Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) (53 page)
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Authors: C J Sansom
BOOK: Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)
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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 world 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.
I took a deep breath. ‘Prior Mortimus, I call that treason. Please take some servants and have Brother Edwig placed in custody.’
The prior looked aghast. ‘But sir, he said nothing against the king’s supremacy.’
Mark leaned across urgently. ‘Surely, sir, those words weren’t treason?’
‘Do as I command.’ I stared at Abbot Fabian.
‘Do it, Mortimus, for mercy’s sake.’
The prior set his lips, but rose from the table and marched out. I sat a moment bowed in thought, aware of every eye in the place upon me, then rose to follow, gesturing Mark to stay behind. I reached the refectory doorway in time to see the prior leading a group of torch-bearing servants out of the kitchen, towards the counting house.
A hand was suddenly laid on my arm. I whirled round; it was Bugge, his face intent.
‘Sir, the messenger has come.’
‘What?’
‘The rider from London, he’s here. I’ve never seen a man so covered in mud.’
I stood a moment, watching as Prior Mortimus banged on the counting-house door. I could not decide whether to follow him in or go to the messenger. I felt my head swim, saw little motes dancing in front of my eyes. I took a deep breath, and turned to Bugge, who was eyeing me curiously.
‘Come,’ I said, and led the way back to the gatehouse.
Chapter Thirty-one
THE MESSENGER SAT hugging the fire in Bugge’s lodge. Despite the mud that caked him from head to foot I recognized a young man I had seen delivering letters at Cromwell’s office. The vicar general would already know what the gaoler had said.
He stood up, a little shakily for I could see he was exhausted, and bowed.
‘Master Shardlake?’
I nodded, too tense to speak.
‘I am to hand this to you personally.’ He handed me a paper bearing the Tower seal. I turned my back to him and Bugge, broke the seal and read the three lines within. It was as I had thought. I forced my features into composure as I turned to face Bugge, who was staring at me intently. The messenger had slumped back beside the fire.
‘Master gatekeeper,’ I said, ‘this man has ridden far. See he has a room with a good fire for the night and victuals if he wants them.’ I turned to the messenger. ‘What is your name?’
‘Hanfold, sir.’
‘There may be a message to take back tomorrow morning. Goodnight. You have done well to ride so fast.’
I left the gatehouse, crumpling the paper in my pocket, and walked rapidly back across the outer court. I knew what I had to do now and my heart had never been heavier.
I stopped. Something. A shadow of movement in the corner of my vision. I turned so quickly I almost overbalanced in the slush. It had been by the blacksmith’s lean-to, I was sure, but I could see nothing now.
‘Who is there?’ I called out sharply.
There was no reply, no sound but the steady drip of water as the snow melted from the roofs. The mist was growing thicker. It curled around the buildings, blurring their outlines and making haloes round the dim yellow glow from the windows. My ears alert for any sound, I went on to the infirmary.
Brother Paul’s bed lay stripped, the blind monk sitting in his chair beside it with bowed head. The fat monk lay asleep. There was nobody else in the hall. Brother Guy’s dispensary was empty too; all the monks must still be at the refectory. Edwig’s arrest would have caused a mighty stir.
I WENT DOWN the corridor, past my old room, to where I knew Alice’s room was located. There was a strip of candlelight under her door. I knocked and opened it.
She sat on a truckle bed in the little windowless room, stuffing clothes into a big leather pannier. When she looked up at me there was fear in those large blue eyes. Her strong square face seemed to sag with it. I felt a desperate sorrow.
‘You are going on a journey?’ I was surprised at how normal my voice sounded, I had half-expected a croak.
She said nothing, just sat there with her hands on the straps of the pannier.
‘Well, Alice?’ Now my voice did tremble. ‘Alice Fewterer, whose mother’s maiden name was Smeaton?’
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