Dissolution

'I didn't want him dead! It wasn't my doing, he was possessed. Possessed. His death wasn't my fault, I won't be blamed!'

I studied him. Had he gone to pray over the novice yesterday from some sense of guilt? No, I reflected, Prior Mortimus was not one to question the rightness of anything he did. It was strange; his air of brutal certainty reminded me of radical Lutherans I had met. And no doubt he had contrived some intellectual sophistry that allowed him to molest young women without trouble to his conscience.

'It is cold,' I said. 'Lead on.'

He led us without further converse into the dorter, a long, two-storey building facing the cloister. Smoke rose from many chimneys. I had never seen the inside of a monks' dormitory before. I knew from the Comperta that the early Benedictines' great communal dormitories had long since been partitioned off into comfortable individual rooms, and so it was here. We passed down a long corridor with many doors. Some were open, and I could see warm fires and comfortable beds. The heat was welcome. Prior Mortimus halted before a closed door.

'Normally, it's locked,' he said, 'to make sure he doesn't go wandering.' He pushed the door open. 'Jerome, the commissioner wishes to see you.'

Brother Jerome's cell was as austere as those I passed had been comfortable. No fire burned in the empty grate, and apart from a crucifix above the bed the whitewashed walls were bare. The old Carthusian sat on the bed dressed only in his nether hose; his skinny torso was twisted and bent around the shoulders, as knotted and crooked as my own but with the marks of injury not deformity. Brother Guy stood bent over him with a cloth, washing a dozen small weals that disfigured his skin. Some were red, others yellow with pus. An ewer of water gave off the sharp smell of lavender.

'Brother Guy,' I said, 'I am sorry to disrupt your ministrations.'

'I am nearly finished. There, Brother, that should ease the infected sores.'

The Carthusian gave me an ugly glare before turning to the infirmarian. 'My clean shirt, please.'

Brother Guy sighed. 'You weaken yourself with this. You could at least soak the hairs to soften them.' He passed him a grey garment of hair cloth, the animal hairs sewn into the fabric on the inner side standing out stiff and black. Brother Jerome slipped it on, then struggled into his white habit. Brother Guy gathered up his ewer, bowed to us and went out. Brother Jerome and the prior looked at each other with mutual distaste.

'Mortifying yourself again, Jerome?'

'For my sins. But I take no pleasure in the mortification of others, Brother Prior, unlike some.'

Prior Mortimus gave him a filthy look, then handed me his key. 'When you've finished, give the key to Bugge,' he said, then turned and left abruptly, closing the door behind him with a snap. I was suddenly conscious that we were now shut in a confined space with a man whose eyes sparked hatred at us from his pale, lined face. I looked round for somewhere to sit, but there was only the bed, so I stood leaning on my staff.

'Are you in pain, crookback?' Jerome asked suddenly.

'A little discomfort. We have had a long walk through the snow.'

'Do you know the saying, to touch a dwarf brings good luck, but to touch a hunchback means ill fortune? You are a mockery of the human form, Commissioner, doubly so for your soul is twisted and cankered like all Cromwell's men.'

Mark stepped forward. 'God's bones, sir, you have a vile tongue.'

I waved him to silence, and stood staring at Jerome.

'Why do you abuse me, Jerome of London? They say you are mad. Are you? Would madness be your defence were I to have your arse hauled off to the Tower for your treasonable talk?'

'I would make no defence, crookback. I would be glad to have the chance to be what I should have been before, a martyr for God's Church. I shit on King Henry's name and his usurpation of the pope's authority.' He laughed bitterly. 'Even Martin Luther disowns King Henry, did you know? He says Junker Heinz will end by making himself God.'

Mark gasped. Those words alone were enough to have Jerome executed.

'Then how you must burn with shame that you took the oath acknowledging the king's supremacy,' I said quietly.

Jerome reached for his crutch and rose painfully from the bed. He tucked the crutch under his arm and began slowly pacing the cell. When he spoke again it was in a quiet, steely tone.

'Yes, crookback. Shame and fear for my eternal soul. Do you know who my family are? Did they tell you that?'

'I know you are related to Queen Jane, God rest her.'

'God will not rest her. She burns in hell for marrying a schismatic king.' He turned and faced me. 'Shall I tell you how I came to be here? Shall I put a case to you, master lawyer?'

'Yes, tell me. I shall sit to listen.' I lowered myself onto the hard bed. Mark remained standing, hand on sword, as Jerome dragged himself slowly up and down the room.