Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) Read online

  ‘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.

  ‘I left the world of idle show when I was twenty. My late second cousin was not born then, I never met her. I lived over thirty years in peace at the London Charterhouse; a holy place, not like this soft corrupted house. It was a haven, a place devoted to God in the midst of the profane city.’

  ‘Where wearing hair shirts was part of the Rule.’

  ‘To remind us always that flesh is sinful and corrupt. Thomas More lived with us four years. He wore the hair shirt ever after, even under his robes of state when he was lord chancellor. It helped keep him humble, and steadfast unto death when he stood out against the king’s marriage.’

  ‘And before, when he was lord chancellor and burning all the heretics he could find. But you were not steadfast, Brother Jerome?’

  His back stiffened, and when he turned I expected another outburst. But his voice remained calm.

  ‘When the king said he required an oath from all members of the religious houses acknowledging him as Supreme Head of the Church, only we Carthusians refused, though we knew what that would mean.’ His eyes burned into me.

  ‘Yes. All the other houses took the oath, but not you.’

  ‘There were forty of us, and they took us one by one. Prior Houghton first refused the oath and was interrogated by Cromwell himself. Did you know, Commissioner, when Father Houghton told him that St Augustine had placed the authority of the Church above Scripture, Cromwell replied that he cared naught for the Church and Augustine might hold as he pleased?’

  ‘He was right. The authority of Scripture stands above that of any scholar.’

  ‘And the opinion of a tavern keeper’s son stands above St Augustine’s?’ Jerome laughed bitterly. ‘When he would not submit, our venerable prior was judged guilty of treason and executed at Tyburn. I was there; I saw his body sliced open by the executioner’s knife while he still lived. But it wasn’t the usual hanging fair that day, the crowd watched silently as he died.’

  I glanced at Mark; he was watching Jerome intently, his face troubled. The Carthusian continued. ‘Your master had no better luck with Prior Houghton’s successor. Vicar Middlemore and the senior obedentiaries still would not swear, so they too went to Tyburn. This time there were calls against the king from the crowd. Cromwell wasn’t going to risk a riot the next time, so he tried all manner of pressure to make the rest of us take the oath. He put his own men in charge of the house, where Prior Houghton’s arm, stinking and rotten, was nailed to the gate. They kept us half-starved, mocked our services, tore up our books, insulted us. They picked off trouble-makers one by one. Someone would suddenly be sent off to a more compliant house or just disappear.’

  He paused and leaned his good arm on the bed for a moment. I looked up at him.

  ‘I have heard these stories,’ I said. ‘They are mere tales.’

  He ignored me and resumed his pacing. ‘After the north rebelled last spring, the king lost patience with us. The remaining brethren were told to swear or be taken to Newgate where they would be left to starve to death. Fifteen swore and lost their souls. Ten went to Newgate, where they were chained in a foul cell and left without food. Some lasted for weeks—’ He broke off suddenly. Covering his face with his hands he stood rocking on his heels, weeping silently.

  ‘I have heard such rumours,’ Mark whispered. ‘Everyone said they were false—’

  I waved him to silence. ‘Even if that were true, Brother Jerome, you could not have been among them. You were already here.’

  He turned his back on me, wiping his face with the sleeve of his habit, and stood looking from the window, leaning heavily on his crutch. Outside, the snow whirled down as though it might bury the world.

  ‘Yes, crookback, I was one of those who had been spirited away. I had watched my superiors taken, I knew how they died, but despite our daily humiliations we brethren succoured each other. We thought we could hold out. I was a fit, strong man then, I prided myself on my fortitude.’ He laughed; a cracked hysterical sound.

  ‘The soldiers came for me one morning, and brought me to the Tower. It was the middle of May last year, Anne Boleyn had been condemned to die and they were building a great scaffold in the grounds. I saw it. And that was when I became truly afraid. As those guards bustled me down into the dungeons, I knew my resolution might fail.

  ‘They took me to a big underground room and bundled me into a chair. In a corner I saw the rack, the hinged table and the ropes, two big guards standing ready to turn the wheels. There were two others in the room, facing me across a desk. One was Kingston, the warden of the Tower. The other, glowering at me most foully, was your master, Cromwell.’

  ‘The vicar general himself? I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Let me tell you what he said. “Brother Jerome Wentworth, you are a nuisance. Tell me straight, without cavil, will you swear to the Royal Supremacy?”

  ‘I said I would not.
But my heart banged as though it would burst my chest as I sat before that man, his eyes like the fires of hell, for the Devil looks out of them. How can you face him, Commissioner, and not know what he is?’

  ‘Enough of that. Go on.’

  ‘Your master, the great and wise counsellor, nodded at the rack. “We shall see,” he said. “In a few weeks’ time Jane Seymour will be queen of England. The king would not have her cousin refusing the oath. Nor does he want your name included among those executed for treason. Either would be an embarrassment, Brother Jerome. So, you must swear, or you will be made to.” Then he nodded at the rack.

  ‘I told him again I would not take the oath, though my voice shook. He studied me a moment and smiled. “I think you will,” he said. “Master Kingston, I have little time. Get him lengthened.”

  ‘Kingston nodded at the rackmasters and they hauled me to my feet. They slammed me down on the rack, knocking the breath from my body. They bound my hands and feet, stretching my arms above my head.’ Jerome’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘It was all so quick. Neither of the rackmasters spoke a word.’

  ‘I heard a creak as they turned the wheel, then there was a great tearing pain in my arms like I had never known. It consumed me.’ He broke off, gently massaging his torn shoulder, his eyes vacant. In the memory of his agony he seemed to have forgotten our presence. Beside me, Mark shifted uneasily.

  ‘I was screaming. I hadn’t realized till I heard the sounds. Then the pulling stopped, I was still in anguish but the tide -’ he fluttered a hand up and down - ‘the tide had ebbed. I looked up and there Cromwell stood, staring down at me.

  ‘ “Swear now, Brother,” he said. “You have only a little fortitude, I see. This will go on till you swear. These men are skilled, they will not allow you to die, but your body is already torn and soon it will be so broken you will never be out of pain again. There is no shame in swearing when you have been brought to it by this road.” ’

  ‘You are lying,’ I said to the Carthusian. Again he ignored me.

  ‘I shouted that I would bear the pain, as Christ had on the Cross. He shrugged and nodded at the torturers, who pulled both wheels this time. I felt the muscles of my legs tear and when I felt my thighbone pull from its socket I screamed that I would swear the oath.’

  ‘An oath sworn under duress is surely not binding in law?’ Mark said.

  ‘God’s blood, be quiet!’ I snapped at him. Jerome started a little, recalled to himself, then smiled.

  ‘It was an oath before God, a perjured oath, and I am lost. Are you kind, boy? Then you should not be in the company of this bent-backed heretic.’

  I stared at him fixedly. In truth the power of his story had struck me forcefully; but I had to keep the initiative. I stood up, folded my arms and faced him.

  ‘Brother Jerome, I am tired of these insults and of your tales. I came here to discuss the foul murder of Robin Singleton. You called him perjurer and liar, before witnesses. I would like to know why.’

  Jerome’s mouth worked into something like a snarl.

  ‘Do you know what torture is like, heretic?’

  ‘Do you know what murder is like, monk? And no more words from you, Mark Poer,’ I added as he opened his mouth.

  ‘Mark.’ Jerome smiled darkly. ‘That name again. Why, your bedesman has a look of the other Mark about him.’

  ‘What other Mark? What are you babbling about now?’

  ‘Shall I tell you? You say you want no more tales, but this is a story that will interest you. May I sit down again? I am in pain now.’

  ‘I will have no more treasonable words or insults.’

  ‘No insults, I promise, nor treason. Just the truth.’

  I nodded, and he lowered himself back onto the bed with the help of his crutch. He scratched his chest, wincing at a pang from the hair shirt. ‘I see that what I told you of my racking discomfited you, lawyer. This will discomfit you more. The other boy called Mark was one Mark Smeaton. You know that name?’

  ‘Of course. The court musician who confessed to adultery with Queen Anne, and died for it.’

  ‘Yes, he confessed.’ Jerome nodded. ‘For the same reason I swore.’

  ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘I will tell you. When I had taken the oath before Cromwell in that terrible room, the constable told me I would be lodged in the Tower a few days to recover; arrangements were being made through my cousin for me to be taken as a pensioner at Scarnsea. Jane Seymour would be told I had sworn. Lord Cromwell, meanwhile, had lost interest; he was collecting up my sworn oath with the rest of his papers.

  ‘I was taken to a cell deep underground. The guards had to carry me. It was in a dark, damp corridor. They laid me on an old straw mattress on the floor and left. My mind was in such turmoil at what I had done, I was in such pain. The smell of damp from that rotten mattress made me feel sick. Somehow I managed to rise and went over to the door, where there was a barred window. I leaned against it, for there was a breeze of fresher air from the corridor, and prayed for forgiveness for what I had done.

  ‘Then I heard footsteps, and sobbing and crying. More guards appeared and this time they were half-carrying a young man, just the age of your assistant and with another pretty face, though softer, and streaked with tears. He wore the remnants of fine clothes, and his big scared eyes darted wildly round him. He looked at me beseechingly as he was dragged past, then I heard the door of the next cell open.

  ‘ “Compose yourself, Master Smeaton,” one of the guards said. “You will be here for tonight. It will be quick tomorrow, no pain.” He sounded almost sympathetic.’ Jerome laughed again, showing grey decayed teeth. The sound made me shiver. His face worked for a moment, then he went on.

  ‘The cell door slammed and the footsteps receded. Then I heard a voice.

  ‘ “Father! Father! Are you a priest?”

  ‘ “I am a monk of the Charterhouse,” I replied. “Are you the musician accused with the queen?”

  ‘He began to sob. “Brother, I did nothing! I am accused of lying with her, but I did nothing.”

  ‘ “They say you have confessed,” I called back.

  ‘ “Brother, they took me to Lord Cromwell’s house, they said if I did not confess they would tie a cord round my head and tighten it till they put my eyes out!” His voice was frantic, almost a scream. “Lord Cromwell told them to rack me instead, to leave no marks. Father, I am in such pain but I want to live. I am to be killed tomorrow!” He broke down, I heard him sobbing.’

  Jerome sat still, his eyes distant.

  ‘The pain in my leg and shoulder worsened, but I had not the strength to move. I hooked my good arm through the bars to support myself and leaned half-insensible against the door, listening to Smeaton’s sobs. After a while he grew calmer and called again, his voice shaking.

  ‘“Brother, I signed a false confession. It helped condemn the queen. Will I go to hell?”

  ‘ “If it was tortured from you God will not condemn you for that. A false confession is not like an oath before God,” I added bitterly.

  ‘ “Brother, I am afraid for my soul. I have sinned with women, it has been easy.”

  ‘ “If you truly repent, the Lord will forgive you.”

  ‘ “But I don’t repent, Brother.” He laughed hysterically. “It was always pleasure. I do not want to die and never know pleasure again.”

  ‘ “You must compose your soul,” I urged him. “You must repent truly, or it will be the fire.”

  ‘ “It will be purgatory anyway.” He began sobbing again, but my head was swimming, I was too weak to call out any more, and I crawled back to my stinking mattress. I did not know the time of day; there is no light down there but the torches in the corridor. I slept a while. Twice I was woken when guards brought a visitor to Smeaton’s cell.’

  Jerome’s eyes flickered up to meet mine for a second, then slid away again. ‘Both times I heard him crying most piteously. Then later I woke to see the guard pass with a
priest, and there was muttering for a long time, though whether Smeaton made proper confession in the end and saved his soul I do not know. I drifted off to sleep again and when I woke again to my pain all was silent. There are no windows down there, but I knew, somehow, that it was morning and he was gone, dead.’ His eyes focused on me again. ‘Know then that your master tortured a false confession from an innocent man and killed him. He is a man of blood.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else this story?’ I asked.

  He gave a strange, twisted smile. ‘No. I have had no need.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It does not matter.’

  ‘No, it does not matter, for I say the whole thing is a tissue of lies.’

  He only shrugged.