‘The messenger?’ he said to Southampton. ‘What was he like?’
‘Tall, not tonsured. Called himself a lay brother. Apparently he’d worked for Mortimer and Brother Michael had taken him on. Infernal devil! He cursed the King, my Lord, even as they dragged him away. God, how I hate these fanatical types. They give us all a lot of trouble.’
The King folded away the charts, finished his ale, and stared out of the window. Then he strode across to Nicholas.
‘Come on, Peverell, stop looking so miserable. I thought that ride would’ve cheered you up a bit. Now, is the barge ready, Paget?’
Nicholas started. He’d forgotten the barge.
‘It’s ready and waiting, Sire,’ said Southampton.
‘Good. If the ships can’t get to us, we’ll have to go out to them, eh, Paget? Do us good – rowing on the Thames; do the sailors good too, to see their King.’
‘Your Grace, stop. This isn’t the Thames. We can’t guard you on open water,’ said Nicholas with growing panic.
‘Don’t be a fool, Peverell. Do you think I’m afraid of a miserable monk who wants to take a swipe at me? Of course you can guard me. Are you telling me that all those bowmen and cannoneers are useless? Come on now, let’s be off.’
He walked swiftly out of the presence chamber, went through the gatehouse, where the guards were too astonished to stop him, and out on to the Hard. The three sally ports were just four hundred yards away. Outside Domus Dei the crowds had gathered. The whole of Portsmouth had come to see its King. The crowd was good-humoured and people were chatting cheerfully with the guards who held them back. On top of the gatehouse stood several bowmen with bows drawn back at the ready. On the Hard itself, lined up against the sea wall, were the cannoneers with their clumsy hand-held cannons, and matches at the ready. Nicholas measured the distance to the first of the sally ports, where the top of the royal ensign on the Admiral’s barge could just be seen hanging limply in the still air.
The King, with a wave of a hand to the crowd, who roared their appreciation, set off towards the sally port. With his heart beating wildly, hardly aware of what he was doing, Nicholas drew his sword.
Just then, as they almost reached the sally port, a tall figure ran straight out of the crowd. His hood had fallen back and Nicholas caught a glimpse of a pale face, contorted with hatred.
‘Death,’ the man shouted, ‘Death to Anti-Christ!’
He held a dagger in his hand and he launched himself at the King. But Nicholas was there before him, and just as the monk was about to strike, Nicholas knocked him sideways and struck him across the arm and shoulders with his sword. Immediately arrows fell all around them. There was the sound of an explosion and a puff of smoke came out of one of the cannons.
‘Don’t kill him, Peverell,’ said Southampton’s voice behind him. ‘We need him to talk. Take him away, and keep him alive,’ he said to the guard, who was starting to drag the monk away, Brother Michael turned his head to glare at Nicholas, who recoiled from his look of concentrated malevolence.
‘Why? Why have you risked everything?’ Nicholas said.
‘Because we’ve lost everything,’ Brother Michael answered.
The King drew a deep breath and put his arm round Nicholas’s shoulders. ‘Well done, Peverell. Remarkably quick of you to spot that fellow. Now that you’ve got your man, let’s take a look at these ships of ours.’
Twilight was falling when they arrived back at Dean Peverell. Wearily, they trooped up the drive and into the courtyard, where waiting grooms seized the horses and led them away for a much-needed rest. Nicholas felt a pang of remorse that Harry had been left behind in Portsmouth to be collected later, but King Henry had ridden him hard, and he’d beaten them all in the race to Portsmouth Hard.
The King, for once, looked weary as he walked stiffly into the great hall, his arm draped familiarly across Nicholas’s shoulders. Once inside, Nicholas came to a sudden halt. The house was unrecognisable. The air smelt fresh and clean, the wild flowers and herbs strewn on the rushes on the floor had released their heady scents. Monsieur Pierre, dressed in a doublet of many colours, advanced and bowed low.
‘Welcome home, Sire,’ he said, ‘welcome home, my Lord.’
Henry glanced round. ‘Seems you’ve done us well, Pierre. Now I must freshen myself up, then we’ll be down to see what you’ve concocted for us. A special meal tonight,’ he said, raising his voice so that all the servants could hear, ‘because your master saved your King’s life. Now that’s some news for you, isn’t it?’ he said, smiling at the row of astonished faces. ‘Now I hope you’ve ordered some hot water, Pierre. I need a full tub with sprigs of fresh rosemary in it. You’ve got a damn fine house here, Peverell, and that stallion of yours is a damn fine horse. Pity we had to leave him with Southampton. I might have made you an offer for him.’
Thanking his lucky stars that Harry was out of reach of the King, Nicholas went up to his own tiny room, wedged under the eaves, and put on a clean doublet and hose. Then he combed his hair and went down to meet the guests.
The Sheriff was the first to arrive. He looked relaxed and cheerful and thumped Nicholas heartily on the back.
‘Well you got the devil, I hear.’
‘News travels fast, it seems,’
‘Everyone in Marchester knows how you saved the King. You know, I nearly beat you to it. Father Hubert, we can release him now, admitted to the Archdeacon that Brother Michael had covered for him in the sacristy last week after he’d been blooded. That’s when the devil must’ve helped himself to the wafers. Also, it seems, Brother Michael regularly went up into the woods to gather herbs. That’s when he must’ve seen you and decided to lie in ambush. He didn’t reckon on the hardness of your head, did he? But by this time, it was too late to send a message to Portsmouth. I reckoned you’d caught him. By the way, Father Hubert says he’s hidden the chalice. And what’s more he’s not telling anyone where it is until those two Commissioners have gone. You’ll have a job extracting the information out of him because we can’t.’
The Prior arrived, accompanied by Wagstaff and Laycock, dressed in suitably sombre clothes, as befitted the King’s servants.
‘My God, Lord Peverell, am I glad to see you. All my monks are as dozy as a lot of dormice. Take them days to get over this. It appears Brother Michael, may his name be cursed, laced their drinks yesterday with a tincture of opium. Mistress Warrener found out from Agnes Myles, who can be released now, I suppose, that Michael bought up most of her supplies of the stuff so he must’ve been planning this for some time. We think he might well have come down to her shed and cleared out all the bottles of the stuff before Bovet and Perkins set fire to the place. I should’ve known, of course. He always was a sullen devil. Hated wine, by the way. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink wine, eh, Wagstaff? By the way, I’ve sent my coach back to pick up Mistress Jane and that surly devil of a father. Benedict says he’ll come with them.’
Nicholas was glad to see the Prior looking so happy. He’d sit him next to the King. The King liked robust conversation at mealtimes.
Then Jane arrived looking dazzlingly beautiful in her green velvet dress, heavily embroidered with gold thread, and her long hair loose down her back. She wore a garland of flowers in her hair, marigolds, wild white roses and sweet-smelling pinks. Brother Benedict, with his dark looks, made a perfect contrast. Her father, not the slightest bit overawed by the grand surroundings, shook Nicholas’s hand enthusiastically and offered Nicholas his congratulations.