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
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
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