Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘Agnes, what’s happened? When? How did it happen?’

Agnes looked up, her face distorted with grief. ‘Go away, Jane, and let me be. The devil came here last night and killed Ambrose. He seized hold of him and hanged him up on a tree. What am I going to do without him?’ And she rocked backwards and forwards, locked in her grief.

Jane put her arms round her, and Agnes didn’t draw away. Then Jane looked down and saw the piece of wood on the floor. She bent down and picked it up.

‘It wasn’t the devil who did this; it was a human being. As far as I know the devil doesn’t write messages. Agnes, you are in terrible danger. This is a warning. You must leave your house immediately. Come home with me. You’ll be safe with my father. He has no time for witch-hunts. Let me get you your cloak.’

Agnes stopped rocking and stared at Jane. ‘Nobody is going to frighten me into leaving my home. I am going to bury Ambrose, and then I shall carry on doing what I’ve always done – make up my herbal remedies. I won’t be terrorised. I’ve done nothing. I know I’m not a regular churchgoer, but I have my own service books and I worship God in my own way. I go to Mass on the blessed feast of Christmas and on the day of Our Lord’s resurrection. For the rest, I can’t abide the ignorant, superstitious gossiping of the other members of the congregation. Does that make me a witch? I don’t think so. I have no knowledge of the black arts, I have no truck with the devil. I lead a simple and, I hope, useful life. Why have I suddenly got so many enemies? Jane, I am going to find out who murdered Ambrose if it’s the last thing I do; and I won’t leave my house. Will you help me bury him?’

Together they dug a deep hole by the rosemary bushes. They lined it with the heads of marigolds and sprigs of sweet marjoram. Then they wrapped Ambrose in an embroidered linen pillow case and lowered him into the grave. With the wind tearing at their skirts and the rain splattering great heavy drops in their faces, they filled in the hole. Then Agnes tied two pieces of wood together and made a cross and set it up at the head of the grave. Together they stood there praying silently.

When they’d finished they went back to the house. Agnes built up the fire and they brushed the raindrops off their clothes.

‘We’ve got to talk,’ said Jane as she took the beaker of hot lemon balm infusion from Agnes. ‘We’ve got to find out who’s started this persecution. Can you remember who’s been to see you over the last few days? Can you remember what they wanted? You must think carefully. Someone wants to get rid of you. All this witch nonsense is just a smokescreen.’

Agnes sat down wearily on the chair by the fire. ‘Not now, Jane. My brain’s not working properly. Leave me now to grieve in peace. Sit with me for just a little while and then get on your way. We can talk later, when I gather my wits together.’

Jane sat with her for a while, then seeing Agnes needed the peace and silence of her own fireside, she left her, telling her to lock her front door and shut all the windows. There was only one person who could persuade Agnes to leave her house. And that was Nicholas. She climbed up on to Melissa’s wet back and rode up to Peverell Manor.

* * *

Nicholas woke up late on Saturday morning. He heard the wind howling down the chimney and heard the rain splattering on the window-pane. Cursing Geoffrey, who’d let him sleep so long, he jumped out of bed and looked up at the storm-tossed sky and a reluctant sun. Realising it was late, he dressed hastily and went downstairs, where the servants were vigorously scrubbing the floors as if the King were coming that day.

Geoffrey appeared with a tankard of ale and a plate of bread and cold meats and stood there stolidly whilst Nicholas berated him for letting him sleep so long.

‘You needed your rest, my Lord. A man can’t go on for ever.’

It was true. He did feel restored. He drank down the ale and wolfed down the food.

‘I needed that, too. Now fetch me my cloak, Geoffrey, and tell the grooms to get Harry ready. It’s a good way to Portsmouth and it’s likely to be a rough ride.’

* * *

Harry, too, was well rested, and raced along the Portsmouth road, passing the carts of farmers bringing their produce into the towns along the way. They were riding into the strong south-westerly wind and the rain had turned the surface of the road into a muddy swamp. Not that Harry cared. He galloped along, splashing mud everywhere, only snorting with disapproval when a particularly violent gust of wind hit him in the face. It took them two and a half hours to cover the twenty miles to Portsmouth and then they took the lower coastal road to the small castle at Southsea, which the Admiral of the Fleet used when he was in Portsmouth. The sea looked grey and angry that morning and very few fishing vessels had ventured out. But he knew that the King’s fleet was anchored out at Spithead and he felt sorry for the men who were forced to remain on board and tend to the vessels.

At the castle, an old, crudely built stone keep, one of the army guards led Harry away to the stables. Then Nicholas was taken to a room on the ground floor where men in armour were clustered round the open fire. They stopped talking when he went in, and politely made a space for him to dry off in front of the fire. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps coming down the stone, newel staircase, and Sir Ralph Paget, Lord Admiral of the Fleet and recently created Earl of Southampton by the King, came into the room. He was a big, military-looking man, tough, vigorous, with a short, stumpy brown beard and hair cut short round his bullet head.

‘You’re welcome, Lord Nicholas. Come upstairs and we can talk in peace. Here, boy,’ he said to one of the servants, ‘take his Lordship’s cloak and see that you dry it off properly. It’s a foul day, both on land and sea. I pray God that those ships out there won’t end up scattered all over the Solent.’

Nicholas followed Southampton upstairs to a small room. There was a bed in one corner and a rug on the floor, which made the room appear more comfortable. A log fire smouldered in the stone fireplace, and a servant came in with a tray of food and drink. Southampton kicked the logs into a blaze and invited Nicholas to stand in front of it and dry himself off. With steam rising from his clothes, Nicholas ate the food gratefully and drank deeply from the jug of ale.

‘I suppose you’re here in connection with the King’s visit,’ said Southampton when Nicholas had finished eating. ‘I’m not at all happy about it myself. We hoped that with Mortimer out of the way that would mean the end of this conspiracy, but it seems that isn’t so. We now have this new threat and I’m damned if I know what to do. It’s all very well to clear the streets and increase the guard but what’s the use if we don’t know the name of the person we’re after and where he’s operating from.’

‘You got on to Mortimer pretty promptly.’

‘Yes, but we had a tip-off.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Fitzroy, of course. Lord Gilbert was approached by Mortimer, who wanted him to join the conspiracy. But Fitzroy would have nothing to do with it. Too much to lose, I suppose. Mortimer was a fool to take Fitzroy into his confidence because Fitzroy went straight to the King and told him everything. Then, as soon as I intercepted the letters to Pole with Mortimer’s signature on them, we could run him in. But as you know, Mortimer told us nothing, and Fitzroy says he doesn’t know who Mortimer’s accomplices are.’

‘And you believe him?’

‘Have to. Can’t arrest every landowner in the county because we don’t trust him. Have you in next, Peverell. After all, you lived next door to Mortimer and you must have discussed the King’s policy with him.’