by C. J. Sansom
I knew she saw me as only a friend - it became a joke between us that I conversed with her as freely as with another man - yet I began to wonder if it might not blossom into something more. I had been in love before but always held from pressing my suit, fearing my twisted form could only bring rejection and I would be better waiting till I had built a fortune that I could offer as a compensating attraction. But I could give Kate other things she would value: good conversation, companionship, a circle of congenial friends.
I wonder to this day what might have happened had I shown my real feelings earlier, but I left it too late. One evening I called at her house unannounced and found her sitting with Piers Stackville, the son of a business associate of her father’s. I was unworried at first, for although handsome as Satan, Stackville was a young man of few accomplishments beyond a laboriously mannered chivalrousness. But I saw her blush and simper at his crass remarks; my Kate transformed into a silly girl. From then on she could talk of nothing but what Piers had said or done, with sighs and smiles that cut me to the heart.
In the end I told her of my feelings. It was clumsily and stupidly done, I fumbled and faltered at my words. The worst thing was her utter surprise.
‘Matthew, I thought you wanted only to befriend me, I have never heard one word of love from you. You appear to have kept much hidden.’
I asked her if it was too late.
‘If you had asked me even six months before - perhaps,’ she said sadly.
‘I know my form is not such as to stir passion.’
‘You do yourself disservice!’ she said with unexpected heat. ‘You have a fine manly face and good courtesy, you make too much of your bent back, as though you were the only man that had one. You have too much self-pity, Matthew, too much pride.’
‘Then—’
She shook her head, tears in her eyes. ‘It is too late. I love Piers. He is to ask Father for my hand.’
I said roughly that he was not good enough, she would pine away from boredom, but she replied hotly that soon she would have children and a good house to look after and was that not a woman’s proper role, appointed by God? I was crushed and took my leave.
I never saw her again. A week later the sweating sickness hit the City like a hurricane. Hundreds began shivering and sweating, took to their beds and died within two days. It struck high and low and it took both Kate and her father. I remember their funeral, which I had arranged as the old man’s executor, the wooden boxes slowly lowered into the earth. Looking at Piers Stackville over the coffin, his ravaged face told me he had loved Kate no less than I. He nodded to me in silent acknowledgement and I nodded back with a small, sad smile. I thanked God that at least I had released myself from the false doctrine of purgatory, which would have had Kate enduring its pains. I knew that her pure soul must be saved, at rest with Christ.
Tears come to my eyes as I write these words. They came to me that first night at Scarnsea, too. I let them fall silently, keeping myself from sobbing lest I waken Mark to an embarrassing scene. They cleansed me, and I slept.
BUT THE NIGHTMARE returned that night. I had not dreamed of Queen Anne’s killing for months, but seeing Singleton’s body brought all back. Again I stood on Tower Green on a bright spring morning, one of the huge crowd standing round the straw-covered scaffold. I was at the front of the crowd; Lord Cromwell had ordered all those under his patronage to attend and identify themselves with the queen’s fall. He himself stood nearby, at the front of the crowd. He had risen as one of Anne Boleyn’s party; now he had prepared the indictment for adultery that brought her down. He stood frowning sternly, the embodiment of angry justice.
Straw was laid thickly around the block, and the executioner brought from France stood in his sinister black hood, arms folded. I looked for the sword he had brought to ensure a merciful end, at the queen’s own request, but could not see it. I stood with my head deferentially lowered, for some of the greatest men in the land were there: Lord Chancellor Audley, Sir Richard Rich, the Earl of Suffolk.
We stood like statues, no one talking at the front, though there was a buzz of conversation from the crowd behind. There is an apple tree on Tower Green. It was in full blossom and a blackbird sat singing on a high branch, careless of the crowd. I watched it, envying the creature its freedom.
There was a stirring, and the queen appeared. She was flanked by ladies-in-waiting, a surpliced chaplain and the red-coated guards. She looked thin and haggard, bony shoulders hunched inside her white cloak, her hair tied up in a coif. As she approached the block she kept looking back, as though a messenger might arrive with a reprieve from the king. After nine years at the heart of the court she should have known better; this great orchestrated spectacle would not be stopped. As she came close, huge brown eyes surrounded by dark rings darted wildly round the scaffold and I think, like me, she was looking for the sword.
In my dream there are none of the long preliminaries; no long prayers, no speech from the scaffold by Queen Anne beseeching all to pray for the life of the king. In my dream she kneels down at once, facing the crowd, and starts to pray. I hear again her thin harsh cries, over and over, ‘Jesu, receive my soul! Lord God, have pity on my soul!’ Then the executioner bends and produces the great sword from where it had lain hidden in the straw. ‘So that’s where it was,’ I think, then flinch and cry out as it swings through the air faster than the eye can follow and the queen’s head flies up and outwards in a great spray of blood. Again I feel a rush of nausea and close my eyes as a great murmur comes from the crowd, broken by the odd ‘hurrah’. I open them again at the prescribed words, ‘So perish all the king’s enemies,’ barely intelligible in the executioner’s French accent. The straw and his clothes are drenched with the blood that still pumps from the corpse, and he holds up the queen’s dripping head.
The papists say that at that moment the candles in Dover church lit spontaneously, and there were other such silly legends around the country, but I can attest for myself that the eyes in the queen’s severed head did move, roving madly round the crowd, the lips working as though trying to speak. Someone shrieked in the crowd behind me and I heard a susurration as the crowd, all in their best puffed-sleeved clothing, crossed themselves. In truth it was less than thirty seconds, not the half an hour people said later, before the movement stopped. But in my nightmare I relived each of those seconds, praying for those ghastly eyes to be still. Then the executioner tossed the head into an arrow box, which served as coffin, and as it landed with a thud I woke with a cry to the sound of someone knocking at the door.
I lay breathing heavily, my sweat congealing in the bitter cold. The knocking came again, then Alice’s voice called urgently, ‘Master Shardlake! Commissioner!’
It was dead of night, the fire burned low and the room was icy. Mark groaned and stirred in his pallet.
‘What is it?’ I called, my heart still pounding after the nightmare, my voice shaky.
‘Brother Guy asks you to come, sir.’
‘Wait a moment!’ I heaved myself out of bed and lit a candle from the embers of the fire. Mark rose too, blinking and tousle-haired.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know. Stay here.’ I threw on my hose and opened the door. The girl stood outside, a white apron over her dress.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but Simon Whelplay is very sick and must speak to you. Brother Guy said I should wake you.’
‘Very well.’ I followed her down the freezing corridor. A little way along a door stood open. I heard voices: Brother Guy’s and another that whimpered in distress. Looking in, I saw the novice lying on a truckle bed. His face shone with sweat and he muttered feverishly, his breath wheezing and rasping. Brother Guy sat by the bed, mopping his brow with a cloth that he dipped in a bowl.
‘What ails him?’ I could not keep the nervousness from my voice, for the sweating sickness made people writhe and gasp so.
The infirmarian looked at me, his face serious. ‘It is a congesti
on of the lungs. No wonder, standing about in the cold with no food. He has a dangerous temperature. But he keeps asking to speak with you. He will not rest till he has done so.’
I approached the bed, reluctant to go too close lest he breathe the humours of his fever on me. The boy fixed red-rimmed eyes on me. ‘Commissioner, sir,’ he croaked. ‘You are sent here to do justice?’
‘Yes, I am here to investigate Commissioner Singleton’s death.’
‘He is not the first to be killed,’ he gasped. ‘Not the first. I know.’
‘What do you mean? Who else has died?’
A series of racking coughs shook his thin frame, phlegm gurgling in his chest. He lay back, exhausted. His eyes fell on Alice.
‘Poor, good girl. I warned her of the danger here . . .’ He began to cry, retching sobs turning into another fit of coughing that looked ready to shake his thin frame apart. I turned to Alice.
‘What does he mean?’ I asked sharply. ‘What has he warned you of?’
Her face was clouded with puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand, sir. He has never warned me of anything. I have barely spoken to him before today.’
I looked at Brother Guy. He seemed equally puzzled. He studied the boy anxiously.
‘He is very ill, Commissioner. He should be left to rest now.’
‘No, Brother, I must question him some more. Have you any idea what he meant there?’
‘No, sir. I know no more than Alice.’
I moved closer to the bed and bent over the boy.
‘Master Whelplay, tell me what you mean. Alice says you have given her no warning—’
‘Alice is good,’ he croaked. ‘Dulce and gentle. She must be warned—’ He began coughing again, and Brother Guy stepped firmly between us.
‘I must ask you to leave him now, Commissioner. I thought talking to you might ease him, but he is delirious. I must give him a potion to make him sleep.’
‘Please, sir,’ Alice added, ‘for charity. You can see how ill he is.’
I drew away from the boy, who seemed to have collapsed into an exhausted stupor. ‘How ill is he?’ I asked.
The infirmarian set his lips. ‘Either the fever will break soon, or it will kill him. He should not have been treated so,’ he added angrily. ‘I have made a complaint to the abbot; he will be coming to see the lad in the morning. Prior Mortimus has gone too far this time.’
‘I must find out what he meant. I will come again tomorrow and I want to be told at once if his condition worsens.’
‘Of course. Now pray excuse me, sir, I must prepare some herbs—’
I nodded, and he left. I smiled at Alice, trying to seem reassuring.
‘A strange business,’ I said. ‘You have no idea what he meant? First he said he had warned you, then that he must do so.’
‘He has said nothing to me, sir. When we brought him in he slept a little, then as his fever rose he started asking for you.’
‘What could he mean by saying Singleton was not the first?’
‘On my oath, sir, I do not know.’ There was anxiety in her voice. I turned to her and spoke gently.
‘Do you feel you could be in danger from any source, Alice?’
‘No, sir.’ Her face reddened and I was surprised at the degree of anger and contempt that came into her face. ‘I have had approaches from certain monks from time to time, but I deal with them with the aid of Brother Guy’s protection and my own wits. That is a nuisance, not a danger.’
I nodded, struck once more by the strength of her personality.
‘You are unhappy here?’ I asked quietly.
She shrugged. ‘It is a post. And I have a good master.’
‘Alice, if I can help you or there is anything you want to tell me, please come to me. I would not like to think of you in danger.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am grateful.’ Her tone was guarded; she had no reason to trust me any more than the monks. But perhaps she would unwind to Mark. She turned back to her patient, who had begun tossing in his fever, threatening to throw off the bedclothes.
‘Goodnight then, Alice.’
She was still trying to settle the novice, and did not look up. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
I made my way back up the freezing corridor. Stopping at a window, I saw the snow had ceased at last. It lay deep and unbroken, glowing white under a full moon. Looking out on that wasteland broken by the black shapes of the ancient buildings, I felt as trapped and isolated in Scarnsea as though I stood in the moon’s own empty caverns.
Chapter Ten
WHEN I WOKE I did not at first know where I was. Daylight of unaccustomed brightness cast a leached white light over an unfamiliar room. Then I remembered all and slowly sat up. Mark, who had fallen asleep again by the time I returned from my talk with the novice, had already risen; he had banked up the fire and stood in his hose, shaving at a ewer of steaming water. Through the window bright sunlight was reflected from the snow that lay thick everywhere, dotted here and there with birds’ footprints.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, squinting at his features in an old brass mirror.
‘What time is it?’
‘Past nine. The infirmarian says breakfast is waiting in his kitchen. He knew we would be tired and let us sleep.’
I threw off the clothes. ‘We haven’t time to waste sleeping! Hurry, finish that and get into your shirt.’ I started pulling on my clothes.
‘Will you not shave?’
‘They can take me unshaven.’ The burden of work to be done filled my mind. ‘Hurry now. I want to see this place properly and talk to the obedentiaries. You must find an opportunity to talk to Mistress Alice. Then take a walk around the place, look for likely hiding places for that sword. We have to cover the ground as fast as we can, we have a new problem now.’ As I laced up my hose, I told him of my visit to Whelplay the night before.
‘Someone else killed? Jesu. This skein gets more tangled by the hour.’
‘I know. And we have little time to untangle it. Come.’
We went down the corridor to Brother Guy’s infirmary. He was at his desk, squinting at his Arabic book.
‘Ah, you are awake,’ he said in his soft accent. He closed the text reluctantly and led us to a little room, where more herbs hung from hooks. Inviting us to sit at the table, he set bread and cheese and a jug of weak beer before us.
‘How is your patient?’ I asked as we ate.
‘A little easier this morning, thank God. The fever has broken and he is in a deep sleep. The abbot is coming to visit him later.’
‘Tell me, what is Novice Whelplay’s history?’
‘He is the son of a small farmer towards Tonbridge. Brother Guy smiled sadly. ‘He is one of those too soft by nature for this harsh world, too easily bruised. Such souls often gravitate here, I think it is where God intends them to be.’
‘A soft refuge from the world, then?’
‘Those like Brother Simon serve God and the world with their prayers. Is that not better for all than the life of mockery and ill-treatment such people often have outside? And in the circumstances he could hardly be said to have found a refuge.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘No, he found mockery and ill-treatment here too. When we have eaten, Brother Guy, I would like you to take me to the kitchen where you found the body. I fear we have had a late start.’
‘Of course. But I should not leave my patients for too long—’
‘Half an hour should be enough.’ I took a last swig of beer and rose, wrapping my cloak around me. ‘Master Poer will stay here in the infirmary this morning, I have allowed him a morning’s rest. After you, Brother.’
We went through the hall, where Alice was again attending to the old monk. He was as ancient as any man I had ever seen, and lay breathing slowly and with effort. He could not have been a greater contrast to his plump neighbour, who sat up in bed playing a card game. The blind patient was asleep in a chair.
The infirmarian opened the front door, stepping back
as nearly a foot of snow banked up against the door fell over the threshold.
‘We should have overshoes,’ he said, ‘or we shall get foot-rot walking in this.’ He excused himself and left me looking out, my breath steaming before me. Under a blue sky the air was as still and cold as any I remember. The snow was that light, fluffy sort that comes in the hardest weather, the devil to walk through. I had brought my staff, for with my poor balance I could easily go over. Brother Guy returned carrying stout leather overshoes.
‘I must have these issued to the monks with outside duties,’ he said. We laced them up and stepped up to our calves in the snow, Brother Guy’s features standing out darker than ever against the whiteness. The door to the kitchens was only a short distance away, and I saw the main building had a common wall with the infirmary. I asked if there was a connecting door.