* * *
On Wednesday morning, Nicholas woke to find his house transformed: clean rushes and straw on the floors; tapes-tries, revealing intricacies of designs hidden for years under layers of dirt, hung on the walls, and everywhere was the heavy scent of herbs, culled from the garden and strewn on the straw. Huge garlands of roses and wild flowers hung from the rafters. The stables were cleaned, the horses groomed to sleek perfection. Messengers continually rushed backwards and forwards between the Priory and his house; and Monsieur Pierre was everywhere, from the kitchen, where he tasted soups and stews, to the great hall, where he sniffed the air appreciatively, to the bedchambers, where he checked the sheets and pillows.
Then, in the late afternoon, there was the sound of hunting horns, and the clatter of hooves, and the vanguard had arrived. Nicholas had just managed to put on a clean shirt and fasten the laces on his doublet, when he heard the commotion. He dashed down into the courtyard and came face to face with King Henry, sitting on a great chestnut horse, covered in sweat. The King sprang lightly down from his mount and grinned at Nicholas.
‘Well, here we are, Peverell. On time, you see. The Queen’s following in her coach, but I thought I’d surprise you. Now what’s that steward of mine cooked up for us? We’re all famished.’
Monsieur Pierre, bowing deferentially at every step, advanced towards the King. Geoffrey, who’d lost at least five pounds off his stocky frame through all the worry of the last few days, hung back, until Nicholas dragged him forward and introduced him.
From that moment on, Nicholas was no longer master of his own house. Monsieur Pierre took it upon himself to be Master of Ceremonies, Geoffrey was butler, and Mary queened it in the kitchen. Dinner was served early, as the Queen, in the last stages of pregnancy, was tired and wanted to retire early. The King insisted that the first meal should be a modest one: eels stewed in ale, a roast bullock, a quantity of delicious fowl, and a splendid dessert, provided by the Prior, and made with cake, almonds and raisins, custard and fresh cream.
The Bishop had sent four musicians to play during the meal, and it was after the dessert had been cleared away and bowls of nuts and dried fruit were placed on the table that the King turned to Nicholas.
‘Well, Peverell. A fine meal. A fine house; everything for our comfort. But haven’t you forgotten one thing?’
Nicholas groaned. What had gone wrong?
‘My coat,’ the King roared, clapping Nicholas on the back. ‘Don’t you remember, you cut a great hole in my coat when you came to Court, and you promised me a replacement. And you’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’
‘Sire,’ said a voice behind them, ‘Lord Nicholas wishes you to accept this coat, with his compliments.’
It was Monsieur Pierre, carrying the great doublet on a silver salver. The King stared at it in astonishment, then exclaimed with pleasure as he stroked the beautiful cloth and ran his fingers over the intricate embroidery.
‘This is wonderful, Peverell. You’ve excelled yourself. We shall wear it tomorrow at the great feast.’
There was no dancing that night due to the Queen’s fatigue, and after the meal was over, the King asked Nicholas to take a stroll with him in the gardens. The moon hung like a lantern overhead, lighting the way, and the warm air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Henry was in fine humour.
‘You look worried, Peverell. It doesn’t suit you. Now what’s up? Don’t you want me here?’
‘Your Grace, I’m honoured to have you here. I’m delighted that you find everything to your satisfaction, but the fact remains that you are in grave danger. You know we’re not sure we’ve caught this traitor who calls himself Ultor.’
‘Rubbish. I thought you’d caught the man. A monk, I hear. Bears a grudge against me – I can’t think why!’
‘We’ve arrested someone but I’m not one hundred per cent sure he’s the man we’re looking for.’
‘Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we? And if it’s a monk out to get me, then I’m not in the least bit worried.’
‘Shouldn’t your Grace seriously consider cancelling your visit to Portsmouth tomorrow?’
‘Cancel my visit to Portsmouth? What nonsense is this? I’m not a bit worried by a demented monk. I intend to rise early, leave the Queen here – Monsieur Pierre will look after her – and you and I, Peverell, will ride together to Portsmouth. I want to build a castle there, you know – a good strong one to replace that feeble tower at Southsea. Porchester’s too far away. Got to defend the realm – we need more defences along the south coast. Damned French are stirring up trouble again. So I must see Southampton, and set a few things in motion. Besides, think of the scene, Peverell, my ships sailing past me, dipping their flags in salute. Will it not be a brave sight?’
‘It will indeed. But there’s just one problem…’
‘Which is?’
‘Look around you, sir. Is it not a beautiful night?’
‘Wonderful. If the Queen were feeling better, I’d have her out here dancing on this velvety grass.’
‘But what’s missing?’
‘Nothing’s missing, you great worrier, Peverell. This is just what I wanted, simple, rustic pleasures.’
‘There’s no wind, your Grace. Not a breath of it. No wind expected tomorrow. So how is the fleet to sail past?’
‘Oh, don’t be such an old woman! Those fellows can row their damn ships past me. Or I can be rowed out to them, like we do on the Thames at Hampton Court. I’ll get Southampton to rustle up a barge or two. Just get this into that thick head of yours, Peverell, nothing’s going to deter me from visiting my fleet. Especially not an absence of wind.’
* * *
Jane woke early on Thursday morning. She hadn’t slept well. The King was here, she’d seen the commotion, heard the hunting horns. She knew Nicholas shared the same doubts as she did, and she knew that if Ultor was going to strike, today was the day. The Day of Wrath he’d called it. Dies Irae. She had to have another talk with Agnes. She knew she’d be awake early as she liked to listen to the monks chanting Prime.
She crept out into the garden where the birds were singing their dawn chorus as the sun appeared over the horizon. She walked down to the Priory and went round to the little room at the back. All was quiet. She knocked gently and unlocked the door. She went in and put down the jug of milk she’d brought for Agnes’s breakfast on the table. Agnes was just waking up. She sat up and smiled at Jane.
‘Have you come to listen to Prime, Jane? How strange, the monks haven’t come down yet. They always do at sunrise, you know. Let me take a look.’
She climbed up on the bed and looked through the tiny window. Then she turned and looked at Jane. ‘No sign of them. Well, well, not like them to be late.’
She drank the beaker of milk Jane handed her and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Agnes, tell me once again the names of those people who came to see you just before the fire. Try to remember. It’s very important. Can you remember the fire? Is it coming back to you? We also want to find out who killed Ambrose. You see, he’s not with us any more. Someone murdered him. Someone strung him up on a tree. Try to remember, Agnes. We are relying on you.’
Suddenly Agnes bowed her head and began to cry bitterly with great sobs that racked her frail body. ‘Oh yes, my darling Ambrose,’ she sobbed. ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he? And that little girl, too. Brother Benedict told me what had happened. All that noise and shouting, it was quite horrible. I felt sure that any moment the mob would break down that door.’
‘Lord Nicholas wouldn’t let that happen. Now try to think, Agnes. Who came to see you recently, just before the fire? Please, please, try to remember.’
Suddenly, Agnes stopped crying. She lifted her head and looked intently at Jane. There was something different about her; a new strength which showed itself in the keenness of her gaze.
‘Well, I’ve told you about Father Hubert – poor man, do you really think he could have killed my Ambrose? Then there was Brother Martin who worked in the Infirmary with Brother Michael. Now he used to come often.’