by C. J. Sansom
She snorted. ‘Orphan needs no Masses, I spit on Masses for the dead. She is safe with God.’
‘You speak like a reformer, Goodwife.’
‘I am, sir, and proud.’
‘By the way,’ I added casually, ‘have you ever visited London?’
She gave me a puzzled look. ‘No, sir. I went as far as Winchelsea once.’
‘No relatives in London?’
‘All my people live around here.’
I nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. Don’t worry, Goodwife.’ I sent her away and said a quick farewell to Copynger, who was markedly less effusive now he knew I was not in Cromwell’s favour. I collected Chancery from the ostler and rode the misty path back to the monastery.
I FELT IT growing warmer still as I made my way slowly in the dark, Chancery stepping carefully for the pathway was slick with melting snow. All around I heard the drip and gurgle of meltwater running into the marsh. After a while I dismounted and led the horse along: the idea of Chancery’s wandering into that mire in the dark was not pleasant. At length the monastery wall and the lights of Bugge’s gatehouse loomed through the mist. The keeper came quickly to my knock, carrying a torch.
‘You’re back, sir. That’s a dangerous ride out there tonight.’
‘I needed to make haste.’ I led Chancery through the gate. ‘Has a rider brought a message for me, Bugge?’
‘No, sir, there’s been nothing.’
‘Pox on it. I’m expecting a man from London. If he comes, you’re to find me at once. Day or night.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll do that.’
‘And till I give further word no one, and I mean no one, is to leave the monastery precincts. Do you understand? If anyone wants to go out, you are to send for me.’
He looked at me curiously. ‘If you order it, Commissioner.’
‘I do.’ I took a deep breath. ‘What has been happening these last few days, Bugge? Is everyone safe? Master Mark?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s up at the abbot’s house.’ He looked at me keenly, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. ‘But there’s others been on the move.’
‘What d’you mean? Don’t speak in riddles, man.’
‘Brother Jerome. He got out of his room yesterday. He’s disappeared. ’
‘You mean he’s run off?’
Bugge laughed maliciously. ‘That one couldn’t run far, and he’s not been through my gate. No, he’s hiding in the precinct somewhere. The prior’ll soon root him out.’
‘God’s death, he was to be kept safe!’ I gritted my teeth. Now I could not question him about Mark Smeaton’s visitor; everything depended on the messenger.
‘I know, sir, but nothing’s being done properly any more. The servant in charge of him forgot to lock his door. You see, sir, everyone’s frightened, Brother Gabriel being killed was the last straw. And there’s talk the place is to be shut down.’
‘Is there?’
‘Well, it follows, sir, doesn’t it? With these killings, and the talk of more monasteries being taken by the king? What do you say, sir?’
‘God’s flesh, Bugge, do you think I’m going to discuss matters of policy with you?’
He looked chastened. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I meant no impertinence. But—’ He paused.
‘Well?’
‘The talk is that if the monasteries go down the monks will get pensions but the servants will be put out on the road. Only I’m nearly sixty, sir, I’ve no family and no trade but this. And there’s no work in Scarnsea.’
‘I can’t help what gossip-mongers say, Bugge,’ I replied more gently. ‘Now, is your assistant here?’
‘David, sir? Yes.’
‘Then get him to stable Chancery for me, would you? I am going to the abbot’s house.’
I watched as the boy led Chancery across the yard, stepping carefully through the slush. I remembered my talk with Cromwell. Bugge and all the others would be out, cast on the parish if there was no work. I remembered the day I had gone to the poorhouse, the licensed beggars clearing the snow. Little as I liked Bugge it was not pleasant to think of him at such work, his beloved scraps of authority gone. It would kill him in six months.
I started round at a movement and clutched John Smeaton’s sword. A figure was just visible through the mist, standing against the wall.
‘Who’s there?’ I called sharply.
Brother Guy stepped forward, his hood raised over his dark face. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said in his lisping accent. ‘So you are back?’
‘What are you doing, Brother, standing there in the dark?’
‘I wanted some air. I have spent the day with old Brother Paul. He died an hour ago.’ He crossed himself.
‘I am sorry.’
‘His time had come. At the end he seemed back in his childhood. He spoke of your civil wars last century, York and Lancaster. He saw old King Henry VI led drooling through the streets of London at his restoration.’
‘We have a strong king now.’
‘No one could doubt that.’
‘I hear Jerome has escaped.’
‘Yes, his keeper left his door unlocked. But they will find him, even in a place so large as this. He’s in no condition to hide out. Poor man, he is weaker than he seems, a night out will do him no good.’
‘He is mad. He could be dangerous.’
‘The servants have no mind on their duties now. The brothers too, they’re all worrying what will become of them.’
‘Is Alice safe?’
‘Yes, quite safe. She and I have been working hard. Now the weather is breaking everyone is coming down with fevers. It is those foul misty humours from the marsh.’
‘Tell me, Brother, were you ever in Toledo?’
He shrugged. ‘When I was little our family moved from town to town. We did not reach safety in France till I was twelve. Yes, I remember we were in Toledo for a while. I remember a great castle, the sound of iron being beaten in what seemed a thousand workshops.’
‘Did you ever meet an Englishman there?’
‘An Englishman? I don’t remember. Not that it would have been unusual in those days, there were many Englishmen in Spain then. There are none now, of course.’
‘No, Spain has become our enemy.’ I stepped closer and looked deep into his brown eyes, but they were unfathomable. I hitched up my coat. ‘I must leave you now, Brother.’
‘Will you want your room at the infirmary?’
‘We shall see. But have it warmed. Goodnight.’
I left him and walked off towards the abbot’s house. Passing the outbuildings I cast nervous glances into the shadows, looking for the white glimmer of a Carthusian robe. What, now, did Jerome mean to do?
THE OLD SERVANT answered my knock. He told me Abbot Fabian was at home, in conference with the prior, and Master Mark was in his room. He led me upstairs to Goodhaps’s old chamber, empty now of bottles and the smell of the unwashed old man. Mark was working at the table, where a pile of letters lay spread out. I noticed his hair was growing long; he would have to visit the barber in London if he was to be fashionable again.
His greeting was brief, his eyes cold and watchful. I had little doubt he had probably spent as much as he could of the last few days with Alice.
‘Looking over the abbot’s correspondence?’
‘Yes, sir. It all seems routine.’ He eyed me carefully. ‘How did things go in London? Did you find out about the sword?’
‘Some clues. I have made some more enquiries and await a messenger from London. At least Lord Cromwell seems unworried about letters from Jerome reaching the Seymours. But I hear he has escaped.’
‘The prior has been searching up and down with some of the younger monks. I helped yesterday for a while, but we found no trace. The prior is sore angry.’
‘I can imagine. And what of these rumours the monasteries are going down?’
‘Apparently a man from Lewes was at the inn saying the great priory has surrendered.’
‘Cromwell said
that was about to happen. He’s probably sending agents round the country to spread the news, to put the other houses in fear. But rumours flying around are the last thing I want now. I’ll have to try and reassure the abbot, get him to believe there’s a chance Scarnsea can stay open, just for now.’ The coldness in Mark’s look intensified; he did not like the lie. I remembered Joan’s words about him being too idealistic for this world.
‘I have had a letter from home,’ I told him. ‘The harvest was poor, I’m afraid. Your father says he hopes the monasteries will go down, that’ll bring more work to Augmentations.’ Mark did not reply, only met my eyes with a chill, unhappy gaze.
‘I’m going down to the abbot,’ I told him. ‘Stay here for now.’
ABBOT FABIAN sat facing the prior across his desk. They looked as though they had been there some time. Abbot Fabian’s face was more haggard than ever; Prior Mortimus’s face was red, a mask of anger. They both rose to their feet at my entrance.
‘Master Shardlake, sir, welcome back,’ the abbot said. ‘Was your journey successful?’
‘Insofar as Lord Cromwell is unconcerned about any correspondence Jerome may have sent. But I hear the rogue has escaped.’
‘I’ve turned the place upside down looking for the old bastard,’ Prior Mortimus said. ‘I don’t know what hole he’s got into, but he can’t have got over the wall or past Bugge. He’s here somewhere.’
‘With what purpose in mind, I wonder.’
The abbot shook his head. ‘That is what we have been debating, sir. Maybe he awaits an opportunity to escape. Brother Guy believes in his state of health he will not last long in the cold, without food.’
‘Or maybe he awaits the chance to do someone a mischief. Me, for example.’
‘I pray not,’ the abbot said.
‘I have told Bugge no one is to leave the precinct without my permission for the next day or so. See the brothers are told.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘A precaution. Now, I hear there are rumours from Lewes and everyone is saying Scarnsea will go down next.’
‘You as much as told me so yourself,’ the abbot said with a sigh.
I inclined my head. ‘From my talks with Lord Cromwell, I gather nothing is certain now. I may have been hasty.’ I felt a stab of guilt, lying to them. But it was necessary. There was one I did not wish scared into precipitate action.
Abbot Fabian’s face lit up and a spark of hope crept into the prior’s eyes.
‘Then we won’t be put down?’ the abbot asked. ‘There is hope?’
‘Let us say talk of dissolution is premature and should be discouraged.’
The abbot leaned forward eagerly. ‘Perhaps I should address the monks at supper. It is due in a half-hour. I could say that - that there are no plans to close us down?’
‘That would be a good idea.’
‘Ye’d better prepare something,’ the prior said.
‘Yes, of course.’ The abbot reached for quill and paper. My eyes were drawn to the monastery seal, still at his elbow.
‘Tell me, my lord, do you normally keep the door of this room unlocked?’
He looked up, surprised. ‘Yes.’
‘Is that wise? Could not someone come in here, unseen, and put the monastery seal on any document they chose?’
He stared at me blankly. ‘But there are always servants in attendance. No one is allowed just to walk in.’
‘No one?’
‘No one but the obedentiaries.’
‘Of course. Very well, I will leave you. Until supper.’
ONCE AGAIN I watched the monks filing into the refectory. I remembered my first night there; Simon Whelplay in his pointed cap standing by the window, shivering as the snow fell outside. Tonight through that window I could see water dripping from shrinking icicles, black patches in the melting snow where ruts were turning into tiny streams.
The monks seemed withdrawn, hunched into their habits as they took their places at the tables. Anxious, hostile glances were cast to where I stood by the abbot’s side at the great carved lectern. As Mark passed me to take his place at the top table I grasped his arm.
‘The abbot’s going to make a speech saying Scarnsea will not be taken by the king,’ I whispered. ‘It’s important. There is a bird here I do not want startled out of its bush; not yet.’
‘I am tired of this,’ he muttered. He shrugged off my arm and took his seat. My cheeks flushed at his open rudeness. Abbot Fabian shuffled his notes and then, a new glow in his rubicund cheeks, told the brethren the rumours that all the monasteries were to come down were wrong. Lord Cromwell himself had said there were no plans to seek Scarnsea’s surrender at present, despite the cruel murders, which were still under investigation. He added that no one was to leave the precincts.
Reactions among the monks varied. Some, especially the older ones, sighed and smiled with relief. Others looked more doubtful. I glanced along the obedentiaries’ table. The junior obedentiaries, Brother Jude and Brother Hugh, looked relieved and I saw hope in Prior Mortimus’s face. Brother Guy, though, shook his head slightly and Brother Edwig only frowned.
The servants brought in our dinners: thick vegetable soup, followed by mutton stew with herbs. I watched carefully to see that I was served from the common bowl and no one could interfere with the dishes as they were passed down the table. As we began eating, Prior Mortimus, who had already helped himself to two glasses of wine, turned to the abbot.
‘Now we are safe, my lord, we should get on with the appointment of the new sacrist.’
‘Fie, Mortimus, poor Gabriel was only buried three days ago.’
‘But we must proceed. Someone will need to negotiate with the bursar over the church repairs, eh, Brother Edwig?’ He tipped his silver cup at the bursar, who still wore a frowning look.
‘S-so long as someone more reasonable than G-Gabriel is appointed, who understands we can’t afford a big p-programme.’
Prior Mortimus turned to me. ‘When it comes to money our bursar is the closest man in England. Though I never understood why you were so against scaffolding being used for the repairs, Edwig. Ye can’t carry out a proper programme using ropes and pulleys.’
The bursar reddened at being made the centre of attention.
‘All r-r-right. I accept you’ll have to have scaffolding up there to do the w-works.’
The abbot laughed. ‘Why, Brother, you argued that point with Gabriel for months. Even when he said men could get killed you would not move. What has come over you?’
‘It was a m-m-matter of negotiation.’ The bursar looked down, scowling into his plate. The prior took another glass of the strong wine and turned a flushed face to me.
‘Ye’ll not have heard the story of Edwig and the blood sausages, Commissioner.’ He spoke loudly, and there were titters from the monks at the long table. The bursar’s downcast face went puce.
‘Come now, Mortimus,’ the abbot said indulgently. ‘Charity between brethren.’
‘But this is a story of charity! Two years ago, the dole day came round and we’d no meat to give the poor at the gate. We’d have had to slaughter a pig to get some, and Brother Edwig wouldn’t have it. Brother Guy had just come then. He’d bled some monks and started keeping the blood to manure his garden. The tale is Edwig there suggested we take some and mix it with flour to make blood puddings to give at the dole; the poor would never know it wasn’t pig’s blood. All to save the cost of a pig!’ He laughed uproariously.
‘That tale is untrue,’ Brother Guy said. ‘I have told people so many times.’
I looked at Brother Edwig. He had stopped eating and sat hunched over his plate, gripping his spoon tight. Suddenly he threw it down with a clatter and rose to his feet, dark eyes ablaze in his red face.
‘Fools!’ he shouted. ‘Blasphemous fools! The only blood that should matter to you is the blood of Our Saviour, Jesus Christ, which we drink at every Mass when the wine is transformed! That blood which is all that holds the worl
d together!’ He clenched his plump fists, his face working with emotion, the stammer gone.
‘Fools, there will be no more Masses. Why do you clutch at straws? How can you believe these lies about Scarnsea remaining safe when you hear what is happening all over the land? Fools! Fools! The king will destroy you all!’ He banged his fists on the table, then turned and marched out of the refectory. He slammed the door, leaving a dead silence.
