Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) (57 page)

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Authors: C J Sansom

BOOK: Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)
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I hit the rail with my midriff, knocking the breath from my body. It shook with the impact as my frantic hands grasped the inner side and I hauled myself over, how I do not know. Then I was lying on the floor in a heap, my back and arms an agony, as across the room Edwig knelt clutching a handful of coins, staring at me in angry bafflement as the clangour of the bells rang and sang in our ears, the vibration now shaking the very floorboards.
 
He was up in an instant, grabbing for his panniers and running for the door. I threw myself at him, clutching for his eyes. He thrust me off, but was thrown off balance by the weight of the bags. He staggered and came up against the rail as I had done a minute before. As he did so he dropped his leather bags. They fell over the edge, and with a cry he leaned over and snatched at the rope holding them together. He caught hold, but the movement overbalanced him. For a moment he lay spreadeagled across the rails and I believe that if he had let go the gold he might have saved himself, but he held on. The bags’ weight tipped him forward and he fell over head first, bouncing off the side of a bell and disappearing from view with a scream of terrified anger, as though in his last moment he knew he faced his Maker before he had made his great gift. I ran to the parapet and saw him still falling, his habit billowing out around him as he spun to earth in the middle of a great shower of coins from the panniers. The crowd fled in panic as he hit the ground in an explosion of blood and gold.
 
I leaned over the rail, panting and sweating, watching as the crowd slowly crept in again. Some looked down at the bursar’s remains, others peered up to where I stood. To my disgust I saw monks and servants get down on hands and knees and begin scrabbling on the floor, grabbing up handfuls of coins.
 
Epilogue
FEBRUARY 1538, THREE MONTHS LATER
 
 
As I entered the monastery courtyard I saw the great bells had been taken from the church tower and now sat waiting to be melted down. They were in pieces, huge shards of ornamented metal piled in a heap. They would have been cut from the rings holding them to the roof and left to drop to the floor of the church. That would have made a mighty noise.
 
A little way off, next to a large mound of charcoal, a brick furnace had been erected. It was swallowing lead; a gang of men on the church roof were throwing down chunks and strips of it. More of the auditors’ men, waiting below, fetched the lead and fed it into the fire.
Cromwell had been right; the crop of surrenders he had obtained early in the winter had persuaded the other monastic houses that resistance was hopeless and every day now came news of another monastery dissolved. Soon none would be left. All over England abbots were retiring on fat pensions, while the brethren went to take up secular parishes or retire on their own, thinner, stipends. There were tales of much chaos; at the inn in Scarnsea, where I was staying, I heard that when the monks left the monastery three months before, half a dozen who were too old or sick to move any further had taken rooms there and refused to leave when their money ran out; the constable and his men had had to put them on the road. They had included the fat monk with the ulcerated leg, and poor, stupid Septimus.
When King Henry learned of the events at St Donatus he had ordered that it be razed to the ground. Portinari, Cromwell’s Italian engineer, who even now was demolishing Lewes Priory, was coming on to Scarnsea afterwards to take down the buildings. I had heard he was very skilled; at Lewes he had managed to undermine the foundations so the whole church came tumbling down at one go in great clouds of dust; they said in Scarnsea it had been a wonderful and terrible sight, and looked forward to seeing the spectacle repeated.
It had been a hard winter, and Portinari had been unable to get his men and equipment down to the Channel coast before spring came. They would be at Scarnsea in a week, but first the Augmentations officers had arrived to take away everything of value, down to the lead from the roof and the brass from the bells. It was an Augmentations man who met me at the gatehouse and checked my commission; Bugge and the other servants were long gone.
I had been surprised when Cromwell sent a letter ordering me to Scarnsea to supervise the process. I had heard little from him since making a brief visit to Westminster to discuss my report in December. He told me then that he had endured an uncomfortable half-hour with the king when Henry learned that mayhem and murder at a religious house had been kept from him for weeks, and that his new commissioner’s assistant had absconded with the old commissioner’s killer. Perhaps the king had boxed his chief minister’s ears, as I had heard he was wont to do; at all events Cromwell’s manner had been brusque and he dismissed me without thanks. His favour, I had taken it, was withdrawn.
Although I still held the formal title of commissioner I was not needed, the Augmentations officers were more than capable of carrying out the work, and I wondered whether Cromwell had thought to make me revisit the scene of those terrible experiences as a punishment for that uncomfortable half-hour of his. It would have been characteristic.
Justice Copynger, now the king’s tenant of the former monastery lands, stood a little way off with another man, looking over plans. I approached him, passing a couple of Augmentations officers carrying armfuls of books from the library and heaping them up in the courtyard, ready for burning.
Copynger grasped my hand. ‘Commissioner, how are you? We have better weather now than when you were last here.’
‘Indeed. Spring is almost come, though that is a cold wind from the sea. How do you find the abbot’s house?’
‘I have settled in most happily. Abbot Fabian kept it in good repair. When the monastery is down I will have a fine view over the Channel.’ He waved towards the monks’ cemetery, where men were busy digging up the headstones. ‘See, over there I am making a paddock for my horses; I bought the monks’ whole stable at a good price.’
‘I hope you have not put Augmentations men to that work, Sir Gilbert,’ I said with a smile. Copynger had been ennobled at Christmas, touched on the shoulder by a sword held by the king himself; Cromwell needed loyal men in the shires more than ever now.
‘No, no, those are my men, paid by me.’ He gave me a haughty look. ‘I was sorry you did not wish to stay with me while you are here.’
‘This place has unhappy memories. I am better in the town, I hope you will understand.’
‘Very well, sir, very well.’ He nodded condescendingly. ‘But you will dine with me later, I hope. I would like to show you the plans my surveyor here has drawn up; we are going to turn some of the monastery outhouses into sheep pens once the main buildings are down. That will be a spectacle, eh? Only a few days now.’
‘It will indeed. If you will excuse me for now.’ I bowed and left him, wrapping my coat around me against the wind.
I went through the door to the claustral buildings. Inside, the cloister walk was dirty and muddy from the passage of many booted feet. The auditor from Augmentations had set himself up in state in the refectory, where his men brought him a constant stream of plate and gilded statues, gold crosses and tapestries, copes and albs and even the monks’ bedding - everything that might have value in the auction to be held in two days’ time.
Master William Glench sat in a refectory stripped of its furnishings but filled with boxes and chests, his back to a roaring fire, discussing an entry in his great ledger with a scrivener. He was a tall, thin man with spectacles and a fussy manner; a whole raft of such people had been taken on at Augmentations over the winter. I introduced myself and Glench rose and bowed, after carefully marking the place in his book.
‘You seem to have everything well organized,’ I said.
He nodded portentously. ‘Everything, sir, down to the very pots and pans in the kitchens.’ His manner reminded me momentarily of Edwig; I suppressed a shudder.
‘I see they are preparing to burn the books. Is that necessary? Might they not have some value?’
He shook his head firmly. ‘No, sir. All the books are to be destroyed; they are instruments of papist worship. There’s not one in honest English.’
I turned and opened a chest at random. It was full of ornamentation from the church. I lifted out a finely carved gold chalice. It was one of those Edwig had thrown into the fish pond after Orphan’s body, to make people think her a runaway thief. I turned it over in my hands.
‘Those are not to be sold,’ Glench said. ‘All the gold and silver is to go to the Tower mint for melting down. Sir Gilbert tried to buy some pieces. He says the ornamentation is fine and so it may be, but they’re all baubles of papist ceremony. He should know better.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he should.’ I put the chalice back.
Two men carried in a big wicker basket and the scrivener began unloading habits onto the table. ‘These should have been cleaned,’ the scrivener said crossly. ‘They’d fetch more.’
I could sense Glench’s impatience to be back at work. ‘I will leave you,’ I said. ‘Make sure not to forget anything,’ I added, taking a moment’s pleasure in his affronted stare.
I crossed the cloister to the church, keeping a careful eye on the men scrambling over the roof; already fallen tiles lay dotted round the cloister square. Inside the church, light still streamed through the ornate stained-glass windows, still created a kaleidoscope of warm colours on the floor of the nave. But the walls and side chapels were bare now. The sound of hammering and voices echoed down from the roof. At the head of the nave the floor was broken, a mass of shattered tiles. It was the spot where Edwig had fallen and also where the bells would have landed when they had been cut from the roof. I looked up into the yawning empty space of the bell tower, remembering.
Going round the rood screen, I saw the lecterns and even the great organ had been removed. I shook my head and turned to leave.
Then I saw a cowled figure sitting in a corner of the choir stall, facing away from me. For a moment I felt a thrill of superstitious dread as I imagined Gabriel returned to mourn the ruin of his life’s work. The figure turned and I almost cried out, for at first I could see no face under the hood, but then I made out the gaunt brown features of Brother Guy. He rose and bowed.
‘Brother infirmarian,’ I said, ‘for a moment I thought you were a ghost.’
He smiled sadly. ‘In a way I am.’
I approached and sat down, motioning him to join me. ‘I am glad to see you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to thank you for my pension, Master Shardlake. I imagine it was you who saw I was given an increased allowance.’
‘You
were
elected abbot, after all, when Abbot Fabian was declared incapable. You are entitled to a larger allowance, even if you only held the post a few weeks.’
‘Prior Mortimus was not pleased when the brethren elected me over him. He has gone back to schoolmastering, you know, in Devon.’
‘May God have mercy on his charges.’
‘I wondered whether it was right to take the larger sum, when the brethren have to live on five pounds a year. But they would have been given no more had I refused. And with my face I will not have an easy time of it in the world. I think I will keep my monastic name of Guy of Malton rather than revert to my worldly surname of Elakbar - I am allowed to do that, even if “Brother” is forbidden?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do not look shamefaced, my friend - you are my friend, I think?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I am. Believe me, being sent back here now is no pleasure to me, I have no more wish to be a commissioner.’ I shivered. ‘It is cold.’
Guy nodded. ‘Yes. I have sat here too long. I have been thinking of the monks who sat in these stalls every day for four hundred years, chanting and praying. The venal, the lazy, the devoted, those who were all those things. But -’ he pointed up at the clanging, clattering roof - ‘it is hard to concentrate.’
As we looked upwards there came a loud hammer blow and a shower of dust. Lumps of plaster fell to the floor with a crash and suddenly daylight streamed in from a hole, a shaft of sunlight spearing to the floor. ‘We’re through, bullies,’ a voice echoed from above. ‘Careful there!’
Guy made a strange sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. I touched his arm. ‘We should go. More plaster will be coming down.’
Outside in the courtyard his face was bleak but composed. Copynger nodded coldly to him as we began walking away towards the abbot’s house.
‘When the monks left at the end of November Sir Gilbert asked me to stay on,’ Guy told me. ‘He’d been put in charge of minding the place till Portinari could get here and he asked me to help. The fish pond flooded badly in January, you know; I was able to help him drain it.’
‘It must have been hard, living alone here with everyone gone.’
‘Not really, not until the Augmentations men came this week and started clearing the place. Somehow it felt, over the winter, as though the house was only waiting for the monks to come back.’ He winced as a great chunk of lead crashed to the ground behind us.
‘You hoped for a reprieve?’
He shrugged. ‘One always hopes. Besides, I had nowhere to go. I have been waiting all this time to hear if I am to be allowed a permit to leave for France.’

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