Death At Candlemas

Book 3: Nicholas Peverell

by Iris Collier

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Nicholas Peverell is newly wed to his sweetheart Jane and enjoying married life with her at his manor house at Dean Peverell. One winter evening they invite the bishop of Marchester to dinner. The bishop used to be the prior of Dean Peverell but since King Henry's dissolution of the monastries he now rules the cathedral dignitaries. Next day, on a hunting party in the salt marshes near Pelham Maris, Nicholas meets the bishop again in very different circumstances. He comes across his murdered corpse lying in a pool of water. His heart has been cut out. Nicholas can't help but remember that their previous night's conversation had touched on witchcraft. Rumours abound of a local coven in the area. Has the Bishop fallen foul of it? Nicholas and Jane are determined to discover the truth...

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 432

Sample

‘You know what your trouble is, Bishop? You’ve got no nose for witchcraft.’

Sheriff Richard Landstock paused for dramatic effect and wiped the drips of egg custard off his beard. ‘I am always presenting you with the wretches who take part in these evil rituals but all you do is lock them up in your prison. They should be flushed out, got rid of, Bishop, then handed over to me and my men and we’ll string them up on Marchester Heath.’

‘We see things differently,’ said Bishop Thomas mildly. ‘You see emissaries of Satan and I see poor misguided wretches led astray by deluded individuals with an inflated idea of their own importance. A little instruction, a little kindness, and we’ll have them worshipping with us again in our Christian services.’

‘Yet you condemned Martin Pye and his body lit up the countryside for miles around.’

‘That was different. Martin Pye was a heretic.’

‘What’s the difference?’ roared the Sheriff, washing down the remains of his apple pie with a gulp of freshly brewed mead.

‘All the difference in the world,’ said Bishop Thomas in the patient voice of a conciliatory schoolmaster. ‘Witches are simply misguided. Heretics, have, by their own arrogance, rejected the truth of the Christian faith.’

Nicholas Peverell pushed his plate away and looked round his dinner table with satisfaction. Life was good – a clear, frosty night; a huge fire burning in his hearth filling the room with the scent of apple wood from his orchards; the candles burning brightly lighting up the faces of his guests and lighting up the face of Jane, his beautiful wife of only four weeks and already a confident hostess presiding over his household and his dinner table. Looking at her now, her beautiful face with those bright blue searching eyes, her copper-coloured hair tucked under the fashionable headdress given to her by her friend, Lady Isabel Hardwicke, when she left Court, her green velvet dress as bright as the leaves of the daffodils which would soon be appearing in his park during Lent, he still could not believe his luck that she had consented to be his wife and had left the Court and come down to live with him here in his manor house of Dean Peverell, the home of his ancestors since Duke William of Normandy had given them the land as a reward for their loyalty.

He had always loved her, but she had promised Queen Jane that she would stay with her as long as the Queen needed her and he, Nicholas, had begun to give up hope that Jane would ever be his wife. But things had changed. The Queen had died giving birth to the King’s son and heir in October of the previous year. No longer needed, as the King had no plans as yet to re-marry, she had finally consented to be his wife and they had been married in the King’s chapel in Hampton Court on Twelfth Night. Now it was the Feast of Candlemas, the Festival of Light as Jane had called it, and as the number of candles used to illuminate the room symbolised. The Bishop had given the Festival a different, theological meaning, but Jane ignored that and lit her candles to light up the dark days of winter. Tonight they were celebrating the Festival with a good dinner with old friends, the guest of honour being Bishop Thomas, formerly Prior of the priory of Dean Peverell, and now, since King Henry had ordered the expulsion of the monks from their religious foundations, Bishop of the cathedral of Marchester, four miles to the south west of his manor.

The Bishop had taken the transition in his stride and now ruled the cathedral dignitaries as benevolently as he had ruled over his monks. A large man, his girth expanding noticeably as the days went by, his face radiating good humour, the result of a sound digestion and a supreme confidence in his own abilities, he now beamed across at his old adversary, the Sheriff of Marchester, who was always easily aroused by the Bishop’s gently provocative manner.

From witchcraft the conversation moved on to the iniquities of the church, and Jane, conscious of Nicholas’s rapt gaze, signalled to him that it was time to intervene before the Sheriff started saying things he’d regret later.

Nicholas signalled to his steward, Geoffrey Lowe, to refill the glasses, all except the Sheriff’s, who preferred to drink his ale from a pewter tankard in place of the newfangled glasses which Jane had introduced when she had arrived at the manor. Nicholas stood up.

‘Come, let us drink to the King’s health and that of his son, Prince Edward. May they both continue to flourish in these troublesome times,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘And may Almighty God have mercy on the soul of Queen Jane,’ added Bishop Thomas.

‘Aye, and keep the King from eyeing up another lass soon after the poor lady’s death,’ muttered the Sheriff.

‘And now, another toast to you, Bishop Thomas,’ said Nicholas raising his glass in the Bishop’s direction. ‘May you grace our cathedral for many years to come. We need the peace and stability which a long period in office will give us under your benign influence.’

‘Benign, poof!’ muttered the Sheriff into his tankard. ‘Idleness I call it. Blindness which can’t see trouble coming even when I rub his nose in it.’

‘Now, now, Sheriff,’ said the Bishop’s companion, Lancelot Day, Canon Precentor of the cathedral, a man as lean as the Bishop was well-fleshed, who had said little during the meal but had concentrated on his food, waiting for the moment when the music would begin. ‘You should thank God that we have been given a wise and tolerant bishop to rule over our diocese. Not since the blessed St Richard have we had such a just man in the episcopal seat.’

Bishop Thomas threw back his head and gave a roar of laughter. ‘Come, come, Canon, anyone would think you were after my office. I don’t intend to resign just yet, and I’ll certainly keep clear of politics, so I fear you are in for a long wait!’

Time to break the party up, thought Nicholas, exchanging glances with Jane. He could see the Sheriff, his face flushed with good food and a superfluity of mead, becoming increasingly agitated and noticed that Alice, the Sheriff’s comfortable, homely wife, was giving her husband anxious looks. Alice knew from bitter experience what happened when her husband’s passions were aroused, and it wouldn’t do to empty a tankard of mead over the Bishop’s bald head.

Much to everyone’s relief, the entrance of Balthazar Zampieri, Jane’s own lutenist who had come with her from Court, reduced the Sheriff to stunned silence and brought animation to the face of Lancelot Day. Balthazar relished the attention. A native of Venice, he had wandered round the courts of Europe until he landed up at the court of Henry VIII, whose love of music immediately made Balthazar feel at home. Now, in his late thirties, he had managed to keep his youthful, dark looks, but his experiences at Court and in particular, an indiscreet liaison with one of Henry’s favourites had made it necessary for him to leave Court for a while until the fuss died down and the lady concerned had returned to her old admirer. Jane had been only too pleased to offer him sanctuary in Sussex and he had well rewarded her. He was a man of many talents, an accomplished lutenist, he could play the virginals and he sang with a pleasant tenor voice. He could also compose music, something which had once endeared him to the King, who also liked to compose music. It had required a great deal of tolerance on Balthazar’s part when he recognised that some of the King’s acclaimed compositions were really his own. Jane had now become his pupil and was showing an aptitude for composing songs and accompanying herself on the lute and virginals.

That night they sang some of their own compositions and some of the Italian composers, much loved by Balthazar, and then, lest the Sheriff and his wife should feel left out, Jane sang some songs of the people which she’d learned at Court and Balthazar picked up a small hand drum and beat out the strong rhythms in accompaniment. Gradually, Sheriff Landstock relaxed and began to roar out his approval and beat time with his tankard.

Nicholas still couldn’t take his eyes off his wife, admiring her slim, elegant body which moved so naturally to the rhythm of the song. When she smiled across at him he felt his heart would burst with the intensity of his feelings. My beautiful Jane, he thought, what children we’ll have! What have I done to deserve such happiness? Already his house looked like a great man’s house should. She’d done away with the old rushes which had covered the floor and had ordered carpets and tapestries to cover the walls and the stone floors in the modern style. The rooms had all been cleaned, new furniture installed and provided comfort for themselves and their guests. The great hall was no longer used for small dinner parties like the one taking place that evening. Now the great hall would only be used for the great feasts or when the King came to stay. The estates of Lord Montague with which the King had rewarded him last year were bringing in extra income and he had had to hire extra servants to deal with the extra work. Yes, he thought, watching Jane laugh as she sang about a foolish man who’d married two wives, he now asked no more from life – a great estate, good friends, and a perfect wife who had refused the King’s offer of a Court post as Mistress of Songs to come and live with him here in rural Sussex.

He noticed, with relief, that Bishop Thomas and the Sheriff were now smiling at one another and Mistress Alice had pushed her chair back and was beating time to the music with her feet. He ought to go over to her and ask her to dance – that’s what happened at Court – but that evening he didn’t feel like it. Besides, Jane was involved with the music, and there were no other woman present unless he brought in the servants but that would not be appropriate on this occasion. He was glad that Sheriff Landstock had calmed down. He knew he had taken a risk in asking him that night with the Bishop as Richard Landstock too often had a habit of telling the clergy what he thought of them. But he wanted them to be friends. Together with the mayor, they ruled Marchester and kept it the law-abiding place it had always been.

Looking across at Lancelot Day, who seemed fascinated by Balthazar, Nicholas decided it was time to break up the party. It was half past eight, the guests had come at five, and the company was going back to Marchester that night, the Bishop and the Precentor travelling together in the bishop’s carriage, Mr and Mrs Landstock riding together on the sheriff’s sturdy horse.

Jane, as usual, sensed his wishes and brought the music to a finish. He watched with satisfaction as she supervised their guests’ departure; an extra shawl for Alice Landstock, a warm rug for the Bishop and the Precentor. Then, under a star-studded sky, the road lit up by a bright crescent moon, the party left and turned onto the Marchester road, the horses’ breath hanging like smoke in the clear, frosty air.

Nicholas turned to his wife when the servants had been dismissed.

‘My dearest, you were wonderful tonight, you managed everything so well and you looked like a queen. How did I survive before I met you?’

‘You had Mary, Nicholas. You loved her, remember? She was very kind to me when I was a young girl. I admired her. If she hadn’t died she would have been by your side tonight.’

‘Then I have been indeed fortunate to have had two such wives. But this one I am looking at now will always be with me, even in death we shall be buried together.’

‘Don’t talk of such things, Nicholas. We don’t know what lies ahead. But at this moment I intend to stay just where I am, living in peace with my beloved husband.’

Later that night, Jane dismissed her maid after she had helped her out of her elaborate gown which had so many fastenings that Jane needed help both getting dressed and undressed. Then she brushed out her thick hair, already hanging half way down her back after having had it cut short last summer. She slipped between the sweet-smelling sheets, grateful for the warmth coming from the great log glowing in the fireplace, and waited for Nicholas. How good it was, she thought, to have such a place for her home, and such a man for her husband. No longer was she in awe of the manor house. The Court had trained and refined her. Tonight she felt she had passed her first test as mistress of the house. It had been her first dinner party. She hadn’t let Nicholas down. She knew he had been proud of her. It would be a different matter, though, when the King came to stay, as he most certainly would, when the spring came. With the sea so close and the woods full of game, he had already indicated how much he appreciated Lord Nicholas’s manor as a hunting lodge. Pray God he’d give them good notice, she thought as she envisaged the preparations she would have to make to accommodate the King and his ‘few friends’. It was just as well Nicholas now had Montague’s estates to fall back on.

Then Nicholas came in and slipped into the great bed beside her. He took her in his arms and caressed her long hair, kissing her face gently at first and then with increasing passion. Her body never ceased to inflame him and her mind to amaze him. Such physical beauty combined with such intelligence made her his jewel beyond price. And that she loved him too was a constant source of wonder.

At last, their bodies satisfied, they began to give themselves up to sleep. Then he felt Jane stir beside him.

‘What is it, my love?’ he said, sensing her hesitation.

‘Forgive me, Nicholas, from mentioning such a mundane thing at such a moment, but the dinner party emptied our larder. We need to re-stock: birds, game, fish, all those things.’

He raised his head and looked her quizzically. ‘That you should think of these things after we have just shown our love for each other!’

‘I know, but forgive me. Remember all this is new to me. I am not only your wife but also in charge of your household and if the weather should change or if the King should come …’

‘He’ll not come this side of Easter, the roads are too bad. But don’t worry yourself about what might or might not happen. If this weather continues, as I think it will, we’ll make a hunting trip down to the coast. I have some land down there, mostly salt marsh, but full of wild fowl. You can take that falcon of yours along and see what she brings down. Will that please you?’

‘Indeed it will, my lord. But then you always please me.’

‘Then tomorrow I’ll give the orders to make ready for a hunting expedition. And darling Jane, to sleep now. I shall pray that I continue to please you as you are to me my own special Candlemas – a perpetual celebration of light.’

They left before dawn, the air bitterly cold, their breath condensing in clouds around their heads. On either side of the road the outlines of the hawthorn bushes glittered eerily under their frosting of ice applied with an artist’s precision. The road was treacherous, churned up into deep ruts by the carters but frozen solid that morning by the heavy frost. In places the ruts had been smoothed out and some attempt had been made to level off the road using local flintstones which caused sparks to fly up from the horses’ hooves.

Nicholas and Jane rode side by side, urging on their horses, Jane mounted on her white mare, Melissa, and Nicholas on his black stallion, Harry; both horses and riders in high spirits anticipating a good day’s sport on a cold winter’s day. They rode past cottages crouching by the roadside where no lights shone in the windows, past churches and graveyards which emerged out of the shadows like set pieces in a masque. Soon they turned off the main coastal road and turned onto little roads which were mere tracks leading southwards to the coast. The horses were fresh and sure-footed, effortlessly taking the rutted lanes in their stride. They rode on, the cold air whipping up the blood in Jane’s cheeks and freezing her hands beneath the thick gauntlets she wore. But it was not a long journey, not at the pace they were going. Soon they would reach the hamlet of Pelham Maris and the fields and salt marshes where the servants, sent on the day before, would be preparing a hot breakfast in the manor house which Nicholas owned.

With the onset of dawn came the first twittering of the birds in the hedgerows, a sound which made Nicholas and Jane urge their horses on to greater speed. Soon it would be the turn of the ducks to leave their nests to go searching for food; and those ducks were needed to fill the larders.

As the sun rose above the horizon, a big, angry winter’s sun, they reached the hamlet of Pelham Maris, just a small collection of cottages straggling along on either side of the road, and the church, the graveyard of which backed onto the marshes. Once Pelham Maris had been surrounded by fields which had provided rich grazing for cattle, but the sea had broken through the sea wall and had flooded the fields, forming a small harbour which was used by the fishermen as a haven in bad weather because their small boats could enter the harbour on the incoming tide. At that time of the year, though, it was seldom used as not many fishermen went out to sea, not wanting to risk being caught out in winter storms; but it had other uses. Surrounding the harbour and extending into what had once been fertile fields were vast expanses of reed beds, the haven of wild birds of every species, a hunter’s paradise. And in the fields further back from the sea, hares had established their colonies and flocks of geese retreated there in the winter to graze on the short grass.

The reed beds extended for many miles to the west towards Selsey, the southernmost point of the county of Sussex. Nicholas owned much of the land in this area including the salt marshes. He also owned a small hunting lodge which his father, a keen wildfowler, had built, and installed a bailiff to look after what was in fact his game park; but Nicholas seldom went there. He preferred to hunt the deer in the woods around Dean Peverell. The aged bailiff, Walter, still lived there unpeturbed by the isolation and his tranquil life had been rudely shattered by the arrival of Nicholas’s servants invading the house and setting up tables for breakfast and dinner.

To reach the lodge, they had to ride along a narrow track, fringed on either side by reeds that were so tall that they met over their heads. Then the reeds thinned out and the track became a wider road leading to the lodge and the fields beyond and then continuing westward towards the island of Selsey. When they arrived, Walter was standing in front of the house, waiting to greet them. He looked nervously first at Nicholas and then at Jane, struck dumb by fear that they might criticise his arrangements.

‘My lord, I didn’t have time …’

‘Don’t worry, I know we gave you little warning of our coming, but my men should have brought everything we’ll need.’

As Nicholas looked at the old man whom he had neglected for so long and who now looked unbelievably frail, he felt a pang of guilt. Walter had looked after these fields and marshes for so long and yet he hardly knew him. Now, he was standing there looking at them in bewilderment as if they were complete strangers, uncertain of what was expected of him, and Nicholas began to think that the isolation had softened his wits; but Jane realised what was the matter with him – he couldn’t hear what they were saying – and jumped down from her horse and led him into the house where the servants had laid up a table with bread and meat and jugs of warm ale. A fire was burning in the hearth and it was bliss to take off her gauntlets and warm her frozen fingers.

The hunters with the dogs and the falconers had all left for the marshes to await their coming, all except Martin, Nicholas’s own falconer, whom he had assigned to serve Jane, who had learned how to work falcons at Court and who had come to love the brave birds she handled so expertly. Martin, known simply as Martin the falconer, was a man of indeterminate age, a man of few words who seldom smiled, lean-faced, beardless, whose loyalty to the Peverell family was absolute. Now, with the arrival of Jane, he had adopted her without hesitation and she and Nicholas had become the two most important people in his life.

Jane, a tankard of warm ale in her hand, went over to him.

‘Have you eaten, Martin?’

‘Thank you, madam, I have, and so have all the men down in the marshes, not that Walter’s been much help. The poor devil’s as deaf as a post and has lived so long on his own down here that we’ve driven him witless with our preparations.’

‘Then we must see he gets help in the future. It’s not right for him to live here on his own, especially if we come here often, which we intend to do from now on.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, madam. Your wife, Lord Nicholas, has a way with the hawks and it’s good to see them put to good use. But, if you’ll excuse me hurrying you, we ought to get going if you’ve a mind to catch the ducks. There’s a number of herons down there too and as we’ve brought along both the goshawks and the high-flyers we could stock your larder up good and proper. The men have gone ahead with the dogs and carts.’

‘And my calivers?’ said Nicholas looking severely at Martin whose contemptuous attitude towards the fowling pieces he knew only too well.

‘The men have got them, along with all the bits and pieces needed to fire them,’ said Martin stiffly. He hated the firearms – noisy, unreliable, slow, messy – whilst a falcon was a creature of delight: intelligent, beautiful to look at, soaring aloft on its powerful wings, descending on its prey like a bolt from heaven, then returning to its master for approval and a small reward.

‘Though what the hawks will make of them, I don’t know; frighten them to death, I should think.’

‘They’ll bring the birds down quicker than the hawks, and we can fill the wagons up and get home the sooner.’

‘I daresay. The proof’s in the pudding, isn’t it?’

‘And my brave Jenny?’ said Jane intervening. She was aware of Martin’s prejudices and didn’t want a confrontation between him and Nicholas before the day had properly begun.

‘She’s waiting for you, madam,’ said Martin, his manner softening as he looked at her. ‘She’s as fit as a flea and hungry. The men are only waiting for your orders.’

With Martin running along ahead of them, they rode off along the path leading down to the harbour. Suddenly, the reeds began to thin out and ahead of them the harbour opened up before their eyes. The tide was out, the mud flats, fringed by a frosting of ice, creaked and crackled in the dawn light. All around the edge of the harbour the reed beds teemed with thousands of small birds, starlings and blackbirds and fieldfare. Already, the hunters had coated the branches of the hawthorn bushes with a thick, glutinous substance made by crushing holly berries together with bird droppings which would grip the birds’ feet and wings and keep them there until the men scooped them up with their nets. As soon as the spaniels were released, the birds would fly to the hawthorn bushes in terror only to be trapped on the bird lime.

The hunters, with the dogs and carts, had collected in a field near the marsh. When Jane and Nicholas appeared, the dogs became delirious with joy and could only be restrained with difficulty. Jane dismounted and went over to where Martin had taken Jenny from one of the keepers and was stroking her head, calming her eagerness to begin the job she had been trained for. He placed the small goshawk on Jane’s gauntleted arm and watched as she stroked the bird’s quivering body. Then, at Nicholas’s command, the dogs were released and dashed off into the reed beds, barking joyfully in a frenzy of excitement. Immediately, flocks of birds flew up and made for the bushes. With a tremendous flapping of wings hundreds of ducks took off laboriously into the air. With a final caress on the goshawk’s head, Jane released Jenny, who flew effortlessly over the flocks of terrified ducks and dived down upon them, plunging her beak and lethal talons into their backs and heads. Again and again she flew after the ducks returning each time to Jane, who released the birds from her hold and rewarded her with a piece of meat. Then the hunters shot arrows into the air from the small crossbows which most of them preferred to use and soon the reed beds were full of the bodies of ducks and geese, which the spaniels retrieved and brought back to the hunters.

Nicholas took up the caliver and brought down a goose with a single shot, but he soon found the firing piece to be too slow to re-load and threw it aside in favour of the crossbow, which he used accurately and brought down a pair of herons. Jane’s goshawk continued to attack the smaller wildfowl, and the high-flying hawks, with deadly efficiency, brought down the geese that tried to get away across the neighbouring fields. Soon the carts were filling up with the bodies of ducks and geese, pigeons and herons, plovers and bitterns, red shanks and curlews. Soon, there would be enough game to feed the household for weeks.

The sport was exhilarating and the hours went by unnoticed, no one wanting to stop for refreshment. The dogs worked tirelessly until every bird was retrieved. Two swans were added to the pile. They were Nicholas’s swans and he alone had the right to shoot them. This was the first time he had made use of his prerogative and he made a mental note to take more interest in his game park in the future. He needed more wardens on the site, Walter’s years of usefulness now obviously coming to an end. Then, after he had laid the bodies of the swans on top of the pile of the other birds in the carts, he went over to where a table had been laid up with hot pies and slices of meat for their refreshment. Jane joined him, her goshawk finally needing a rest, and helped herself to the food.

‘A good da. . .