Dissolution

Guy made a strange sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. I touched his arm. 'We should go. More plaster will be coming down.'

Outside in the courtyard his face was bleak but composed. Copynger nodded coldly to him as we began walking away towards the abbot's house.

'When the monks left at the end of November Sir Gilbert asked me to stay on,' Guy told me. 'He'd been put in charge of minding the place till Portinari could get here and he asked me to help. The fish pond flooded badly in January, you know; I was able to help him drain it.'

'It must have been hard, living alone here with everyone gone.'

'Not really, not until the Augmentations men came this week and started clearing the place. Somehow it felt, over the winter, as though the house was only waiting for the monks to come back.' He winced as a great chunk of lead crashed to the ground behind us.

'You hoped for a reprieve?'

He shrugged. 'One always hopes. Besides, I had nowhere to go. I have been waiting all this time to hear if I am to be allowed a permit to leave for France.'

'I might be able to help with that, if there is delay.'

He shook his head. 'No. I heard a week ago. I have been refused. There is talk of a new alliance between France and Spain against England, I believe. I had better see if I can exchange this habit for a doublet and hose. It will be strange after all these years. And grow my hair!' He lowered his hood and ran his hand over his bald crown. I saw the fringe of black hair was tinged with white now.

'What will you do?'

'I want to leave in the next few days. I could not bear to be here when they demolish the buildings. The whole town is coming; they are making a fair of it. How they must have hated us.' He sighed. 'I may go to London, where exotic faces are not so rare.'

'You could perhaps become a physician there? You have a degree from Louvain, after all.'

'But would the College of Physicians let me in? Or even the Guild of Apothecaries? A mud-coloured ex-monk?' He raised an eyebrow and smiled sadly.

'I have a client who is a physician. I could plead your cause.'

He hesitated, then smiled. 'Thank you. I would be grateful.'

'And I could help you find accommodation. I will give you my address before you leave. Call on me. Will you?'

'Might not associating with me be risky?'

'I will not work for Cromwell again. I will go back to private practice, live quietly, perhaps paint.'

'Be careful, Matthew.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'I am not sure it is wise even for you to be seen having an amicable talk with me, under Sir Gilbert's eyes.'

'Rot Copynger. I know enough never to do anything that breaks the law. And though I may not be the reformer I was, I am not turned papist either.'

'That does not protect people in these days.'

'Perhaps not. But if no one is safe, which indeed they are not, at least I can be unsafe minding my own business at home.'

We reached the abbot's house, now Copynger's. A gardener was carefully tending the roses, spreading horse dung round the bushes.

'Has Copynger rented much land?' I asked.

'A lot, yes, and at a low rent.'

'He has been lucky.'

'And you have no reward?'

'No. I got Cromwell his murderer, and his stolen gold, and this place surrendered; but not quickly enough.' I paused, remembering those who had died. 'No indeed, not quickly enough.'

'You did all any man could.'

'Perhaps. You know, I often think I might have seen to the depths of what Edwig was had I not disliked him so much, and therefore tried doubly hard to be fair, and certain. Even now I find it hard to realize that that man, so precise and orderly, was so wild and deranged underneath. I wonder if he used that order, that obsession with figures and money, as a way to keep himself under control. I wonder if he feared his dreams of blood.'

'I pray so.'

'But that obsession with figures only fed his madness in the end.' I sighed. 'Uncovering complicated truths is never easy.'

Guy nodded. 'It takes patience, courage, effort. If the truth is what you wish to find.'

'You know Jerome is dead?'

'No. I have had no news since he was taken away last November.'

'Cromwell had him put in Newgate gaol. Where his brethren were starved to death. He died soon after.'

'May God rest his tortured soul.' Brother Guy paused, looking at me hesitantly. 'Do you know what became of the hand of the Penitent Thief? They took it at the same time as Jerome.'

'No. I imagine the precious stones were taken out and the reliquary melted down. The hand itself will probably have been burned by now.'

'It was the Thief's hand, you know. The evidence is very strong.'

'Do you still think it could work miracles?'

He did not answer and we walked on in silence for a moment, into the monks' cemetery, where the men were lifting the stones. I saw that in the lay churchyard the family vaults had been broken up into piles of rubble.

'Tell me,' I said at length. 'What has become of Abbot Fabian? I know he was not allowed an abbot's pension as he did not sign the surrender.'

Guy shook his head sadly. 'His sister has taken him in. She is a seamstress in the town. He is no better. Some days he talks of going hunting or visiting with the local landowners and she has to prevent him setting off in the poor clothes that are all he has now, on their old nag. I have prescribed him some medicines, but they do no good. His wits are gone.'

''How are the mighty fallen',' I quoted.

I realized that unconsciously I had been leading us towards the orchard; the rear wall of the monastery was visible ahead. I paused, a churning feeling in my stomach.

'Shall we go back?' Guy asked gently.

'No. Let us go on.'

We walked to the gate that led to the marsh. I had a set of keys and opened it. We passed through and stood looking out over the bleak landscape. The November flood had long since drained away and the marsh lay brown and silent, clumps of reeds waving quietly in the breeze, their image reflected in stagnant pools. The river was at full tide; seabirds bobbed on the waters, feathers ruffled by the wind from the sea.

I spoke quietly. 'They come to me in dreams, Mark and Alice. I see them struggling in the water, sinking down, crying for help. I wake up screaming sometimes.' My voice broke. 'In different ways I loved them both.'

Brother Guy looked at me for a long moment, then reached into his habit. He passed me a folded paper, much creased.

'I have thought hard about whether to show this to you. I wondered if it might hurt you less not to see.

'What is it?'

'It appeared on the desk in my dispensary a month ago. I came in from my duties and there it was. I think a smuggler bribed one of Copynger's men to leave it for me. It is from her, but written by him.'

I opened the letter and read, in Mark Poer's clear round hand:

Brother Guy,

I have asked Mark to write this for me as his lettering is better than mine. I send it by a man of the town who comes sometimes to France, it is better you know not who.

I pray you to forgive me for writing to you. Mark and I are safe in France, I will not say where. I do not know how we came through the mire that night, once Mark fell in and I had to haul him out, but we reached the boat.

We were married last month. Mark knows some French and improves so fast, we hope he may