'What is that? Over there?' Brother Guy pointed to something floating, some way out.
'It's a lamp! One of those little candleholders from the infirmary. They must have been carrying it. Oh God.' I grabbed at the infirmarian for support, for my senses failed at the thought of Mark and Alice losing their footing and falling, lying now somewhere under that flooded morass. Brother Guy lowered me to the bank and I sat taking deep breaths until my senses cleared. I looked up again to see the infirmarian praying quietly in Latin, hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the lamp drifting gently over the face of the waters.
===OO=OOO=OO===
Brother Guy helped me back to the infirmary. There he insisted I rest and eat, sitting me down in his kitchen and serving me himself. Food and drink revived my body, though my heart lay dead within me like a stone. I kept seeing pictures of Mark in my head; laughingly exchanging jests on the road; arguing with me in our room; holding Alice in the kitchen. At the end it was him I mourned most.
'There were only two sets of footprints going out through that gate,' Brother Guy said at length. 'It does not seem Edwig went that way.'
'Not him,' I answered bitterly. 'He'd have been out through the gate when Bugge's back was turned.' I clenched my fists. 'But I'll hunt him down if it takes me the rest of my days.'
There was a knock at the door and Prior Mortimus appeared, his face grim.
'Have you sent to Copynger?' I asked.
'Yes, he should be here soon. But Commissioner, we've found—'
'Edwig?'
'No. Jerome. He's in the church. You should come and see.'
'You're not able,' Brother Guy said, but I shook off his hand and grabbed my staff. I followed the prior to the church, where a crowd had gathered outside. The pittancer stood guard on the door, keeping them out. The prior shouldered through the crowd and we went inside.
Water was dripping somewhere; the only other sound was a faint weeping, a keening. I followed Prior Mortimus down the great empty nave with its candlelit niches, our footsteps echoing, until we came to the niche where the Thief's hand had stood. The heap of crutches and braces that had lain at the base of the plinth were scattered across the floor. I saw now that the block was hollow, there was a space underneath large enough to hold a man. Inside, sitting crouched over and holding something, was Jerome. His white habit was torn and filthy and a great stink rose from him as he sat, weeping piteously.
'I found him half an hour ago,' the prior said. 'He'd crawled under there and pulled the crutches back in front to hide himself. I was looking round the church and I remembered that space under there.'
'What has he got? Is it—?'
The prior nodded. 'The relic. The hand of the Penitent Thief.'
I knelt before Jerome, wincing as pain shot through my joints. I could see he held a big square box, encrusted with jewels that sparkled in the candlelight. A dark shape was dimly visible inside.
'Brother,' I said gently, 'was it you that took the relic?'
For the first time since I had met him, Jerome's voice was quiet. 'Yes. It is so dear to us, to the Church. It has cured so many people.'
'So you took it in the confusion after Singleton was killed.'
'I hid it under here to save it, to save it.' He clutched it tighter. 'I know what Cromwell will do, he will destroy this holy thing which God gave as a sign of his forgiveness. When they locked me up I knew you might find it, I had to protect it. Now it is lost, lost. I cannot resist any more, I am so tired,' he concluded in a sad, matter-of-fact voice. He shook his head and stared before him, his eyes blank.
Prior Mortimus reached in and took his shoulder. 'Come, Jerome, it's all over. Leave it and come away with me.' To my surprise the Carthusian made no demur. He climbed painfully out of the niche, pulling his crutch after him, and kissed the casket before depositing it carefully on the floor.
'I'll take him back to his cell,' the prior said.
I nodded. 'Yes, do that.'