Day of Wrath by Iris Collier

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.
    â€˜A good send-off,’ said Landstock. ‘Matthew would have approved.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜You might find him, but he’ll not talk.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜But he’s run off without leave. And Mistress Jane’s been hinting about a conspiracy. That’s enough for me to take action.’
    They’d reached the solarium where the lay Brothers were handing round tankards of beer and platefuls of cakes baked in the Priory’s ovens. Alfred Hobbes, divested of his elegant cope and back in his scruffy cassock, came over to join them.
    â€˜The Prior does us proud,’ said Nicholas conversationally.
    â€˜And so he should. His house is big enough to house an army, whilst I’ve only got a miserable room over the entrance porch.’
    â€˜The Prior needs a big house. After all, he’s expected to offer hospitality to all and sundry.’
    â€˜And don’t I have to look after the souls of all these parishioners? No one bothers to think about building me a house to live in.’
    â€˜Then you’re in the wrong job,’ said Landstock jovially. ‘You should have been a monk; better food, better accommodation, a quieter life.’
    â€˜Not for much longer, though. They’ve got it coming to them.’
    â€˜And about time, too,’ said a deep voice behind them. Nicholas groaned. It was Guy Warrener. ‘Parasites the lot of them,’ he said, as he took a gulp of the beer which the lay brother had just given him. ‘Kick them out and let them earn their keep. But I can’t see Brother Oswald behind a plough or building barns.’
    â€˜Come, come, Warrener,’ said Nicholas impatiently. ‘We’ve been down that track over and over again.