‘Like Anne Boleyn,’ Mark said.
Brother Guy crossed himself. ‘The witch queen,’ he said quietly.
‘That is what brought it to mind,’ I said softly. ‘The one beheading I have seen. Just like Anne Boleyn.’
Chapter Eight
WE WAITED OUTSIDE while Brother Guy locked the crypt. The snow was heavier now, thick flakes swirling down. Already the ground was white.
‘We were lucky to miss this on the road,’ Mark said.
‘We’ll have problems getting back if this goes on. We may have to return by sea.’
Brother Guy joined us. He gave me a serious look. ‘Sir, we would like to bury poor Commissioner Singleton tomorrow. It would make the community easier - and allow his soul to find rest.’
‘Where will you bury him? Here? He had no family.’
‘In the lay cemetery. If you permit.’
I nodded. ‘Very well. I have seen enough, the sight is etched in my mind all too clearly.’
‘You deduced much, sir.’
‘Educated guesswork only.’ Standing close to Brother Guy I noticed a faint odour, like sandalwood. He certainly smelt better than his brethren.
‘I will tell the abbot arrangements can be made for the funeral,’ he said with relief.
The church bell boomed out, making me start. ‘I have never heard such a loud peal. I noticed it earlier.’
‘The bells are really too large for the tower. But they have an interesting history. They originally hung in the ancient cathedral of Toulouse.’
‘Why move them here?’
‘They came a roundabout way. The cathedral was destroyed in an Arab raid eight hundred years ago and the bells taken as a trophy. They were found at Salamanca in Spain when that city was reconquered for Christ, and donated to Scarnsea when the monastery was founded.’
‘I still think you would be better served with smaller bells.’
‘We have become used to them.’
‘I doubt I will.’
He smiled, a quick sad flicker. ‘You must blame my Arab ancestors.’
We reached the cloister just as the monks were leaving the church in procession. The sight made an impression that comes clearly to mind all these years later: almost thirty black-robed Benedictines walking in double file across the old stone cloister, cowls raised and arms folded in their wide sleeves to give protection against the snow, which fell in a silent curtain, coating them as they walked, the whole scene illuminated from the church windows. It was a beautiful scene and despite myself I was moved.
BROTHER GUY took us back to our room, promising to collect us shortly and take us to the refectory. We shook the snow from our coats, then Mark wheeled out his little bed and lowered himself onto it.
‘How do you think a swordsman could have killed Singleton, sir? Waited for him and struck him from behind?’
I began unpacking my pannier, sorting papers and books. ‘Possibly. But what was Singleton doing in the kitchen at four in the morning?’
‘Perhaps he had arranged to meet the monk there, the one he told the gatekeeper about?’
‘Yes, that is the most likely explanation. Someone arranged to meet Singleton in the kitchen, perhaps with a promise of information, and killed him. Executed him, more like. The whole thing has the flavour of an execution. Surely it would have been far easier just to knife him in the back.’
‘He looked a hard man,’ Mark said. ‘Though it was difficult to tell, his head stuck on the floor of that tomb.’ He laughed, a touch shrilly, and I realized he too had been affected by the sight.
‘Robin Singleton was a type of lawyer I detest. He had little law and that ill-digested. He made his way by bullying and bluff, supplemented with gold slipped into the right hand at the right time. But he did not deserve to be killed in that terrible way.’
‘I had forgotten you were at the execution of Queen Anne Boleyn last year, sir,’ Mark said.
‘I wish I could.’
‘At least it served to give you some ideas.’
I nodded sadly, then gave him a wry smile. ‘I remember a teacher we had when I first went to the Inns of Court, Serjeant Hampton. He taught us evidence. He had a saying. “In any investigation, what are the most relevant circumstances? None,” he would bark in reply. “All the circumstances are relevant, everything must be examined from every angle!” ’
‘Don’t say that, sir. We could be here for ever.’ He stretched himself out with a groan. ‘I could sleep for twelve hours, even on this old board.’
‘Well, we can’t sleep, not yet. I want to meet the community at supper. If we’re to get anywhere, we must know these people. Come, there’s no rest for those called to Lord Cromwell’s service.’ I kicked at the wheeled extension, sending him sliding back under my bed with a yell.
BROTHER GUY led us to the refectory, along dark corridors and up a staircase. It was an impressive chamber, a high ceiling supported by thick pillars with wide vaulting arches. Despite its size, it was lent a comfortable air by the tapestries lining the walls and the thick rattan matting on the floor. A large, beautifully carved lectern stood in one corner. Sconces filled with fat candles cast a warm glow over two tables set with fine plate and cutlery. One, with half a dozen places, stood before the fire and the other, much longer, table was further off. Kitchen servants bustled about, setting out jugs of wine and silver tureens, rich odours escaping from under their lids. I studied the cutlery at the table nearest the fire.
‘Silver,’ I remarked to Brother Guy. ‘And the plates too.’
‘That is the obedentiaries’ table, where the monastery office holders sit. The ordinary monks have pewter.’
‘The common people have wood,’ I observed, as Abbot Fabian came bustling in. The servants stopped their work to bow, receiving benevolent nods in return. ‘And the abbot dines off gold plate, no doubt,’ I muttered to Mark.
The abbot came over to us, smiling tightly.
‘I had not been told you wished to dine in the refectory. I have had roast beef prepared in my kitchens.’
‘Thank you, but we will take supper here.’
‘As you wish.’ The abbot sighed. ‘I suggested Dr Goodhaps might join you, but he adamantly refuses to leave my house.’
‘Did Brother Guy tell you I have given authority for Commissioner Singleton to be buried?’
‘He did. I will make the announcement before dinner. It is my turn to give the reading. In English, in accordance with the injunctions, ’ he added solemnly.
‘Good.’
There was a bustle at the door, and the monks began filing in. The two officials we had seen earlier, the fair-haired sacrist Brother Gabriel and Edwig, the dark-haired bursar, walked side by side to the obedentiaries’ table, not speaking. They made an odd pair; one tall and fair, his head slightly bowed, the other striding confidently along. They were joined by the prior, the two officials I had met at the chapter house and Brother Guy. The other monks stood at the long table. I noticed the old Carthusian among them; he gave me a venomous look. The abbot leaned across.
‘I hear Brother Jerome caused offence earlier. I apologize. But his vows mean he takes his meals in silence.’
‘I understand he is lodged here at the request of a member of the Seymour family.’
‘Our neighbour, Sir Edward Wentworth. But the request originally came from Lord Cromwell’s office.’ He gave me a sidelong look. ‘He wanted Jerome kept somewhere quiet, out of the way. As a distant relative of Queen Jane he was something of an embarrassment.’
I nodded. ‘How long has he been here?’
The abbot looked at Jerome’s frowning face. ‘Eighteen long months.’
I cast my eye over the assembled monks, who gave me uneasy glances as though I were a strange beast set among them. I noticed they were mainly middle-aged or elderly, few young faces and only three in novices’ habits. One old monk, his head trembling with palsy, crossed himself quickly as he studied me.
My eye was drawn to a fi
gure standing uncertainly by the door. I recognized the novice who had taken our horses earlier; he stood shifting uneasily from foot to foot, holding something behind his back. Prior Mortimus looked up from his table.
‘Simon Whelplay!’ he snapped. ‘Your penance is not over, you will have no dinner tonight. Take your place in that corner.’
The boy bowed his head and crossed to a corner of the room, furthest from the fire. He brought his hands round and I saw he held a fool’s pointed cap, with the letter ‘M’ stencilled on it. Reddening, he put it on. The other monks barely glanced at him.
‘M?’ I asked.
‘For maleficium,’ the abbot said. ‘He has broken the rules, I am afraid. Please, sit.’
Mark and I took places beside Brother Guy, while the abbot went to the lectern. I saw a bible was placed there and was pleased to see it was the English Bible, not the Latin Vulgate with its mistranslations and invented gospels.
‘Brethren,’ Abbot Fabian announced sonorously, ‘we have all been greatly shocked by recent events. I am pleased to welcome the vicar general’s representative, Commissioner Shardlake, who has come to investigate the matter. He will be speaking to many of you, and you are to afford him all the help Lord Cromwell’s representative deserves.’ I eyed him sharply; those words carried a double meaning.
‘Master Shardlake has given authority for Master Singleton to be buried, and the funeral service will take place after Matins, the day after tomorrow.’ There was a relieved murmur along the tables. ‘And now, our reading is from Revelation, Chapter 7: “And after those things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth . . .” ’
I was surprised he chose Revelation, for it was a text favoured much by reformists of the hot gospeller sort, keen to tell the world they had fathomed its mysteries and violent symbols. The passage dealt with the Lord’s roll-call of the saved at the Day of Judgement. It seemed like a challenge to me, identifying the community with the righteous.
‘ “And he said unto me, these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”
‘Amen,’ he concluded sonorously, then closed the bible and walked solemnly out of the refectory; doubtless his roast beef was waiting in his dining room. It was the signal for a babble of chatter to break out as half a dozen servants entered and began serving soup. It was a thick vegetable broth, richly spiced and delicious. I had not eaten since breakfast and concentrated on my bowl for a minute before glancing over at Whelplay, still as a statue in the shadows. Through the window beside him I saw the snow still tumbling down. I turned to the prior, who was sitting opposite me.
‘The novice is not to have any of this fine soup?’
‘Not for another four days. He’s to stand there through the meal as part of his penance. He must learn. D’ye think me too severe, sir?’
‘How old is he? He does not look eighteen.’
‘He’s nearly twenty, though you wouldn’t think it from his scrawny looks. His novitiate was extended, he had problems mastering the Latin, though he has musical skills. He assists Brother Gabriel. Simon Whelplay needs to learn obedience. He is being punished, among other things, for avoiding the services in English. When I set people a penance I give them a good lesson that’ll stick in their minds and those of others.’
‘Quite r-right, Brother Prior.’ The bursar spoke up, nodding vigorously. He smiled at me; a cold smile, making a brief slash across his chubby face. ‘I am Brother Edwig, Commissioner, the bursar.’ He set his silver spoon down in his plate, which he had quickly emptied.
‘So you have responsibility for distributing the monastery’s funds?’
‘And c-c-collecting them in, and ensuring expenditure does not outstrip revenue,’ he added. His stammer could not occlude the self-satisfaction in his voice.
‘I believe I passed you in the yard earlier, discussing some - building works, was it? - with one of your brethren.’ I glanced at the tall, fair-haired monk who had cast that lascivious look at Mark earlier. He sat almost opposite him now, and had been giving him covert glances whilst avoiding his eye. He caught mine, though, and leaned over to introduce himself.
‘Gabriel of Ashford, Commissioner. I am the sacrist, and also the precentor; I have charge of the church and library as well as the music. We have to combine the offices, our numbers are not what they were.’
‘No. A hundred years ago you would have had, what, twice as many monks? And the church is in need of repair?’
‘Indeed it is, sir.’ Brother Gabriel leaned eagerly towards me, nearly causing Brother Guy to spill his soup. ‘Have you seen our church?’
‘Not yet. I plan to visit it tomorrow.’
‘We have the finest Norman church on the south coast. Over four hundred years old. It compares to the best Benedictine houses in Normandy. But there is a bad crack running down from the roof. We need repairs, and they should be done with Caen stone again, to match the interior . . .’
‘Brother Gabriel,’ the prior interjected sharply, ‘Master Shardlake has more serious things to do than admire the architecture. It may be too rich for his taste,’ he added meaningfully.
‘But surely the New Learning does not frown on architectural beauty?’
‘Only when the congregation is encouraged to worship the building rather than God,’ I said. ‘For that would be idolatry.’
‘I meant nothing of that sort,’ the sacrist replied earnestly. ‘Only that in any great building the eye should be led to rest on exact proportions, unity of line . . .’
Brother Edwig gave a sarcastic grimace. ‘What my brother means is that to satisfy his aesthetic notions the monastery should b-bankrupt itself importing great blocks of limestone from France. I would be interested to know how he p-p-plans to ferry them across the marsh.’
‘Does the monastery not have ample reserves?’ I asked. ‘I read the revenues from its lands run to £800 a year. And rents are rising all the time now, as the poor know to their cost.’
As I spoke the servants returned, setting out plates on which big carp lay steaming, and tureens of vegetables. I noticed a woman among them, a hook-nosed old crone, and reflected that Alice must be lonely if she had only such as this for female company. I turned back to the bursar. He gave a quick frown.
‘Land has had to be sold recently, f-f-for various reasons. And the amount Brother Gabriel asks for is more than the whole repairs budget for five years. Take one of these fine carp, sir. Caught in our own stewpond this morning.’
‘But surely money could be borrowed against the annual surpluses you must have?’
‘Thank you, sir. Precisely my argument,’ Brother Gabriel said. The bursar’s frown deepened. He put down his spoon, waving his chubby little hands.
‘P-prudent accounting does not allow for a great hole in the revenues for years to come, sir, interest p-payments eating away at them like m-mice. The abbot’s policy is a b-balanced b-b-b-’ His face reddened as, in his excitement, he lost control of his stutter.
‘Budget,’ the prior concluded for him with a sour grin. He passed me a carp and plunged his knife into his own fish, slicing into it with enthusiasm. Brother Gabriel gave him a glare and took a sip of the good white wine.
I shrugged. ‘It is a matter between you, of course.’
Brother Edwig set down his cup. ‘I ap-pologize if I became heated. It is an old argument between the sacrist and me.’ He gave his slash of a smile again, showing even white teeth. I nodded gravely in acknowledgement, then turned my gaze to the window, where the snow still whirled down. It was settling thickly now. There was a draught from the window and, although my front was warm where it faced the fire, my back was cold. Next to the window the novice gave a cough. His bowed head under its cap was in shadow, but I noticed his legs trembling under his habit.
The silence was broken by a sudden harsh voice.
‘Fools! There will be no new building. Do you not know that the world has at last
rolled down to its end? The Antichrist is here!’ The Carthusian had half-risen from his bench. ‘A thousand years of devotion to God, in all these houses of prayer, is ended. Soon there will be nothing, empty buildings and silence, silence for the Devil to fill with his roaring!’ His voice rose to a shout as he fixed everyone in turn with bitter looks. The monks averted their eyes. Turning in his place, Brother Jerome lost his balance and fell sprawling across the bench, his face contorted with pain.
Prior Mortimus rose, slamming his hand on the table. ‘God’s death! Brother Jerome, you will leave this table and keep to your cell till the abbot decides what is to be done with you. Take him out!’
His neighbours lifted the Carthusian under the arms, hauled him quickly to his feet and hustled him from the refectory. As the door closed behind them, an exhalation of held breaths sounded across the room. Prior Mortimus turned to me.