Iris Collier: Day of Wrath

It was almost dark when Nicholas turned off the Eartham road and rode up the long drive leading to Peverell Manor. Above him the bright, crescent moon and a scattering of stars lit up the path, bordered by the great oak trees planted by his ancestor Lord Roger Peverell after the great victory over the French nearly two hundred years ago. His horse, Harry, a strong jet-black stallion with Arab blood in him, needed no urging. Gone was the drooping weariness of half an hour ago. Now he scented a generous supper of oats, a warm stable, and a good rub down by one of the ostlers. Nicholas bent down and patted Harry’s sweat-soaked neck. He’d ridden him hard, but Harry had never let him down. Now he, like Harry, needed food and sleep. But first he must see Prior Thomas. The news he’d gleaned from his friends at Court was too important to leave until morning. The King, he thought, was certainly shaking things up. He’d been on the throne for twenty-six years, had grown tired of his first wife, and lost his heart to a dark-eyed beauty who had enticed him with her French manners and sharp wit. And for her he was now turning his kingdom upside down. And he, Nicholas Peverell had to warn his friends.

He reached the main gate, a solid oak door built to keep out undesirables. It was firmly shut. God damn them, he thought. Where were they all? Matthew? Roger? Giles? Hadn’t he left instructions that someone had to be on duty when he was away? At all times. He could never be sure when the King would release him from his Court duties. He dismounted and tugged at the bell rope. No one came. He shivered in the cold night air. May, he thought, was a treacherous month. Sunshine by day, then a stab in the back at night when the frost devastated the blossom on the fruit trees.

He tugged at the rope again, more forcibly this time. What was the use, he thought, of keeping a household of servants when they weren’t there when he wanted them? It hadn’t been like this when Mary was alive. She’d always waited up for him when he came back from Court. She knew how to manage servants. Now the whole lot were out of control. Probably asleep, drunk on the contents of his cellar.

Suddenly he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, and the huge door inched open. The pale, frightened face of Simon, the under-groom, peered round at him.

‘My Lord,’ he stammered, ‘we didn’t expect…’

‘Open the door, for God’s sake. I told you to expect me at any time. Now take hold of Harry. See he’s well fed, and give him a good rub down. No short cuts, mind. He’s earned his keep today; unlike others I could name.’

Nicholas handed over the reins to Simon, then strode across the courtyard to the great hall of his manor house. A fire was burning in the huge fireplace, and Nicholas went over to it and warmed his hands. The room was still cold. Even though it was May, the solid, stone walls of his house hadn’t yet had time to absorb the sun’s heat. He kicked over the burning log and turned round to warm his back. At least they’d laid him a place at the table. But where was Matthew? He wanted hot food and a jug of ale before he went out to see the Prior. But nobody came. Had it come to this? he thought furiously. Did he have to get his own food? It was obvious that he’d been away too long. Tomorrow, he’d have to crack the whip. Just as he reached impatiently for the bell rope, Giles Yelman, the under-steward, came scuttling in with a jug of ale.

‘Thank God someone’s awake around here. Where’s Matthew? I gave him orders to wait up for me. No, let me do that,’ he said as Giles began to pour the ale out for him, his hand shaking so much that the ale missed the tankard and splashed on to the stone floor. Much as he always tried to be impartial towards his servants, there was always something about Giles which irritated him. Maybe it was his long, narrow face, the sparse, straggly beard, the pale eyes which never met his, and an obsequiousness which Nicholas loathed.

‘My Lord,’ said Giles, handing the jug to Nicholas. He paused.

‘Come on, out with it, man,’ said Nicholas, drinking the ale straight from the jug. ‘Let me remind you that I’ve been on the road all day, and I’m hungry. I want meat and fresh bread. Where’s Matthew? What’s got into the lazy devil?’

‘My Lord, there is no Matthew,’ blurted out Giles, backing away.

‘No Matthew! What the devil do you mean? Is he ill? And what’s the matter with you? You look like a hare cornered by the hounds.’

Giles, still retreating, crossed himself. Nicholas’s heart missed a beat.

‘You don’t mean to say he’s dead? Don’t say the sickness has come to Dean Peverell. People are dropping like flies in London.’

‘Yes, he is dead, my Lord. We found him not long ago, lying at the foot of the tower. We think he must have fallen.’

‘Fallen? Matthew? Are you mad? Matthew knew that tower like the back of his hand. For God’s sake, man, we keep the grain there. Matthew went there daily. Besides, what was he doing at the top of the tower? There’s nothing there, and he’s not the type to admire the view.’

‘We don’t know, my Lord. We’ve only just found him. He was lying there just as if he was taking a nap.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s in the store room. We didn’t know what to do with him.’

‘The store room! For God’s sake, man, you shouldn’t have moved him. At least not until the Sheriff has taken a look at him. You’ve sent someone to Marchester to get him, I hope?’

‘My Lord,’ Giles stammered, ‘we didn’t think, we didn’t know. We waited for you.’

‘Well, it’s too late now. You weren’t to know. Now get him out of the store room, and put him in the chapel. If he is dead, then we’ll need a priest. One of you’ll have to run down to the Priory and get one.’

‘I’m sorry … we didn’t know what to do. Nothing like this has happened before. We’re all shocked.’

‘Then it’s time you pulled yourself together. Come on, let’s take a look at him.’

Giles scurried off, followed by Nicholas. They went down the stone stairs to the rooms under the kitchen where the stores were kept. In the main store room, Matthew lay on the floor, covered by a rough woollen blanket. His round, good-natured face, usually flushed with good living, was now as pale as the stone walls around him. His eyes, unclosed, stared up at the ceiling. At the sight of his stocky body lying there like one of the beasts waiting for the butcher to come, Nicholas’s bad temper evaporated. Suddenly, he was overcome by feelings of immense sorrow and he sank down on his knees by the side of the body. Matthew had been his father’s steward; he’d been present when Nicholas was born, had watched over him when he was a child, welcomed him home from school. He’d prepared the banquet for his wedding, and the funeral feast when Mary died in giving birth to his son. There never had been a time when Matthew hadn’t been there. He was part of the furniture. Memories which he’d tried to suppress over the five years he’d been on his own came flooding back. Life would never be the same again.

He stretched out his hand, and gently closed those staring eyes. Then he prayed silently. Time passed and he forgot about the King’s affairs and the intrigues of the Court, and thought about the times when Matthew had always been there when he’d wanted him. They had all taken him for granted. And now they would have to manage without him. Suddenly he jerked himself back into the present. There were things to do. First he had to take a good look at the body. He pulled open Matthew’s leather jerkin and put his head down on to his great barrel chest. There was no heartbeat. Then he saw the marks round Matthew’s thick neck. Purple weals as if he’d been clawed by a wild beast.