They strolled over to the infirmary, which was close to the gatehouse. At the door, the Prior stopped suddenly and turned to face Nicholas. ‘The Commissioners will be here tomorrow, my Lord. What am I going to do with ’em, eh? I’m told they’re going to be here for two weeks. Two weeks! What the hell are they going to do in two weeks?’
‘It’ll take them that time to prepare the inventory,’ said Nicholas, making a mental note to add them to the guest list.
‘You really think it’ll take them that long?’
‘I’m sure it will. But don’t worry, Prior. The King’s coming and you can have a word with him. You’ll come to dinner when he’s here, won’t you?’
‘When have you ever known me to refuse a dinner, my Lord?’
So that was what was bothering the Prior, thought Nicholas. He was getting nervous about the inspection. And so he should. The Commissioners were going to look for faults; even where none existed. They were going to provide the King with a good excuse for destroying the monasteries, so that he could sleep at night with an easy conscience.
* * *
Inside the infirmary, the sun streamed in through the narrow, high windows and fell on the beds of the three sick, old men. Wilfrid was there, his shrunken face peaceful in sleep, his breathing shallow but regular. Nicholas picked up his gnarled hand, small and boney like a bird’s claw. He shook it gently, but Wilfrid didn’t wake up. He was conscious that someone was standing behind him and turned round to see Brother Michael, the Infirmarer, standing there, his pale face twisted into a smile.
‘It’s good of you to come and see him, my Lord. He often asks for you.’
‘Well, don’t wake him up now. I’ll drop in some other time.’
Brother Michael nodded and went back into the apothecary’s room. Nicholas went out and joined the Prior, who’d been waiting for him.
‘Come across and have a drink. I need your advice on what to do with these visitors. They’ve checked out Lewes Priory and now they’re going to start on us. Then, I suppose they’ll go to Marchester and check on the good friars there. This is a most appalling intrusion.’
As they walked through the cloisters, they met Father Hubert scurrying past them, holding a large wicker basket.
‘That’s right, Father,’ the Prior said, his face lighting up with a smile of satisfaction, ‘off you go. Make sure they’re young and fresh, mind. None of your tough old leaves. He collects fresh sorrel and young nettles for me, my Lord, up in your woods.’
Nicholas stopped. ‘Do you go every day?’
‘No, my Lord, just sometimes. When the Prior says he needs fresh green leaves.’
‘They’re excellent, Lord Nicholas. Nothing like fresh nettles, simmered for just a few seconds in boiling water. Good for the bowels at this time of the year,’ the Prior said, patting his substantial belly.
‘Did you go up in the woods last week, Father Hubert?’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s say, the Monday of last week, in the afternoon? I think I might have seen you there.’
‘You might have done, my Lord, but I can’t remember. I still feel a bit weak…’
‘I warned you. You’ll addle your brain with all that bleeding. I expect he was up there, Lord Nicholas. He goes up most days.’
So that was one mystery solved, thought Nicholas as he followed the Prior into his house. Just harmless old Father Hubert gathering plants to ease the Prior’s bowels. He’d look just like a patch of shade up under the trees. No wonder Merlin started. Nothing more sinister than that. He laughed with relief. How good it would be if everything could be solved as simply as that.
‘Come and see me when you get back, Father,’ said the Prior. ‘I shall want all the silver cleaned for the Commissioners’ inspection.’
Father Hubert stopped and looked at the Prior anxiously. ‘I’ll do my best. But I can’t get everything cleaned before they come. Will they really want to see everything?’
‘Everything. That’s why they’re coming. Now, my Lord, just tell me what I’m going to do with them. Bloody civil servants! I can’t abide them.’
* * *
Nicholas rode slowly home, deep in thought. Much as he liked the Prior, he deplored his light-hearted attitude towards the imminent arrival of Thomas Cromwell’s Commissioners. Didn’t he realise that they meant business? he thought as he trotted up the deserted street. No longer were there groups of villagers shouting out greetings and swapping news. It was as if the events of the last few days had cast a deep gloom over the place. The arrival of Thomas Cromwell’s men would unsettle everyone even more.
The Prior didn’t seem to know what these men were capable of, he thought. They would pry into every nook and cranny of the Priory’s affairs, study the account books, scrutinise the daily life of the monks, note down who attended services, who stayed away. They’d inspect the kitchens, raise eyebrows at the Prior’s well-stocked cellar, gloat over the number of horses the Prior kept in his stables, exclaim over the carriage which the Prior used when visiting neighbouring parishes over which he had jurisdiction. They’d note the amount of lead on the church roof, the number, weight and size of the bells, and the amount and value of the church furnishings.
And one thing was clear – the Commissioners would not take kindly to the harbouring of a suspected witch on the monastic premises. Maybe, he thought, as he turned in to his driveway, the Prior could pass her off as a holy anchoress. But the monks would object. No, time was running out for Agnes Myles, as it was running out for him. And that was just what Ultor was reckoning on. He’d framed Agnes, that was for sure. He wanted her disposed of; and he was setting about it very efficiently.
When he got back, Geoffrey was waiting for him with a message which had just arrived from the Sheriff. The messenger had left saying no answer was necessary.
‘Lord Nicholas,’ he read. ‘I’m holding on to Bovet and Perkins for the time being. I’m sure they know more than they let on. They do admit that they often go to the ale-house in your village, so it might be useful if you could talk to the ale-house keeper and see if he overheard anything significant last Saturday night. Our two suspects could’ve been paid to start the fire, of course. The ale-house keeper could’ve seen money changing hands. There’s still that burn mark on Perkins’s sleeve not accounted for. Send for me if there’s any more trouble. Landstock.’
Nicholas finished reading, and called for his horse again. He rode back down the street, arriving at the ale-house just as Josh Tomkins was getting ready for his afternoon nap. He was a big, florid-faced man, with sparse black hair, and a dirty apron tied round his enormous girth. Small, piggy eyes looked at Nicholas nervously as he ducked his head under the door lintel and went into the dim, smoked-filled interior.
‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit, my Lord?’ Tomkins said obsequiously. ‘You know my licence is in order. There’ve been no complaints about the quality of my ale, I hope? I only use the best malt.’
‘It’s not your ale I’m interested in,’ said Nicholas, pushing aside two mongrels who were snarling over the bits dropped on the floor by the customers. Biddy Tomkins was famous for her boiled bacon hocks, which went down well with the travellers along the main coast road. Tomkins wiped over a table top with a corner of his apron, and pushed a chair over to Nicholas, who shook his head.
‘A drink, my Lord?’
‘No thanks. I’m not staying. You get a good crowd in here, don’t you?’
‘Most days we’re full up.’
‘People come here from Marchester?’