Dissolution

He turned to me, his face set. 'Master Shardlake, it may be you see our prayers, our devotion to the relics of the saints, as foolish ceremonies performed by men who live easily while the world outside groans and suffers.'

I inclined my head non-committally.

He spoke with a sudden intentness. 'Our life of prayer and worship is an effort to approach Christ, to come nearer to his light and further from this sinful world. Every prayer, every Mass is an attempt to come closer to him, every statue and ritual and piece of stained glass is a reminder of his glory, a distraction from the world's wickedness.'

'I see you believe so, Brother.'

'I know we live easier than we should, our comfortable clothes and food are not what St Benedict intended. But our purpose is the same.'

'To seek communion with God?'

He turned, looking at me intently. 'It is not easy. People who say it is are wrong. Sinful mankind is full of wicked impulses, planted by the Devil. Do not think monks are immune, sir. Sometimes I believe the more we aspire to approach God, the more the Devil stirs himself to tempt our minds to wickedness. And the more we have to strive against him.'

'And can you think of anyone who might have had his mind tempted to murder?' I asked quietly. 'Remember I speak with the authority of the vicar general, and through him the Supreme Head of the Church, the king.'

He looked me directly in the eye. 'I can think of no one in our community who might do such a thing. If I could, I would have informed the abbot. I told you, I believe an outsider was responsible.'

I nodded. 'But there has been talk of other grave sins here, has there not? The scandal under the last prior. And small sins may lead to larger ones.'

His face reddened. 'It is a large step from – those things – to what was done last week. And those acts were in the past.' He stood abruptly and moved to stand a few paces off.

I got up and stood beside him. His face was set and his brow had a sheen of sweat despite the cold.

'Not all in the past, Brother. The abbot tells me Simon Whelplay's penance was in part because of certain feelings he nurtured towards another monk. Yourself.'

He turned, suddenly animated. 'He is a child! I was not responsible for the sins he contemplated in his poor mind. I did not even know till he confessed to Prior Mortimus, or I would have put a stop to it. And yes, I have lain with other men, but I have confessed and repented and sinned no more in that way. There, Commissioner, you have plumbed my history. I know the vicar general's office loves such tales.'

'I seek only the truth. I would not trouble your soul merely for a pastime.'

He seemed about to say something more, then paused and took a deep breath. 'Do you wish to see the library now?'

'Yes, please.'

We returned down the nave. 'By the way,' I said after we had walked some distance in silence, 'I saw the great crack in the side of the church. That is indeed a large job. The prior will not approve the expenditure?'

'No. Brother Edwig says any programme of repairs must be limited to the revenues available each year. That will barely suffice to prevent the damage from spreading.'

'I see.' In that case, I thought, why were Brother Edwig and the abbot talking of needing capital from land sales?

'These men of accounts always believe that what is cheapest is best,' I continued philosophically, 'and prink and save till all falls about them.'

'Brother Edwig thinks saving money is a holy duty,' he said bitterly.

'Neither he nor the prior appear much given to charity.'

He gave me a sharp look, but said nothing more as he led me from the church.

***

Outside, my eyes watered in the cold white light. The sun was high now and gave brightness if not warmth. More paths had been cleared through the snow and people were going about their business again, black habits criss-crossing the white expanse.

The library building, next to the church, was surprisingly large. Light streamed in from high windows, illuminating shelves crammed with books. The desks were empty, save for a novice scratching his head over a heavy tome, and an old monk in a corner laboriously copying a manuscript.

'Not many at study,' I observed.

'The library is often empty,' Brother Gabriel said regretfully. 'If someone has to consult a book, he usually takes it to his cell.' He went over to the old monk. 'How are you progressing, Stephen?'

The old man squinted up at us. 'Slowly, Brother Gabriel.' I glanced at his work; he was copying an early bible, the letters and the painted figures beside the text worked in intricate detail, the colours standing out brightly on the thick parchment, only slightly faded after centuries. The monk's copy, though, was a poor affair, the letters scratchy and uneven, the colours gaudy. Brother Gabriel patted him on the shoulder. 'Nec aspera terrent, Brother,' he said, before turning to me. 'I will show you the illustration of Barabbas's hand.'