Day of Wrath by Iris Collier Page B

just started,’ said Nicholas evenly.
    â€˜For you, yes; but not for me. I’d like to hear that young lass sing, but Brother Benedict’s got no business to sing here. His place is in the choir with the others, not entertaining the Prior as if he were at the royal court.’
    â€˜But I thought the Abbot of Rivières sent him here to sing to the Prior, Father?’
    Hubert snorted, his small, pinched face flushing with anger.
    â€˜Not to entertain the Prior, my Lord, but to sing to the glory of God in the right place and at the right time. That’s what a monk’s for. It seems to me that sometimes my Lord Prior forgets this simple fact.’
    He made no attempt to lower his voice and Prior Thomas, ensconced in the best chair by the fire, glanced across at him.
    â€˜Come, come, Father Hubert, you’re worse than those kill-joy reformers. Music, as I’m sure Lord Nicholas would agree with me, is sent by God to give us a foretaste of heavenly delights. When you get to heaven, Father, you will be surrounded by choirs playing harps and singing the divine praises. You may as well start getting used to the idea here and now.’
    â€˜I shall sing the divine praises, my Lord Prior, in the church with the others. I have nothing against music – as you say it is one of God’s gifts to us – but to listen to a young monk singing about earthly love accompanied by a girl strumming a lute is not what the Creator intended us to do.’
    â€˜Yet we can worship God in the beauty of his creation and the exquisite music of the Flemish composers. Be off to your choir stall, if you must, Father, and do not judge others lest they judge you.’
    Father Hubert stood up, bowed his head in submission, nodded to Nicholas, and left the great hall of the Prior’s house.
    There were just the seven of them: the Prior, Brother Jeremy, Brother Oswald, Brother Cyril, himself and the two performers. An exclusive gathering, he thought. No sign of Brother Michael; he was probably waiting for Father Hubert to join the rest of them in church. He stood up and walked across to join the others round the fire, forcing himself not to look towards the alcove where the two musicians were getting ready.
    At last the instruments were turned to Jane’s satisfaction, and they walked across to join the company. She was carrying a reed instrument which Nicholas remembered he’d recently seen at Court. Benedict walked behind her, carrying a lute. They were a well-matched pair; well matched in beauty as well as being well matched musically, he felt sure. Jane was looking enchanting in a full-skirted cream dress shot through with gold thread, which glowed in the soft light of the candles which Cyril had placed round that corner of the room. Her copper hair was drawn back gently from her face and held in position by a garland of spring flowers, ox-eye daisies, cowslips and forget-me-nots. The bodice of the dress was tight fitting and cut squarely across her young breasts, revealing a pink satin skin which gleamed in the soft light. She wore no jewellery, and needed none, Nicholas thought.
    Benedict had put aside his monk’s habit and was now dressed in a richly embroidered doublet and a dark coloured hose which showed off his well-honed figure to perfection. He wore soft leather shoes, and, had it not been for his monk’s tonsure, almost hidden by his thick curly dark hair, he could have passed as one of the King’s courtiers. Nicholas glanced at the Prior and saw that he was enthralled. His heart sank. One thing was for sure; they would have to hide Brother Benedict when Cromwell’s Commissioners made their inspection. He was sure the Prior led a chaste life – there had been no rumours to the contrary – but Benedict would tempt the Archangel Gabriel himself.
    Jane sang first, Benedict accompanying her with his lute. She sang a simple song about spring and joy in God’s creation.