Day Of Wrath

Book 1: Nicholas Peverell

by Iris Collier

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Nicholas Peverell has returned to his manor house in Sussex after visiting King Henry VIII at court to find that his loyal steward has been murdered - strangled and thrown from the manor house tower. Nicholas immediately decides to launch an investigation. He also has to deal with the unrest among the monks at his priory - King Henry is trying to reform the church and the plight of the monks is as yet unsure - could they somehow be involved? Nicholas' problems are further exacerbated when beautiful and talented local girl Jane Warrener tells him she has overheard talk of a conspiracy against the king. It is her notion that his steward's murder had something to do with it. Perhaps he overheard the conspirators and they killed him off before he could betray their plans. . . If this is the case, and with King Henry's untimely announcement of his intention to visit Peverell Manor on his way to Portsmouth in just a few days, Nicholas has no time to lose if he is to hunt down the murderous traitors and save the life of his king.

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 315

Sample

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.

‘He’s dead, but he didn’t fall from the tower,’ Nicholas said, turning to look at the servants who were crowding into the store room. ‘These marks were made by a man’s hands. Now, no man can strangle himself, so he was murdered, either where you found him at the foot of the tower, or his body was moved there to make it look as if he had fallen.’

He stood up and looked round at the circle of frightened faces. ‘We’ll get Landstock over tomorrow. And he’ll bring the Coroner. Now get Matthew into the chapel, and you, Dick,’ he said, looking at one of the kitchen boys, ‘get down to the Priory and ask for a priest for the night vigil. I’ll be along later, but first I want to talk to you, Giles, and you, Geoffrey,’ he said, looking at his bailiff, a short, thick-set man with a cropped head and a face creased like a bull-dog’s. ‘Upstairs to my study. Then I shall want to talk to you all. No one, except Dick, is to leave the house. Now get moving. I want Matthew laid out decently on a table in front of the altar. Light two candles. The best ones,’ he added. ‘The ones we use for Easter. Matthew was a good man, one of the best servants a man can have, and I shall miss him. Now, with no disrespect to Matthew, as I know he’d understand, I need some food. Giles, bring me some cold beef and bread, then after a while, you, Geoffrey, come and join me.’



Alone in his study, Nicholas wolfed down the food which Giles had brought him. He still felt numb with shock. Matthew of all people! Who could possibly want to murder him? What was the motive? Admittedly he was severe with lazy servants, but on the whole they respected that. They knew where they were with him. It was impossible to hate him, and one would have to hate to kill someone. He’d been generous to his friends, and loyal to the family. He’d been the first to congratulate him on his marriage to Mary – Mary, always delicate, with a pale, fragile beauty like one of the lilies which he grew in his garden.

He finished eating and pushed the plate away. Suddenly, the tiredness vanished. He had a job to do. He had to find out whose hands had been round Matthew’s neck, who had squeezed the life out of him and arranged him so neatly at the foot of the tower. And he wanted to bring that person before the justices of the peace and see him sentenced to death by hanging up on Marchester Heath.

He got up and opened the door. Geoffrey Lowe, his bailiff, was standing there.

‘Come in, Geoffrey. Now, who found Matthew?’

‘Giles did.’

‘When?’

‘About an hour and a half ago. I remember we were just about to …’

‘Just answer the questions if you please. Why did Giles go out to look for Matthew?’

‘Because we all wanted to know where he was. We missed him, my Lord. We knew you were coming back any minute, and we wanted our orders. Then young Joshua, you know, old Tom’s son, he runs the warren when his father’s poorly, well, he suddenly piped up.’

‘I know Joshua. He’ll make a good warrener one of these days. Well, what about him?’

‘Well, he thought he heard the sound of breaking wood, and he thought of all those young birds hatching, and we all know there’s a gang of thieves in the area. Lots of folk have lost their new hatchlings. So Joshua asked Giles to come out and take a look at the sheds. All was quiet, and Joshua came back to tell us, but Giles wasn’t satisfied and decided to take a look round. That’s when he went to check on the stores over in the tower and found Matthew.’

‘It could be that the thieves were trying to get into the tower and Matthew challenged them and got killed for his pains.’

‘It’s certainly possible, my Lord. Thieves would want Matthew out of the way otherwise he could identify them later if they got caught. No one wants to end up on Marchester Heath with a rope round his neck.’

‘That sounds feasible. But why should the thieves strangle him? Surely, they’d knock him down with something. Strangling’s a bit chancey; especially when it’s someone like Matthew. He was strong as an ox.’

‘Unless their look-out grabbed him from behind and held tight.’

‘Could be. Now go and get Giles for me, and then Joshua. And I want you to get off to Marchester and fetch Richard Landstock. This is Sheriff’s business, that’s for sure. Oh, get along with you man,’ he said, seeing Geoffrey’s horrified look at the prospect of riding four miles to Marchester in the middle of the night. ‘Landstock’ll give you a bed for an hour or two. I want you both back here by first light. Take Merlin. He’s reliable. There’s a good moon tonight, and the stars will light you on your way. Now, be off, man. There’s been a murder here, and possibly thieving. We’ll have to move fast if we’re to catch the devils responsible.’

‘We’ll catch them, sir. Someone will know who they are and spill the beans. Everyone liked Matthew. He treated us fair. It’s not right he should be bumped off by common thieves just because he got in the way.’

Giles and Joshua confirmed what Geoffrey Lowe had said and Nicholas ordered everyone off to their beds. Tomorrow, when the Sheriff of Marchester came, they’d all have to make statements. But he wasn’t ready for sleep. First, he had to look at the place where they’d found Matthew’s body.

Outside in the courtyard he shivered. This tragedy was going to affect them all. It would be impossible to replace Matthew. He turned to look at his sturdy manor house, built in the Norman style, which the first Lord Peverell had built after Duke William conquered the land and parcelled out the various manors to his followers. It looked more like a castle than a house, but over the years the harsh outlines had softened. The surrounding wall was still turretted, and the moat, which in early times was designed to keep out attackers, was now stocked with fish for the table. Mary had done that. She wanted to build a fine, modern house, furnished with chairs and tables bought in London, and she’d wanted to cover the cold, stone walls with Flemish tapestries. But it wasn’t to be; she’d died too soon. She’d left the vision behind her, though, and one of these days, when times were more settled, he’d get down to it and build the sort of house which she would have approved of. Meanwhile, there was her garden, and that gave him immense satisfaction.

He walked over to the tower, which in earlier times was the last stronghold when the place was under attack. Now it loomed up in front of him, looking sinister in the moonlight. An owl hooted. All around, he could hear the rustling sounds of small creatures which had drifted in from the surrounding fields and were settling down in the piles of straw scattered over the courtyard. He tried to visualise where Giles had found Matthew’s body. It couldn’t have been thrown from the tower, Nicholas thought. The body was intact. No broken bones, no bruised skin except for those deep claw marks. Whoever murdered him must be very naive to think they could cover up their crime by making it look as if Matthew had accidentally fallen from the tower. Those tell-tale marks round Matthew’s throat were a give-away. There was no doubt that he’d been murdered. Most likely he’d interrupted thieves. They had then compounded robbery with murder and were destined for Marchester’s Heath. And he’d catch them, sure enough.

He went back to the house, stopping to look in the chapel. Matthew had been laid out in front of the altar; a lighted candle had been placed at his feet and head. One of the monks who was also a priest was kneeling beside him saying the prayers for the dead. Nicholas recognised him. Father John. He’d been a member of the community at the Priory for a long time. Nicholas remembered him from his boyhood. He nodded to him, but the priest, wrapped in his prayers, didn’t look up.

Nicholas walked over to the body. ‘Rest in peace, Matthew Hayward,’ he said, looking down into the waxen face. ‘I promise you that I’ll not rest until I catch whoever did this to you. Goodnight, Matthew, the best of stewards.’

Next morning, Nicholas woke up late with the sun streaming in through the window, caressing his face. He opened his eyes and slowly his brain clicked into life. Then he remembered. Matthew lying in the chapel, his demoralised household waiting for instructions, and Landstock on his way from Marchester. And then there was also that urgent news he had to tell Prior Thomas.

He jumped out of bed and reached for his breeches. It was a relief to be back in the country. At Court he had to look his best in velvet doublet, slashed breeches and fine silk hose, but now it was leather breeches and doublet, woollen hose and a warm cloak for outdoors. He pulled on his long boots, still covered in the dust of the execrable Sussex roads and ran his fingers through his short beard, trying to smooth out the tangles in his unruly fair hair. It was always in the mornings that he most missed Mary. She used to lie back on the pillows and watch him dress. Sometimes she would call him over and gently tied the laces on his doublet for him. She enjoyed looking at him, she said, as much as he enjoyed looking at her.

She liked him clean, too, he thought with a guilty start. She always ordered the servants to bring up pails of hot water, saw that the tub was filled and checked the temperature. Then she used to sprinkle herbs in it too, herbs fresh from the garden which they had created together. Their sweet, pungent scent used to fill the house. Impatiently he reined in his imagination. Self-pity was an indulgence and led nowhere. Mary was safe with God. Soon, the chantry chapel he was building in the Priory for both of them would be complete. One day they would lie together under the chapel in the church of which he was patron, in sight of the high altar. He wanted the chapel to be carved with angels – angels playing harps and viols, angels singing and angels blowing trumpets and pipes. The best craftsmen in the county were working on it.

But now, he thought, as he splashed cold water on his face, what was going to happen to the Priory? His interview with Thomas Cromwell, that dour, enigmatic servant of the King, hadn’t been reassuring. The King wanted the monastic revenues, that was for sure. His Priory was small in comparison with the great monasteries of Glastonbury and Malmesbury, but, all the same, the plate, the lead on the roof, the lands which the Priory owned were not inconsiderable. Prior Thomas had to be warned. They were friends, and Nicholas knew that the Prior would expect him to save them, but Nicholas knew he could not oppose the King. No one could. Not now, with the print scarcely dry on the new Treason Act.

He went down into the great hall, and ate the bread and honey which had been laid out for him. The honey was of the best quality and tasted of clover. The ale was freshly drawn. Life was going on; Giles was taking over from Matthew.

He went to find his servants, and found Giles in the kitchen, extracting goose grease from a jar. He looked nervously at Nicholas as if expecting a rebuke. Nicholas checked his irritation. Giles was only trying to do his best.

‘Landstock should be here any minute now, Giles. Have the servants assembled in the hall. Landstock can use my study for the interviews. Oh yes, one thing did occur to me this morning. When I got back last night, the main gate was locked. Now if the thieves murdered Matthew, and then dragged his body over to the tower, how the devil did they get into the courtyard in the first place? No, don’t say it …’ he went on, as Giles’s face flushed with embarrassment. ‘You didn’t lock the main gate yesterday, did you? You forgot. Then Matthew was found, and you locked it. That’s it, isn’t it? The thieves just sauntered in and left at their leisure.’

‘My Lord, we fully intended to, but what with Matthew disappearing, and all the commotion over Joshua hearing things up in the warren, we forgot all about locking the gate.’

‘And how many times did you forget to lock it whilst I was away?’

‘We always locked it before we went to bed.’

‘Too late, too late. What a pack of incompetent oafs I am cursed with for servants! That gate must be locked at all times. And someone must be there to act as gatekeeper. We live in unsettled times and there are desperate men around. But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Get someone to run down to the Prior and tell him I shall be coming to see him shortly, just as soon as Landstock gets on with his business.’

The servants were beginning to drift into the hall. They looked dejected, mumbled their morning greetings, and dropped their eyes when he spoke to them. Nicholas hated to see them like this. He liked a happy household. Peverell Hall had always been a place where he could relax, study the new books which he’d bought from bookshops in London and add to his growing library. But now it seemed that Matthew’s murder had contaminated the whole place, making everyone suspect his neighbour.

He didn’t for one minute think that Matthew’s murderer was a member of his own household. He knew them all. Some, like Geoffrey Lowe, had worked for his father, and their loyalty was unquestionable. Geoffrey’s responsibilities were enormous – he supervised everything round the estate from the growing of corn and barley to seeing that the grazing was sufficient for the cattle and the sheep. He organised the shearing of the wool and sold it at the best prices; he saw that the warren was always well stocked with plump rabbits and game, and that the fishponds were full of carp. He handled money and paid the workers. Yet he had never given Nicholas cause to mistrust him.

He didn’t know the other servants as well as he knew Geoffrey and Matthew, of course. One of them might have harboured a grudge against Matthew. Maybe he’d been wrongly accused, or punished too severely. But that didn’t usually turn a man into a murderer. However, a motive would no doubt emerge and it was Landstock’s business to interview everyone and check on their alibis. He, Peverell, would take over when the wretches were brought before him at Quarter Sessions.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Sheriff Landstock came in, followed by Geoffrey Lowe. Nicholas walked over to greet him. He liked Landstock, although they didn’t always agree. But they’d worked well together in the past, and no doubt would continue to do so now. He’d not rest until he’d tracked down Matthew’s killer.

Landstock looked his usual pugnacious self. He was a short, stocky man, bristling with indignation and radiating energy. His weather-beaten face, bushy eyebrows, short, thrusting ginger beard and hair that stuck straight up like a stiff brush gave him a foxy look which most people found intimidating. He had an extensive knowledge of the local criminal fraternity, who were terrified of him, and he had a keen nose for smelling out the liars and cheats.

‘This is bad news, my Lord,’ Landstock said, giving Nicholas’s hand a vigorous shaking.

‘It is indeed. I’ve lost a good friend and a trustworthy steward.’

‘Where’ve you put him?’

‘In the chapel.’

‘A pity your servants moved him. You know I always like to see where the body was found. Remember that next time you find a corpse on your premises,’ he said, poking Nicholas in the ribs, and giving a loud bray of laughter which he checked when Nicholas glared at him. ‘Oh well, let’s go and see him, then. The Coroner’s on his way. Your bailiff tells me that the cause of death is obvious. Is that so?’

‘Just take a look at the marks on his neck.’

‘Really? Then I’ll not take long. I’ll need to see all the servants, of course. One at a time. Have a room ready for me. Oh, a jug of your mulled ale will be welcome.’

‘Giles will see to it. Meanwhile, if I’m not wanted for the time being, I must get down to see Prior Thomas. Bad things are coming to the Priory and I must warn him. Not that he’ll take a blind bit of notice. He’s seen it coming for years and has done nothing about putting his house in order.’

‘What’s up? You’ve heard something at Court? Mind you, I’m all for change. Especially where the clergy’s concerned. Bloody parasites the lot of them, especially the monks.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion. But we’re talking about matters of state here, Richard. I’m just back from Hampton Court – the King’s gone there to avoid the sickness – and I was able to talk to Thomas Cromwell. He’s holding the reins of power at the moment; it won’t be long before he’s made Lord Privy Seal.’

‘What does the King see in him?’ said Landstock, as they made their way to the chapel.

‘Oh, he’s useful right enough. Knows which side’s his bread’s buttered. When the good Sir Thomas More is condemned, as condemned he will be, and soon, there’ll be no stopping Cromwell. But he’ll not last long, mark my words. He’s making too many enemies.’

‘These are dangerous times, my Lord.’

‘You can say that again. But I thank God that we’ve got a strong King. He’ll never let the country sink into civil war as it did in my father’s time. But he’s self-willed, and more to the point, he’s short of money. And that’s where our friend Cromwell comes in. He knows how to keep the King happy – provide him with enough money to pay for his lavish life-style and his fleet of warships out on the Solent.’

‘If he thinks he’ll get enough money by kicking out a lot of lazy monks, then good luck to him, say I.’

‘Richard, Richard, how can you say that? Haven’t you any feelings for the Priory? Haven’t you any sense of tradition? Our Priory’s been here for centuries. Remember it was my ancestors who founded it. The Peverells have always been its patrons. Just stop for a moment and think of what the monks do. They run the only school in the district. Their hospital is overflowing at the moment because of all the sickness around. They hand out alms. They’re good employers. Take away the Priory and you take away the village of Dean Peverell.’

They paused at the chapel door. ‘That’s how you see it, my Lord. I see a collection of lazy men living on the money which our people can ill afford. I see gold and silver plate used in their services whilst most people round here live in poverty. I’m told that my Lord Prior even uses silver plate at his table. I see wealth in the midst of poverty, and exploitation of humble people – for instance the prices they charge for the use of their mill in Marchester are higher than any one else’s. As for prayer, I’m told Thomas Rymes enjoys archery contests rather more than saying his prayers and a good meal rather than fasting. No, my Lord, I’m not with you on this one. Kick the lazy bastards out, I say. Let them work for a living for a change.’

‘You and Guy Warrener make a fine pair. He thinks the same way as you do.’

‘I know, and I admire him for speaking his mind. He’s a realist, like me. We must move with the times, my Lord. As for the monks, their days are over. Now let’s have a look at your unfortunate steward.’

Later, when the Coroner had arrived and the cause of death had been confirmed, the Sheriff and his clerk started on the lengthy process of taking statements fr. . .