Iris Collier: Day of Wrath

Thomas Rymes was a big man in the prime of life. His good-natured face radiated health, the result of a good digestion. He was wearing a black robe, belted round his ample girth with a cord. A large, silver cross hung down on to his expansive chest.

‘Welcome home, Lord Nicholas,’ he said glancing up from a document he was reading. ‘What news of the King?’

He indicated the jug of ale beside him on the desk, and Nicholas helped himself. He was at ease with Prior Thomas. He approved of his philosophy, which was that you gave due respect to God, worked hard at whatever work God sent you, and then you celebrated with your friends when work was over. And celebrate they did. Nicholas had enjoyed some fine dinners in this house. The Prior liked prime-quality beef and on fast days he made full use of his stock of fat carp in his fishponds. Now, thought Nicholas, this idyll was going to be shattered. It was heartbreaking.

‘The King, Prior Thomas, thrives, as always.’

‘Thanks be to God. If the King thrives, the kingdom thrives. There’s nothing worse than a sickly king, especially when the heir to the throne is a mere girl.’

‘The Queen’s infant daughter, Elizabeth, is a healthy lass.’

The Prior looked puzzled, then, when he understood, his expression turned to one of disapproval. ‘The Queen, my Lord? Surely you mean the King’s whore, Mistress Anne Boleyn?’

‘For God’s sake, Prior, guard your tongue. I mean Queen Anne. Catherine lives in retirement, poor lady. In bad health, so they say, with her daughter ignored by everyone.’

‘It’s monstrous, monstrous,’ roared the Prior, his face flaming with anger. ‘I will never call that whore, Queen. How can King Henry flout the Pope’s wishes! Nothing good will come of this illegal, adulterous liaison. Some say that she’s a witch.’

‘Prior, hold your tongue. It’s dangerous to say such things. Henry divorced his first wife. Thomas Cranmer married him to Anne Boleyn, and there’s an end to it. One day their daughter might be Queen of England. Do you want to end up in the Tower of London?’

‘The King’ll not dare to touch me.’

‘Not dare! Are you mad? He dared to arrest Cardinal Wolsey and seized his house. He dared to arrest Thomas More, and he’s been in the Tower for thirteen months now. He will sign your death warrant without a second thought should he hear what you’ve just said. It’s just as well that I’m a good friend of yours.’

‘The King over-reaches himself,’ said Prior Thomas, sinking back into his chair. ‘He should be made aware of his own mortality.’

‘And who’s going to do that? Not me, that’s for sure. No one can tell the King he’s only a man.’

‘We’re all only men, my Lord,’ said the Prior wearily. ‘One day we’ll all have to face our Maker.’

‘And I don’t intend to do that just yet. Not if I can help it.’

‘Amen to that, Lord Nicholas. But come now, let’s talk of other things. I am sorry to hear about your steward. He was a good man. Your stock cupboards are almost as good as mine. Your honey’s certainly better than mine. One day I’ll come and take a look at that garden of yours and see what’s growing there. Your lamb is excellent, also.’

‘I’ll see Giles sends some cuts, Prior, when we do the slaughtering. Yes, it’s bad news about Matthew. I shall miss him.’

‘Killed defending your warren, I’ve heard. A dreadful thing. There are far too many thieves around. That Sheriff fellow ought to be more vigilant. They’re always trying to get into our barns.’

‘Strangely enough, we’ve got no signs of a break-in.’

‘Really? Then what’s the motive?’

‘That’s what Landstock’s trying to find out at this very moment. I’ve left him to it as I had to come and warn you.’

‘Warn me? About thieves? I don’t need to be warned about them. We’re always on our guard. As you should be. You mustn’t let things slip when you’re away, Lord Nicholas.’

‘I’m not warning you about guarding your warren, Prior. There is another matter…’

There was a knock on the study door, and Prior Thomas sighed irritably. ‘Come in, come in,’ he called out impatiently.

The door opened and a monk came in. He was tall, gaunt, with a long, melancholy face. His black robe hung loosely on his bony frame, and, unlike the other monks, his head was untonsured because he was completely bald. Brother Michael. Nicholas knew him well. Once again, he reminded Nicholas of one of the gargoyles which spouted rain-water from the gutters on the tower.

‘Brother Michael, I’ve given orders that I’m not to be disturbed when Lord Nicholas is with me.’

‘I’m sorry, my Lord Prior, but Hobbes insisted that I should tell you the news immediately.’

‘The Vicar? Giving orders? What impertinence! Well as you’re here, you’d better get it out.’

‘The King’s Commissioners have arrived in Lewes. It won’t be long before they’re here.’

‘Is that all? Stop your fussing, Brother Michael, and get back to your patients. There’ve been rumours flying around for months now.’

‘This time it’s true,’ interrupted Nicholas. ‘At last we’re getting down to business. Brother Michael is quite right to take this matter seriously. How did Alfred Hobbes hear about the King’s Commissioners?’

‘Oh you know Hobbes,’ said Brother Michael with more than a hint of disapproval in his voice. ‘He always loves a gossip. A babbler. A frequenter of ale-houses if I didn’t keep an eye on him. He was up at Mortimer’s place to complain about his tithe, as he always does, and Sir Roger told him.’

‘Then Sir Roger is right for once. The King’s inspectors are in Lewes and they will be coming here. This is what I was going to tell you, Prior. The King is set on closing down the monasteries, for reasons of his own. Your only hope of escaping closure, Prior, is to see that everything is in order when they come. See to it that the monks observe the Rule strictly. There must be no grounds for criticism on that front. Restrain your enthusiasm for archery competitions, keep a modest table, and keep the dairymaids out of the monastic buildings.’

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ said Prior Thomas, rising to his feet. ‘No one, not even the King, has the right to tell me how to run my own Priory.’

‘We could, however, observe a fast…’ said Brother Michael tentatively, ‘and stop the secular music.’

‘Over my dead body,’ shouted the Prior. ‘Fasting’s for Lent. Now’s the time to give thanks for the fresh food. You can eat your gruel and vegetables, Brother Michael, but don’t expect us all to live as frugally as you do. Good God, Brother, you could do with some red meat inside you. Do you bleed yourself when you bleed the other brothers? You look like a model for Brother Alfred’s painting of the dance of death. Now, go away and read the Rule. St Benedict didn’t disapprove of meat.’

‘Only for the sick and old,’ said Brother Michael meekly.

‘And you fit the bill on both counts. Now get out, and don’t come back here again with your miserly comments.’

‘But the music, my Lord Prior. I was told you had a singer here the other night. Brother Benedict, playing a lute and singing about the joys of love.’

‘And very beautifully he sang, too. There’s nothing wrong with love, Brother Michael. It’s God’s greatest gift to man.’

‘But it could be misconstrued.’

‘Evil, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. Brother Benedict is a gift from God, sent to bring us all joy. This Priory has a musical tradition, as you well know, Brother. I intend asking Lord Nicholas over to hear our beloved Benedict sing. Tonight, my Lord? The young suckling pig will be delicious.’