And then Nicholas wondered what would happen to the monks if the King ordered them to leave. Some of them, like Father John for instance, had spent their entire lives here. How long would he survive if he had to rely on people’s charity? He didn’t deserve to die like a stray dog in the bottom of a ditch. The image was an uncomfortable one, and Nicholas knew that he couldn’t let that happen; he had to do something. If he couldn’t stop the King, then at least he could look after the monks.
At the top of the sanctuary steps, Matthew’s body, wrapped tightly in its woollen shroud, rested on a bier, behind which stood the diminutive figure of the Vicar, Alfred Hobbes. Usually dressed in a threadbare cassock, today he was wearing the cope that Nicholas’s mother had given him. It was made of black velvet and she had embroidered with her own hands the elaborately entwined flowers which decorated it, using expensive gold and silver thread which she’d ordered from a London haberdasher’s. Today, Hobbes’s face was glowing with the satisfaction of knowing that this was his church, his service, and that the monks were confined to their own part of the church behind the screen that separated them from the parishioners, and that, for once, the Prior was no longer centre stage. He needed the monks’ voices, though. Matthew couldn’t be laid to rest without the appropriate chanting of the requiem Mass.
Nicholas raised his eyes from the figure on the bier and looked round. People were pouring in and soon there would be standing room only. Matthew had been popular and friends and relations were coming from Marchester and neighbouring villages; some had arrived before dawn bringing their bundles of food with them. They were perched on benches along the side of the nave like a row of roosters determined not to be removed from their perches.
Sheriff Landstock came in, nodded to Nicholas, and sat down on one of the benches which the verger had placed at the front of the church for the use of the gentry. Then Guy Warrener pushed his way to the front, and pointed to a place just behind Nicholas, where the verger set down his bench. Nicholas smiled a greeting and was treated to a scowl in return. Guy Warrener’s large, flat face was crisscrossed with lines of disapproval and he rarely smiled. However, his face softened when Jane came to sit next to him. She looked cool and elegant that morning. She was wearing a grey dress of some soft material with lace at her throat and encircling her cuffs; her hair was covered by a fashionable, square-shaped cap, fringed with starched white lace, that framed her face to perfection. Master Holbein ought to see her now, Nicholas thought, and paint her just as she was, sitting on a rough bench next to her father in a country church; and he’d be the first person to buy the picture. She smiled at Nicholas and he forgot the solemn chanting of the monks and heard only the chorus of the song birds outside in the churchyard, filling the brilliant May morning with their joyful hymns to the spring.
He watched whilst she helped her father settle himself down on the uncomfortable bench, and then she leaned across and straightened out his leather jerkin, which had seen better days. It was an affectionate gesture which made Nicholas’s heart miss a beat. She really loved that cantankerous old devil, he thought.
The choir stopped singing, and Alfred Hobbes, in a surprisingly powerful voice for such a small man, recited the prayers for the dead. At the back of the church people shuffled their feet in the loose straw, coughed and pushed forward for a better view. Then the monks began to chant the Dies Irae, the great sequence for the soul of the departed facing God’s judgement. At the words, Dies Irae, Day of Wrath, something clicked in Nicholas’s brain. Jane had talked about a conspiracy and given it that name. At the words, ‘Oh what trembling there shall be when the world its Judge shall see, coming in dread Majesty,’ he turned to look at her, but she was listening to the music and her face was set in sadness. Guy Warrener gave him a disapproving look, so he quickly turned back to face the altar and tried to concentrate. But he could not pay attention. The word ‘conspiracy’ lingered in his mind. Dear God, he prayed, what sort of a conspiracy was she hinting at? Let it not be a rebellion. Not here in peaceful Sussex. Rebellions only took place in the wild and lawless north of England. The people of Sussex had always been easy-going, traditional, content with the status quo as long as there was a plentiful supply of bread and ale.
The bier was censed on both sides, each time beginning from the head and proceeding to the feet in the age-old tradition established by the Salisbury rite; Matthew was not to go on his journey without a proper send-off. The Mass proceeded along its well-ordered path, and Nicholas found his thoughts wandering. Through the open doors which linked the parish church to the monks’ choir, he could see his chantry chapel, which he had had built for himself and his wife. It wasn’t quite finished. The stonemasons still had some finishing touches to do and the figures of the saints which he’d ordered to be placed in their niches round the top part of the chapel weren’t yet in place. But the craftsmen had done a beautiful job, he had to admit. The tiny chapel stood there like a beautifully sculptured casket; a church within a church. It took up one bay of the arcade, near the monks’ high altar, and with its rich carvings of cherubs acting as shield-bearers, and angels singing praises to God, it would be a fitting memorial to his wife and his family. When Mary’s body was removed from the churchyard and placed in the vault underneath the chantry chapel, he would order the monks to sing masses there daily for her. And when the time came and he was laid to rest beside her, they would sing masses for him as well. But was this all a dream? If the monks were driven out, what would happen to their building? Would it be torn down by the likes of Guy Warrener so that he could use the stones to build an even bigger and better house for himself? And he’d be one of many – vultures, waiting for the opportunity and getting ready for the kill. No, it mustn’t happen, he thought, as the choir reached the ‘Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna’, and the congregation began to get restless, and those near the back started to leave the church and drift across to the place in the churchyard where the sexton had dug Matthew’s grave.
Out in the brilliant May sunshine, with the air crisp and cool like fine white wine, Nicholas stood with the others whilst Matthew was lowered into the grave, and the final prayers were said.
The Prior had offered the use of his solarium for the mourners to partake of some refreshment before they made their way home. The solarium was a fine, south-facing room, attached to the Prior’s house, and built by him to house his important visitors. When the service was finished, Nicholas made his way over to the Prior’s house, accompanied by Sheriff Landstock.
‘A good send-off,’ said Landstock. ‘Matthew would have approved.’
‘A pity there wasn’t time to consult him. He wasn’t prepared for an early death; and he didn’t deserve one. But, down to business, Giles has disappeared,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve got a search party looking for him.’
Landstock stopped in his tracks. ‘Then I’ll search the county. When a man tells lies and then bolts, it’s serious.’
‘You might find him, but he’ll not talk.’
‘I’ll make him talk all right. Just leave that to me, Lord Nicholas. A few nights in my gaol will soon make him change his mind about not talking.’
‘We might be barking up the wrong tree, Landstock. After all, what have we got so far? A man’s murdered. We don’t know why. And my under-steward decided to pay my neighbour a visit. What’s wrong with that?’
‘But he’s run off without leave. And Mistress Jane’s been hinting about a conspiracy. That’s enough for me to take action.’