Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

* * *

Matins, the first service of the new day, came to an end, the monks filed out of their choir and climbed up the night stair to their dormitory over the chapter house. They entered through a small door high up in the north transept. It was a warm night, the air still and oppressive with a hint of thunder around. Each monk went to his own cubicle, separated from the others by a low wooden partition. They took off their night shoes, and lay down on the rough straw pallet on their truckle beds. In seconds, they were all asleep.

But Brother Benedict couldn’t sleep. His mind wouldn’t relax. Highly sensitive, he couldn’t get the images out of his mind of Jane singing with her clear, bell-like voice, the noise of the jackdaws and the sound of the falling stone. He relived the shock he felt when he saw Jane fall to the floor when the stone hit her and the anguish he felt when he saw her lying white-faced in her bed. He knew he couldn’t love her like a man loves a woman, he’d renounced all that when he took his vows, but Jane was special. Not only was she beautiful, but she was blessed with an independent mind and intelligence, like the women he’d heard about at the Burgundian Court. It was madness, he thought, to involve her in politics. This was a serious situation: a conspiracy, no less, against the King himself. Lord Nicholas should know better.

He grew even more awake as time passed, and soon it would be time for Prime. But someone else was awake. As he looked down the rows of cubicles, he saw someone get up, bend down to put on his night shoes, and then go towards the night stair. It was Father Hubert, who always slept in the bed nearest the stairs because, as Sacristan, he would have to ring the bell to wake the monks up and lead them down to the choir for the next service.

At first Benedict thought nothing of it. Father Hubert was elderly, he’d been much weakened through bleeding, and maybe he wanted the latrines. Perhaps, Benedict thought with growing concern, he wasn’t feeling well and might need help. He got out of bed, put on his shoes, and silently made his way past the sleeping brethren and followed Father Hubert. Not wanting to embarrass him if he wanted to use the latrines, Benedict paused half-way down the stairs, and watched where Hubert was going. Much to his surprise, he didn’t go out into the cloisters, which he would have done if he needed to relieve himself, but instead he went to the sacristy and opened the door. Benedict came down the stairs and hid behind one of the pillars in the north transept. Moments later, Hubert emerged carrying something which was hidden under a piece of cloth. He then walked past Benedict and went out into the cloister by the little door in the west end of the north transept.

Much disturbed, Benedict wondered whether he should follow him, but not wanting to be seen stalking a senior member of the community who had every right to visit the sacristy even if it was in the middle of the night, he went back up the stairs and lay down on his bed. This time he fell into a deep sleep which lasted until Father Hubert rang the bell for Prime.

* * *

Late on Saturday morning, after another disturbed night’s sleep, Nicholas decided to go and see Sheriff Landstock again. Everything seemed to have come to a dead end. Tomkins and his wife weren’t talking, Bovet and Perkins weren’t talking either, Agnes Myles couldn’t collect her wits, and Ultor’s messenger was drifting around in the sea somewhere along the south coast. Someone, soon, would have to talk. Much as he hated cruelty of all kinds, he knew he would have to recommend sterner measures to the Sheriff if they were ever going to break the stalemate.

As he went to get Harry from the stables, Monsieur Pierre’s little coach, drawn by a sturdy, piebald cob, came hurtling into the courtyard. Nicholas paused, then went over to meet him.

‘Good morning, Monsieur Pierre, any progress in your department?’

Monsieur Pierre grimaced. ‘Not good. I get up at dawn to seek out the best produce but everything is too dear. It’s as if they know who I am and whom I’m buying for, and they want to cheat me. There’s also a shortage of song birds, but I’m glad to say I’ve bought some barrels of live eels. We can do something with those. Some hot eel pies on the night the King arrives might go down well, I think.’

‘Sounds perfect. Now listen carefully to me, Monsieur Pierre, I’m sure you understand that we have to take every precaution to ensure the King’s safety when he’s here with us.’

‘Of course. I’m here to see that security arrangements are fully carried out.’

‘We’ll do our best to see that they are. Now, one other thing, we shall also have to see that everything the King eats will be tasted beforehand.’

Monsieur Pierre gave Nicholas a withering look. ‘My Lord,’ he said with an elaborate bow. ‘I am the King’s taster. That’s why he sent me here.’

And with that, he stalked off. Nicholas watched him go. So the King was no fool, he thought. He knew all the risks, and yet he still wanted to come. Was he really interested in reviewing the fleet? he wondered. He could do that at any time. Why now, when he knew there was still a conspiracy at large? Did he really want to discuss south coast defences with Southampton, or was he coming deliberately to draw out Mortimer’s successor? He was brave indeed to put his head in the noose. Brave? Or foolish? But Nicholas knew that it didn’t do to underestimate the King. He’d probably weighed up the risks and decided that between the Sheriff, Nicholas, and Southampton, he would be in safe hands. Still, it was a fearsome responsibility.

* * *

He collected Harry, who, newly groomed with his coat shining like jet in the strong sunlight, was in fine form. He led him back into the courtyard and was just about to mount when Brother Benedict came in through the main gate. Nicholas felt a sudden surge of fear. Jane? Had anything happened to her? He almost ran to meet the young monk.

‘The Prior sends for you, my Lord. Can you come at once?’

‘What’s happened? Is it Jane…?’

‘Calm yourself. Mistress Jane is recovering rapidly. No, it’s one of the old monks. He’s near death – he’s already received the last rites – and wants to see you.’

‘Brother Wilfrid?’

‘That’s right. He approaches his end quite calmly but keeps asking for you. Can you come?’

‘I’ll come straight away.’ After all, Nicholas thought, as he set off for the Priory, Landstock’s not going anywhere and Brother Wilfrid won’t be with us much longer.

* * *

Leaving Harry with the gatekeeper, Nicholas walked over to the infirmary. Inside, all was peaceful. Two monks stood on either side of Brother Wilfrid’s bed, reciting the office for the Dying. Wilfrid’s eyes were closed, his hands folded on a crucifix placed on his chest. Nicholas looked down at the tiny, parchment-yellow face, and was glad that Wilfrid’s passing was so serene. He bent down to listen to his breathing, which was so faint that it scarcely lifted his chest.

‘Brother Wilfrid,’ he said softly, ‘it’s me, Nicholas. I’ve come to thank you for everything you taught me when I was a child. Now go to God; He’s waiting for you.’

Wilfrid opened his eyes, which, although clouded over by death, were still surprisingly blue. He turned his head to look at Nicholas.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice just the merest whisper. ‘Those were happy days. Pity about the lass.’

For a moment Nicholas thought he was talking about Jane. But Wilfrid went on. ‘They did their best for her. Brother Martin made the potions and took it to her. It was strange, though, when the other monk added something; it was later, after Brother Martin had gone inside. It wasn’t right, was it? Why be so secretive if it was harmless? The next thing, she was dead. I saw it. It worries me…’