Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

Nicholas finished his soup and went into his study. Now, he thought, he was making progress. Several monks had visited Mortimer’s house. Now he had to find out who the night visitor was – the one with the cowl pulled over his face. Mary made him sound sinister. But he knew that, unfortunately, all the monks covered their faces when they went out.

Nicholas’s temper wasn’t improved on Friday morning, after a disturbed night’s sleep, by the sight of Monsieur Pierre hovering over him as he ate his breakfast.

‘My Lord, today is the first of June. We have six days, six days, to get this…’ he paused as he looked contemptuously round the great hall of Peverell Manor. ‘This – barnyard cleared out,’ he finished on a note of triumph.

Nicholas, who had become accustomed to living in a corner of the hall nearest the fire and had neglected the rest of the house, stared at him in astonishment. ‘Barnyard? I see no animals.’

‘See this straw?’ said Pierre, kicking aside a scattering of straw which covered the cold flagstones of the floor. ‘Look, it crawls with animals. When did Monsieur Lowe last put down clean straw?’

Nicholas shuffled the straw under his feet. As far as he could remember, the straw hadn’t been changed since Mary died. What was the point? It never got wet; it served its purpose well enough. Then, much to Pierre’s delight, a mouse scampered out from under Nicholas’s feet, immediately pounced upon by the family of cats who had taken up residence by the fire.

‘See, animals!’ he said. And then, ‘Poof! The odour, my Lord. How can you stand it?’

Sure enough, in disturbing the straw Nicholas had released various sinister smells. Nicholas glared at Pierre. ‘Oh come now, it’s not that bad,’ he said as Pierre drew out an elegant handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose.

‘Bad? It’s terrible. And I’ll have you know the King does not like bad smells. Nor does he like animals under his feet.’

‘Well, what do you suggest?’

‘We replace it all. Now is the time for fresh herbs and flowers. The fields are full of them. Your barns must be stuffed with last autumn’s straw for the animals. Well, get it out. Clean out this ordure,’ he said waving his arms theatrically, ‘and put down fresh straw. But first you must scrub the floor. Then, just before the King arrives, we gather fresh herbs and lay them down for the King to crush under his feet. In this way, his Majesty’s nostrils will be assailed by sweet smells, not this foul stench. The King tells me he wants no fuss, just simple bucolic pleasures. But simplicity, my Lord, is difficult to achieve. It means using only the best materials. Now where is Monsieur Lowe? He has much work to do.’

And so the whirlwind struck. The great hall was cleared of all its debris. The floor was scrubbed, fresh straw laid down. The cats were banished, the dogs kicked out. Then it was the turn of the sleeping quarters. The bedroom floors were scrubbed, the woodwork polished. The tapestries which had hung on the walls and over the doors to keep out the draughts for as long as Nicholas could remember, were taken down, hung out on posts in the yard at the back of the house, and beaten black and blue. Many of them were so worn that in some places the daylight came through, and then Geoffrey Lowe was sent off to find women from the village who knew how to sew valuable materials.

Then Pierre wanted to inspect the store cupboards and cellars, and Geoffrey, white-faced with anger, led the way. Pierre, with a slate in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other, wrote down a list of what was needed: more pigs, especially the newly born suckling piglets, wild boar, venison for pies, fowl of every sort, woodcock, duck, chickens, swans, larks and other song birds. ‘And then,’ said Pierre looking triumphantly at Nicholas, who had joined them in the cellars, ‘we must have a surprise pie. The King expressly wishes to have a surprise pie.’

‘And what the hell’s that?’ said Geoffrey irritably.

‘Why Monsieur Lowe, you call yourself a steward and yet you don’t know what a surprise pie is?’

‘Once upon a time, I was a mere bailiff. That suited me well enough until I got involved with Frenchmen and their fancy menus.’

‘Now, now, Monsieur Lowe, no tantrums please. A surprise pie, is a great pie, made with suet, and divided into compartments. In each compartment there is a different sort of meat. Now one of the compartments is left blank, and just before the pie is served, you add something spectacular. Once we put two live blackbirds in the empty compartment and that made the King laugh because he said it reminded him of the monks. We could put anything you like in it – one of those kittens, for instance; that will make the ladies laugh.’

‘We’ll put a dove in it,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘A symbol of peace.’

‘Very clever, my Lord. The King will be delighted.’

And I feel like Noah, thought Nicholas, stocking up the Ark.

When he’d finished his inspection, Pierre turned to Geoffrey. ‘And now, Monsieur Lowe, we go to market. When we come back, Mary will make us all an omelette; like I showed you,’ he said to Mary, who’d joined them on their rounds. ‘Remember, twelve eggs,’ he added, treating her to one of his dazzling smiles, ‘and keep it soft. As soft as a woman’s breast.’

Mary blushed and curtsied. Geoffrey clenched his fists. Then, much to Nicholas’s relief, Pierre set off for the courtyard, calling out that they would go in his carriage, and there was room for Geoffrey if he didn’t mind squashing up beside him.

Nicholas took one look at his house being torn to pieces by his servants, and felt very much in the way. He decided to go and see the Prior.

At the Priory, he found very much the same situation. Cromwell’s Commissioners were into everything. The services were disrupted, the Prior had to be always on hand to receive complaints about the account books or the sumptuous nature of his store cupboard. He was too bothered to talk to Nicholas, so there was nothing for it but to go home. Maybe he could find peace in his herb garden, Nicholas thought, before it was denuded of herbs to strew on the floors.

A messenger was waiting for him when he got back. It was the same young man who’d come before. He was in the kitchen eating the fresh bread and cheese Mary had given him and he jumped up when Nicholas went in.

‘From my Lord of Southampton,’ the young man said, handing Nicholas the leather pouch which held a letter. Nicholas took it over to the window and took out the contents.

‘Peverell,’ he read. ‘We have intercepted a letter at the Port of Littlehampton. It was written to Reginald Pole and signed Ultor. He says that the Day of Wrath is at hand. In fact he gives the day a date. The seventh of June. I think he’s getting over-confident. Almost boastful, don’t you think? I don’t have to tell you how serious this is. It means that Ultor has not given up. We must not let the King out of our sight all the time he is with us. I’ve sent a message to him advising him not to come, and I think you should do the same. But I’m not hopeful. He never changes his plans. As to your letter, of course I don’t want him staying the night with me. He wants to stay with you and find out how much your Priory’s worth. I’ll send him packing as soon as I decently can. Burn this letter, and be vigilant. Take no risks. Remember you must have all his food tasted before it gets to him. Paget.

N.B. We caught the messenger – he was one of Mortimer’s servants – but he jumped over the side of the ship and got away. The tide swept him along the coast, but Fitzroy’s confident he’ll be picked up.’

Nicholas swore under his breath. The stupid fools – to get the letter, to lose the messenger. Terrible news indeed, he thought as he burned the letter. Ultor still with them, and getting ready to strike in six days’ time. And he still didn’t know who they were looking for.