Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘Hide them? What on earth for?’

‘So that they won’t be listed on the inventory and the King won’t know what we’ve got.’

‘I’ve told you, Father, the King’s not a common thief. Why should he take them?’

‘Because these things are valuable,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’s short of money. The fleet, his pride and joy, is going to consume every penny in the Exchequer. Cromwell’s already saying that with the sale of the monastic church furniture he can pay off the national debt.’

Father Hubert whimpered plaintively and picked up the chalice. ‘Not this, oh not this. Not to fit out a fleet of war ships. It’ll be sacrilege. Let me hide it, Prior.’

‘Oh, put it back in that cupboard and let’s hear no more of this. No one’s going to sell something as precious as that chalice. The King can have the altar frontals; my cope, too, if necessary. That’ll make him a fine cloak. Should keep him quiet for a bit.’

Leaving Father Hubert to lock away the church ornaments, the Prior and Nicholas walked back through the church and out into the cloister, where several monks were busily copying out manuscripts in their beautiful, elaborate handwriting.

‘Now then, my Lord, what can I do for you? I’ve heard all sorts of rumours about the King coming to stay up in your house. I suppose he’s bringing half the Court with him and there’ll be feasting and all sorts of goings-on.’

‘Not if I can help it. Already I’m beginning to think that I’ll have to sell the high field to pay for all this. I suppose old Warrener’ll be creeping up to me and offering to buy it off me for some knock-down price. The King’s staying two to three nights at the most, and I should be grateful, Prior, if you could help me out.’

‘Well, out with it. What do you want?’

‘Can you sleep some of the guests?’

‘No problem. Send them down here and we can stick them up in the attic of my house. The floor’ll take a hundred or so packed together. The nights are warm now and I’ll get fresh straw down on the floor. Do you need help in your kitchen?’

‘I could do with help in every department.’

‘Then I’ll send down my lay brothers. You can have Brother Cyril for a couple of days. I can manage on some cold cuts.’

‘You’re welcome to join us, Prior. You could then have a chance to talk to the King.’

‘Good idea. I’ll put him straight about what we do here. Have you got a good stock of wine and ale?’

‘I’ve sent Geoffrey off to buy some…’

‘Oh, he’s got no idea about buying wine. Those Marchester merchants will rip you off something cruel. Help yourself to mine. I can always slip over to France and re-stock later in the summer. I could, of course, send Benedict back to Rivières to cadge some more wine from his abbot, but he might not let him come back. I’m only too pleased to help. After all, it was your ancestors who built our church and sent for the monks to come and start our community. You yourself have provided the money to have our ceiling painted and build the lovely chantry. It’s the least I can do. Just leave things to me. Send Lowe along and we’ll concoct some menus. I’ve got a barrel of lambs’ tongues just arrived. Marvellous with a good pastry top and a rich gravy. My cook can rustle up some concoctions for puddings. Pity it’s too early for grapes, but the strawberries! My Lord, you should take a look at the strawberries in my garden. I’ll get the Brothers to cover the beds with straw and you take your pick.’

‘Prior, I’m indebted to you.’

‘No more than we’re indebted to you and your family. I can also send Brother Benedict up to entertain the King with that lass of yours. By the way, they’re both here at the moment, in my solarium rehearsing. I’ve got guests coming, you know, before yours. Great heavens, this is going to require some organisation. No lambs’ tongues for my guests, though; they’re only government officials. Roast lamb, that’ll do for them. A good fat carp from our ponds. No strawberries, of course. Some custards; Cyril’s good at custards.’

Deeply grateful that his catering arrangements were in such capable hands, Nicholas walked across to the gatehouse. The Prior called him back.

‘Don’t go yet,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to hear Mistress Jane and my Benedict sing? But before that, there’s one act of Christian charity I want you to do before you relax and enjoy yourself. One of my old monks is drawing nearer to God and he’s asked to see you. He’s Brother Wilfrid, and I think you know him. He speaks often about you and a brief visit would make him very happy.’

Nicholas only half heard him. His mind was racing. Jane, here, with Benedict! It seemed ages since he’d seen her. Had she deserted him for the charms of a romantic-looking young monk?

‘Of course I’ll see him,’ he managed to say.

‘Good, good. Then come and join us afterwards. I’ll get Cyril to send over some bread and cheese. You must be famished after all your gallivanting around the country on that horse of yours.’

* * *

Brother Wilfrid’s bed was at the far end of the ward, near the apothecary’s room. Nicholas walked up to him, nodding at the monk who was sitting at the foot of the bed, keeping vigil with him. Brother Wilfrid was lying quite still with his eyes closed. It was obvious he hadn’t much longer to live. His body had shrunk down to the size of a child, and his skin was paper thin with no flesh underneath. When Nicholas bent down to hear if his heart was still beating, there was the merest flutter and his breathing was just a faint sigh. He picked up one of the gnarled old hands which had written so many words and beaten out the rhythm of Latin words on his head when he was a boy resenting being in the monastery schoolroom rather than outside in the fresh air.

The attendant monk tactfully withdrew and Nicholas looked down with affection at the shrunken face of the old monk. He remembered how they’d laughed together over the antics of the classical gods which they’d read in the Latin texts, and how, once, the Prior had reprimanded Wilfrid for corrupting him, Nicholas, with stories of Jove’s amorous pursuits. He’ll not laugh any more, Nicholas thought. Only when he arrived in Heaven and then he could entertain St Peter and the angels.

Suddenly, Wilfrid’s eyelids fluttered open and he stared at Nicholas. ‘I’m not gone yet,’ he whispered. ‘It’s good to see you Nicholas, my boy. You look fine. You always were a robust child, though you didn’t like Latin, did you?’

‘I took to it, though, when I was older, and we read all those stories together.’

The old eyes twinkled with appreciation. ‘What stories they were! All nonsense, but harmless. I’ve grieved for you, Nicholas, when your wife died and the babe. You’ve had your share of sorrow.’

‘It still seems only yesterday.’

‘Don’t go on grieving for ever, though. They’re both with God and they’ll want you to start living again. There’s many a lass who’d have you…’

His voice tailed off and he screwed up his eyes as if he was trying to remember something. ‘There’s something I must tell you, but I can’t recall it. Something recent. That’s the trouble. I can remember our Latin lessons, but can’t remember what happened yesterday. It’s something that puzzled me at the time. Something not quite right.’

His eyes filled with tears of frustration and Nicholas squeezed his hand. ‘Hush, don’t strain yourself. It’ll come back to you soon. Now try to sleep. I’ll come and see you again.’

‘You’ll be here when I pass on, Nicholas?’

‘I’ll be here.’

‘Thank you. We’ll say the last prayers together, shall we? In Latin, of course.’