'Come with me now. Bring your sword. He doesn't look dangerous, he's a weaselly fellow, but we cannot be too careful.'
We returned to the main courtyard, where Bugge and his assistant still laboured in the snow, and passed the stables. I glanced through the open door; a stablehand was piling up hay, watched by the horses, their breath steaming thickly in the freezing air. It was no work for a sickly boy like Whelplay.
I pushed open the brewhouse door. Here it was warm. Through a door to one side a slow fire burned; a stairway led to the drying house above. The main chamber, full of barrels and vats, was empty. I jumped as something fluttered above me and, looking up, saw hens roosting among the rafters.
'Brother Athelstan,' I called in a loud whisper. There was a thud somewhere behind us and Mark's hand went to his sword as the monk's skinny form appeared from behind a barrel. He bowed.
'Commissioner. Thank you for coming.'
'I hope it was something important for you to disturb me in the privy. Are we alone here?'
'Yes, sir. The brewer is away, waiting for the hops to dry.'
'Don't those hens spoil the beer? Their mess is everywhere.'
He smiled uneasily, fingering his little beard. 'The brewer says it adds bite to the flavour.'
'I doubt the townsfolk think so,' Mark observed.
Brother Athelstan came closer, looking at me keenly. 'Sir, you know the part in Lord Cromwell's injunctions that says any monk with a complaint may go directly to the vicar general's officials, rather than his abbot?'
'I do. Have you a complaint?'
'Information, rather.' He took a deep breath. 'I know Lord Cromwell seeks information on ill-doings in the religious houses. I have heard, sir, his informants are rewarded.'
'If their information is valuable.' I studied him. In my work I had to deal often with informers, and there were never more of that noisome breed abroad than in those years. Could it have been Athelstan whom Singleton was going to meet that night? But this young man, I guessed, had never played the role before. He was keen for reward, but afraid.
'I thought – I thought any information about ill-doings here must help you find Commissioner Singleton's killer.'
'What have you to tell me?'
'The senior monks, sir, the obedentiaries. They do not like Lord Cromwell's new injunctions. The sermons in English, the stricter rules of life. I have heard them talking together, sir, in the chapter house. Sitting muttering together before meetings of the community.'
'And what have you heard?'
'I have heard them say the injunctions are an imposition by people who do not know or care for the life. The abbot, Brother Guy, Brother Gabriel and my master Brother Edwig, they all think the same.'
'And Prior Mortimus.'
Athelstan shrugged. 'He swims with the tide.'
'He is not the only one. Brother Athelstan, have you heard any of the obedentiaries say that the pope should be brought back, or speaking against the royal divorce or Lord Cromwell?'
He hesitated. 'No. But I – I could say I had, sir, if it would help you.'
I laughed. 'And people would believe you, as you shuffle your feet and cast down your eyes. I do not think so.'
He fingered his beard again. 'If there is any other way I can be of use to you, sir,' he mumbled, 'or to Lord Cromwell, I would be happy to be his man.'
'Why is that, Brother Athelstan? Are you discontented here?'
His face darkened. It was a weak face and an unhappy one.
'I work in the counting house for Brother Edwig. He is a hard master.'
'Why? What does he do?'
'He works you like a dog. If so much as a penny is out, he makes your life a misery, makes you audit all your accounts over again. I committed a small offence and now he keeps me in the counting house night and day. He has gone out for a while, otherwise I would never have dared spend so long away.'
'And so,' I said, 'because your master punishes your mistakes, you would put Brother Gabriel and others in trouble with Lord Cromwell in the hope he will make your life easier?'
He looked puzzled. 'But does not he wish monks to inform, sir? I seek only to help him.'
I sighed. 'I am here to investigate Commissioner Singleton's death, Brother. If you have any information relevant to that, I would hear from you. Otherwise you are wasting my time.'
'I am sorry.'
'You may leave us.' He seemed about to say something more, then thought better of it and hastily left the shed. I kicked one of the barrels, then laughed angrily.
'God, what a creature! Well, that takes us nowhere.'
'Informers. More trouble than they're worth.' Mark jumped aside with an oath as one of the chickens above dropped its mess on his tunic.
'Yes, they're like those hens, they don't care where their shit lands.' I paced up and down the brewhouse. 'Jesu, that knave scared me when I heard him outside my cubicle door. I thought it was the assassin come after me.'
He looked at me seriously. 'I confess I do not like being alone here. One jumps at every shadow. Perhaps we should stay together, sir.'
I shook my head. 'No, there's too much to do. Go back to the infirmary. You seem to be getting on well with Alice.'
He gave a self-satisfied smile. 'She is telling me all about her life.'
'Very well. I am off to visit Brother Gabriel. Perhaps he may tell me about his. I don't suppose you've had time yet to explore the place?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, see you do. Get some overshoes from Brother Guy.' I gave him a serious look. 'But
I paused outside the church. Watching one of the kitchen servants plod wearily though the snow, his cheap woollen hose soaking wet, I was grateful for Brother Guy's overshoes. No overshoes for servants, though. That would be expensive; Brother Edwig would have a seizure.
I studied the church front. Around the great wooden doors, twenty feet high, the stonework was richly carved with gargoyles and monsters to frighten off evil spirits, their faces worn after four centuries but still vivid. The monastery church, like the great cathedrals, was there to impress the laity: a magnificent simulacrum of heaven. A promise of prayers for a loved one in purgatory, or a miraculous cure from a relic, would carry a hundred times more weight in that setting. I hauled open the door and squeezed inside, into echoing space.
All around, the great vaulted arches of the nave rose nearly a hundred feet, supported by pillars brightly painted in red and black. Blue and yellow tiles covered the floor. The eye was led to the high stone rood screen halfway down the nave, richly painted with figures of the saints. On top of the screen, lit by candles, stood the statues of John the Baptist, the Virgin and Our Lord. A great window at the far end of the church, built to catch the morning light from the east, was painted in geometric designs of yellow and orange. It flooded the nave with a gentle umber light, peaceful and numinous, softening the kaleidoscope of colours. The builders knew how to create atmosphere, no doubt of that.
I walked slowly up the nave. The walls were lined with painted statues of saints and little reliquaries, where strange objects peeped out from beds of satin, candles burning before them. A servant moved slowly around, replacing those that had burned down. I paused to glance into the side chapels, each with its own statues and little candlelit altar. It occurred to me that these side chapels, filled with railed-off altars, statues and biers, might be good places to hide things.
In several of the side chapels monks stood intoning private Masses. Local people of wealth, terrified of the pains of purgatory awaiting them, would have left great portions of their assets away from wives and children to the monks, for Masses to be said until the Last Judgement came. How many days' remission from purgatory was a
