'You think I was too hard? Remember his pompous manner the day we came? I need to stamp my authority; it may not be pretty, but it is necessary.'
'When will you tell him how the novice died?'
'I want to investigate the fish pond tomorrow, then I'll consider where to go next. We can look through those side chapels as well. Come now, we should study those letters and the deeds. Then we should look in on the vigil for poor Singleton.'
'I have never been to a night service.'
I opened the satchel, and tipped a pile of letters and parchments over the table. 'We should show respect, but I'm not joining in a night's worth of mummery about purgatory. You'll see, it's a strange affair.'
There was nothing to take exception to in the letters; the business missives were routine, purchases of hops for the brewhouse and the like. The few personal letters from the monks to their families mentioned the death of a novice only as the result of an ague in the terrible weather, the same explanation the abbot gave in his formally mellifluous letter to the dead boy's parents. I felt again a stab of guilt over Simon's death.
We looked over the land deeds. The prices seemed to be what one would expect for parcels of farmland and there was no evidence of sales at undervalue to curry political support. I would check with Copynger, but again I had the feeling that great care had been taken to make sure the monastery's affairs were in order, on the surface at least. I ran my hands over the red seal at the bottom of each deed, impressed with the image of St Donatus bringing the dead man to life.
'The abbot himself has to impress the seal on any deed,' I mused.
'Anyone else would be guilty of forgery,' Mark observed.
'Remember we saw the seal on his desk the day we came? It would be safer locked away, but I imagine he likes displaying it there, as a symbol of his authority. 'Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.'' I stretched out my arms. 'I do not think I will eat in the refectory tonight, I am too tired. You may get something from the infirmarian if you wish. You could bring me some bread and cheese.'
'I will do that.' He left the room, and I sat thinking. Since our argument at the inn there was a new reserve, a distance, in Mark's voice. Sooner or later I would have to raise the matter of his future again. I had an obligation not to let him throw away a career; an obligation not just to Mark but also to his father and mine.
When he had still not returned after ten minutes I began to grow impatient; I was hungrier than I had realized. I heaved myself up and went out to look for him. I saw there was a light coming from the open door of the infirmarian's kitchen and I heard a sound too, soft and indistinct. A woman sobbing.
I pushed the door wide. Alice sat at the table, her head in her hands. Her thick brown hair was in disarray, hiding her face. She was weeping softly, a sad keening noise. She heard me and looked up. Her face was red and blotchy, the strong regularity of her features dissolved. She half-rose, wiping her face on her sleeve, but I motioned her to remain seated.
'No, no, stay, Alice. Pray tell me what ails you so.'
'It is nothing, sir.' She coughed to hide a break in her voice.
'Has someone done something to upset you? Please tell me. Is it Brother Edwig?'
'No, sir.' She gave me a puzzled look. 'Why should it be him?'
I told her of my talk with the bursar, and that he had guessed the source of my information. 'But do not fear, Alice, I told him you are under my personal protection.'
'It is not that, sir. It is just-' she bowed her head – 'I feel alone, sir. I am alone in the world. You cannot know what that is like.'
'I think I can understand. I have not seen my family for years. They live far from London. I have only Master Poer at my house. I know I have a position in the world, but I too can feel alone. Yes, alone.' I smiled at her sadly. 'But have you no family at all? No friends in Scarnsea that you visit?'
She frowned, playing with a loose thread on her sleeve. 'My mother was the last of our family. The Fewterers were not popular in the town, women healers are always a little apart.' Her voice became bitter. 'People come to women like my mother and grandmother for help with their ills, but they do not like the sense of obligation. Once when he was young Justice Copynger came to my grandmother, seeking help for a griping in his guts that would not leave him. She cured him, but he would not so much as acknowledge her in the street afterwards. And it did not stop him taking our cottage when my mother died. I had to sell all our sticks of furniture that I had grown up with, for I had nowhere to put them.'
'I am sorry. Such thefts of land should be stopped.'
'So I do not go into Scarnsea any more. On my rest days I stay here, looking at Brother Guy's books. He helps me try to read them.'
'Well then, you have one friend.'
She nodded. 'Yes, he is a good man.'
'Tell me, Alice, did you ever hear of a girl who worked here before you, a girl named Orphan?
'I heard she took some gold cups and ran away. I do not blame her.'
I decided to say nothing of Goodwife Stumpe's fears; I did not wish to worry Alice further. I felt an overpowering urge to rise and clasp her to my breast, to ease the ache of loneliness in us both. I fought it down.
'Perhaps you too could leave,' I suggested diffidently. 'You did once, when you went to work for the apothecary in – Esher, was it not?'
'I would leave this place if I could, all the more after what has happened these last ten days. It is full of dusty old men and there is neither love nor warmth in their ceremonies. And I wonder still over what poor Simon meant about warning me.'
'Yes, so do I.' I leaned forward. 'Perhaps I may do something to help. I have contacts in the town, and in London too.' She looked at me curiously. 'I can feel for your position, truly I can, and I would help you. I would not have you-' I felt myself blush – 'put under any – any obligation to me for it, but if you would accept help from an ugly old hunchback I would gladly give it.'
Her look of curiosity deepened. She frowned. 'Why do you call yourself old and ugly, sir?'
I shrugged. 'I am approaching forty, Alice, and I have always been told I am ugly.'
'It is not so, sir,' she said hotly. 'Why only yesterday Brother Guy remarked how your features have a rare combination of refinement and sadness.'
I raised my eyebrows. 'I hope Brother Guy is not of Gabriel's inclination,' I said jokingly.
'No, he is not,' Alice said with sudden heat. 'And you should not insult yourself so, sir. Is there not enough suffering in the world?'
'I am sorry.' I laughed nervously. I was overcome with embarrassment and pleasure at her words. She sat looking at me sadly and despite myself I lifted a hand to reach across and touch hers. Then we both jumped as the church bells began to peal, clashing and echoing through the night. I let my hand fall as we both laughed nervously. The door opened and Mark walked in. Alice at once rose and went to a cupboard; I guessed she did not want him to see her tear-streaked face.
'I am sorry I took so long, sir.' He spoke to me but his eyes were on Alice's back. 'I went to the privy and then stopped in the infirmary hall. Brother Guy is there, the ancient monk is very ill.'
'Brother Francis?' Alice turned quickly. 'Then please excuse me, sirs, I must go to him.' She brushed by us, her footsteps pattering up the corridor. Mark's face was concerned.
'Has she been crying, sir? What ails her?'
I sighed. 'Loneliness, Mark, only loneliness. Now come, those infernal bells are tolling for the vigil.'
As we passed through the infirmary hall, we saw Alice and Brother Guy standing over the old monk's bed. Blind
