Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

Whilst the King pored over the plans, Nicholas had a word with the Captain of the Guard. ‘Keep a good look-out for a tall, bald-headed monk,’ he said.

The Captain laughed and shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘The place is full of monks, my Lord. This is a resting place for pilgrims, you know. We’ve got every kind of monk – French ones, Spanish, and even Italian monks. And what’s more, they all pull those hoods over their faces when they go out, so how the devil are we going to find out if they’ve got bald heads or not? Don’t worry, sir, if the King stays here, we’ll take him up on top of the gatehouse when he wants to see his ships, and he’ll be as safe as houses. No one can get in here. Everyone’s been checked out.’

Reassured, Nicholas began to relax. The King could discuss his plans with Southampton, refresh himself, take a look at his ships, then, with fresh horses, they could ride back to Dean Peverell and get there in good time for supper. It was all going to plan.

A continuous stream of messengers was coming and going from the hospital. Southampton read the despatches and passed them over to his secretary for a reply, if that were necessary. But one despatch held his attention. He came over to Nicholas.

‘Here we are, Lord Nicholas. We’ve got the messenger we lost at Littlehampton. One of Fitzroy’s men found him in a barn at Shoreham. He was in a bad state so it didn’t take Fitzroy long to get the information out of him. He said he was employed by a monk – one of your monks, it seems. He said his name was Brother Michael, the Infirmarer. Seems this Brother Michael is a formidable character. His messenger calls him the Avenging Angel and says that he took over Mortimer’s work when he was arrested. So now, at least, we know who we’re looking for.’

Brother Michael, how blind he’d been. He should have guessed long ago. Sour, fanatical, familiar with all the Infirmarer’s potions. Passionately against the King and his policies; why had they overlooked him? Passion was the key word, Nicholas thought. All the monks were against the King’s policies, but only Brother Michael had the passion to do anything about it. Then recently all the evidence had pointed to Father Hubert, and that was probably just what Brother Michael had planned. But where was he now? Had he realised that, with the capture of his messenger, the game was up and he’d fled the country? Somehow Nicholas didn’t think Brother Michael was the type to give up so easily.

‘The messenger?’ he said to Southampton. ‘What was he like?’

‘Tall, not tonsured. Called himself a lay brother. Apparently he’d worked for Mortimer and Brother Michael had taken him on. Infernal devil! He cursed the King, my Lord, even as they dragged him away. God, how I hate these fanatical types. They give us all a lot of trouble.’

The King folded away the charts, finished his ale, and stared out of the window. Then he strode across to Nicholas.

‘Come on, Peverell, stop looking so miserable. I thought that ride would’ve cheered you up a bit. Now, is the barge ready, Paget?’

Nicholas started. He’d forgotten the barge.

‘It’s ready and waiting, Sire,’ said Southampton.

‘Good. If the ships can’t get to us, we’ll have to go out to them, eh, Paget? Do us good – rowing on the Thames; do the sailors good too, to see their King.’

‘Your Grace, stop. This isn’t the Thames. We can’t guard you on open water,’ said Nicholas with growing panic.

‘Don’t be a fool, Peverell. Do you think I’m afraid of a miserable monk who wants to take a swipe at me? Of course you can guard me. Are you telling me that all those bowmen and cannoneers are useless? Come on now, let’s be off.’

He walked swiftly out of the presence chamber, went through the gatehouse, where the guards were too astonished to stop him, and out on to the Hard. The three sally ports were just four hundred yards away. Outside Domus Dei the crowds had gathered. The whole of Portsmouth had come to see its King. The crowd was good-humoured and people were chatting cheerfully with the guards who held them back. On top of the gatehouse stood several bowmen with bows drawn back at the ready. On the Hard itself, lined up against the sea wall, were the cannoneers with their clumsy hand-held cannons, and matches at the ready. Nicholas measured the distance to the first of the sally ports, where the top of the royal ensign on the Admiral’s barge could just be seen hanging limply in the still air.

The King, with a wave of a hand to the crowd, who roared their appreciation, set off towards the sally port. With his heart beating wildly, hardly aware of what he was doing, Nicholas drew his sword.

Just then, as they almost reached the sally port, a tall figure ran straight out of the crowd. His hood had fallen back and Nicholas caught a glimpse of a pale face, contorted with hatred.

‘Death,’ the man shouted, ‘Death to Anti-Christ!’

He held a dagger in his hand and he launched himself at the King. But Nicholas was there before him, and just as the monk was about to strike, Nicholas knocked him sideways and struck him across the arm and shoulders with his sword. Immediately arrows fell all around them. There was the sound of an explosion and a puff of smoke came out of one of the cannons.

‘Don’t kill him, Peverell,’ said Southampton’s voice behind him. ‘We need him to talk. Take him away, and keep him alive,’ he said to the guard, who was starting to drag the monk away, Brother Michael turned his head to glare at Nicholas, who recoiled from his look of concentrated malevolence.

‘Why? Why have you risked everything?’ Nicholas said.

‘Because we’ve lost everything,’ Brother Michael answered.

The King drew a deep breath and put his arm round Nicholas’s shoulders. ‘Well done, Peverell. Remarkably quick of you to spot that fellow. Now that you’ve got your man, let’s take a look at these ships of ours.’

Twilight was falling when they arrived back at Dean Peverell. Wearily, they trooped up the drive and into the courtyard, where waiting grooms seized the horses and led them away for a much-needed rest. Nicholas felt a pang of remorse that Harry had been left behind in Portsmouth to be collected later, but King Henry had ridden him hard, and he’d beaten them all in the race to Portsmouth Hard.

The King, for once, looked weary as he walked stiffly into the great hall, his arm draped familiarly across Nicholas’s shoulders. Once inside, Nicholas came to a sudden halt. The house was unrecognisable. The air smelt fresh and clean, the wild flowers and herbs strewn on the rushes on the floor had released their heady scents. Monsieur Pierre, dressed in a doublet of many colours, advanced and bowed low.

‘Welcome home, Sire,’ he said, ‘welcome home, my Lord.’

Henry glanced round. ‘Seems you’ve done us well, Pierre. Now I must freshen myself up, then we’ll be down to see what you’ve concocted for us. A special meal tonight,’ he said, raising his voice so that all the servants could hear, ‘because your master saved your King’s life. Now that’s some news for you, isn’t it?’ he said, smiling at the row of astonished faces. ‘Now I hope you’ve ordered some hot water, Pierre. I need a full tub with sprigs of fresh rosemary in it. You’ve got a damn fine house here, Peverell, and that stallion of yours is a damn fine horse. Pity we had to leave him with Southampton. I might have made you an offer for him.’

Thanking his lucky stars that Harry was out of reach of the King, Nicholas went up to his own tiny room, wedged under the eaves, and put on a clean doublet and hose. Then he combed his hair and went down to meet the guests.

The Sheriff was the first to arrive. He looked relaxed and cheerful and thumped Nicholas heartily on the back.