by C. J. Sansom
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 Málaga, 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.’
Chapter Seven
OUR ROOM IN THE INFIRMARY was small but comfortable, wood-panelled and with new, sweet-scented rushes on the floor. It was warmed by a fire, before which chairs had been set. The girl Alice was there when Brother Guy showed us in, laying towels beside a pitcher of warm water. Her face and bare arms had a healthy flush from the fire.
‘I thought you might like to wash, sirs,’ she said deferentially.
I smiled at her. ‘That is most kind.’
‘I need something to get me warm,’ Mark said, giving her
a grin. She lowered her head and Brother Guy gave Mark a stern look.
‘Thank you, Alice,’ he said. ‘That will be enough.’ The girl bowed and left.
‘I hope the room is comfortable. I have sent word to the abbot you will be dining in the refectory.’
‘This room will do very well. Thank you for your trouble.’
‘If you have any needs, Alice will attend to them.’ He gave Mark another sharp look. ‘But please bear in mind that she has many duties with the aged and sick monks. And that she is a woman alone here, apart from some old kitchen maids. She is under my protection, such as it is.’
Mark coloured. I bowed to the infirmarian. ‘We will remember that, sir.’
‘Thank you, Master Shardlake. Then I will leave you.’
‘Black old moldwarp,’ Mark grumbled when the door closed. ‘It was only a look – and she was pleased to get it.’
‘He is responsible for her welfare,’ I said shortly.
Mark looked at the bed. It was one of those with a high bed for the master and a narrow space underneath where a servant’s wooden bunk slid in and out on wheels. He pulled out the lower tier and looked gloomily at the hard board covered with a thin straw mattress, before removing his coat and sitting down.
I went over to the ewer and splashed some warm water on my face, letting it drip down my neck. I felt exhausted; my head was spinning with the kaleidoscope of faces and impressions of the last few hours. I groaned. ‘Thank God we’re alone at last.’ I sat down in the chair. ‘Christ’s wounds, I’m sore.’
Mark looked up at me with concern. ‘Does your back pain you?’
I sighed. ‘It will be better after a night’s rest.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’ He hesitated. ‘There are cloths there, we could make a hot poultice . . . I could apply it for you.’
‘No!’ I snapped. ‘Will you be told, I’ll be all right!’ I hated anyone looking at my deformed back; only my physician was allowed to do that and then only when it was especially painful. My skin crawled at the thought of Mark’s eyes on it, his pity and perhaps disgust, for why should someone formed as he was not feel disgust? I pulled myself to my feet and went over to the window, looking out over the dark, empty quadrangle. After a few moments I turned round; Mark was looking up at me, resentfulness mixed with anxiety in his face. I raised a hand apologetically.
‘I am sorry, I should not have shouted.’
‘I meant no ill.’
‘I know. I am tired and worried, that is all.’
‘Worried?’
‘Lord Cromwell wants a result quickly and I wonder if I will be able to get one. I had hoped for – I don’t know, some fanatic among the monks who had already been locked up, at least some clear pointer to the culprit. Goodhaps is no help; he’s so scared he’d leap at his own shadow. And these monkish officials do not seem likely to be easily overawed. On top of that we seem to have a mad Carthusian stirring up trouble, and talk of a break-in by practitioners of dark arts from the town. Jesu, it’s a tangle. And that abbot knew his law, I can see why Singleton found him difficult.’
‘You can only do what it is in your power to do, sir.’
‘Lord Cromwell would not see things that way.’ I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually when I began grappling with a new case I would enjoy a sense of pleasurable excitement, but here I could see no thread to guide me through what seemed an enormous labyrinth.
‘This is a gloomy place,’ Mark said. ‘All those dark stone corridors, all those arches. Each one could hide an assassin.’
‘Yes, I remember when I was at school how endless and frightening all the echoing corridors seemed if one was sent on an errand. All the doors one was not allowed to open.’ I tried to be encouraging: ‘But now I have a commission affording me every access. It’s a place like every other, and we’ll soon find our way around.’ There was no reply and the sound of deep breathing told me Mark had fallen asleep. I smiled wryly, closed my eyes for a moment, and the next thing I knew there was a loud knock on the door and an exclamation from Mark as he was jolted awake. I got to my feet, surprisingly refreshed by my unintended sleep, my mind alert once more. I opened the door. Brother Guy stood outside, his candle casting the strangest shadows across his dark troubled face, his eyes serious.
‘Are you ready to view the body, sir?’
‘Ay, as ready as we’ll ever be.’ I reached for my coat.
IN THE INFIRMARY hall the girl brought a lamp for Brother Guy. He donned a thick robe over his habit and led us along a dim, high-ceilinged corridor with vaulted ceilings.
‘It is quickest to cross the cloister yard,’ he said, opening a door into the cold air.
The yard, enclosed on three sides by the buildings where the monks lived and on the fourth by the church, made an unexpectedly pretty picture. Lights flickered at the many windows.
Surrounding the yard was the cloister walk, a covered area supported by elaborate arches. Long ago that would have been where the monks studied, in carrels lining the walk and open to cold and wind; but in these softer times it was a place for walking and talking. Against one pillar stood the lavatorium, an elaborate stone bowl used for washing hands, where a little fountain made a gentle tinkling sound. The soft glow from the stained-glass windows of the church made coloured patterns on the ground. I noticed strange little motes dancing in the light, and was puzzled for a moment before realizing it had started to snow again. The flags of the cloister yard were already speckled with white. Brother Guy led us across.
‘You found the body, I believe?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Alice and I were up tending Brother August, who had a fever and was in much distress. I wanted to give him some warm milk and went to the kitchen to fetch some.’
‘And that door is normally kept locked.’
‘Of course. Otherwise the servants, and I regret also the monks, would help themselves to food whenever they wanted. I have a key because I often need things urgently.’
‘This was at five o’clock?’
‘The clock had struck a little before.’
‘Had Matins begun?’
‘No, Matins is sung late here. Usually towards six.’
‘St Benedict’s rule prescribes midnight.’
He smiled gently. ‘St Benedict wrote his rule for Italians, sir, not people who have to live through English winters. The office is sung and God hears it. We cut through the chapter house now.’
He opened another door and we found ourselves in a large chamber, its walls richly painted with biblical scenes. Stools and cushioned chairs were dotted around, and there was a long table before a roaring fire. The room was warm and musty with body odour. About twenty monks sat around; some were talking, some reading, and half a dozen were playing cards at a table. Each monk had a pretty little crystal glass by his elbow, filled with green liquid from a large bottle of French liqueur that stood on the card-players’ table. I looked round for the Carthusian, but there was no white habit among the black; the straggle-haired sodomite Brother Gabriel and Mortimus the sharp-eyed bursar were also absent.
A thin-faced young monk with a wispy beard had just lost a game, judging by his annoyed expression.
‘That’s a shilling you owe us, Brother,’ a tall, cadaverous monk said cheerfully.
‘You’ll have to wait. I will need an advance from the chamberlain.’
‘No more advances, Brother Athelstan!’ A plump old brother sitting nearby, his face disfigured by a warty growth on one cheek, wagged a finger at him. ‘Brother Edwig says you’ve had so many advances you’re getting your wages before you’ve earned them—’ He broke off, and the monks hastily rose to their feet and bowed to me. One, a young fellow so obese even his shaven head was lined and puckered with fat, knocked his glass to the floor.
‘Septimus, you dolt!’ His neighbour prodded him sharply with his elbow, and he stared round with the vague glance of the simple-minded. The monk with the disfigured face stepped forward, bowing again obseq
uiously.
‘I am Brother Jude, sir, the pittancer.’
‘Master Matthew Shardlake, the king’s commissioner. I see you are enjoying a convivial evening.’
‘A little relaxation before Vespers. Would you care for some of this fine liqueur, Commissioner? It is from one of our French sister houses.’
I shook my head. ‘I still have work to do,’ I said severely. ‘In the earlier days of your order, the day’s end would have been taken up with the Great Silence.’
Brother Jude hesitated. ‘That was long ago, sir, in the days before the Great Pestilence. Since then the world has fallen further towards its end.’
‘I think the English world does very well under King Henry.’
‘No, no—’ he said hastily. ‘I did not mean—’
The tall thin monk from the card table joined us. ‘Forgive Brother Jude, sir, he speaks without thinking. I am Brother Hugh, the chamberlain. We know we need correction, Commissioner, and we welcome it.’ He glared at his colleague.
‘Good. That will make my work easier. Come, Brother Guy. We have a corpse to inspect.’
The fat young monk stepped forward hesitantly. ‘Forgive me slipping, good sire. My leg pains me, I have an ulcer.’ He gave us a woebegone look. Brother Guy put a hand on his shoulder.
‘If you would follow my diet, Septimus, your poor legs would not have to bear such weight. No wonder they protest.’
‘I am weak flesh, Brother, I need my meat.’
‘Sometimes I think it a pity the Lateran Council ever lifted the prohibition on meat. Now excuse us, Septimus, we are on our way to the crypt. You will be pleased to hear Commissioner Singleton may be laid to rest soon.’
‘Thanks be to God. I am afraid to go near the cemetery. An unburied body, an unshriven man—’
‘Yes, yes. Go now, it is almost time for Vespers.’ Brother Guy gently moved him aside and led us through another door, out into the night again. An expanse of flat ground lay ahead, dotted with headstones. Ghostly white shapes stood out here and there, which I recognized as family crypts. Brother Guy raised the hood of his habit against the snow, which was coming down thickly now.