by C. J. Sansom
‘Master Shardlake has given authority for Master Singleton to be buried, and the funeral service will take place after Matins, the day after tomorrow.’ There was a relieved murmur along the tables. ‘And now, our reading is from Revelation, Chapter 7: “And after those things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth . . .” ’
I was surprised he chose Revelation, for it was a text favoured much by reformists of the hot gospeller sort, keen to tell the world they had fathomed its mysteries and violent symbols. The passage dealt with the Lord’s roll-call of the saved at the Day of Judgement. It seemed like a challenge to me, identifying the community with the righteous.
‘ “And he said unto me, these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”
‘Amen,’ he concluded sonorously, then closed the bible and walked solemnly out of the refectory; doubtless his roast beef was waiting in his dining room. It was the signal for a babble of chatter to break out as half a dozen servants entered and began serving soup. It was a thick vegetable broth, richly spiced and delicious. I had not eaten since breakfast and concentrated on my bowl for a minute before glancing over at Whelplay, still as a statue in the shadows. Through the window beside him I saw the snow still tumbling down. I turned to the prior, who was sitting opposite me.
‘The novice is not to have any of this fine soup?’
‘Not for another four days. He’s to stand there through the meal as part of his penance. He must learn. D’ye think me too severe, sir?’
‘How old is he? He does not look eighteen.’
‘He’s nearly twenty, though you wouldn’t think it from his scrawny looks. His novitiate was extended, he had problems mastering the Latin, though he has musical skills. He assists Brother Gabriel. Simon Whelplay needs to learn obedience. He is being punished, among other things, for avoiding the services in English. When I set people a penance I give them a good lesson that’ll stick in their minds and those of others.’
‘Quite r-right, Brother Prior.’ The bursar spoke up, nodding vigorously. He smiled at me; a cold smile, making a brief slash across his chubby face. ‘I am Brother Edwig, Commissioner, the bursar.’ He set his silver spoon down in his plate, which he had quickly emptied.
‘So you have responsibility for distributing the monastery’s funds?’
‘And c-c-collecting them in, and ensuring expenditure does not outstrip revenue,’ he added. His stammer could not occlude the self-satisfaction in his voice.
‘I believe I passed you in the yard earlier, discussing some – building works, was it? – with one of your brethren.’ I glanced at the tall, fair-haired monk who had cast that lascivious look at Mark earlier. He sat almost opposite him now, and had been giving him covert glances whilst avoiding his eye. He caught mine, though, and leaned over to introduce himself.
‘Gabriel of Ashford, Commissioner. I am the sacrist, and also the precentor; I have charge of the church and library as well as the music. We have to combine the offices, our numbers are not what they were.’
‘No. A hundred years ago you would have had, what, twice as many monks? And the church is in need of repair?’
‘Indeed it is, sir.’ Brother Gabriel leaned eagerly towards me, nearly causing Brother Guy to spill his soup. ‘Have you seen our church?’
‘Not yet. I plan to visit it tomorrow.’
‘We have the finest Norman church on the south coast. Over four hundred years old. It compares to the best Benedictine houses in Normandy. But there is a bad crack running down from the roof. We need repairs, and they should be done with Caen stone again, to match the interior . . .’
‘Brother Gabriel,’ the prior interjected sharply, ‘Master Shardlake has more serious things to do than admire the architecture. It may be too rich for his taste,’ he added meaningfully. ‘But surely the New Learning does not frown on architectural beauty?’
‘Only when the congregation is encouraged to worship the building rather than God,’ I said. ‘For that would be idolatry.’
‘I meant nothing of that sort,’ the sacrist replied earnestly. ‘Only that in any great building the eye should be led to rest on exact proportions, unity of line . . .’
Brother Edwig gave a sarcastic grimace. ‘What my brother means is that to satisfy his aesthetic notions the monastery should b-bankrupt itself importing great blocks of limestone from France. I would be interested to know how he p-p-plans to ferry them across the marsh.’
‘Does the monastery not have ample reserves?’ I asked. ‘I read the revenues from its lands run to £800 a year. And rents are rising all the time now, as the poor know to their cost.’
As I spoke the servants returned, setting out plates on which big carp lay steaming, and tureens of vegetables. I noticed a woman among them, a hook-nosed old crone, and reflected that Alice must be lonely if she had only such as this for female company. I turned back to the bursar. He gave a quick frown.
‘Land has had to be sold recently, f-f-for various reasons. And the amount Brother Gabriel asks for is more than the whole repairs budget for five years. Take one of these fine carp, sir. Caught in our own stewpond this morning.’
‘But surely money could be borrowed against the annual surpluses you must have?’
‘Thank you, sir. Precisely my argument,’ Brother Gabriel said. The bursar’s frown deepened. He put down his spoon, waving his chubby little hands.
‘P-prudent accounting does not allow for a great hole in the revenues for years to come, sir, interest p-payments eating away at them like m-mice. The abbot’s policy is a b-balanced b-b-b–’ His face reddened as, in his excitement, he lost control of his stutter.
‘Budget,’ the prior concluded for him with a sour grin. He passed me a carp and plunged his knife into his own fish, slicing into it with enthusiasm. Brother Gabriel gave him a glare and took a sip of the good white wine.
I shrugged. ‘It is a matter between you, of course.’
Brother Edwig set down his cup. ‘I ap-pologize if I became heated. It is an old argument between the sacrist and me.’ He gave his slash of a smile again, showing even white teeth. I nodded gravely in acknowledgement, then turned my gaze to the window, where the snow still whirled down. It was settling thickly now. There was a draught from the window and, although my front was warm where it faced the fire, my back was cold. Next to the window the novice gave a cough. His bowed head under its cap was in shadow, but I noticed his legs trembling under his habit.
The silence was broken by a sudden harsh voice.
‘Fools! There will be no new building. Do you not know that the world has at last rolled down to its end? The Antichrist is here!’ The Carthusian had half-risen from his bench. ‘A thousand years of devotion to God, in all these houses of prayer, is ended. Soon there will be nothing, empty buildings and silence, silence for the Devil to fill with his roaring!’ His voice rose to a shout as he fixed everyone in turn with bitter looks. The monks averted their eyes. Turning in his place, Brother Jerome lost his balance and fell sprawling across the bench, his face contorted with pain.
Prior Mortimus rose, slamming his hand on the table. ‘God’s death! Brother Jerome, you will leave this table and keep to your cell till the abbot decides what is to be done with you. Take him out!’
His neighbours lifted the Carthusian under the arms, hauled him quickly to his feet and hustled him from the refectory. As the door closed behind them, an exhalation of held breaths sounded across the room. Prior Mortimus turned to me.
‘Once again, my apologies on behalf of the community.’ There was a mumble of assent along the tables. ‘I only ask you to excuse the man on the grounds that he is mad.’
‘Who does he think is the Antichrist, I wonder? Me? No, Lord Cromwell more likely, or perhaps His Majesty the King?’
‘No, sir, no.’ There was an anxious murmur along the obedentiaries’ table. Prior Mortimus set his thin lips.
‘If I h
ad my way, Jerome would be turned out of doors tomorrow to cry his madness in the streets till he was put in the Tower, or more likely the Bedlam, for that’s where he belongs. The abbot only keeps him because he needs the favour of his cousin Sir Edward. You know of Jerome’s connection with the late queen?’ I nodded. ‘But this is too much. He must go.’
I raised a hand, shaking my head. ‘I take no official note of a madman’s babble.’ I felt a palpable sense of relief along the table at my words. I lowered my voice again, so only the obedentiaries could hear. ‘I would have Brother Jerome kept here, I may wish to question him. Tell me, did he treat Master Singleton to such discourse as I have had?’
‘Yes,’ the prior replied bluntly. ‘When he first arrived Brother Jerome accosted him in the yard and called him perjurer and liar. Commissioner Singleton gave as good as he got, calling him a Roman whoreson.’
‘Perjurer and liar. That’s more specific than the general abuse he’s given me. I wonder what he meant?’
‘God alone knows what madmen ever mean.’
Brother Guy leaned forward. ‘He may be mad, Commissioner, but he would never have been capable of killing Commissioner Singleton. I have treated him. His left arm was wrenched out of its socket on the rack, the ligaments shredded. His right leg is scarcely better and his balance is gone, as you saw. He can scarcely carry himself, yet alone wield a weapon to sever a man’s head. I have treated the effects of official torture before, in France,’ he added in quieter tones, ‘but never before in England. I am told it is a new thing.’
‘The law permits it in times of extreme threat to the State,’ I replied, stung. I saw Mark’s eyes on me and read disappointment, sadness. ‘Regrettable though it always is,’ I added with a sigh. ‘But to return to poor Singleton. Brother Jerome may have been too infirm to kill, but he could have had an accomplice.’
‘No, sir, never, no.’ It was a chorus along the table. I read only fear in the officials’ faces, anxiety not to be associated with murder and treason and their terrible penalties. But men, I reflected, are adept at concealing their true thoughts. Brother Gabriel leaned forward again, his thin face furrowed with anxiety.
‘Sir, no one here shares Brother Jerome’s beliefs. He is a blight on us. We wish only to carry on our life of prayer in peace, loyal to the king and in obedience to the forms of worship he dictates.’
‘There at least my brother speaks for all,’ the bursar added loudly. ‘I say “Amen” to that.’ A chorus of ‘Amens’ followed along the table.
I nodded in acknowledgement. ‘But Commissioner Singleton is still dead. So who do you think killed him? Brother Bursar? Brother Prior?’
‘It was p-people from the world outside,’ Brother Edwig said. ‘He was on his way to meet someone and he disturbed them. Witches, Devil-worshippers. They broke in to desecrate our church and steal our relic, came across poor Singleton and killed him. The person he was to meet, whoever he was, no doubt took fright at the tumult.’
‘Master Shardlake hazarded the killing may have been done with a sword,’ Brother Guy added. ‘And such people would be unlikely to carry weapons lest they be discovered.’
I turned to Brother Gabriel. He sighed deeply, running his fingers through the straggly locks below his tonsure. ‘The loss of the hand of the Penitent Thief – it is a tragedy, that most holy relic of Our Lord’s Calvary – I shudder to think what abominable uses the thief may be putting it to now.’ His face looked drawn. I remembered the skulls in Lord Cromwell’s room and realized again the power of relics.
‘Are there known practitioners of witchcraft hereabouts?’ I asked.
The prior shook his head. ‘A couple of wise women in the town, but they’re just old crones who mutter incantations over the herbs they peddle.’
‘Who knows what evils the Devil works in the sinful world?’ Brother Gabriel said quietly. ‘We are protected from him in this holy life, as well as men can be, but outside—’ He shivered.
‘Then there are the servants,’ I added. ‘All sixty of them.’
‘Only a dozen living in,’ the prior said. ‘And the premises are well locked at night, patrolled by Master Bugge and his assistant under my supervision.’
‘Those who live in are mostly old, loyal servants,’ Brother Gabriel added. ‘Why would one of them kill an important visitor?’
‘Why would a monk or a villager? Well, we shall see. Tomorrow I wish to question some of you.’ I looked down a row of discomfited faces.
The servants came in to remove our plates, replacing them with pudding bowls. There was silence until they left. The bursar took a spoon to the sugary confection in his bowl. ‘Ah, wet suckets,’ he said. ‘Welcome and warming on a cold night.’
There was a sudden loud crash from the corner of the room. Everyone jumped and turned to where the novice had collapsed in a heap on the floor. Brother Guy rose with an exclamation of disgust, his habit billowing round him as he ran to where Simon Whelplay lay still on the rush matting. I stood up and joined him, as did Brother Gabriel and then, with an angry expression, the prior. The boy was as white as a sheet. As Brother Guy gently lifted his head, he moaned and his eyes flickered open.
‘It’s all right,’ Brother Guy said gently. ‘You fainted. Have you hurt yourself?’
‘My head. I banged my head. I am sorry—’ Tears glistened suddenly in the corners of his eyes, his thin chest shook and he began to weep most piteously. Prior Mortimus snorted. I was surprised at the anger that appeared then in Brother Guy’s dark eyes.
‘No wonder the boy weeps, Master Prior! When was he last properly fed? He is naught but skin and bone.’
‘He has had bread and water. You are well aware, Brother Infirmarian, that is a penance sanctioned by St Benedict’s rule . . .’
Brother Gabriel turned on him furiously. ‘The saint did not intend God’s servants to be starved to death! You have been working Simon like a dog in the stables, then making him stand in the cold for hours on end.’ The novice’s crying turned to a violent fit of coughing, his pale face suddenly puce as he struggled for breath. The infirmarian cocked a sharp ear to the wheezing sounds from his chest.
‘His lungs are full of bile. I want him in the infirmary now!’
The prior snorted again. ‘Is it my fault he’s as weak as water? I gave him work to toughen him up. It’s what he needs—’
Brother Gabriel’s voice rang round the refectory. ‘Does Brother Guy have your authority to take Simon to the infirmary, or do I go to Abbot Fabian?’
‘Take the churl!’ the prior snapped. He strode back to the table. ‘Softness! Softness and weakness. They’ll be the end of us all!’ He glowered defiantly around the refectory as Brother Gabriel and the infirmarian supported the weeping, coughing novice from the room. Brother Edwig cleared his throat.
‘Brother Prior, I think we may say g-grace and rise now. It is nearly time for C-Compline.’
Prior Mortimus said a perfunctory grace, and the monks rose, those at the long table waiting until the obedentiaries had filed out. As we went through the door, Brother Edwig leaned over to me, his voice unctuous.
‘Master Shardlake, I am sorry your meal should have been disturbed t-twice. Very r-r-regrettable. I must ask you to forgive us.’
‘Not at all, Brother. The more I see of the life of Scarnsea, the more my investigations are illuminated. Speaking of which, I would be grateful if you could make yourself available tomorrow, with all your recent account books. There are some matters arising from Commissioner Singleton’s investigations I would like to raise with you.’ I confess I enjoyed the disconcerted look that came into the bursar’s face. I nodded and passed on to where Mark stood, looking from a window. The snow still fell, covering every surface with white, deadening all sound and blurring sight as hunched, cowled figures began to make their way across the cloister yard to the church, and Compline, the day’s last service. The bells began to toll once more.
Chapter Nine
WHEN WE REGAINED our
room Mark lay down once more on his cot. But though I was as tired as he, I needed to organize my impressions of all that had happened at the meal. I dashed water from the pitcher over my face, then went to sit by the fire. Very faintly, through the window, I heard the sound of chanting.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘the monks at Compline. Praying to God to watch over their souls at the day’s end. Well, what do you think of this holy community of Scarnsea?’
He groaned. ‘I am too tired to think.’
‘Come on, it’s your first day inside a monastery. What do you make of it?’
Reluctantly, he heaved himself up on his elbows and his face assumed a thoughtful impression. The first faint lines in his smooth features were emphasized by the shadows the candles cast. One day, I thought, they would deepen into real lines and furrows as they had in mine.
‘It appears a world of contradictions. On the one hand their life seems a world apart. Those black habits they wear, all their prayers. Brother Gabriel said they are separate from the sinful world. Yet did you see how he looked at me again, the dog? And they live so well. Warm fires, tapestries, food as good as any I have eaten. Playing cards like men in any tavern.’
‘Yes. St Benedict would be as disgusted as Lord Cromwell by their rich living. Abbot Fabian disporting himself like a lord – and he is a lord, of course, he sits in the House like most of the abbots.’
‘I think the prior dislikes him.’
‘Prior Mortimus paints himself a reformist sympathizer, an opponent of easy living. He certainly believes in giving those under him a hard time. And enjoys it, I would say.’
‘He reminds me of one or two of my schoolmasters.’
‘Schoolmasters do not drive their charges to collapse. Most parents would have something to say about the treatment he gave that boy. There is no separate novice master, apparently; there are not enough vocations. The novices are wholly under the prior’s power.’
‘The infirmarian tried to help. He seems a good man, for all he looks like he’s been toasted on a spit.’
