Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) by C. J. Sansom Page B

looked at us sharply with his black button eyes, then bent his face to the plans. The other monk studied us. He was tall and strongly built, in early middle age and with a deeply lined, handsome face and untidy yellow hair sticking out beneath his tonsure like a twist of straw. His eyes were large, a clear pale blue. He cast a lingering look at Mark, who returned his gaze coldly, then bowed to the prior as we passed, receiving a curt nod in return.
     
    ‘Interesting,’ I murmured to Mark. ‘You’d think there was no threat hanging over this place. They’re talking of renovating the church as though it would all go on for ever.’
     
    ‘Did you see the look that tall monk gave me?’
     
    ‘Yes. That was interesting too.’
     
    We were passing the far wall of the church, nearly at the house, when a white-robed figure stepped from behind a buttress into our path. It was the Carthusian we had seen in the courtyard. The prior stepped quickly in front of him.
     
    ‘Brother Jerome,’ he called harshly, ‘no trouble now! Back to your prayers!’
     
    The Carthusian stepped round the prior, ignoring him except for a quick glance of contempt. I saw that he dragged his right leg and needed his crutch, held firmly under his right armpit, to move at all. His left arm hung limply at his side, misshapen, the hand held at a strange angle. He was a stringy man of about sixty, the straggling hair around his tonsure whiter than his stained and threadbare robes. The eyes in his thin pale face burned with the sort of ferocious intensity that seems bent on penetrating the soul. He stepped up to me, moving with surprising deftness to avoid the prior’s outstretched arm.
     
    ‘You are Lord Cromwell’s man?’ The voice was cracked and tremulous.
     
    ‘I am, sir.’
     
    ‘Know then that those who draw the sword shall die by the sword.’
     
    ‘Matthew twenty-six, verse fifty-two,’ I replied. ‘What do you mean?’ I thought of what had taken place here. ‘Is that a confession?’
     
    He laughed contemptuously. ‘No, crookback, it is God’s word, and it is true.’ Prior Mortimus grabbed the Carthusian’s good arm none too gently. He shook it off and hobbled away.
     
    ‘Please ignore him.’ The prior’s face had gone pale this time; broken purple veins stood out on his cheeks. ‘He is unhinged,’ he added, setting his lips tight.
     
    ‘Who is he? What is a Carthusian monk doing here?’
     
    ‘He is a pensioner. We took him in as a favour to his cousin, who owns land nearby. Out of charity for his condition.’
     
    ‘Which house is he from?’
     
    The prior hesitated. ‘The London house. He is known as Jerome of London.’
     
    I stared. ‘Where Prior Houghton and half the monks refused to take the oath of allegiance and were executed?’
     
    ‘Brother Jerome took the oath. Eventually. After Master Cromwell applied certain pressures.’ He gave me a hard stare. ‘You understand?’
     
    ‘He was racked?’
     
    ‘With most dire pains. Giving in unhinged him. He deserved it for his disloyalty though, did he not? And this is how he repays our charity. He’ll hear more about this.’
     
    ‘What did he mean just now?’
     
    ‘Jesu knows. I told you, the man’s insane.’ He turned away, and we followed him through a wooden gate into the abbot’s garden, where a few livid winter roses stood out among the bare thorny branches. I glanced back, but the crippled monk had disappeared. The memory of those burning eyes made me shiver.
     

Chapter Five
     
    A FAT MAN in the blue robe of a servant answered the prior’s knock. He eyed us worriedly.
     
    ‘Urgent visitors for his lordship, from the vicar general. Is he here?’
     
    The servant bowed deeply. ‘That terrible killing.’ He crossed himself fervently. ‘We had no warning of your coming, sirs. Abbot Fabian is not back, though he is expected any time. But pray come in.’
     
    He ushered us into a wide hall, the panels brightly painted with