Day of Wrath by Iris Collier Page A

different wine, a full-blooded claret from the vineyards around Bordeaux, and Nicholas gave himself up to the pleasures of the table. The pig was soon demolished, the bones thrown down on the rush-strewn floor, where the Prior’s lapdogs snapped and snarled at each other as they fought over the scraps with glee. Later, when the tables had been cleared, the servants would let in the most favoured of the Prior’s hounds to clear up the remains.
    By the time Brother Cyril brought in a great tray of sweetmeats, honey cakes filled with walnuts and lightly dusted with cinnamon, and marzipan fashioned into the shapes of small birds and woodland creatures, Nicholas’s head was spinning. He looked round at the flushed faces of the monks and the thought entered his head as to what their founder, St Benedict, would have thought of these proceedings. And he also thought how oblivious they all were to the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. No wonder the reformers regarded the monasteries as fair game.
    The servants were removing the empty dishes. Prior Thomas pushed back his chair and stood up.
    â€˜Come Benedict, my beloved guest from distant France, finish your wine and let us hear that fine voice of yours.’
    Benedict forced his attention away from Jane and back to the Prior.
    â€˜No, my Lord, my singing is nothing but the croaking of a frog in comparison with Jane Warrener. She has the sweetest voice I have ever heard. Don’t you agree with me, Brother Oswald?’ he said, addressing one of the monks, whose black habit was tightly stretched across his pendulous belly, his huge moonface glowing with good living. Brother Oswald pursed his lips and considered his answer for a few moments.
    â€˜Mistress Warrener sings well – for a girl. But there is nothing to beat the purity of the male voice; especially a light tenor, Brother, which you possess.’
    â€˜You’ve hit the nail on the head, Brother Oswald, as usual,’ said the Prior, patting Benedict’s head approvingly. ‘The male voice wins hands down. It has a special purity which the female voice with its emotional undertones cannot compete with.’
    â€˜But when the two are in harmony,’ said Nicholas smiling across at the Prior, ‘they are incomparable.’
    â€˜Then let us settle the argument by putting it to the test,’ said Prior Thomas genially. ‘Come, fill up the tray of sweetmeats, Brother Cyril, and bring us some more jugs of wine, and tune up the instruments. Come, my Lord,’ he said turning to Nicholas, ‘we’ll go and sit over by the fire and let the young entertain us.’
    He walked unsteadily over to Brother Oswald and helped him out of his chair. Then, clutching a jug of wine each, they staggered over to the fireplace at the far end of the room where some finely carved oak armchairs had been arranged on both sides of the crackling log fire.
    Nicholas hung back for a moment, watching Benedict join Jane in the alcove. She greeted him with a broad smile and handed him a lute which she’d been tuning. Nicholas scowled. Fighting down a feeling of resentment, he turned to Father Hubert, the elderly Sacristan who acted as sub-Prior when Prior Thomas was incapacitated. Hubert had not touched the sweetmeats and had eaten only a small portion of the pie. He had only exchanged a few words with Nicholas during the meal and had passed him the jug of wine when his glass was empty but hadn’t touched a drop himself. Now he made no move to join the others round the fire.
    â€˜Where are the rest of the brethren?’ said Nicholas, forcing himself not to look at the two in the alcove, where Brother Benedict was taking off his monastic habit to reveal an elegant doublet and hose underneath.
    â€˜They’ll have said Compline, and will soon be in their beds,’ he said. ‘And that’s where we should be shortly.’
    â€˜Yet it appears that the evening’s