Reluctant Spy

Book 2: Nicholas Peverell

by Iris Collier

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

When Nicholas Peverell is urgently summoned to court by a messenger from King Henry VIII, he suspects that the King will want him to investigate a crime; for Nicholas, lord of the Manor of Dean Peverell in Sussex, has done so before. Reluctant to leave home though he is, he will at least see his beloved Jane Warrener, now a lady in waiting to Queen Jane, once more. But the crime, the murder of a wool merchant in the back streets of Portsmouth, hardly seems to warrant such attention - after all, Portsmouth has its own sheriff to deal with such matters. Could there be more to this than meets the eye? Nicholas starts to delve into the death only to find that the dead merchant's box of papers is stolen from the inn where Nicholas is lodging, which confirms his suspicions that this is no ordinary murder. He has also been instructed to report on the condition of the coastal defences at Porchester castle; his stay there becomes awkward after the governor's predatory wife attempts to seduce him. Then disaster strikes - Nicholas is suddenly arrested on a charge of treason and taken to London to be imprisoned in the Tower. For reasons beyond his understanding, the hunter has become the hunted...

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 288

Sample

He left the Master Mariner’s tavern at half past ten. He hadn’t intended to stay so long, but the place had been a welcome haven from the storm, the ale was excellent, the company convivial. The wind lashed his face as he turned towards the Point and into Broad Street, heading to the house where his sister Agnes lived with her shipwright husband Tom and a lively brood of small children. The rain was easing off but he could hear the waves dashing against the harbour wall, and, looking up, he saw the ragged clouds scudding across the sky, hiding the moon, and he thanked his lucky stars that he’d crossed over from France the night before.

He carried no light, relying on his familiarity with the streets of Portsmouth to get him home. He’d drunk too much, and he thought longingly of his bed, although it was a bit of a crush sharing a room with Agnes’s brood. Tomorrow, an early start. He’d booked his passage to London for the next day with a fellow wool merchant. Not many hours to go before he’d have to get up as the carrier wanted to be on his way by first light. He should have left the tavern earlier, before it got dark. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. Agnes would be worried. Tom would curse him for keeping him from his bed. He didn’t want to cause trouble. He didn’t see his sister all that often. Usually he crossed over from Calais to Dover, but this time he had work to do in Le Havre. Work. Always work. Through the heavy fumes of alcohol he thought back to that last night in Le Havre, his conversation on the boat; that is, what conversation he was able to have on a boat that reeled and lurched its way across the Channel like a drunkard.

The narrow streets were deserted. All law-abiding folk were in bed at this time. A few figures were huddled in doorways. He heard someone laugh. Someone swore. Then there was the sound of breaking wood, the crash of an object hurled against a wall. Portsmouth Point was a sinister and violent place at night. Now he turned left into Fish Street, a dark, cobbled alley-way, where the overhanging houses almost touched one another. Agnes and Tom lived at the end of the street where the houses were more substantial. As he turned the corner, thanking God that he would soon be in his bed, two dark figures, lurking in a doorway of one of the houses, stepped out into the street. He didn’t have time to turn round. Certainly he didn’t have time to draw his dagger. One of the shadows darted forward. The knife slid into his back just below the shoulder blades. He felt a numbing pain. He turned to face his attackers, stumbled and fell. He didn’t feel the second stab that pierced his heart. The two men pulled out their daggers, wiped them on their cloaks and hauled him into the gutter.

‘Get his purse. Be quick,’ one of them said.

The other cut the purse, well-filled with money, and stuffed it down the front of his jerkin. Then, wrapping their cloaks round them, they disappeared into the night.

In the house in Fish Street, Agnes grew seriously worried. Where was Bartholomew? He wasn’t usually as late as this and the tavern was only a few minutes’ walk away. Tom had fallen asleep. There was nothing for it, she would have to go and find her brother by herself.

‘Damn him,’ she thought, as she put on her cloak. ‘Dunkard that he is. Never knows when to stop, that’s his trouble.’

*

The monks had gone. Four of the bells had gone. The silver plate had been carted away. And his friend, the kindly, expansive Prior Thomas, was now rector of a church in Shoreham. His house, where he had enjoyed so many good dinners and listened to beautiful music, was deserted. Already the villagers were creeping up in the night and helping themselves to the stones and the lead from the roof. Jackdaws had made their nests in the window embrasures. The cloisters were silent. Last autumn’s leaves had drifted into the corners and lay around in heaps. Nicholas felt immensely sad. Another age. Another time. Only two years ago he’d been standing here with the Prior and discussing improvements to the buildings. And now, centuries of prayer, almsgiving, teaching and healing had been swept away by parliamentary legislation orchestrated by the King and his minion, Thomas Cromwell. Soon, bit by bit, the stonework, the timbers, would all vanish. Buttercups and cow parsley would grow on the once well-tended grass of the cloister garth. Soon, all would vanish. Just a few foundations and marks on the earth for future generations to wonder over and try to imagine what the Priory had looked like in its heyday.

He walked into the church where, not long ago, the monks had chanted the daily office. The choir stalls were still there; the chantry chapel was still there, not finished because the workmen had not had time to complete their work before the King impounded it. He walked up to it and admired, as he always did, the fine carvings on the pillars; carvings of children climbing trees, cherubs playing lutes, angels blowing trumpets, and the strange collection of mythical beasts, objects of the sculptor’s imagination. A fitting resting place for his wife Mary, now at rest in the graveyard for seven years, but soon to be brought in here, to this tomb where she would remain for ever. Then, when his time came, he would lie beside her, just as, in life, they had shared a bed together.

He glanced up at the painted ceiling. It was his ceiling. He’d paid for it. It was his family history that was recorded there in the heraldic imagery. His family’s motto, Toujours Loyal, was written on one of the shields. Loyal, he thought resentfully, that was a joke. Of course he supported King Henry. Only a fool would oppose him, or someone thirsting for martyrdom. But Henry expected much from his servants, and was miserly with his rewards.

He heard the church door open and he turned round. Alfred Hobbes, the Vicar of the parish church of Dean Peverell, had come in to disturb his peace. He was a small man, with the face and features of one of the smaller rodents. He walked up to Nicholas, his face registering a sly obsequiousness which set Nicholas’s teeth on edge.

‘Good morning, Lord Nicholas. We don’t often have the pleasure of seeing you here. Not now that your friends have gone,’ he said, waving a hand round the deserted choir.

Nicholas looked at him sharply. ‘Yes, my friends have gone. More’s the pity. And now I suppose the place will go to rack and ruin.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Hobbes with a cunning look at Nicholas. ‘We could move the parishioners in here. After all, they still have to worship God, and now that the monks have left, they would be pleased to come in here on Sundays.’

‘So you want to be Prior, eh?’ roared Nicholas, scarcely able to control the urge to seize Hobbes and shake him until his teeth rattled. ‘Curb your ambition, Vicar, or you’ll be out on your neck. Remember, I’m still the patron of your living. Nothing’s going to change that. Let the parish worship where they’ve always worshipped. The other side of that wall. When change is needed it will be up to me to decide what to do. Meanwhile, get back to your flock. They’ll need you more than ever now that the monks have gone.’

Pushing Hobbes in front of him, Nicholas walked back to the main door. They stepped out into the June sunshine. It looked so beautiful, so peaceful. It was hard to believe that only two years ago the monks were evicted. He remembered seeing the sad procession of the brothers filing out of their choir, carrying their rolled-up mattresses. Some had set off down the road without a word to anyone, without one look behind them. Others had been met by their relatives who took them off in carts or on horseback, watched by the crowd of subdued villagers who had turned up to mock and jeer, but had fallen silent as the monks made their dignified exit. All gone. Now new men were in power. New faces at Court, a new Queen, already five months pregnant. Queen Jane. The King had married her a mere eleven days after his previous wife, the bewitching Anne Boleyn, had been executed in the Tower.

‘Have you any news of Mistress Warrener?’ said Hobbes, looking slyly up into Nicholas’s face. ‘They say she’s well set up at Court. Queen Jane is much taken with her, I hear.’

‘Vicar, get back to your own church, and attend to the souls of your flock. Mistress Warrener is well.’

Hobbes sighed. ‘Her father misses her greatly. It’s time she paid us a visit.’

‘That’s for the Queen to decide. Now, be off with you. But damn me, who’s this?’

A horseman stood by the lych-gate. Both horse and rider were caked in dust and splattered with foam from the horse’s mouth, and sweat from his body. Nicholas’s heart missed a beat. Not again. Not another summons to Court. He thought he’d finished with all that. Was he never to live in peace and finish off his chantry chapel?

Ordering the Vicar to get back to his church, Nicholas went towards the rider who dismounted and removed his hat.

‘The King, Lord Nicholas, wants to see you. It’s urgent, he says.’

‘Can I not sleep in my own bed, and leave tomorrow?’

The man shook his head. ‘The King says you are to start at once.’

Nicholas looked despairingly at the messenger. Was it always to be like this? Either the King was coming to see him, or he was to go to the King. There was never any warning. No time to put his own affairs in order. Fortunately, his horse, Harry, was in superb condition. He had to be. He would have to travel along the treacherous roads of Sussex in record time. Henry was not a patient man. Fortunately it was high summer. The nights were short, the roads deeply rutted, but passable. And there was a full moon.

He walked over to where he’d tethered Harry to a hawthorn bush by the roadside, the messenger following him. He had a good idea what the King had in store for him. Find someone; someone the King wanted rid of. Arrest him. Bring him to trial and make sure there was enough evidence to convict him. Henry wasn’t too bothered with the niceties of the criminal law when it came to getting rid of people he didn’t trust, but he liked to go through the motions of a just trial. There weren’t many people Henry trusted, Nicholas thought, as he mounted Harry, who whinnied and pawed the ground impatiently. Except, for some unknown reason, he trusted him, Nicholas Peverell, lord of the manor of Dean Peverell, a small estate in the County of Sussex, close to the cathedral city of Marchester.

Followed by the messenger, Nicholas rode up the village street to the crossroads, and then up the long drive to his manor house which had been his family seat ever since the first Peverell settled there after the Conquest of England by the Duke of Normandy, five hundred years ago.

At the heavy, oak, Norman door, he stopped and waited for the messenger. ‘You’re welcome to stay here for the night,’ he said. ‘Refresh yourself. I’ll set off as soon as I’ve given instructions to my servants.’

Then he tugged on the bell rope, the gate-keeper opened the door and they clattered into the courtyard.

‘The King, Lord Nicholas,’ said Thomas Cromwell evenly, ‘is enjoying a day’s hunting; a necessary recreation in his busy life. However, he sends his regards and says he hopes you’ll join us for dinner this evening. There’s to be some music, I gather, and an exceedingly good menu has been ordered.’

Nicholas cursed inwardly. It was always like this. The ride from Sussex had been long and hard and it had taken its toll on Harry who’d been left behind at Merrow. And all for nothing. Henry’s hunting expeditions usually lasted all day, or until he’d worn out eight or more horses. Henry liked to play the waiting game. The summons to Court. Then the agony of being kept in suspense not knowing why the King had sent for him. But Nicholas was used to it. It didn’t do to read too much into this assertion of royal authority.

Cromwell, too, enjoyed playing his master’s power games. Looking at him, Nicholas saw the gleam of satisfaction in his crafty eyes, hastily concealed by an ingratiating smile. After all, Nicholas could be the next favourite. Cromwell knew it was best to keep in with favourites; especially when one’s own position might one day depend on that person’s goodwill.

Nicholas found it hard to conceal his dislike of Cromwell. Even his appearance irritated him. A plain, stout man. A man of the people, a Londoner, Cromwell was dressed, as usual, in a long, dark-coloured robe trimmed with expensive fur, his only vanity. His pale, podgy face, always inscrutable, today showed signs of fatigue, and his hand which held a letter was tightly clenched with tension. Here was a man, thought Nicholas, who had served one master, Thomas Wolsey, well, and had been passed on to serve a royal master, one who had the power of life and death over his subjects. He knew Cromwell had risen to high office through his ability to manipulate Parliament. He’d been responsible for procuring the King’s divorce from Queen Catherine and for making the King Supreme Head of the Church in England. This man, thought Nicholas, was the architect of the King’s power. The King owed everything to him. But for how long? Once Cromwell had outlived his usefulness, was he to suffer the same fate as Sir Thomas More and Queen Anne? Henry, Nicholas knew only too well, had no hesitation in ridding himself of anyone he tired of. Looking at Cromwell, Nicholas shuddered. There, he thought, could be me, if the King had a mind to it.

At that moment, however, Cromwell was the picture of affability. He told Nicholas that a room had been made ready for him above the gate-house. A small room, but then he was only to be there for one night. He would be comfortable. He would enjoy tonight’s feast.

Nicholas was growing impatient. He was tired and needed to rest. ‘What does the King want me for?’ he asked, cutting short Cromwell’s platitudes.

Cromwell looked at him in astonishment which Nicholas knew was feigned. Cromwell knew very well what was in the King’s mind. He’d probably put it there in the first place. ‘Lord Nicholas, how should I know why his Highness has sent for you? He needs your services; that’s all I know. As a Justice of the Peace you know all about legal procedures. You are a friend of sheriffs. You know how to deal with cases of sudden death.’

‘Sudden death? In Marchester?’

‘Not in Marchester. Oh, nothing to worry about; just a small matter. It’s probably of no consequence at all. A wool merchant, by name Bartholomew Tyler, was stabbed to death in the back streets of Portsmouth. Let me see now …’ He referred to the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Yes, here we are. Five days ago. The evening of the fifteenth of June.’

‘Five days ago! Too late to start an investigation. Besides, Portsmouth is way out of my jurisdiction. They have their own Sheriff. They’ve probably caught the murderer already. I am not the only man responsible for the upkeep of law and order in the south of England.’

Cromwell shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘The Coroner will put you right on the facts. The Sheriff will get on with his side of the business. But you know how it is with these lowly officials. They can’t see the wood for the trees. Now you, Lord Nicholas, with your great experience …’

‘I, too, am but a lowly official, Baron Cromwell,’ said Nicholas emphasising the new honour recently conferred on Cromwell by the King. ‘I also know it’s none of my business what goes on in a neighbouring county. The Sheriff of Portsmouth will deeply resent my interference.’

‘Not if the King sends you, my Lord. Just think about it. Would we really bother to summon you here only to put you in charge of a run-of-the-mill robbery which ended in death? Yes,’ he said, seeing Nicholas’s enquiring look. ‘Tyler’s purse was taken. But that could have been a deliberate attempt to put the authorities off the scent.’

‘But what other motive could there possibly be? A merchant. Portsmouth’s full of them. Incidentally, what was he doing when he was attacked?’

‘He’d been out drinking. It was late. He was on his way home, or rather to his sister’s house in Fish Street where he was staying.’

‘Then he should have stayed there and not gone wandering off to alehouses. Portsmouth’s a dangerous place after dark. Robberies are two a penny, especially in the area down on the Point.’

‘I agree with you. Tyler should have stayed in if he wanted to be safe. But he wanted a drink. Now, Lord Nicholas, this little matter of the death of a wool merchant is the reason why you’re here. The King wants you to go to Portsmouth and clear the matter up. We want the thieves caught and punished – severely and publicly as a warning to others. The King cares deeply about the safety of his subjects, and he doesn’t like to think that it’s not safe to walk the streets after dark.’

‘But what, in God’s name, is so special about Bartholomew Tyler? I can’t tell you how many people are murdered after dark all over the kingdom, and robbed of their purses. There must be at least three people a week in Marchester alone who are attacked and I’m not called in to investigate. I preside over Quarter Sessions, and I sentence them, not catch them.’

‘As I said, the King wants you to go. Portsmouth is very special to him. He wants his subjects to be safe there. Now, I suggest you take a rest, refreshments will be brought to you, and we will see you again at dinner. I believe one of your friends, Mistress Warrener, will be singing for us. Queen Jane is very taken with her. As one of her ladies-in-waiting she enjoys a privileged position.’

Despite his self-control, Nicholas’s heart missed a beat at the mention of Jane. He hadn’t seen her for a year; not since she’d been invited to Court to sing to the King. Had she changed? Would she recognise him? Worst of all, had someone at Court engaged her affections? Cromwell, he could see, knew how much he admired Jane. If he knew she was being courted by someone, he wasn’t going to reveal it. Like his master, Cromwell enjoyed the game of cat and mouse. And in this case, he, Nicholas, was the mouse.

The interview was over. Nicholas left Cromwell to his machinations, and walked across the courtyard of Hampton Court, Wolsey’s palace which the King had coveted and taken from him. His room was where he’d stayed before, at the top of the turret by the gate-house. It was small, but adequate, one used to put up short-stay visitors. A room for the King’s servants, not courtiers. Cold beef, bread, and a tankard of ale were laid out on a wooden table by the small window. There was a jug of water and a bowl, and after washing the dust and sweat off his face and hands, Nicholas ate the food. Then he threw himself down on the hard, wooden bed and in seconds was asleep.

A knock on the door jolted him awake. A servant entered carrying a pitcher of water and a garment draped over one arm which he dumped on the chair.

‘His Highness sends his regards,’ the man said, ‘and hopes you will accept this gift of a coat. He hopes it meets with your approval. He’ll be ready to meet you in fifteen minutes in the banqueting hall.’

He bowed and left the room. Nicholas, dazed with sleep, got up, realised it was later than he thought, dashed some cold water over his face and shoulders, and picked up the coat. It was a splendid jacket made of fine royal-blue wool. Tudor roses were embroidered in gold thread on each point of the collar and the buttons down the front looked as if they were made of real silver. A good gift, thought Nicholas. But why such an expensive one? The King never gave away gifts without there being an ulterior motive. Most likely it was a bribe. And his heart sank at the thought of what was in store for him.

The King and his servant were standing together, deep in conversation, when Nicholas was shown into one of the ante-rooms off the Great Hall. They stopped talking when they saw him, and the King walked across to greet him.

‘Well, Peverell, here you are safe and sound, thank God. I’m glad to see you. That’s a magnificent jacket you’re wearing! I hope you like it. Cost me something, I can tell you. I spent a fortune on those buttons. But only the best for my friends, eh Thomas?’ he said turning to look at Cromwell for confirmation.

‘Your Highness honours me with your favour,’ said Nicholas, bowing low. The King turned back to him and put an arm companionably round his shoulders. Nicholas felt a sense of relief. The King was in a jovial mood. Long may it last, he prayed.

King Henry, Nicholas had to admit, was in fine physical shape. Despite a day’s hunting, he still seemed full of vigour. Admittedly, his girth had increased remarkably since he’d last seen him, but that was only to be expected as time went by. He still had the upright stance of a man in his prime, though, feet apart, radiating strength and power. His large, ruddy face showed no signs of excess fleshiness and his red-gold beard still thrust forward aggressively. The eyes were the same, small, calculating, revealing nothing of his thoughts. Here was someone, thought Nicholas, who was absolutely in control of himself and anyone else who happened to cross his path. He was surrounded by minions who obeyed his every whim. He was Henry Tudor, power personified.

Yet Nicholas wasn’t frightened of him. Of course he was wary. He wasn’t taken in by his affability. Too often he’d seen Henry’s mood change. The good humour could evaporate in an instant, the face would become suffused with blood, and the eyes narrow to two tiny slits. King Henry in a rage was an unforgettable sight. But somewhere underneath this powerful exterior Nicholas sensed a lonely man, one who was desperately insecure. He could never have close friends. Too many people jostled for his favours. Too many people watched his every move, made plans for their own advancement should he fall sick or be killed in a tournament. How many people had gasped in horror when he’d fallen from his horse last year whilst jousting. How many had rushed forward to calculate the extent of his injuries. Even his friends watched his every move. It was only last February, at the King’s palace at Greenwich, that Nicholas had been talking to one of the King’s closest friends, Lord Montague, who had been drinking unwisely at dinner. He’d turned to Nicholas and said, ‘He will die one day, suddenly; his leg will kill him and then we shall have some jolly stirring!’ Nicholas had pretended not to hear but he had made a mental note that Montague’s days were numbered if he couldn’t control his tongue.

The ante-room had now filled up with courtiers. The smell of roast meat was overpowering, and the King was becoming restive.

‘Time to eat. Let the Queen be seated first though. Come Peverell, you shall sit next to me tonight. I want everyone to see how well that coat suits you. It does you proud. The colour’s just right. I envy you that thick mane of brown hair, not a grey hair in sight. Mind you, I think I look well myself, don’t you think? Not bad for a man turned forty.’

He swivelled round on his small feet and the full skirt of his gold-embroidered doublet swirled round him revealing his enormous codpiece, the symbol of his manly power.

‘Your Highness, as always, looks in the best of health,’ said Nicholas.

‘Hm – my leg plagues me; especially after a day’s hunting. But it’s only a trifle. I can still ride a horse and pleasure a woman, eh Thomas?’ he said, stopping in his pirouetting to poke Cromwell in the ribs.

‘Your Highness is full of vigour,’ said Cromwell obsequiously, ‘as your Queen bears witness.’

‘How right you are, Thomas. Yes, my beloved Jane. The best of my wives. Soon to be the mother of my son, God willing.’

Amen to that, thought Nicholas. Let him get his son, then he’ll stop changing his wives like someone in a Christmas game.

‘Now, Peverell,’ said the King, suddenly serious, and ignoring the press of the courtiers around him. ‘I understand Thomas here has briefed you about this little matter of Bartholomew Tyler. I want it cleared up once and for all, yo. . .