Dissolution

CHAPTER 17

All at once Mark was shaking me awake; I must have fallen asleep lying there.

'Sir, Brother Guy is here.'

The infirmarian stood looking down at me; hastily I got to my feet.

'I have a message, Commissioner. The abbot has the land deeds you requested and some correspondence he wishes to send out. He is on his way.'

'Thank you, Brother.' He looked at me intently, fingering the rope at the waist of his habit with long brown fingers.

'I will shortly be going to the night service for Simon Whelplay. Commissioner, I feel I should tell what I suspect about his poisoning to the abbot.'

I shook my head. 'Not yet. His killer does not know murder is suspected and that may give me an advantage.'

'But how am I to say he died? The abbot will ask.'

'Say you are unsure.'

He passed a hand across his tonsure. When he spoke again his voice was agitated.

'But, sir, knowledge of how he died should guide our prayers. We should be asking the Lord to receive the soul of a slain man, not a sick one. He died without shrift or housel, that alone is a danger to his soul.'

'God sees all. The boy will be admitted to heaven or no as He wills.'

The infirmarian looked set to argue further, but just then the abbot entered. His old servant followed behind, carrying a big leather satchel. Abbot Fabian looked grey and worn, peering at us through tired eyes. Brother Guy bowed to his superior and left us.

'Commissioner, I have brought the deeds of the four land sales made this last year. Also some correspondence – business letters and some personal letters from the monks. You asked to see correspondence before it went out.'

'Thank you. Put the satchel on the table.'

He hesitated, rubbing his hands together nervously. 'May I ask how things went in the town today? Did you make progress? The smugglers –'

'Some progress. My lines of enquiry seem to multiply, my lord Abbot. I also saw Jerome this afternoon.'

'I trust he was not – not –'

'Oh, he insulted me again, naturally. I think he should remain in his cell for the present.'

The abbot coughed. 'I have had a letter myself,' he said hesitantly. 'I have put it with those others; it is from an old friend, a monk at Bisham. He has friends at Lewes Priory. They say terms of surrender are being negotiated with the vicar general.'

I smiled wryly. 'The monks of England have their own communication networks, it was ever so. Well, my lord, I think I may say Scarnsea is not the only house with a mischievous history that Lord Cromwell thinks would be better closed.'

'This is not a mischievous house, sir.' There was a slight tremble in his deep voice. 'Things went well and peacefully until Commissioner Singleton came!' I fixed him with an affronted look. He bit his lip and swallowed and I realized I was looking at a frightened man, near the edge of his reason. I felt his sense of humiliation, his confusion as his world shook and trembled about him.

He raised a hand. 'I am sorry, Master Shardlake, forgive me. This is a difficult time.'

'Nonetheless, my lord, you should mind your words.

'I apologize again.'

'Very well.'

He collected himself. 'Master Goodhaps has made ready to leave tomorrow morning, sir, after Commissioner Singleton's funeral. The night service will begin in an hour, followed by the vigil. Will you attend?'

'Will there be a vigil over the two bodies together? The commissioner and Simon Whelplay?'

'No, as one was in orders and the other a layman the services will be separate. The brethren will be divided between the two vigils.'

'And will stand over the bodies all night, with blessed candles lit, their purpose to ward off evil spirits?'

He hesitated. 'That is the tradition.'

'A tradition disapproved in the king's Ten Articles of Religion. Candles are allowed for the dead only in remembrance of God's grace. Commissioner Singleton would not have wanted superstitious powers imputed to his funeral candles.'

'I will remind the brethren of the provision.'

'And the rumours from Lewes – keep those to yourself.' I nodded in dismissal and he left. I looked after him thoughtfully.

'I think I have the upper hand there now,' I told Mark. A cold shiver went through me. 'God's wounds, I'm tired.'

'One could pity him,' Mark said.

'You think I was too hard? Remember his pompous manner the day we came? I need to stamp my authority; it may not be pretty, but it is necessary.'

'When will you tell him how the novice died?'

'I want to investigate the fish pond tomorrow, then I'll consider where to go next. We can look through those side chapels as well. Come now, we should study those letters and the deeds. Then we should look in on the vigil for poor Singleton.'

'I have never been to a night service.'

I opened the satchel, and tipped a pile of letters and parchments over the table. 'We should show respect, but I'm not joining in a night's worth of mummery about purgatory. You'll see, it's a strange affair.'

There was nothing to take exception to in the letters; the business missives were routine, purchases of hops for the brewhouse and the like. The few personal letters from the monks to their families mentioned the death of a novice only as the result of an ague in the terrible weather, the same explanation the abbot gave in his formally mellifluous letter to the dead boy's parents. I felt again a stab of guilt over Simon's death.

We looked over the land deeds. The prices seemed to be what one would expect for parcels of farmland and there was no evidence of sales at undervalue to curry political support. I would check with Copynger, but again I had the feeling that great care had been taken to make sure the monastery's affairs were in order, on the surface at least. I ran my hands over the red seal at the bottom of each deed, impressed with the image of St Donatus bringing the dead man to life.

'The abbot himself has to impress the seal on any deed,' I mused.

'Anyone else would be guilty of forgery,' Mark observed.

'Remember we saw the seal on his desk the day we came? It would be safer locked away, but I imagine he likes displaying it there, as a symbol of his authority. "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity."' I stretched out my arms. 'I do not think I will eat in the refectory tonight, I am too tired. You may get something from the infirmarian if you wish. You could bring me some bread and cheese.'

'I will do that.' He left the room, and I sat thinking. Since our argument at the inn there was a new reserve, a distance, in Mark's voice. Sooner or later I would have to raise the matter of his future again. I had an obligation not to let him throw away a career; an obligation not just to Mark but also to his father and mine.

When he had still not returned after ten minutes I began to grow impatient; I was hungrier than I had realized. I heaved myself up and went out to look for him. I saw there was a light coming from the open door of the infirmarian's kitchen and I heard a sound too, soft and indistinct. A woman sobbing.

I pushed the door wide. Alice sat at the table, her head in her hands. Her thick brown hair was in disarray, hiding her face. She was weeping softly, a sad keening noise. She heard me and looked up. Her face was red and blotchy, the strong regularity of her features dissolved. She half-rose, wiping her face on her sleeve, but I motioned her to remain seated.

'No, no, stay, Alice. Pray tell me what ails you so.'

'It is nothing, sir.' She coughed to hide a break in her voice.

'Has someone done something to upset you? Please tell me. Is it Brother Edwig?'

'No, sir.' She gave me a puzzled look. 'Why should it be him?'

I told her of my talk with the bursar, and that he had guessed the source of my information. 'But do not fear, Alice, I told him you are under my personal protection.'

'It is not that, sir. It is just –' she bowed her head '– I feel alone, sir. I am alone in the world. You cannot know what that is like.'

'I think I can understand. I have not seen my family for years. They live far from London. I have only Master Poer at my house. I know I have a position in the world, but I too can feel alone. Yes, alone.' I smiled at her sadly. 'But have you no family at all? No friends in Scarnsea that you visit?'

She frowned, playing with a loose thread on her sleeve. 'My mother was the last of our family. The Fewterers were not popular in the town, women healers are always a little apart.' Her voice became bitter. 'People come to women like my mother and grandmother for help with their ills, but they do not like the sense of obligation. Once when he was young Justice Copynger came to my grandmother, seeking help for a griping in his guts that would not leave him. She cured him, but he would not so much as acknowledge her in the street afterwards. And it did not stop him taking our cottage when my mother died. I had to sell all our sticks of furniture that I had grown up with, for I had nowhere to put them.'

'I am sorry. Such thefts of land should be stopped.'

'So I do not go into Scarnsea any more. On my rest days I stay here, looking at Brother Guy's books. He helps me try to read them.'

'Well then, you have one friend.'

She nodded. 'Yes, he is a good man.'

'Tell me, Alice, did you ever hear of a girl who worked here before you, a girl named Orphan?

'I heard she took some gold cups and ran away. I do not blame her.'

I decided to say nothing of Goodwife Stumpe's fears; I did not wish to worry Alice further. I felt an overpowering urge to rise and clasp her to my breast, to ease the ache of loneliness in us both. I fought it down.

'Perhaps you too could leave,' I suggested diffidently. 'You did once, when you went to work for the apothecary in – Esher, was it not?'

'I would leave this place if I could, all the more after what has happened these last ten days. It is full of dusty old men and there is neither love nor warmth in their ceremonies. And I wonder still over what poor Simon meant about warning me.'

'Yes, so do I.' I leaned forward. 'Perhaps I may do something to help. I have contacts in the town, and in London too.' She looked at me curiously. 'I can feel for your position, truly I can, and I would help you. I would not have you –' I felt myself blush '– put under any – any obligation to me for it, but if you would accept help from an ugly old hunchback I would gladly give it.'

Her look of curiosity deepened. She frowned. 'Why do you call yourself old and ugly, sir?'

I shrugged. 'I am approaching forty, Alice, and I have always been told I am ugly.'

'It is not so, sir,' she said hotly. 'Why only yesterday Brother Guy remarked how your features have a rare combination of refinement and sadness.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'I hope Brother Guy is not of Gabriel's inclination,' I said jokingly.

'No, he is not,' Alice said with sudden heat. 'And you should not insult yourself so, sir. Is there not enough suffering in the world?'

'I am sorry.' I laughed nervously. I was overcome with embarrassment and pleasure at her words. She sat looking at me sadly and despite myself I lifted a hand to reach across and touch hers. Then we both jumped as the church bells began to peal, clashing and echoing through the night. I let my hand fall as we both laughed nervously. The door opened and Mark walked in. Alice at once rose and went to a cupboard; I guessed she did not want him to see her tear-streaked face.

'I am sorry I took so long, sir.' He spoke to me but his eyes were on Alice's back. 'I went to the privy and then stopped in the infirmary hall. Brother Guy is there, the ancient monk is very ill.'

'Brother Francis?' Alice turned quickly. 'Then please excuse me, sirs, I must go to him.' She brushed by us, her footsteps pattering up the corridor. Mark's face was concerned.

'Has she been crying, sir? What ails her?'

I sighed. 'Loneliness, Mark, only loneliness. Now come, those infernal bells are tolling for the vigil.'

As we passed through the infirmary hall, we saw Alice and Brother Guy standing over the old monk's bed. Blind Brother Andrew sat in his chair as usual, cocking his head from side to side to catch the sounds of Alice and Brother Guy's movements. The infirmarian looked up as I approached the bed.

'He is sinking,' he said quietly. 'It seems I must lose another.'

'It is his time.' We all looked round as the blind monk spoke. 'Poor Francis, he has watched nearly a hundred years as the world falls down to its end. He has seen the coming of the Antichrist, as was foretold. Luther, and his agent Cromwell.'

I realized he had no idea I was there. Brother Guy stepped hastily towards him, but I laid a restraining hand on his arm.

'No, Brother, let us hear.'

'Is that a visitor?' the blind monk asked, turning his milky eyes towards me. 'Did you know Brother Francis, sir?'

'No, Brother. I am a – visitor.'

'When he was professed it was still the time of the wars between Lancaster and York. Think of that. He told me there was an old monk at Scarnsea then, as old as Francis is now, who had known monks who were here at the time of the Great Pestilence.' He smiled softly. 'Those must have been great days. Over a hundred brothers here, a clamour of young men seeking the habit. This old man told Brother Fabian that when the Pestilence came half the monks died in a week. They partitioned the refectory, for the survivors could not bear the sight of the empty tables. The whole world was stricken then as it fell a further step towards its close.' He shook his head. 'Now all is vanity and corruption as the end nears. Soon Christ will come and judge all.'

'Quiet, Brother,' Brother Guy murmured anxiously, 'quiet.' I looked across at Alice; she dropped her eyes. I studied the ancient monk; he lay quite unconscious, his wrinkled face calm.

'Come, Mark,' I said quietly. 'Let us go.'

We muffled ourselves up and went out. The freezing night was still, moonlight glinting on the snow as we crunched along to the church. A subdued glow of candlelight was visible from the windows.

At night the church had quite a different aspect. It seemed like a great cavern, the roof lost in echoing darkness. Pinpoints of light came from candles lit before favoured images round the walls, and there were two larger oases of light, one beyond the rood screen in the choir, the other in a side chapel. I led Mark there, guessing Singleton would have the less exalted setting.

The open coffin stood on a table. Posted round it were nine or ten monks, each holding a large candle. They made a strange sight, those cowled figures in the dark, their sombre faces lit from below. As we approached I saw Brother Athelstan there; he quickly lowered his head. Brother Jude and Brother Hugh shuffled aside to give us room.

Singleton's head had been set upon his neck and a block of wood laid between the head and the coffin's back to hold it in place. His eyes and mouth had been closed and but for the red line round the neck he could have been lying in the repose of natural death. I looked down, then lifted my head hastily at the smell that rose from the body, cutting through the monks' fusty odour. Singleton had been dead over a week and out of the vault he was decomposing fast. I nodded gravely to the monks and withdrew a few paces.

'I am going to bed,' I said to Mark. 'You may stay if you wish.'

He shook his head. 'I will come with you. It is a doleful sight.'

'I would pay my respects to Simon Whelplay. But as laymen I doubt we would be welcome.'

Mark nodded and we turned away. The sound of a Latin psalm came from behind the rood screen where the novice lay. I recognized Psalm 94.

'O Lord God, to whom vengeance belongeth: O God, to whom vengeance belongeth, shew thyself.'

Exhausted though I was, I slept badly again. My back pained me and I only dozed in fits and starts. Mark too was restless, grunting and mumbling in his dreams. Just as the sky lightened I fell at last into a deep sleep, only to be woken by Mark an hour later. He was already up and dressed.

'Jesu's mercy,' I groaned. 'Is it full day?'

'Aye, sir.' There was still something withdrawn about his tone. A shaft of pain ran through my hump as I heaved myself up; I could not go on like this.

'No more noises this morning?' I asked. I had not intended to bait him, but it was coming to annoy me the way my words seemed to slide from him like water from a duck.

'As a matter of fact, I did think I heard something a few minutes ago,' he said coldly. 'It's gone now.'

'I have been thinking on what Jerome said yesterday. You know he is mad. It is possible he himself believes the stories he told us, and that that made them sound – credible.'

Mark met my gaze. 'I am not sure he is mad at all, sir. Only in great agony of soul.'

I had hoped Mark would accept my explanation; though I did not realize it then, I needed reassurance.

'Well, one way or the other,' I said sharply, 'what he says had no bearing on Singleton's death. It may even have been smoke to hide something he does know. And now we must press on.'

'Yes, sir.'

By the time I was shaved and dressed Mark had gone down the hall to breakfast. As I approached the kitchen, I heard his voice and Alice's.

'He should not make you labour so,' Mark was saying.

'It makes me strong,' Alice replied in a voice lighter than any I had heard her use. 'I will have arms thick and strong as yours one day.'

'That would be meet for no lady.'

Feeling a pang of jealousy, I coughed and went in. Mark was at table, smiling at Alice as she manoeuvred stone urns into a row. They did indeed look heavy.

'Good morning. Mark, would you take those letters to the abbot's house? Tell him I will keep the deeds for now.'

'Of course.' He left me with Alice, who set bread and cheese on the table. She seemed in better spirits this morning and made no reference to our conversation the night before, asking me only if I fared well that morning. I was a little disappointed at the formality of the question, for her words the evening before had gladdened my heart, although I was glad I had withdrawn my hand; there were enough complications here.

Brother Guy came in. 'Old Brother August needs his pan, Alice.'

'At once.' She curtsied and went out. Outside, the bells began tolling loudly. They seemed to echo round my skull.

'Commissioner Singleton's funeral will be in half an hour.'

'Brother Guy,' I said, suddenly awkward, 'may I consult with you, professionally?'

'Of course. Any assistance I can give.'

'I am having trouble with my back. Since the long ride here it pains me where – where it protrudes.'

'Would you like me to look?'

I took a long, deep breath. I hated the thought of a stranger seeing my deformity, but I had been suffering ever since the journey from London and was starting to become anxious some lasting damage might have been done. 'Very well,' I said, and began to remove my doublet.

Brother Guy went behind me and I felt cool fingers on my back, probing the knotted muscles. He grunted.

'Well?' I asked anxiously.

'Your muscles have gone into a spasm. They are very knotted. But I can see no damage to your spine. With time and rest your back should ease.' He stepped round and studied my face with a cool professional gaze as I dressed again.

'Does your back often give you much pain?'

'Sometimes,' I said shortly. 'But there is little to be done about it.'

'You are under much strain. That never helps.'

I grunted. 'I have not slept well since coming here. But who is to wonder at that?'

His large brown eyes studied my face. 'Were you well before?'

'My dominant humour is melancholy. These last few months I have felt it growing, I fear the balance of my humours is becoming undermined.'

He nodded. 'I think you have an overheated mind, not surprising after what you have witnessed here.'

I was silent a moment. 'I cannot help feeling responsible for that boy's death.' I had not meant to confide in him so, but Brother Guy had a way of drawing one out despite oneself.

'If anyone is responsible it is I. He was poisoned while under my care.'

'Does what has happened here frighten you?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'Who would harm me? I am only an old Moor.' He was silent a moment. 'Come to the infirmary. I have an infusion that may help you. Fennel, hops, one or two other ingredients.'

'Thank you.' I followed him down the hall, and sat on the table while he selected herbs and set water to heat on the fire. I eyed the Spanish cross on the opposite wall, and remembered the day before, seeing him lying prone before it.

'Did you bring that from your homeland?'

'Yes, it has followed me on all my travels.' He measured some herbs from his stock into the water. 'When this is ready take a little, not too much or you will want to sleep away the day.' He paused. 'I am grateful you trust me to prescribe for you.'

'I must trust you as a physician, Brother Guy.' I paused. 'I think you were unhappy with what I said yesterday, regarding the funeral prayers.'

He inclined his head. 'I follow your reasoning. You believe God is indifferent to forms of prayer.'

'I believe salvation comes through God's grace. You do not agree? Come, let us forget my position for a minute and talk freely, as Christian scholars.'

'Only as scholars? I have your word?'

'Yes, you do. God's bones, that mixture stinks.'

'It needs to stew a little.' He folded his arms. 'I understand why the new ways have come to England. There has been much corruption in the Church. But these matters could be dealt with by reform as has been done in Spain. Today thousands of Spanish friars are at work converting the heathens in the Americas, amidst terrible privations.'

'I cannot imagine English friars in that setting.'

'Nor can I. But Spain has shown reform is possible.'

'And has its own Inquisition as a reward from the pope.'

'My fear is the English Church will not be reformed, but destroyed.'

'What will be destroyed, though? What? The power of the papacy, the false doctrine of purgatory?'

'The king's Articles of Religion admit purgatory may exist.'

'That is one reading. I believe purgatory is false. When we die salvation is by God's grace alone. The prayers of those left on earth do not matter a rush.'

He shook his head. 'But then, sir, how should a man strive to be saved?'

'By faith.'

'And charity?'

'If one has faith, charity will follow.'

'Martin Luther holds that salvation is not really by faith at all, God predetermines before a soul is even born whether it will be saved or damned. That seems a cruel doctrine.'

'So Luther interpreted St Paul, yes. I, and many others, say he is wrong.'

'But if every man is allowed his own interpretation of the Bible, will not people bring forth such cruel philosophies everywhere? Shall we not have a Babel, chaos?'

'God will guide us.'

He stood and faced me, his eyes dark with – what? Sadness? Despair? Brother Guy was always a hard man to read.

'Then you would strip away all?'

I nodded. 'Yes, I would. Tell me, Brother, do you believe like old Brother Paul that the world is drifting towards its end, the Day of Judgment?'

'That has been the central doctrine of the Church since time immemorial.'

I leaned forward. 'But must that be? May not the world be transformed, made as God willed it?'

Brother Guy clasped his hands before him. 'The Catholic Church has often been the only light of civilization in this world. Its doctrines and rituals unite man in fellowship with suffering humanity and all the Christian dead. And they urge him to charity: Jesu knows he needs urging. But your doctrine tells each man to find his own individual salvation through prayer and the Bible. Charity and fellowship then are lost.'

I remembered my own childhood, the fat drunken priest telling me I could never take orders. 'The Church showed me little charity in my youth,' I said bitterly. 'I seek God in my heart.'

'Do you find him there?'

'Once he visited it, yes.'

The infirmarian smiled sadly. 'You know, until now a man from Granada, or anywhere in Europe, could go into a church in England and be immediately at home, hear the same Latin services, be comforted. With that international brotherhood taken away, who now will place a halter on the quarrels of princes? What will become of a man like me when he is stranded in a hostile land? Sometimes when I have gone into Scarnsea the children have thrown rubbish at me. What will they throw when the monastery is not there to protect me?'

'You have a poor view of England,' I said.

'A realistic view of fallen mankind. Oh, I see it from your perspective. You reformers are against purgatory, Masses for the dead, relics, exactly those things the monasteries epitomize. So they will go, I realize that.'

'And you would prevent it?' I looked at him keenly.

'How can I? It has been decided. But I fear without the universal church to bind us together, a day will come in this land when even belief in God will be gone. Money alone will be worshipped, and the nation, of course.'

'Should one not be loyal to one's nation, one's king?'

He picked up his potion, said a quick prayer over it, and poured the mixture into a glass bottle. He looked across at me sternly.

'In worshipping their nationhood men worship themselves and scorn others, and that is no healthy thing.'

'You are sore mistaken as to what we want. We seek the Christian commonwealth.'

'I believe you, but I fear I see things falling into a different path.' He handed me the bottle and a spoon. 'That is my opinion as a scholar. There, you should take a measure now.'

I swallowed it with a grimace; it tasted as bitter as it smelt. The slow peal of bells, which had formed the background to our talk, grew louder. The church clock struck eight.

'We should go,' Brother Guy said. 'The service is about to start.'

I put the bottle in my robe and followed him down the corridor. Looking at the fringe of black, woolly hair round the dark crown of his head, I reflected he was right in one respect: if the monasteries were dissolved he would have no safe haven in England any more; even his spicy odour was different from the common stink. He would have to beg a licence to go abroad, to a Spanish or French monastery. And he might not be given one, those countries were our enemies now. If the monastery went down, Brother Guy had more to lose than any of them.