in Lady Mortimer. She fainted, and Mortimer gave up at that point. He’d begged us not to let his wife see him in that condition. I fear that the memory of those last few minutes will haunt Lady Mortimer for the rest of her life.’

‘Oh don’t be so melodramatic, Peverell. Mortimer was a traitor. Unfortunately for you there are others out there and we don’t know who they are.’

‘I’ll do my utmost to track them down.’

‘You’d better, Peverell. Remember I’m coming to stay with you in ten days’ time. You’ve got that time to catch the devils. Well, what are you waiting for? I’m ravenous and you’ve got a long journey ahead of you. You’re dismissed,’ he shouted as Nicholas still stood there.

‘Your Grace, Lady Mortimer … will you allow her to return to her house? After all, she’s done nothing.’

‘That soft heart of yours will be the death of you, Peverell. What happens to Mortimer’s house and his widow is entirely my business. But don’t fret, man, you know I’m a merciful man. I’ll send a coach to take her home to her family. They live in the other end of your county, I hear. She’ll be reunited with her children, never fear. She might even marry again as she’s still young. Now, don’t mention this matter to me again. It bores me, and I can hardly concern myself with the fate of the wives and families of traitors. Now get away with you, man.’

Nicholas bowed and backed away from the King. Henry Tudor was a hard taskmaster, he thought. No offer of dinner, no accommodation, just a kick up the backside.

‘Oh, and Peverell…’

‘Your Majesty?’

‘Don’t forget my new coat. See what the Marchester haberdashers can come up with. Green, I think, suitable for the country. Velvet, of course, with slashed sleeves. White silk lining. Just right for a summer idyll.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘See that it’s a good one. Oh, one other thing. I’ll be bringing along a handful of my Yeomen of the Guard. See to it that they’re given suitable accommodation. After all, with your county crawling with assassins, I shall need some protection.’

Cursing his luck, Peverell returned to the waiting coach. God damn them all, he thought as he ordered the coachman to drive off, he’d get a good dinner at Merrow if it was the last thing he’d do.

There they were again! Three women, outside the ale-house on the corner of the main street where it joined the main coast road. Usually Jane steered well clear of gossips. But that Friday morning there was an air of intensity about them that made her rein in Melissa and dismount. They were so engrossed in their discussion that they hadn’t seen her ride up, until the ale-keeper’s wife, Biddy Tomkins, turned round and noticed her. Biddy was a large, ungainly woman with a figure sagging from the birth of her seven children, four of whom were up in the churchyard. She wore her usual brown dress with a dirty apron fastened round her drooping belly. Her straggly grey hair was partly concealed under a grey cap, and her rugged face was crisscrossed with enlarged veins, the result of an over-enthusiastic sampling of her husband’s brewing. When she recognised Jane her face broke into a deferential smile, revealing a row of blackened teeth which lurched round her mouth like ancient tombstones up in the graveyard.

‘My, my, it’s Mistress Warrener. To what do we owe the honour of your company?’

‘To bid you good morning.’

‘That’s mighty courteous of you.’

‘And find out what’s new?’

‘Well may you ask,’ said one of the other women, an aged crone, her body almost bent double so that she had to turn her head sideways to look at Jane. Everyone called her Old Emily, and no one knew who her family was and how she’d come to live in Dean Peverell. ‘There’s lots of strange things going on around here. Too many for comfort, I think.’

‘Really? Now what can they be, I wonder.’

‘Well, for a start, my hen has stopped laying. Just once the old girl produced an egg, and then no more for two weeks now. Whilst her up there, now her hens are laying all the time.’

‘Who are you talking about, Emily?’

‘Why her, of course. Old Agnes Myles. That stuck-up old bitch who’s too proud to come and talk to us,’ said Biddy, her face flushing angrily.