Agnes sat down wearily on the chair by the fire. ‘Not now, Jane. My brain’s not working properly. Leave me now to grieve in peace. Sit with me for just a little while and then get on your way. We can talk later, when I gather my wits together.’
Jane sat with her for a while, then seeing Agnes needed the peace and silence of her own fireside, she left her, telling her to lock her front door and shut all the windows. There was only one person who could persuade Agnes to leave her house. And that was Nicholas. She climbed up on to Melissa’s wet back and rode up to Peverell Manor.
* * *
Nicholas woke up late on Saturday morning. He heard the wind howling down the chimney and heard the rain splattering on the window-pane. Cursing Geoffrey, who’d let him sleep so long, he jumped out of bed and looked up at the storm-tossed sky and a reluctant sun. Realising it was late, he dressed hastily and went downstairs, where the servants were vigorously scrubbing the floors as if the King were coming that day.
Geoffrey appeared with a tankard of ale and a plate of bread and cold meats and stood there stolidly whilst Nicholas berated him for letting him sleep so long.
‘You needed your rest, my Lord. A man can’t go on for ever.’
It was true. He did feel restored. He drank down the ale and wolfed down the food.
‘I needed that, too. Now fetch me my cloak, Geoffrey, and tell the grooms to get Harry ready. It’s a good way to Portsmouth and it’s likely to be a rough ride.’
* * *
Harry, too, was well rested, and raced along the Portsmouth road, passing the carts of farmers bringing their produce into the towns along the way. They were riding into the strong south-westerly wind and the rain had turned the surface of the road into a muddy swamp. Not that Harry cared. He galloped along, splashing mud everywhere, only snorting with disapproval when a particularly violent gust of wind hit him in the face. It took them two and a half hours to cover the twenty miles to Portsmouth and then they took the lower coastal road to the small castle at Southsea, which the Admiral of the Fleet used when he was in Portsmouth. The sea looked grey and angry that morning and very few fishing vessels had ventured out. But he knew that the King’s fleet was anchored out at Spithead and he felt sorry for the men who were forced to remain on board and tend to the vessels.
At the castle, an old, crudely built stone keep, one of the army guards led Harry away to the stables. Then Nicholas was taken to a room on the ground floor where men in armour were clustered round the open fire. They stopped talking when he went in, and politely made a space for him to dry off in front of the fire. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps coming down the stone, newel staircase, and Sir Ralph Paget, Lord Admiral of the Fleet and recently created Earl of Southampton by the King, came into the room. He was a big, military-looking man, tough, vigorous, with a short, stumpy brown beard and hair cut short round his bullet head.
‘You’re welcome, Lord Nicholas. Come upstairs and we can talk in peace. Here, boy,’ he said to one of the servants, ‘take his Lordship’s cloak and see that you dry it off properly. It’s a foul day, both on land and sea. I pray God that those ships out there won’t end up scattered all over the Solent.’
Nicholas followed Southampton upstairs to a small room. There was a bed in one corner and a rug on the floor, which made the room appear more comfortable. A log fire smouldered in the stone fireplace, and a servant came in with a tray of food and drink. Southampton kicked the logs into a blaze and invited Nicholas to stand in front of it and dry himself off. With steam rising from his clothes, Nicholas ate the food gratefully and drank deeply from the jug of ale.
‘I suppose you’re here in connection with the King’s visit,’ said Southampton when Nicholas had finished eating. ‘I’m not at all happy about it myself. We hoped that with Mortimer out of the way that would mean the end of this conspiracy, but it seems that isn’t so. We now have this new threat and I’m damned if I know what to do. It’s all very well to clear the streets and increase the guard but what’s the use if we don’t know the name of the person we’re after and where he’s operating from.’
‘You got on to Mortimer pretty promptly.’
‘Yes, but we had a tip-off.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Fitzroy, of course. Lord Gilbert was approached by Mortimer, who wanted him to join the conspiracy. But Fitzroy would have nothing to do with it. Too much to lose, I suppose. Mortimer was a fool to take Fitzroy into his confidence because Fitzroy went straight to the King and told him everything. Then, as soon as I intercepted the letters to Pole with Mortimer’s signature on them, we could run him in. But as you know, Mortimer told us nothing, and Fitzroy says he doesn’t know who Mortimer’s accomplices are.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘Have to. Can’t arrest every landowner in the county because we don’t trust him. Have you in next, Peverell. After all, you lived next door to Mortimer and you must have discussed the King’s policy with him.’
‘We talked politics, not treason.’
‘Amounts to the same thing these days. Keep your mouth shut, Peverell, and confine your conversation to estate management.’
‘Thanks, I might take your advice. But what had Fitzroy got against Mortimer that he informed on him?’
‘He had to, in order to save his own skin. Otherwise, as soon as the King heard he’d been talking to Mortimer, who’d been under suspicion for some time, he’d order his arrest. As it is, I wouldn’t like to be in Fitzroy’s shoes. He’ll have a job keeping his nose clean. But as he’s Lord Lieutenant of the county, he’s needed to raise a muster when the King comes. I’m uneasy, though. These musters are not made up from trained soldiers. We haven’t got a standing army, as you know. They’re just ordinary citizens armed with pikes and harquebuses if they know how to fire them, which they don’t. We don’t know who they are and one of them could be this Ultor – what a damned stupid name that is! I think we’ll have to confine Fitzroy’s muster to your end of the county. I don’t trust them poking their noses into everything round here.’
‘The King’s in just as much danger when he’s with me, as when he’s here with you.’
‘It’s not quite the same. You can at least confine him to your house. When he’s reviewing the fleet he’ll be at Domus Dei down on the Hard, right out in the open, standing around for an hour or more. Anyone could take a pot shot at him. I wish to God he’d come to Porchester instead of Portsmouth. He can’t come here. It’s only big enough for a handful of soldiers. Certainly nowhere to entertain the King. It’s just a tower – there are plans afoot to rebuild it, but that’s in the future – and he can’t see the fleet from here. It’ll be a nightmare trying to hold on to him down on Portsmouth Hard.’
‘The King’s got a mind of his own, and he’ll not change it. God, man, if you think you’ve got a job keeping the King under control, just think of me. When I last saw him he was talking about going hunting!’
Southampton whistled. ‘This is getting worse by the minute. I suppose he sneers at travelling in a coach and will want to ride here on horseback?’
‘That’s the general idea. Wants to show himself off to his loyal subjects, and ignores the fact that anyone not so loyal could shoot him down.’
‘Then there’s only one thing we must do, and that’s find Ultor damn smartly. I wonder if the devil lives locally or is he only an infrequent visitor?’
‘I’m sorry to say I think he lives in my area. Could be a Marchester man, of course. There’s a nest of traitors in the cathedral as I’m sure that traitor, Catchpole, the Precentor, wasn’t the only one to murmur against the King’s policy. Let me remind you that my steward and his girlfriend overheard Mortimer talking to someone, probably Fitzroy, as it happens. The poor devils were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hayward, my steward, was murdered. We know now that Mortimer ordered his death. But the girlfriend, Bess Knowles, died after Mortimer’s arrest. This implies that someone else stepped into Mortimer’s shoes and took over where he left off. And he’s still at large.’