Dissolution

CHAPTER 11

I pulled myself together with some deep breaths and hurried back to the infirmary. Mark was in the breakfast room; Alice had returned and was washing dishes, talking to him as he sat at the table. Her manner seemed cheerful and relaxed, without the reserve she had shown with me, and I felt a pang of jealousy.

'Are you allowed time off?' he was asking her.

'Half a day a week. If we are quiet, sometimes Brother Guy lets me take a whole day.'

They looked round as I bustled in. 'Mark, I must speak with you.'

He followed me to our room, and I told him how Brother Athelstan had waylaid me.

'Come with me now. Bring your sword. He doesn't look dangerous, he's a weaselly fellow, but we cannot be too careful.'

We returned to the main courtyard, where Bugge and his assistant still laboured in the snow, and passed the stables. I glanced through the open door; a stablehand was piling up hay, watched by the horses, their breath steaming thickly in the freezing air. It was no work for a sickly boy like Whelplay.

I pushed open the brewhouse door. Here it was warm. Through a door to one side a slow fire burned; a stairway led to the drying house above. The main chamber, full of barrels and vats, was empty. I jumped as something fluttered above me and, looking up, saw hens roosting among the rafters.

'Brother Athelstan,' I called in a loud whisper. There was a thud somewhere behind us and Mark's hand went to his sword as the monk's skinny form appeared from behind a barrel. He bowed.

'Commissioner. Thank you for coming.'

'I hope it was something important for you to disturb me in the privy. Are we alone here?'

'Yes, sir. The brewer is away, waiting for the hops to dry.'

'Don't those hens spoil the beer? Their mess is everywhere.'

He smiled uneasily, fingering his little beard. 'The brewer says it adds bite to the flavour.'

'I doubt the townsfolk think so,' Mark observed.

Brother Athelstan came closer, looking at me keenly. 'Sir, you know the part in Lord Cromwell's injunctions that says any monk with a complaint may go directly to the vicar general's officials, rather than his abbot?'

'I do. Have you a complaint?'

'Information, rather.' He took a deep breath. 'I know Lord Cromwell seeks information on ill-doings in the religious houses. I have heard, sir, his informants are rewarded.'

'If their information is valuable.' I studied him. In my work I had to deal often with informers, and there were never more of that noisome breed abroad than in those years. Could it have been Athelstan whom Singleton was going to meet that night? But this young man, I guessed, had never played the role before. He was keen for reward, but afraid.

'I thought – I thought any information about ill-doings here must help you find Commissioner Singleton's killer.'

'What have you to tell me?'

'The senior monks, sir, the obedentiaries. They do not like Lord Cromwell's new injunctions. The sermons in English, the stricter rules of life. I have heard them talking together, sir, in the chapter house. Sitting muttering together before meetings of the community.'

'And what have you heard?'

'I have heard them say the injunctions are an imposition by people who do not know or care for the life. The abbot, Brother Guy, Brother Gabriel and my master Brother Edwig, they all think the same.'

'And Prior Mortimus.'

Athelstan shrugged. 'He swims with the tide.'

'He is not the only one. Brother Athelstan, have you heard any of the obedentiaries say that the pope should be brought back, or speaking against the royal divorce or Lord Cromwell?'

He hesitated. 'No. But I – I could say I had, sir, if it would help you.'

I laughed. 'And people would believe you, as you shuffle your feet and cast down your eyes. I do not think so.'

He fingered his beard again. 'If there is any other way I can be of use to you, sir,' he mumbled, 'or to Lord Cromwell, I would be happy to be his man.'

'Why is that, Brother Athelstan? Are you discontented here?'

His face darkened. It was a weak face and an unhappy one.

'I work in the counting house for Brother Edwig. He is a hard master.'

'Why? What does he do?'

'He works you like a dog. If so much as a penny is out, he makes your life a misery, makes you audit all your accounts over again. I committed a small offence and now he keeps me in the counting house night and day. He has gone out for a while, otherwise I would never have dared spend so long away.'

'And so,' I said, 'because your master punishes your mistakes, you would put Brother Gabriel and others in trouble with Lord Cromwell in the hope he will make your life easier?'

He looked puzzled. 'But does not he wish monks to inform, sir? I seek only to help him.'

I sighed. 'I am here to investigate Commissioner Singleton's death, Brother. If you have any information relevant to that, I would hear from you. Otherwise you are wasting my time.'

'I am sorry.'

'You may leave us.' He seemed about to say something more, then thought better of it and hastily left the shed. I kicked one of the barrels, then laughed angrily.

'God, what a creature! Well, that takes us nowhere.'

'Informers. More trouble than they're worth.' Mark jumped aside with an oath as one of the chickens above dropped its mess on his tunic.

'Yes, they're like those hens, they don't care where their shit lands.' I paced up and down the brewhouse. 'Jesu, that knave scared me when I heard him outside my cubicle door. I thought it was the assassin come after me.'

He looked at me seriously. 'I confess I do not like being alone here. One jumps at every shadow. Perhaps we should stay together, sir.'

I shook my head. 'No, there's too much to do. Go back to the infirmary. You seem to be getting on well with Alice.'

He gave a self-satisfied smile. 'She is telling me all about her life.'

'Very well. I am off to visit Brother Gabriel. Perhaps he may tell me about his. I don't suppose you've had time yet to explore the place?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, see you do. Get some overshoes from Brother Guy.' I gave him a serious look. 'But

I paused outside the church. Watching one of the kitchen servants plod wearily though the snow, his cheap woollen hose soaking wet, I was grateful for Brother Guy's overshoes. No overshoes for servants, though. That would be expensive; Brother Edwig would have a seizure.

I studied the church front. Around the great wooden doors, twenty feet high, the stonework was richly carved with gargoyles and monsters to frighten off evil spirits, their faces worn after four centuries but still vivid. The monastery church, like the great cathedrals, was there to impress the laity: a magnificent simulacrum of heaven. A promise of prayers for a loved one in purgatory, or a miraculous cure from a relic, would carry a hundred times more weight in that setting. I hauled open the door and squeezed inside, into echoing space.

All around, the great vaulted arches of the nave rose nearly a hundred feet, supported by pillars brightly painted in red and black. Blue and yellow tiles covered the floor. The eye was led to the high stone rood screen halfway down the nave, richly painted with figures of the saints. On top of the screen, lit by candles, stood the statues of John the Baptist, the Virgin and Our Lord. A great window at the far end of the church, built to catch the morning light from the east, was painted in geometric designs of yellow and orange. It flooded the nave with a gentle umber light, peaceful and numinous, softening the kaleidoscope of colours. The builders knew how to create atmosphere, no doubt of that.

I walked slowly up the nave. The walls were lined with painted statues of saints and little reliquaries, where strange objects peeped out from beds of satin, candles burning before them. A servant moved slowly around, replacing those that had burned down. I paused to glance into the side chapels, each with its own statues and little candlelit altar. It occurred to me that these side chapels, filled with railed-off altars, statues and biers, might be good places to hide things.

In several of the side chapels monks stood intoning private Masses. Local people of wealth, terrified of the pains of purgatory awaiting them, would have left great portions of their assets away from wives and children to the monks, for Masses to be said until the Last Judgement came. How many days' remission from purgatory was a Mass here worth, I wondered; sometimes a hundred were promised, sometimes a thousand. While those without means were left to suffer for however long God appointed, of course. Pick-penny purgatory, we reformers called it. The Latin chanting stirred an impatient anger in me.

At the rood screen I stopped and looked up. My breath, still a fog, for the church was scarcely warmer than outside, dissipated into the yellow-tinted air. On either side a flight of stairs set into the wall gave access to the top of the screen. At that level, I saw, a narrow railed parapet ran the length of the church. Above the parapet the walls arched gradually inward to the great vault of the roof. To the left I noticed a great crack, stained round with damp, running from the roof almost to ground level. I remembered that Norman churches and cathedrals were not in fact the solid edifices they appeared; the walls might be twenty feet thick, but between the expensive stone blocks making up the interior and exterior walls there was usually an infill of rubble.

Where the abscission ran down the wall the stone blocks, and the plaster between them, were discoloured and there was a little heap of powdery plaster on the floor beneath. I saw that above the parapet a series of statues were set in niches at intervals; they showed the same figure of St Donatus leaning over the dead man that was on the monastery seal.

Where the crack ran through one of the niches the statue had been removed and lay, discoloured-looking, on the parapet. An extraordinary cat's cradle of pulleys and ropes had been set up there; the ropes were secured to the wall behind the parapet and ran out over the void, before disappearing upward into the darkness of the bell tower, where presumably they were secured at their other end.

Dangling from the ropes was a wooden basket, big enough to hold two men. Presumably the cat's cradle allowed the basket to be moved inwards and outwards and had allowed the removal of the statue. It was an ingenious arrangement but a dangerous one; scaffolding was surely needed to effect proper repairs. But the bursar was right to say a full repair programme would be enormously expensive. Otherwise, though, as frost and water did their work, the crack could only widen, eventually threatening the whole structure. The imagination reeled at the thought of the great building falling on one's head.

Apart from the susurration of prayers from the side chapels, the church was silent. Then I caught a faint murmur of voices, and followed the sound to where a little door stood ajar, candlelight flickering within. I recognized the deep voice of Brother Gabriel.

'I've every right to ask after him,' he was saying in angry tones.

'If ye're always round the infirmary, people will be talking again,' the prior replied in his harsh voice. A moment later he emerged, his ruddy face set hard. He started a little when he saw me.

'I was looking for the sacrist. I thought he might show me the church.'

The prior nodded at the open door. 'Ye'll find Brother Gabriel in there, sir. He'll be glad to be taken from his desk in this cold. Good morning.' He bowed quickly and passed on, his footsteps echoing loudly away.

The sacrist sat behind a table strewn with sheets of music in a little book-filled office. A statue of the Virgin leaned drunkenly against one wall, her nose broken off, giving the bitterly cold, windowless room a depressing air. Brother Gabriel sat at a table, a heavy cloak over his black habit. His lined face was anxious; in some ways it was a strong face, long and bony, but the mouth was pulled down tightly at the corners and there were deep bags beneath his eyes. At the sight of me he rose, forcing his mouth into a smile.

'Commissioner. Master Shardlake. How may I help you?'

'I thought you might show me the church, Brother Sacrist, and the scene of the desecration.'

'If you wish, sir.' His tone was reluctant, but he stood and led me back into the body of the church.

'You are responsible for the music, Brother, as well as the upkeep of the church?'

'Yes, and our library. I can show you that too if you wish.'

'Thank you. I understand Novice Whelplay used to help you with the music.'

'Before he was sent to freeze in the stables,' Brother Gabriel said bitterly. Collecting himself, he continued in a milder tone. 'He is very talented, though rather over-enthusiastic.' He turned anxious eyes on me. 'Forgive me, but you are lodging in the infirmary. Do you know how it goes with him?'

'Brother Guy believes he should recover.'

'Thank God. Poor silly lad.' He crossed himself.

As he led me on a circuit of the church he became a little more cheerful, talking animatedly about the history of this or that statue, the architecture of the building and the workmanship of the stained-glass windows. He appeared to find a refuge from his anxieties in words; it seemed not to strike him that as a reformer I might not approve of the things he was showing me. My impression of a naive, unworldly man was reinforced. But such people could be fanatical, and I noticed again that he was a big man, strongly built. He had long delicate fingers, but also thick strong wrists that could easily wield a sword.

'Have you always been a monk?' I asked him.

'I was professed at nineteen. I have known no other life. Nor would I wish to.'

He paused before a large niche containing an empty stone pedestal, on which a black cloth had been laid. Against it was heaped an enormous pile of sticks, crutches and other supports used by cripples; I saw a heavy neck-brace such as crookback children wear to try and straighten them; I had worn one myself, though it did no good.

Brother Gabriel sighed. 'This is where the hand of the Penitent Thief stood. It is a terrible loss; it has cured many unfortunate people.' He gave the inevitable glance at my back as he spoke, then looked away and gestured at the pile.

'All those things were left by people cured by the Penitent Thief's intervention over the years. They no longer needed them and left them behind in gratitude.'

'How long had the relic been here?'

'It came from France with the monks who founded St Donatus's in 1087. It had been in France for centuries, and at Rome for centuries before that.'

'The casket was valuable, I believe. Gold set with emeralds.'

'People used to be glad to pay to touch it, you know. They were disappointed when the injunctions forbade relics to be shown for lucre.'

'It is quite large, I imagine?'

He nodded. 'There is an illustration in the library, if you would care to see.'

'I would. Thank you. Tell me, who found the relic missing?'

'I did. I found the desecrated altar too.'

'Pray tell me what happened.' I sat down on a projecting buttress. My back was much better, but I did not wish to stand around for too long.

'I rose towards five as usual, and came to prepare the church for Nocturns. There are only a few candles lit before the statues at night, so when first I came into the church with my assistant, Brother Andrew, we noticed nothing amiss. We went into the choir; Andrew lit the candles at the stalls and I set the books open at that morning's prayers. As he was lighting the candles Brother Andrew saw a trail of blood on the floor, and called out. The trail led –' he gave a shuddering sigh '– into the presbytery. There, on the table before the high altar, was a black cock, its throat cut. God have mercy on us, black bloodstained feathers lying on the very altar, a candle lit on either side in satanic mockery.' He crossed himself again.

'Would you show me the place, Brother?'

He hesitated. 'The church has been reconsecrated, but I do not believe it is fitting to relive those events before the altar itself.'

'Nevertheless, I must ask –'

With reluctant steps he led me through a door in the rood screen, into the choir stalls. I remembered Goodhaps's remark that the monks seemed more upset by the desecration than by Singleton's death.

The choir held two rows of wooden pews, black with age and richly carved, facing each other across a tiled space. Brother Gabriel pointed to the floor. 'That's where the blood was. The trail led in here.' I followed him through to the presbytery, where the high altar stood, covered with a white cloth, before a beautifully carved altar screen decorated with gold leaf. The air was full of incense. He pointed to two ornate silver candlesticks flanking the centre of the altar table, where the paten and chalice would be laid for Mass.

'It was there.'

I believe the Mass should be a simple ceremony in good English, so men can reflect on their relationship with God, rather than be distracted by magnificent surroundings and ornate Latin. Perhaps because of that, or perhaps because of what had happened there, looking at the richly decorated altar in the dim candlelight I had a sudden sense of evil, so strong that I shuddered. Not a sense of some ordinary crime, nor some furtive little sins, but of evil itself in this business. Beside me, the sacrist's face was bleak with sorrow. 'I have been a monk for twenty years,' he said. 'In the darkest, coldest days of winter I have stood watching the altar at Matins, and whatever weight there has been on my soul it has lifted with the first ray of light coming through the east window. It fills one with the promise of light, the promise of God. But now I will never be able to contemplate the altar without that scene coming into my mind. It was the Devil's work.'

'Well, Brother,' I said quietly, 'there was a human perpetrator, and I must find him.' I led the way back to the choir, where I took a seat in one of the pews, indicating Brother Gabriel should sit beside me.

'When you saw this outrage, Brother Sacrist, what did you do?'

'I said we must fetch the prior. But just then the door from the night stairs was thrown open and one of the monks ran in to tell us the commissioner had been found murdered. We all left the church together.'

'And saw the relic was gone?'

'No. That was later. Around eleven I passed the shrine and saw it was empty. But it must have been done at the same time, surely.'

'Perhaps. Now you too would have come in from the night stairs linking the monks' dormitory to the church. Is that door kept locked?'

'Of course. I unlocked it.'

'So whoever desecrated the church would have had to come in by the main door, which is unlocked?'

Yes. It is our principle that servants and visitors as well as monks should be able to enter the church when they please.'

'And you arrived just after five. You are sure?'

'I have been performing the routine for the last eight years.'

'So the intruder was working in semi-darkness, spreading the fowl's blood and – probably – stealing the relic. Both the desecration and Singleton's murder were carried out between a quarter past four, when Bugge met the commissioner, and five, when you entered the church. Whoever it was worked quickly. That implies they knew the layout of the church.'

He gave me a keen look. 'Yes. It does.'

'And townsfolk do not attend Mass at monastery churches. When outsiders attend special festivals or come to pray to the relics, they are not allowed beyond the rood screen?'

'No. Only monks may come into the choir and before the altar.'

'So, only a monk would know these routines and the layout of the church. Or a servant who worked here – like that man peregrinating the church lighting the candles.'

He looked at me seriously. 'Geoffrey Walters is seventy years old and deaf. The church servants have all been here for years. I know them well and none of them could conceivably have done this.'

'That leaves us with one of the monks, then. Abbot Fabian, and your friend the bursar, would have it that an outsider was responsible. I have to disagree.'

'I think an outsider may be possible,' he said hesitantly.

'Go on.'

'On rising some mornings this autumn I have seen lights out on the marsh; my chamber in the dormitory overlooks it. I think the smugglers are active again.'

'The abbot talked of smugglers. But I thought that marsh was dangerous.'

'It is. But there are paths known to the smugglers running by the little island of higher ground, where the ruins of the founders' church stands, out to the river. Boats can be loaded with contraband wool for France. The abbot complains to the town authorities now and again, but they're not interested. Some of the officials no doubt profit from the trade.'

'So someone who knew those paths could have got in and out of the monastery that night?'

'Possibly. The wall down there is in poor shape.'

'Did you mention seeing lights to the abbot?'

'No. As I said, he has given up complaining. I have been too sore in my mind to think clearly, but now –' An eager look came into his face. 'Perhaps that is the answer. Those men are criminals and one sin can lead to another, even to blasphemy –'

'Of course it would suit the community to lay the blame elsewhere.'

He turned to me, his face set. 'Master Shardlake, it may be you see our prayers, our devotion to the relics of the saints, as foolish ceremonies performed by men who live easily while the world outside groans and suffers.'

I inclined my head non-committally.

He spoke with a sudden intentness. 'Our life of prayer and worship is an effort to approach Christ, to come nearer to his light and further from this sinful world. Every prayer, every Mass is an attempt to come closer to him, every statue and ritual and piece of stained glass is a reminder of his glory, a distraction from the world's wickedness.'

'I see you believe so, Brother.'

'I know we live easier than we should, our comfortable clothes and food are not what St Benedict intended. But our purpose is the same.'

'To seek communion with God?'

He turned, looking at me intently. 'It is not easy. People who say it is are wrong. Sinful mankind is full of wicked impulses, planted by the Devil. Do not think monks are immune, sir. Sometimes I believe the more we aspire to approach God, the more the Devil stirs himself to tempt our minds to wickedness. And the more we have to strive against him.'

'And can you think of anyone who might have had his mind tempted to murder?' I asked quietly. 'Remember I speak with the authority of the vicar general, and through him the Supreme Head of the Church, the king.'

He looked me directly in the eye. 'I can think of no one in our community who might do such a thing. If I could, I would have informed the abbot. I told you, I believe an outsider was responsible.'

I nodded. 'But there has been talk of other grave sins here, has there not? The scandal under the last prior. And small sins may lead to larger ones.'

His face reddened. 'It is a large step from – those things – to what was done last week. And those acts were in the past.' He stood abruptly and moved to stand a few paces off.

I got up and stood beside him. His face was set and his brow had a sheen of sweat despite the cold.

'Not all in the past, Brother. The abbot tells me Simon Whelplay's penance was in part because of certain feelings he nurtured towards another monk. Yourself.'

He turned, suddenly animated. 'He is a child! I was not responsible for the sins he contemplated in his poor mind. I did not even know till he confessed to Prior Mortimus, or I would have put a stop to it. And yes, I have lain with other men, but I have confessed and repented and sinned no more in that way. There, Commissioner, you have plumbed my history. I know the vicar general's office loves such tales.'

'I seek only the truth. I would not trouble your soul merely for a pastime.'

He seemed about to say something more, then paused and took a deep breath. 'Do you wish to see the library now?'

'Yes, please.'

We returned down the nave. 'By the way,' I said after we had walked some distance in silence, 'I saw the great crack in the side of the church. That is indeed a large job. The prior will not approve the expenditure?'

'No. Brother Edwig says any programme of repairs must be limited to the revenues available each year. That will barely suffice to prevent the damage from spreading.'

'I see.' In that case, I thought, why were Brother Edwig and the abbot talking of needing capital from land sales?

'These men of accounts always believe that what is cheapest is best,' I continued philosophically, 'and prink and save till all falls about them.'

'Brother Edwig thinks saving money is a holy duty,' he said bitterly.

'Neither he nor the prior appear much given to charity.'

He gave me a sharp look, but said nothing more as he led me from the church.

Outside, my eyes watered in the cold white light. The sun was high now and gave brightness if not warmth. More paths had been cleared through the snow and people were going about their business again, black habits criss-crossing the white expanse.

The library building, next to the church, was surprisingly large. Light streamed in from high windows, illuminating shelves crammed with books. The desks were empty, save for a novice scratching his head over a heavy tome, and an old monk in a corner laboriously copying a manuscript.

'Not many at study,' I observed.

'The library is often empty,' Brother Gabriel said regretfully. 'If someone has to consult a book, he usually takes it to his cell.' He went over to the old monk. 'How are you progressing, Stephen?'

The old man squinted up at us. 'Slowly, Brother Gabriel.' I glanced at his work; he was copying an early bible, the letters and the painted figures beside the text worked in intricate detail, the colours standing out brightly on the thick parchment, only slightly faded after centuries. The monk's copy, though, was a poor affair, the letters scratchy and uneven, the colours gaudy. Brother Gabriel patted him on the shoulder. 'Nec aspera terrent, Brother,' he said, before turning to me. 'I will show you the illustration of Barabbas's hand.'

The sacrist led me up winding stairs to the upper floor. Here were more books, innumerable shelves stacked with ancient volumes. Thick dust lay everywhere.

'Our collection. Some of our books are copies of Greek and Roman works made in the days when copying was an art. Even fifty years ago those desks downstairs would have been filled with brothers copying books. But since printing came in no one wants illustrated works, they are happy with these cheap books with their ugly, square letters all squashed together.'

'Printed books may be less beautiful, but now God's word can be brought to all.'

'But can it be understood by all?' he replied with animation. 'And without illustration and art to stimulate our awe and reverence?' He took an old volume from the shelves and opened it, coughing amidst the dust it raised. Little painted creatures danced impishly among lines of Greek text.

'Reputedly a copy of Aristotle's lost work On Comedy,' he said. 'A fake, of course, thirteenth-century Italian, but beautiful nonetheless.' He closed it, turning to an enormous volume that shared a shelf with a number of rolled-up plans. He pulled them out and I took one to assist him. I was surprised when he grabbed it back.

'No! Don't take it!'

I raised my eyebrows. His face reddened.

'I am sorry – I – I would not have you get dust on your clothes, sir.'

'What are those?'

'Old plans of the monastery. The mason consults them sometimes.' He withdrew the volume beneath. It was so large he had difficulty in heaving it over to a desk. He turned the pages carefully.

'This is an illustrated history of the monastery's treasures, set down two hundred years ago.' I saw coloured pictures of the statues I had seen in the church, and other items like the lectern in the refectory, each drawing annotated with measurements and a Latin commentary. The centre pages were taken up with a coloured illustration of a large square casket set with jewels. Inside a glass panel, on a purple cushion, lay a piece of dark wood. A human hand was fixed there by a broad-headed nail driven through the palm; withered and ancient, every sinew and tendon visible. From the measurements the box was two feet square and a foot deep.

'So those are the emeralds,' I said. 'They are large. The casket could have been stolen for its precious jewels and gold?'

'Yes. Though any Christian doing such a thing would lose their immortal soul.'

'I always thought the thieves crucified with Christ had their hands tied to the cross rather than being nailed to it, so that their suffering should be prolonged. So it is shown in religious paintings.'

He sighed. 'No one really knows. The gospels say Our Lord died first, but he had been tortured beforehand.'

'The misleading power of paintings and statues,' I said. 'And there is a paradox here, is there not?'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'That hand belonged to a thief. Now his relic, which people paid to view until that was forbidden as usury, is itself stolen.'

'It may be a paradox,' Brother Gabriel replied quietly, 'but to us it is a tragedy.'

'Could one man carry it?'

'Two men bear it in the Easter procession. A strong man could carry it, perhaps, but not far.'

'To the marsh, perhaps?'

He nodded. 'Perhaps.'

'Then I think it is time I had a look out there, if you would show me the way.'

'Certainly. There is a gate in the rear wall.'

'Thank you, Brother Gabriel. Your library is fascinating.'

He led me back outside and pointed to the cemetery. 'Follow the path through there, past the orchard and the fish pond, and you will see the gate. The snow will be thick.'

'I have my overshoes. Well, no doubt we shall meet again at supper. You will be able to meet my young assistant again then.' I smiled disingenuously. The sacrist blushed and lowered his head.

'Ah – yes, indeed –'

'Well, Brother, I thank you for your help and your frankness. Good day.' I nodded and left him. When I glanced back he was walking slowly back towards the church, head bowed.