Dissolution

CHAPTER 6

The servant led us down the staircase again and showed us into a wide room whose walls were hung with colourful Flemish tapestries, old but very fine. The windows looked over a large cemetery dotted with trees, where a couple of servants were raking away the last of the leaves.

'My lord abbot is changing out of his riding clothes. He will be with you shortly.' He bowed himself out, and we stood warming our rears at the fire.

The room was dominated by a large desk covered with a clutter of papers and parchments, a cushioned chair behind it and stools in front. The great seal of the abbey lay on a block of sealing wax in a brass tray, next to a flagon of wine and some silver cups. Behind the desk, bookshelves lined the wall.

'I didn't realize abbots lived so well,' Mark observed.

'Oh yes, they have their own separate households. Originally the abbot lived among the brethren, but when the Crown started to tax their households centuries ago they hit on the device of giving the abbot his own revenues, legally separate. Now they all live in fine state, leaving most of the daily supervision to the priors.'

'Why doesn't the king change the law, so the abbots can be taxed?'

I shrugged. 'In the past kings needed the abbots' support in the House of Lords. Now – well, it won't matter for much longer.'

'So that Scottish brute actually runs the place from day to day?'

I went behind the desk and examined the bookshelves, noting a printed set of English statutes. 'One of nature's bullies, isn't he? He seemed to enjoy mistreating that novice.'

'The boy looked ill.'

'Yes. I am curious to know why a novice has been set to menial servants' work.'

'I thought monks were supposed to spend part of their time in manual labour.'

'That is part of St Benedict's rule. But no monk in a Benedictine house has done honest toil for hundreds of years. Servants do the work. Not only cooking and stabling, but tending the fires, making the monks' beds, sometimes helping them dress and who knows what else.'

I picked up the seal and studied it by the light from the fire. It was of tempered steel. I showed Mark the engraving of St Donatus, in Roman clothing, bending over another man lying on a pannier whose arm was stretched up to him in appeal. It was beautifully done, the folds of the robes rendered in detail.

'St Donatus bringing the dead man back to life. I looked it up in my Saints' Lives before we left.'

'He could raise the dead? Like Christ with Lazarus?'

'Donatus, we are told, came upon a dead man being carried to his grave. Another man was berating the widow, saying the deceased owed him money. The blessed Donatus told the dead man to get up and settle his accounts. He sat up and convinced everyone that he had paid his debt. Then he lay down dead again. Money, money, it's always money with these people.'

There were footsteps outside and the door opened to admit a tall, broad man in his fifties. Beneath his black Benedictine habit could be seen hose of wool velvet and silver-buckled shoes. His face was ruddy, with a Roman beak of a nose set in square features. His thick brown hair was long and his tonsure, a little shaven circle, the barest concession to the Rule. He came forward with a smile.

'I am Abbot Fabian.' The manner was patrician, the voice richly aristocratic, but I caught a note of anxiety underneath. 'Welcome to Scarnsea. Pax vobiscum.'

'Master Matthew Shardlake, the vicar general's commissioner.' I did not give the formal reply of 'and with you', for I was not to be drawn into Latin mummery.

The abbot nodded slowly. His deep-set blue eyes quickly swept my bent figure up and down, then widened a little when he saw I was holding the seal.

'Sir, I beg you, be careful. That seal has to be impressed on all legal documents. It never leaves this room. Strictly, only I should handle it.'

'As the king's commissioner I have access to everything here, my lord.'

'Of course, sir, of course.' His eyes followed my hands as I laid the seal back on his desk. 'You must be hungry after your long journey; shall I order some food?'

'Later, thank you.'

'I regret keeping you waiting, but I had business with the reeve of our Ryeover estates. There is still much to do with the harvest accounts. Some wine, perhaps?'

'A very little.'

He poured me some, then turned to Mark. 'Might I ask who this is?'

'Mark Poer, my clerk and assistant.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Master Shardlake, we have very serious matters to discuss. Might I suggest that would be better done in confidence? The boy can go to the quarters I have prepared.'

'I think not, my lord. The vicar general himself requested me to bring Master Poer. He shall stay unless I wish him to leave. Would you care to see my commission now?'

Mark gave the abbot a grin.

He reddened and inclined his head. 'As you wish.'

I passed the document into his beringed hand. 'I have spoken with Dr Goodhaps,' I said as he broke the seal. His expression became strained and his nose seemed to tilt upwards as though the smell of Cromwell himself rose from the paper. I looked out at the garden, where the servants were making a fire of the leaves, sending a thin white finger of smoke into the grey sky. The light was starting to fade.

The abbot pondered a moment, then laid the commission on his desk. He leaned forward, clasping his hands.

'This murder is the most terrible thing that has ever happened here. Accompanied by the desecration of our church, it has left me – shocked.'

I nodded. 'It has shocked Lord Cromwell too. He does not want it noised abroad. You have kept silence?'

'Totally, sir. The monks and servants have been told if a word is breathed outside these walls they will answer to the vicar general's office.'

'Good. Please ensure all correspondence arriving here is shown to me. And no letters are to go out without my approving them. Now, I gather Commissioner Singleton's visit was not welcome to you.'

He sighed again. 'What can I say? Two weeks ago I had a letter from Lord Cromwell's office saying he was sending a commissioner to discuss unspecified matters. When Commissioner Singleton arrived, he astonished me by saying he wished me to surrender this monastery to the king.' He looked me in the eye, and now there was defiance as well as anxiety in his gaze. 'He stressed he sought a voluntary surrender and he seemed keen to have it, alternating promises of money with vague threats about misconduct – quite without foundation, I must add. The Instrument of Surrender he wanted me to sign was extraordinary, containing admissions that our life here has consisted of pretended religion, following dumb Roman ceremonies.' An injured note entered his voice. 'Our ceremonies faithfully follow the vicar general's own injunctions, and every brother has sworn the oath renouncing the pope's authority.'

'Of course,' I said. 'Otherwise there would have been consequences.' I noticed he wore a pilgrim badge prominently on his habit; he had been to the shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham. But then, of course, so had the king in days past.

He took a deep breath. 'Commissioner Singleton and I had a number of discussions, centring on the fact that the vicar general has no legal right to order my monks and me to make over the house to them. A fact which Dr Goodhaps, a canon lawyer, could not dispute.'

I did not answer him, for he was right. 'Perhaps we could turn to the circumstances of the murder,' I said. 'That is the more pressing matter.'

He nodded sombrely. 'Four days ago Commissioner Singleton and I had another long and, I fear, fruitless discussion in the afternoon. I did not see him again that day. He had rooms in this house, but Dr Goodhaps and he had taken to dining separately. I went to bed as usual. Then at five in the morning I was woken by Brother Guy, my infirmarian, bursting into my room. He told me that on visiting the kitchen he had found Commissioner Singleton's body lying in a great pool of blood. He had been decapitated.' The abbot's face twisted with distaste and he shook his head. 'The shedding of blood on consecrated ground is an abomination, sir. And then there was what was found in the church, by the altar, when the monks went in to Matins.' He paused, a deep furrow appearing between his brows, and I saw he was genuinely upset.

'And what was that?'

'More blood. The blood of a black cockerel that lay with its head also off, before the altar. I fear we are dealing with witchcraft, Master Shardlake.'

'And you have lost a relic, I believe?'

The abbot bit his lip. 'The Great Relic of Scarnsea. It is rare and holy, the hand of the Penitent Thief who suffered with Christ, nailed to a fragment of his Cross. Brother Gabriel found it gone later that morning.'

'I understand it is valuable. A gold casket set with emeralds?'

'Yes. But I am more concerned with the contents. The thought of something of such holy power in the hands of some witch –'

'It was not witchcraft that beheaded the king's commissioner.'

'Some of the brethren wonder about that. There are no implements in the kitchen that could strike a man's head off. It is hardly an easy thing to do.'

I leaned forward, placing a hand on my knee. It was to ease my back, but it looked challenging. 'Your relations with Commissioner Singleton were not good. You say he used to take supper in his room?'

Abbot Fabian spread his hands. 'He was afforded every courtesy as an emissary of the vicar general. It was his preference not to share my dinner table. But please,' he raised his voice slightly, 'let me repeat, I abhor his death as an abomination. Indeed I would like to give his poor remains Christian burial. Their continued presence here makes my monks uneasy, they fear his ghost. But Dr Goodhaps insisted the body be kept for inspection.'

'A sensible suggestion. Its examination will be my first task.'

He eyed me carefully. 'Are you to investigate this crime alone, without involving the civil authorities?'

'Yes, and speedily. But I expect your full cooperation and assistance.'

He spread his hands wide. 'Of course. But, frankly, I do not know where you would begin. It seems an impossible task for one man. Especially if, as I am sure, the culprit came from the town.'

'Why do you say that? I have been told the gatekeeper encountered Commissioner Singleton during the night. He said he was on his way to meet someone. And that a key is needed to open the kitchen door.'

He leaned forward earnestly. 'Sir, this is a house of God, devoted to the worship of Christ.' He bowed his head at the mention of Our Lord's name. 'Nothing like this has happened in the four hundred years it has stood. But in the sinful world outside – some lunatic or, worse, someone dabbling in witchcraft could have entered the grounds with desecration in mind. The spoliation of the altar makes that obvious to me. I think Commissioner Singleton surprised the intruder, or intruders, on his way to this assignation of his. As for the key, the commissioner had one. He had requested it from Prior Mortimus that afternoon.'

'I see. Have you any idea whom he might have been meeting?'

'I wish I had. But that information died with him. Sir, I do not know what violent madmen there may have been in the town lately, but certainly there are rogues enough; half the people are involved in smuggling wool to France.'

'I will raise that tomorrow when I visit the town's Justice, Master Copynger.'

'He is to be involved?' The abbot's eyes narrowed. Plainly that did not please him.

'He and no one else. Tell me, how long have you been abbot here?'

'Fourteen years. Fourteen peaceful years, till now.'

'But there were problems two years ago, were there not? The visitation?'

He reddened. 'Yes. There had been some – backsliding. The old prior – there were corrupt practices, it happens even in the holiest of places.'

'Corrupt and illegal.'

'The old prior was removed, defrocked. The prior is, of course, responsible for the monks' welfare and discipline under me. He was a crafty villain and kept his ill deeds well concealed. But now we have godly discipline again under Prior Mortimus. Commissioner Singleton did not deny that.'

I nodded. 'Now, there are sixty servants here?'

'We have a large complex of buildings to maintain.'

'And – what – thirty monks?'

'Sir, I cannot believe that one of my servants, let alone a monk devoted to the service of God, could have done this thing.'

'All must be suspect at the start, my lord. After all, Commissioner Singleton was here to negotiate the surrender of the monastery. And for all that the pensions His Majesty is graciously offering are generous, I imagine some may take very unkindly to the prospect of the end of their life here.'

'The monks were not told of his purpose. They know only that the commissioner was an emissary of the vicar general. I had Prior Mortimus put it about there was a problem with the title to one of the estates. At Commissioner Singleton's specific request. Only my senior officials, the senior obedentiaries, knew his purpose.'

'Who are they exactly?'

'As well as Prior Mortimus there are Gabriel, the sacrist; Brother Edwig, our bursar; and Brother Guy, the infirmarian. They are the most senior and have all been here for years, save for Brother Guy who came last year. Since the murder there have been all sorts of rumours about why the commissioner was here, but I have kept to the story about a title dispute.'

'Good. We shall hold to that arrangement for the present. Although the question of surrender is one I may wish to return to.'

The abbot paused, choosing his next words carefully.

'Sir, even in these terrible circumstances I must insist on my rights. The Act dissolving the smaller houses said specifically that the greater monasteries were in good order. There is no legal basis to demand a surrender, unless the house has been guilty of some gross breach of the injunctions, which we have not. I do not know why the vicar general should want possession of this monastery. I have heard rumours that others are being asked to surrender, but I must say to you as I said to Master Singleton: I call on the protection the law affords me.' He leaned back, his face red and his lips set, cornered but defiant.

'I see you have a collection of statutes,' I observed.

'I studied law at Cambridge many years ago. You are a lawyer, sir, you know that observance of law is the basis of our society.'

'So it is, but the law changes. New Acts have come, and others will follow.'

He looked at me without expression. He knew as well as I that there would be no more Acts dissolving monasteries by force while the country remained unsettled.

I broke the silence. 'Now, my lord, I would be grateful if you could arrange for me to inspect poor Singleton's body, which as you say is overdue for Christian burial. I will want someone to show me over the monastery, too, but perhaps that would be better done tomorrow. Dusk draws on.'

'Certainly. The body is in a place I think you will agree is both safe and fitting, in the custody of the infirmarian. I will arrange for you to be escorted to him. Please let me state clearly that I will do all I can to help you, though I fear you have a hopeless task.'

'I am grateful.'

'And, now, I have a guest room prepared for you upstairs.'

'Thank you, but I think I would prefer to be nearer the locus of the deed. You have guest rooms in your infirmary?'

'Well, yes – but surely the king's representative should lodge with the abbot?'

'The infirmary would be better,' I said firmly. 'And I will need a complete set of keys to all the buildings within the precincts.'

He smiled in disbelief. 'But – have you any idea how many keys there are here, how many doors?'

'Oh, many, I should think. Surely there must be complete sets.'

'I have one. And the prior and the gatekeeper. But they are all in constant use.'

'I shall need a set, my lord. Please arrange it.' I stood up, trying not to exclaim at a spasm from my back. Mark followed. Abbot Fabian looked thoroughly discomfited as he too rose, smoothing down his robe. 'I will see you are taken to the infirmarian.'

We followed him into the hall, where he bowed and bustled away. I blew out my cheeks.

'Will he give you the keys?' Mark asked.

'Oh, I think so. He's afraid of Cromwell. God's death, he knows his law. If he's of lowly origin as Goodhaps said, being abbot of a this great place must mean everything to him.'

'His accent was that of a man of breeding.'

'Accents can be adopted. Many put a great deal of effort into it. Lord Cromwell's voice has little of Putney left in it. Yours has little of the farm, come to that.'

'He wasn't pleased we are not staying here.'

'No, and old Goodhaps will be disappointed. But I can't help that; I don't want to be isolated here under the abbot's eye, I need to be near the heart of the place.'

After a few minutes Prior Mortimus appeared, bearing an enormous bunch of keys on a ring. There were over thirty, some huge ornamented affairs, centuries old. He handed them to me with a tight smile.

'I beg you not to lose them, sir. They are the only spare set the house possesses.'

I passed them to Mark. 'Carry these, would you? So there is a spare set?'

He avoided replying. 'I have been asked to take you to the infirmary. Brother Guy is expecting you.'

He led us out of the house and back past the workshops, closed and shuttered for it was now dark. The night was moonless and colder than ever. In my tired state the chill seemed to penetrate my bones. We passed the church, from which chanting could be heard. It was a beautiful, elaborate polyphony, accompanied by organ music; quite unlike the off-key warbling I knew from Lichfield.

'Who is your precentor?' I asked.

'Brother Gabriel, our sacrist, is master of music as well. He is a man of many talents.' I caught a sardonic note in the prior's voice.

'Is it not a little late for Vespers?'

'Only a little. Yesterday was All Souls, the monks were standing in church all day.'

I shook my head. 'Everywhere the monasteries follow their own timetable, an easier one than that St Benedict set.'

He nodded seriously. 'And Lord Cromwell is right to say the monks should be kept up to the mark. So far as is in my power, I see that they are.'

We followed the cloister wall separating off the monks' quarters and entered the big herb garden I had seen earlier. Close to, the infirmary was bigger than I had thought. The prior turned the iron ring in the stout door, and we followed him in.

The long infirmary hall stretched before us, its rows of beds on each side widely spaced and mostly empty. It reminded me how shrunken in numbers the Benedictines had become; only at the height of their numbers before the Great Pestilence would the community have needed so large an infirmary. Only three beds were occupied, all by old men in nightshifts. In the first a fat, red-cheeked monk sat up eating dried fruits; he peered at us curiously. The man in the next bed did not look towards us and I saw he was blind, his eyes milky white with cataracts. In the third bed a very old man, his thin face a mass of wrinkles, lay muttering, half-conscious. A figure in a white coif and blue servant's robe stood leaning over him, gently wiping his brow with a cloth. I saw to my surprise that it was a woman.

At a table at the far end, by the little altar, half a dozen monks sat playing cards, their arms bandaged after being bled. They looked up at us with wary eyes. The woman turned and I saw that she was young, in her early twenties. She was tall, with a fine, full figure and a strong square face with high cheekbones. She was not beautiful, but striking. She came across, studying us with intelligent dark-blue eyes before dropping her gaze submissively at the last moment.

'The king's new commissioner, for Brother Guy,' the prior said peremptorily. 'They're to lodge here, they'll need a room prepared.' For an instant, a look of dislike passed between him and the girl. Then she nodded and curtsied. 'Yes, Brother.'

She walked away, disappearing through a door by the altar. She had a poised and confident bearing, quite unlike a young maidservant's normal scuttle.

'A woman within the precincts,' I said. 'That is against the injunctions.'

'We have a dispensation, like many houses, to employ women assistants in the infirmary. The gentle hand of a woman skilled in medicine – though I don't think ye'd get much gentleness from the hands of that malapert. She has manners above her station, the infirmarian's too soft with her.'

'Brother Guy?'

'Brother Guy of Malton – of Malton but not from Malton, as ye'll see.'

The girl returned. 'I will take you to the dispensary, sirs.' She spoke with the local accent; her voice was soft and husky.

'I'll leave ye, then.' The prior bowed and left.

The girl was appraising Mark's costume; he had decked himself out in his finest for the journey and under his fur-trimmed coat he wore a blue jacket over a yellow tunic from which, at the bottom, his codpiece poked out. Her eyes moved to his face; many women looked at Mark, but this one's expression was different: I caught an unexpected sadness in her eyes. Mark gave her a winning smile, and she reddened.

I waved my hand. 'Please lead the way.'

We followed her into a dark, narrow passage with doors leading off. One stood open and glancing in I saw another old monk, sitting up in bed.

'Alice, is that you?' he asked querulously as we passed.

'Yes, Brother Paul,' she said gently. 'I will be with you in a moment.'

'The shaking came again.'

'I will bring you some warm wine.'

He smiled, reassured, and the girl led us on, halting before another door. 'This is Brother Guy's dispensary, sirs.'

My hose brushed against a stone pitcher outside the door. To my surprise it felt warm, and I bent for a closer look. The pitchers were filled with a thick, dark liquid. I sniffed, then jumped up quickly and gave the girl a shocked stare.

'What is that?'

'Blood, sir. Only blood. The infirmarian is giving the monks their winter bleeding. We keep the blood, it helps the herbs grow.'

'I never heard of such a thing. I thought monks were forbidden from shedding blood in any way, even infirmarians. Does not a barber-surgeon come to bleed people?'

'Brother Guy is exempt as a qualified physician, sir. He says keeping the blood is a common enough practice where he comes from. He asks would you wait a few minutes, he has just begun to bleed Brother Timothy and must supervise the process.'

'Very well. Thank you. Your name is Alice?'

'Alice Fewterer, sir.'

'Then tell your master we will wait, Alice. We would not have his patient bleed to death.'

She bowed and went off, wooden heels clacking on the stone flags.

'A well-made girl,' Mark observed.

'So she is. A strange job for a woman, this. I think your codpiece amused her, as well it might.'

'I don't like bleeding,' he said, changing the subject. 'The only time I had it done it left me weak as a kitten for days. But they say it balances the humours.'

'Well, God made me of a melancholy humour and I don't believe bleeding will change that. Now, let's see what we have here.' I unclipped the great bunch of keys from my belt, peering at them in the dim light of a wall lantern until I came to one marked 'Inf.' I tried it and the door swung open.

'Shouldn't we wait, sir?' Mark asked.

'We have no time for niceties.' I took the lantern from the wall. 'It's a chance to learn something about the man who found the body.'

The room was small, whitewashed and very neat, full of a rich spicy odour. A lying couch for the patients was covered with a clean white cloth. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks alongside surgeons' knives. There was a complex astrological chart on one wall, while opposite was a large cross in the Spanish style, dark wood with blood dripping from the five wounds of an alabaster-white Christ. Under a high window, on the infirmarian's desk, papers were neatly ordered in little piles and weighted down with pretty stones. I glanced at notes of prescriptions and diagnoses written in English and Latin.

I made my way along the shelves looking at the jars and bottles, all carefully labelled in Latin script. I lifted the lid from a large bowl to find his leeches, the black slimy creatures wriggling in the unexpected light. It was all as one would expect to find: dried marigolds for fever, vinegar for deep cuts, powdered mice for earache.

At the end of the top shelf were three books. One was a printed volume of Galen, another Paracelsus, both in French. The third, with a beautifully decorated leather cover, was handwritten in a strange language of spiky curls.

'Look at this, Mark.'

He peered over my shoulder at the book. 'Some medical code?'

'I don't know.'

I had had an ear open for footsteps, but had heard nothing and jumped at the sound of a polite cough behind us.

'Please do not drop that book, sir,' a strangely accented voice said. 'It is of great value to me if no-one else. It is an Arabic medical book, it is not on the king's forbidden list.'

We spun round. A tall monk of about fifty, with a thin, austere face, was looking at us calmly from deep-set eyes. To my surprise, his face was brown as an oak plank. I had seen brown men occasionally in London, by the docks, but had never found such a being staring me in the eye.

'I would be most thankful if you could give me the book,' he said in his soft, lisping voice, respectfully but firmly. 'It was given to my father by the last emir of Granada.'

I handed it to him and he bowed gracefully.

'You are Master Shardlake and Master Poer?'

'Indeed. Brother Guy of Malton?'

'I am. You have a key to my room? Normally only my assistant Alice comes in here unless I am present, lest someone mess with the herbs and potions. The wrong dose of some of these powders could kill, you see.' His eyes flickered over the shelves. I found myself reddening.

'I have been careful to touch nothing, sir.'

He bowed. 'Quite so. And how may I assist His Majesty's representative?'

'We wish to take accommodation here. You have guest rooms?'

'Certainly. Alice is preparing a room now. But most of this corridor is taken up with aged monks. They often require attention in the night and you may find yourself disturbed. Most guests prefer the abbot's house.'

'We would rather stay here.'

'As you wish. And may I help in any other way?' His tone was perfectly respectful, but somehow his questions made me feel like a foolish patient asked to check off symptoms. However strange his appearance, this was a man of presence.

'I gather you have charge of the body of the late commissioner?'

'I have. It is in a crypt in the lay cemetery.'

'We would like to view it.'

'Most certainly. In the meantime perhaps you may wish to wash and rest after your long journey. Will you be dining with the abbot later?'

'No, we will eat with the monks in the refectory, I think. But first I think we will take an hour's rest. That book,' I added, 'you are a Moor by birth?'

'I am from Malaga, now in Castile but when I was born part of the emirate of Granada. When Granada fell to Spain in 1492 my parents converted to Christianity, but life was not easy. In due course we made our way to France; we found life easier at Louvain, it is an international town. Arabic was, of course, their language.' He smiled gently, but his coal-black eyes stayed sharp.

'You studied medicine at Louvain?' I was astonished, for it was the most prestigious school in Europe. 'Surely you should be serving at the court of a noble or a king, not in a remote monastery.'

'Indeed so; but as a Spanish Moor I have certain disadvantages. Over the years I have bounced from post to post in France and England, like one of your King Henry's tennis balls.' He smiled again. 'I was at Malton in Yorkshire five years; I kept the name when I came here two years ago. And if rumour speaks true, I may be on the move again soon.'

I remembered he was one of the officials who knew of Singleton's purpose. He nodded reflectively at my silence.

'So. I will take you to your room, and I will return in an hour so you can inspect Commissioner Singleton's body. The poor man should be given Christian burial.' He crossed himself, sighing. 'It will be hard enough for the soul of a murdered man to find rest, unconfessed and without the last sacrament at his end. Pray God none of us should ever meet such a fate.'