Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘But maybe Roland Seaward writes his letters for him. Or someone else could.’

‘Then I’ll have to find out.’

‘Also Mary Woodman might be able to help us. After all she worked up at Mortimer’s place before your steward enticed her away.’

‘Enticed? Surely not. Not Geoffrey!’

‘What’s so surprising about that? After all, Cupid’s not fussy where he directs his arrows.’

‘I didn’t know you were an expert on Cupid, Jane. But seriously, Mary might be able to tell us something. I wonder how many times over the last few weeks Fitzroy visited Mortimer’s house. I know he said he denied any involvement with Mortimer’s conspiracy, and that fits. He’d want to lead his own conspiracy, not let Mortimer call the shots.’

‘You mean he betrayed Mortimer to the King, got his house, and then started plotting to get rid of the King, bring in one of the Yorkist claimants and so put himself in line for a fat reward? God in heaven, Nicholas, could a man be so evil?’

‘He could and it’s happened here before, not so long ago. After all, the Tudors have only been on the throne sixty years. They’re relative newcomers. They can’t afford to relax. But I’m quite sure the King’s got the measure of Fitzroy. He’s not mentioned to me that he wants him on the guest list.’

‘But the trouble is, somehow I don’t think Fitzroy’s behind this. The time’s not right for him. He’s too obvious a suspect. I can’t see him writing to Pole, who doesn’t have, as far as I can see, any political ambitions at all. No, if Fitzroy’s going to turn traitor, then he’ll be doing so for his own ends and in his own time. However, I’ll go and see Roland Seaward. And you, Jane, back to your squint window. And be careful. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’

* * *

Roland Seaward was comfortably installed in Mortimer Lodge. He bemoaned the fact that he’d been left in the lurch by Mary Woodman, but he was able to roast lamb, and Mortimer’s cellars were well stocked with casks of wine and beer. He seemed to be enjoying the life of a country gentleman and he hoped that if Lord Gilbert Fitzroy bought the house from the King for his new hunting lodge, then he could continue to run the place for him. No, he never went down to the ale-house. Why should he? He had everything he wanted closer to hand. No, he’d never heard of Agnes Myles, and no, he couldn’t read or write. He could count and that’s all a steward needed to know. And he used an abacus for numbers over ten when he ran out of fingers. Does Lord Gilbert come and see him often? Nicholas asked. No, he doesn’t, was the reply. Not once, since Mortimer was arrested. What was the point? He’d had his instructions. Look after the property and keep away thieves.

* * *

Nicholas rode slowly home. No, he couldn’t see Seaward being involved in any plot to oust the King. Obviously he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise his own comfortable position. But that still didn’t rule out Fitzroy. He could still be planning to attack the King whilst he was staying at his own manor house. Even if the King’s Yeomen of the Guard would be more than a match for Fitzroy’s collection of local layabouts, they would be heavily outnumbered. He knew that the yeomen were trained fighting men, but, even so, they would not be able to ward off an attack until help came from Southampton’s soldiers. And, thank heavens, he thought, his house still had a strong keep and massively strong entrance gate.

* * *

Promptly at six, Nicholas presented himself at the Prior’s house and was ushered upstairs by Brother Cyril, the Prior’s steward, to the dining room. The table was laid for seven. Brother Cyril had put out a tray with eight fine Venetian glasses on it and a jug of malmsey wine. Brother Benedict poured Nicholas out a glass and offered it to him with a dazzling smile. Nicholas held the glass up to the light from one of the tapers and admired its translucency.

‘The Prior’s got exquisite taste in glass and porcelain,’ said Brother Benedict conversationally.

He’d do better tonight if he’d used pewter and served a light beer, thought Nicholas, and then thought that the Prior seemed to be setting about his own extinction with remarkable efficiency.

At that moment, the Prior entered, followed by two dour-looking men. They were of medium height, stocky, strikingly similar in appearance to their master, Thomas Cromwell. They glanced around the room with their keen, observers’ eyes, pausing to look at Brother Benedict and the tray of glasses. The Prior looked gratefully across at Nicholas and with false heartiness introduced the two men.

‘My Lord Nicholas, come and meet our two distinguished visitors, Victor Laycock and Henry Wagstaff. They’re a bit weary after their long ride, but I thought they would be ready for a good meal and chat with our noble patron. But first, come over to the fire and have some wine. This is a very fine malmsey, matured over five years. You’ll take a glass, gentlemen, I hope? Brother Cyril, see that our glasses are topped up.

Wagstaff looked at the wine disapprovingly. ‘Ale will suit me fine,’ he said in a voice that had a strong London accent.

The Prior jumped as if he’d been stabbed in the back. ‘Really? How extraordinary. Ale, at this time of night? How about you, Laycock?’

‘Ale if you please, if it’s no problem. Wine unsettles my stomach.’

Nicholas glanced across at the Prior, whose face presented a study in fleeting emotions. With difficulty he checked his urge to burst out laughing. This man was Ultor? No, the idea was preposterous.

‘There’s no problem,’ interjected Brother Cyril. ‘I’ll just have to go down to the kitchen to get some.’

He came back, followed by the miniscule figure of Alfred Hobbes, the Vicar of the parish church, still dressed in his grimy cassock, and Father Hubert. Hobbes too, looked at the wine with distaste, and said he drank nothing but ale. Father Hubert said he preferred water. Nicholas drained his glass and, reaching for another, tried to smile reassuringly at the Prior. ‘Come, a toast,’ he said, after they’d taken their places at the table. ‘To the King, gentlemen.’

‘The King,’ they said solemnly as they raised their glasses.

Nicholas did his best. He sat between Hobbes and Wagstaff and talked pleasantries. He ate a great deal of the Prior’s giant pie made with the best beef and fresh ox kidneys. He drank quantities of Bordeaux wine and congratulated the Prior on the high standard of his cuisine. But he fought an uphill battle. Wagstaff and Laycock ate abstemiously, Father Hubert merely pecked at his food, but the meal was saved by Brother Benedict, who was in high spirits and prattled on regardless of the disapproving looks thrown in his direction.

When he’d finished, Nicholas pushed aside his plate. ‘Well, gentlemen, what’s the programme for tomorrow?’

Wagstaff, the more talkative of the two, looked up from his plate. ‘Just a general inspection, my Lord. We’ll attend a chapter meeting if that’s all right with you, Prior, and then move on to the accounts.’

The Prior winced. ‘You’re welcome to see anything you like. But as to the accounts, you’ll have to talk to Father Hubert about them. I never look at them myself. I never was any good at book-keeping.’

‘It appears, Prior, that you keep a fairly liberal regime here.’

‘Liberal? What the devil do you mean by that? I’m easy-going, yes. I like happy faces around me, people with strong digestions, wine drinkers, musicians. I can’t abide kill-joys, parsimonious types with long faces. Father Hubert’s one of the best treasurers we’ve had and I leave things to him.’

‘And I suppose you have a general audit once a year?’ said Wagstaff pleasantly.