Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

Nicholas gave a start. Of course, the King’s new doubt-let. How could he have forgotten it?

‘Oh yes, now I remember. Well, tell him to come in.’

Anthony left the room, returning minutes later with one of the strangest men Nicholas had ever seen. He was tiny, with a neat, slim body, a sharp, pointed face, and a receding hairline. His skinny legs were encased in woollen stockings, brown with an orange pattern on them of trailing vines. A beautifully fitting jacket made of brown wool of the finest quality, the sleeves slashed to reveal a fine cream shirt underneath. A young man, with a long-suffering expression, staggering under the weight of several bales of cloth, accompanied him. They looked like a couple from elfin land, and Nicholas had a job to stop himself from bursting out laughing.

‘Good morning, my Lord,’ said the little man. ‘Cartwright from Marchester. Tailor and haberdasher. This is my assistant, Christopher. You want me to make a jacket, I understand.’

‘You’re very welcome. Now, put those bales of cloth on the table, and we’ll take a look at them. Stay with us, Geoffrey. We’ll need you as a model.’

‘Me, my Lord? I can’t afford a jacket.’

‘It’s not for you. I owe the King a new doublet and he’s not likely to forget. Now measure up my steward, Master Cartwright, whilst I take a look at the cloth. The King’s about your size round the chest and belly,’ he said, poking Geoffrey in the middle. ‘He’s a bit shorter than me. Now get it right, Master Cartwright. The King’s very particular about his clothes.’

Cartwright was visibly shaken. He clutched hold of the back of a chair and gazed helplessly at Nicholas. ‘The King, did you say?’

‘That’s right. Didn’t you know? Don’t panic, man. This is the chance of a lifetime. The King of England comes to Dean Peverell and you’ve been asked to make him a coat. It’ll get you a royal warrant and your descendants will be the most envied tailors in the whole of Sussex.’

‘My Lord, I’m not worthy…’ babbled Cartwright. ‘I’m overcome with the honour.’

‘Oh, pull yourself together,’ said Nicholas impatiently. ‘It’s only a coat. Let’s get on with it.’

Whilst the two men set about measuring Geoffrey Lowe, Nicholas studied the bales of cloth. Eventually he chose a soft velvet fabric, the colour of fresh green leaves in spring. He held it up to the sunlight and shafts of light played over it, making it shimmer like a rainbow over a waterfall.

‘This is the one. It’ll go with his red hair. Good country colour. Make it fit Geoffrey. Have ties down the front so that it can give an inch or two if necessary. Make a good collar. The King likes collars.’

‘When’s the King coming, my Lord?’ said Cartwright nervously.

‘I’ll need to have it here by the fifth. The King’s got a habit of suddenly changing his plans.’

‘But that only gives me eight days,’ Cartwright wailed.

‘Plenty of time. Now what are you waiting for? Hurry up and do your measuring. Give Master Cartwright and his assistant some beef and beer when they’re finished, Geoffrey. Now I must get over to the stables and see to the horses.’

Anthony had slipped in quietly again and glanced across at Nicholas.

‘A monk to see you, my Lord.’

‘A monk! What sort of monk?’

‘They all look the same to me.’

‘Don’t be a fool. Young? Old? Fat? Thin?’

‘Young, my lord. Dark hair, thin.’

‘Brother Benedict! Now what the devil does he want?’

* * *

‘The Prior’d like to see you, Lord Nicholas,’ said Brother Benedict, bowing deferentially.

‘Did he say what he wants?’

Brother Benedict looked at him reproachfully. ‘No, my Lord. It’s not for me to know what’s in the Prior’s mind.’

‘Well, I suppose I ought to get down to see what he wants. Did you come on horseback?’

‘Me? Oh no. Monks don’t ride horses.’

‘Well, you can hitch a lift behind me if you like.’

‘Oh I couldn’t do that. What’ll the Prior say if he sees me? I shall have to make a public penance in front of all the Brothers in the Chapter House.’

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders, collected Harry from the stables and rode down to the Priory, Benedict walking briskly behind him.

* * *

The Prior was waiting for them at the gatehouse. He looked his usual benevolent self, but Nicholas could sense an air of anxiety about him.

‘How much longer do I have to put up with this old woman on my premises, Lord Nicholas? It won’t do, you know. The brethren don’t like it. Some of them think she’s a witch. A very bad witch; in league with the devil. Mind you, I keep an open mind on such matters. I’m very tolerant, easy-going to a fault, I think. I need evidence before I condemn someone, and Agnes Myles seems quite harmless to me. But I’d still like her out of here.’

‘What’s bothering you, Prior? She’s out of your way. Mistress Warrener’s looking after her. She’s harmless.’

‘That remains to be seen. And that’s another thing, Mistress Jane’s down here a bit too often for comfort. Some of the brothers are getting restless. She’s upsetting them. Brother Martin’s taken to sneaking out of the infirmary to wait for her. Brother Michael will have to start bleeding them again. Well, whilst we’re here, we might as well take a look in the infirmary. Brother Wilfrid keeps asking for you, my Lord. He’s taking a mighty long time to take his leave of us. Still, God knows when He wants Brother Wilfrid to join Him.’

They strolled over to the infirmary, which was close to the gatehouse. At the door, the Prior stopped suddenly and turned to face Nicholas. ‘The Commissioners will be here tomorrow, my Lord. What am I going to do with ’em, eh? I’m told they’re going to be here for two weeks. Two weeks! What the hell are they going to do in two weeks?’

‘It’ll take them that time to prepare the inventory,’ said Nicholas, making a mental note to add them to the guest list.

‘You really think it’ll take them that long?’

‘I’m sure it will. But don’t worry, Prior. The King’s coming and you can have a word with him. You’ll come to dinner when he’s here, won’t you?’

‘When have you ever known me to refuse a dinner, my Lord?’

So that was what was bothering the Prior, thought Nicholas. He was getting nervous about the inspection. And so he should. The Commissioners were going to look for faults; even where none existed. They were going to provide the King with a good excuse for destroying the monasteries, so that he could sleep at night with an easy conscience.

* * *

Inside the infirmary, the sun streamed in through the narrow, high windows and fell on the beds of the three sick, old men. Wilfrid was there, his shrunken face peaceful in sleep, his breathing shallow but regular. Nicholas picked up his gnarled hand, small and boney like a bird’s claw. He shook it gently, but Wilfrid didn’t wake up. He was conscious that someone was standing behind him and turned round to see Brother Michael, the Infirmarer, standing there, his pale face twisted into a smile.

‘It’s good of you to come and see him, my Lord. He often asks for you.’

‘Well, don’t wake him up now. I’ll drop in some other time.’

Brother Michael nodded and went back into the apothecary’s room. Nicholas went out and joined the Prior, who’d been waiting for him.

‘Come across and have a drink. I need your advice on what to do with these visitors. They’ve checked out Lewes Priory and now they’re going to start on us. Then, I suppose they’ll go to Marchester and check on the good friars there. This is a most appalling intrusion.’

As they walked through the cloisters, they met Father Hubert scurrying past them, holding a large wicker basket.