The Secrets Of The Black Canons

Book 4: Nicholas Peverell

by Iris Collier

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

The date is September 1538. Having been left a widower by Jane Seymour's death, Henry VIII is looking for a new wife. Cromwell has put forward the Princess of Cleves, a marriage which will bring Henry an alliance with the Protestant princes of Europe. Meanwhile near to Nicholas Peverell's Sussex estate, the body of a young girl is found washed up on the shore. At first it is feared she has taken her own life but, in his capacity as justice of the peace, Nicholas soon comes to the conclusion that Sarah Bowman has been murdered. A skilled needlewoman, Sarah had worked at the nearby Augustinian priory of Monksmere until Henry had ransacked the monasteries and ordered their dissolution. But, despite a hefty reward offered for information regarding Sarah's murder, the people of Monksmere seem reluctant to talk, especially about anything regarding the former occupants of the priory - the mysterious order of clerics known as the Black Canons

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 411

Sample

Still half asleep, young Juppy stumbled across the field, squeezed through the hole in the hawthorn hedge, and went down onto the shore where, looming through the thick sea mist, the other fishermen’s boats looked like a herd of basking seals. But, glancing up at the sky, Juppy could just make out the pale outline of the sun and knew that in an hour or two it would be another glorious autumn day. The sea was as smooth as a mill pond; the waves, tiny ripples of water lapping against the shingle. Juppy rubbed his eyes and yawned. A day like this made his job a pleasure. The lobster pots would be full. He could drift out on the tide to where the markers were, idle away a few hours, empty the pots and row back to the shore with the first of the flood. Then home to where his father would be waiting for him with a piece of bread and cheese and a beaker of ale; old Tom already harnessed to the cart. A short journey to the castle where Lord Gilbert’s stewards would pay good money for the lobsters.

He was all alone on the beach. None of the others had yet arrived. He was always first; his father saw to that. Glancing along the shore to where the rocks began, he saw a dark mass of something which moved gently around at the water’s edge. Seaweed, he thought, loosened from the rocks and brought ashore by the incoming tide. Seaweed was useful; especially the thick, juicy variety. Dry it out and it became good winter fuel. He decided to walk over to it and pull it above the high water mark to be collected later.

But it wasn’t seaweed. As he stared down at the waterlogged bundle, he saw it was a woman dressed in a dark-coloured robe, her black hair clinging round her tiny, pale face and falling in a tangled mass around her shoulders. She was a small lass, he noticed. Small, neat waist, slender wrists and dainty hands. Had she a tail, she could have been a mermaid; but the thin legs which he could see clearly through the soaked dress were undoubtedly human.

There was something familiar about her face. Tiny, well-shaped, brown eyes staring up him; the terror still apparent in them. Hastily, he bent down and closed them. And then he saw the bruise marks round her slender throat. He felt a surge of anger. So the poor lass had not drowned herself. Someone had strangled her and dumped her in the water, hoping the sea water and the fish would dispose of the body. But whoever it was had forgotten about the tide. He reached out and pulled her further up the beach, her body surprisingly light despite having been in the sea for several hours. Not long enough, he thought, to cause that sweet face to become bloated or the crabs to get at her eyes. In fact there was no signs of that deterioration he was used to seeing when bodies were retrieved from the sea. She was as beautiful in death as she had been in life. Because now he remembered who she was. Sarah. Old Mother Bowman’s granddaughter who lived up at the edge of Willet’s wood in Monksmere, the next village to his own.

She’d always been a bit of a mystery, he remembered. Beautiful as the new moon in a cloudless night sky. But quiet. Clever, people said; a bit haughty. But he’d admired her as one would admire a beautiful princess shut away in a castle, unapproachable and unobtainable. However, Sarah hadn’t been standoffish to everyone because, one day, two years ago, she’d been seen with a babe in her arms. A bonny child. She called him Henry. And folks laughed, of course, as they always did in these cases. They soon got used to the situation and she never flaunted herself round the village. Her grandmother saw to that. But who, in God’s name, would want to kill her? Gently he eased her over to see if there were any bruises on her back. He pushed aside the mass of hair and saw the marks on her skull; deep indentations as if she’d been hit with a heavy object. He took a deep breath and glanced nervously around as if he expected to see the murderer there waiting for him. Then he pulled himself together. These marks must have been made as the sea caught hold of her and dashed her against the cruel, barnacle-encrusted rocks. How could it be otherwise? Her killer had strangled her; the bruises round her neck proved that. Why kill her twice? Unless her attacker was in a frenzy of rage. But who could be so angry with her? Unless it was some monster with a deranged mind. Probably he had succumbed to lust and was anxious to destroy the evidence of his handiwork. This was a case for the sheriff if ever there was one, he thought. But first he had to get the lass up to the barn and lay her on some clean straw. Give her the respect which was due to her.

He heard the others arriving and shouted to them. He’d leave his own pots for the moment. They came running over to him and together they lifted up the girl called Sarah and carried her up to the barn already half-full with the harvest. Young Juppy turned to one of the other fishermen, an older man with an air of authority about him.

‘What’ll we do now, Billy?’

‘You go and tell Old Mother Bowman and I’ll get Master Fuller to get off and find the sheriff. We can’t just leave her here and say nothing.’

‘Don’t see why not,’ mumbled one of the others. ‘The lass probably got what was coming to her. Having a babe with no husband and not telling anyone who the father is, is asking for trouble. Could have been the Devil’s child. She’s got the look of a witch about her. Why should we lose an hour’s valuable fishing time for the Devil’s whore?’

‘Because we’re Christian folk, that’s why, John Bates.

And I’ll have no talk of the Devil. Young Henry’s father was a man right enough. Now get on up to Master Fuller and tell him to saddle that horse of his and go find the sheriff. The fish’ll still be there when you get back and you can work away with a clear conscience knowing that the lass’s killer will be caught and strung up on Marchester Heath as an example to others. We can’t have people murdered and dumped in the sea and nothing done about it. And just because the maid’s unwed and has got a child doesn’t mean she’s not entitled to the same treatment as other more respectable folk. Now get off with you!’

Sickened by what he had just seen on the execution ground on Marchester Heath, and with the stench of burning flesh still filling his head, Nicholas Peverell turned his horse, Harry, towards the Downs instead of going straight back to his manor house in Dean Peverell. The sheriff had insisted he went with him to see the burning of the witch, Jess Hobbes, as he said it was Nicholas’s duty as Justice of the Peace to see the law in action. But Nicholas had no stomach for cruelty and the sight of the crowd shouting obscenities at the poor old soul had only depressed him. Maybe old Jess had supped with the Devil. Maybe she had tamed two hares who shared her hovel with her and her cat, and maybe she had the marks of the Devil on her wizened old body, but what harm had she done? Admittedly two women had lost their babies, both in the same week, but that had happened before and nobody had attributed the deaths to witchcraft. A cow’s milk had dried up. A calf had died. It happened all the time. Most people got on with their lives and accepted these tragedies as part of existence. More to the point, he thought, as Harry, sensing his master’s mood, bounded up the chalky path, she had ranted and raged against the King and his divorce from Queen Katharine. However, it was obvious the poor soul’s brain was deranged and it would have been better if everyone had ignored her mumblings. But the neighbours had taken against her – a witch-hunt was still going on and the new archdeacon was determined to clean up the parishes. So Jess had died today outside the city walls. He thanked God that her end had been swift. Despite the crowd’s insistence that no mercy should be shown to her, the sheriff had ordered one of his men to strangle her before the pile of kindling was lit.

They reached the highest point of the Downs and Nicholas reined Harry in. They were in the middle of some ancient earth walls, built long before his ancestors had come over from France with Duke William. There were several of these earthworks along the ridge of the Downs, built, so it was said, by the ancient people to defend themselves from invaders coming over from the Continent. He dismounted and let Harry crop the short, sweet Downland grass. All around them, the sheep were doing the same thing. He noticed that their short summer coats were now thickening up ready for the winter and that the lambs which gambolled round their mothers were large and sturdy and ready for the Michaelmas slaughter. These were his sheep, his lambs and he should have felt proud at this evidence of his wealth. But Jess’s death had lowered his spirits. Looking round at the gently undulating curves of the hills and then down to the coastal plain where the spire of Marchester cathedral was clearly visible, he thought that there was no spot on earth more beautiful than this; yet the scene he had just witnessed had been ugly and brutal. And in no way could he find it justified.

The early morning mist had cleared and he could see the island with its cliffs and inlets quite clearly. The five creeks which made up Marchester harbour, like the fingers of a hand, shone brightly in the sunshine. This was his land; he owned a considerable part of it. His ancestors had acquired it from King William who had rewarded his followers generously. This was his inheritance which he would pass on, God willing, to his own son, when Jane, his wife of eight months, produced an heir. Not that there was any sign of one at the moment; but she was young and all in good time. There was his manor house below him, next to the priory of which he had been patron until the king dismissed the monks. Now it was his parish church and its square tower would be a landmark for centuries to come.

His mood began to lighten. He tugged Harry’s head up from the grass, mounted him and patted his glossy neck.

‘Come on, old fellow. Let’s put Marchester Heath behind us. Let’s go home.’

Handing his horse over to the stable boy who was waiting for him, Nicholas walked quickly across the cobbled courtyard and into the great hall of his manor house, which, as always, looked bright and clean and smelled delicious from the fresh herbs strewn on the floor. The fire, which was never allowed to go out whatever the time of year, crackled in the huge fireplace. In the distance came the sound of music and women’s laughter. This, he thought, was how things should be: a well-ordered house, a loving and talented wife, a great estate. Why should he concern himself with other people’s sordid lives?

He went into the small room which led off the hall. It was Jane’s room and the music room. The three of them were grouped together around the virginals where Jane was seated with Balthazar sitting on a stool by her side. The singer was Philippa, the Bishop of Marchester’s young daughter whom Jane had become friendly with in the spring when Philippa’s father had been dean. They had become strongly attached to one another, bound together by the dreadful ordeal they had experienced at that time. She often came to stay with them and Nicholas was pleased to see her. She was company for Jane as well as a gifted singer and a willing student of Greek and Latin, in which Jane was proficient. Balthazar had come with Jane when she left the court after the death of Queen Jane. For reasons which Nicholas never enquired about, he had made an enemy of the king and it was expedient for him to leave court. Jane had offered him sanctuary with her and Nicholas, who, after a period of suspicion, had got used to him and saw in him no threat. Balthazar loved Jane; that was obvious. But for him love could not be expressed with a woman, and, for the duration of his stay at Dean Peverell, he accepted his celibate state. Perhaps, one day, when there was a new king on the throne, he would return to court, Nicholas thought. Or more likely go back to his native Venice.

For a moment, Nicholas stood quietly in the doorway enjoying the scene which had all the beauty of one of Master Holbein’s paintings. Three extraordinarily attractive people in the prime of their lives: Jane, slim and elegant, her glorious red-gold hair framing her face and tumbling round her shoulders, her creamy skin perfectly set off by her pale green morning gown; Balthazar’s dark Italianate looks complemented by his crimson velvet doublet and soft leather hose; and Philippa. How beautiful she looked. Her golden hair, unplaited, fell to her waist and her rosy face, still childish, was animated with the pleasure of the music they were making. It was one of Balthazar’s own compositions. The king, thought Nicholas, had lost a talented musician. But the king’s loss was his gain.

Jane looked up and saw him and the tableau disintegrated. She jumped up and ran over to him.

‘Why, Nicholas, you’re back early. Let me order you some wine, and you must come over and listen to our new song which Balthazar’s just finished writing.’

She beckoned to one of the servants who had followed Nicholas into the room, and ordered refreshment for Nicholas. The wine, when it came, was cool and refreshing and made by his own servants under Jane’s direction, from his own grapes which grew on the southern slope of one of his gardens. The cakes were soft and delicious and made with honey from his own bees. Glass in hand – Jane had introduced his household to glasses when she came from court – he walked over to the other two and sat down on one of the oak armchairs which Jane had softened by the addition of cushions. The floor of this room was covered with rugs, not with straw and rushes as in the hall, and he felt enveloped in softness and comfort. He was, he thought, a most fortunate man.

The sound of horses’ hooves on the cobbled yard shattered his peace. A servant entered and went over to Nicholas.

‘The sheriff’s here, my lord,’ he said.

‘Richard? What the devil does he want? I only saw him a couple of hours ago.’

‘Your help, my lord,’ said Richard Landstock, Sheriff of Marchester, who strode into the room, filling it with his boisterous energy. ‘We’ve got a murder on our hands. Over at Atherington. I’d be grateful if you’d come with me and take a look at the body. After all, you’ll be the one to sentence the culprit when we find him.’

‘Atherington?’ said Jane sweetly. ‘That’s a good ride from here. Surely you’ll stay and eat some dinner with us first? It’s not good to start a murder investigation on an empty stomach.’

‘I’d never turn down the offer of good food, Lady Jane; especially when it comes out of your kitchen. Just a bite, mind. We must get on our way soon if we are to be back by dark.’

‘What’s so special about this girl, Richard, that you need my help?’ said Nicholas as they mounted their horses and clattered out of the main gate and down the drive towards the coastal road, two of the sheriff’s men following them.

‘Just a hunch that this is not a straightforward case. Jack Fuller, who came to fetch me, hinted at there being more than meets the eye to this lass’s death. Now, I don’t take remarks like that lightly. Great men could be involved; and when it comes to great men who would be the best person to consult? Why, Lord Nicholas Peverell, I think. Besides, if this does turn out to be a murder investigation, and until I’ve seen the body I don’t jump to conclusions, you’ll be trying her murderer at the next Quarter Sessions; so you’d best come along and help me find him.’

The road east ran across the coastal plain, parallel to the coast. They rode past tranquil fields surrounding prosperous villages, each one with its little church with pointed spire. The cattle grazing on the rich pastureland looked fat and sleek at the end of the summer. They passed carts stuffed with hay and corn slowly making their way to the barns where there would be ample food during the winter months for both humans and beasts. The harvest was good this year, thought Nicholas, as he cantered along beside the sheriff. A few more weeks of this dry weather and all would be well for another year.

He was not as familiar with this part of Sussex as he was with the western half where business took him to Marchester, the county town, or to Portsmouth when he needed to speak to Ralph Paget, the Earl of Southampton. This was the lord lieutenant’s territory whose castle was just coming into view. Lord Gilbert Fitzherbert, the richest landowner in the county, whose family had come over, like his own, with Duke William of Normandy, was a powerful man who, so far, had escaped the covetousness of the king, who seldom visited him. He seemed to prefer Nicholas’s modest manor house which King Henry charmingly called his ‘hunting lodge’.

Nicholas knew little about Lord Gilbert. Rumours abounded, of course, as they always did when great men were involved. He was known to be unsociable, preferring his own company to that of others, and seldom went outside his castle walls. They had reached these walls now as the coastal road passed by them. They were massive fortifications made of local flint stone and strongly buttressed. The main gate was a huge iron-studded door which was shut that day. Only once had Nicholas penetrated these defences and he had ridden through that door and across the drawbridge, under the portcullis and into the main courtyard. He had felt, that day, as if the centuries had rolled away and he was back in some earlier age when powerful barons had ruled the land and occupied castles like this one from which they could overawe the terrified peasantry.

The visit had been mundane enough: the confirmation of some fields which the prior of his own priory in Dean Peverell had owned and, when the monks left, the king had given to Nicholas as a reward for his services. The land had been farmed by the canons of Monksmere Priory, which, when they too had been turned out, had reverted to their overlord Lord Gilbert, who had supervised the distribution of the priory’s assets. That had been last year, and Nicholas had done nothing about it. It was time, he thought, that he put his affairs in order and recovered that piece of land.

At the castle gate, they turned right onto a track that went down to the coast. This took them over lush water meadows, past Monksmere Priory which stood on a piece of high ground well above the flood water. It had been an estate of considerable size but now only the church, whose tower was a landmark for miles around, was still intact. The other buildings which had made up the priory estate were already falling into disrepair, the stone having been taken by local people to strengthen, or, in some cases, rebuild their homes and farms. It was said that Lord Gilbert himself had ordered the removal of the chapter house in order to make an extension to his castle – a summer house, built in the modern style with windows and a chimney. Make it too comfortable, thought Nicholas grimly, and the king would want to stay there and maybe, just as Wolsey had been forced to give up Hampton Court, Lord Gilbert might have to hand over his castle to the king to serve as a summer retreat from the heat and plagues of London. Better to own a modest place like his own, he reasoned, where the king could play at being a country squire but never dream of owning it.

All such thoughts vanished when Nicholas stood beside the sheriff in a barn in the coastal village of Atherington, looking down at the pale face and slender body of Sarah Bowman laid out on a bundle of straw. She looked so young, so fragile, that he felt a wave of compassion for her and sadness that such youth and beauty should come to such a tragic end.

‘Who is she?’ he said to the young man who had found her that morning.

‘She’s called Sarah Bowman, sir,’ said young Juppy, overawed by the presence of such important people. ‘She lives up in Monksmere with her grandmother. She’s a widow lady – the grandmother I mean. The lass is unmarried but has a child. I don’t know what happened to the father.’

‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ said the sheriff, pointing to the livid marks round the girl’s throat, ‘she didn’t take her own life. She couldn’t have made those marks with her own hands. Turn her over,’ he instructed Juppy.

Juppy and one of the sheriff’s men gently turned her over and they looked down at the indentations on the back of her head.

‘Could be he bashed her on the head and then strangled her to make sure,’ said the sheriff.

‘Or most likely these were made by the rocks as she drifted around in the sea. No one would want to kill her twice,’ said Nicholas.

‘Unless he was a madman. We’ll move her up to her own village so that the coroner’s men can take a look at her. They’ll be here tomorrow; not that there’ll be any difficulty in establishing the cause of death. There’s a church at Monksmere and we’ll put her there for the night. Does the grandmother know?’ he asked Juppy.

‘Yes sir. No details, mind you; just that I found her drowned.’

‘Good lad. Best not jump to conclusions. I’ll have you working for me if you continue to be so sensible. Now, get someone with a horse and cart to take her up to Monksmere church and we’ll go ahead and tell her grandmother a few more details. Here, take this and see you pay the carter well.’

Juppy took the money and rushed off to tell his companions who were waiting outside expectantly. He had become a hero. No longer a boy, but a man to be reckoned with.

For someone whose husband had died and whose granddaughter was a girl with a child and no husband, the Bowmans’ house was surprisingly large and well kept. It was made of flint and brick with a tiled roof which set it apart from the other cottages which were made of a more modest cob with thatched roofs. There was a wooden gate, which the sheriff opened, and a brick path leading to a front door which stood open. Chickens rooted around amongst the cabbages and carrots planted in neat rows in the front garden and logs of wood were piled against the side of the house ready for the winter. And Mistress Bowman, whom they saw as they entered the house, was not the wizened old hag Nicholas had expected to see. She was sitting in a rocking chair, a child on her lap, and she looked up, startled, when they knocked and went in. Her strong, pleasant face was streaked with tears, but unlined. Her blue eyes were undimmed and the only indication of her age was the few wisps of white hair which strayed out from under her spotless white cap. Her arms which clasped the child to her were stout and strong as were her hands, which were large and capable and darkened by exposure to the sun. The child was dark-haired like his mother and he stared at them sadly with huge brown eyes, not knowing what had happened but sensing his great-grandmother’s distress.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, mistress,’ said the sheriff. ‘This is a sorry day for you. We’re bringing your granddaughter to lie in the church where the coroner’s men will see her tomorrow.’

‘I’ll not have her lying in that godforsaken place,’ said Mistress Bowman, setting the child down on the floor and rising to her feet. ‘This is her home and here she’ll stay as long as it takes to lay her in the churchyard. And bury her we shall, along with all the other Christian folk, whatever the priests say, because she would never take her own life. Why should she, sirs? She had everything to live for and this child was the apple of her eye. No, someone’s done this to her and she deserves a proper burial alongside her grandfather.’

Mistress Bowman stood before them like an avenging angel. Her face was flushed with anger and her thick-set body quivered with passion. Although old, she was still fit and healthy and still retaining the smooth skin and clear complexion which had made her a beauty when she was young. Her voice, too, was well modulated a. . .