I shrugged. 'It is a matter between you, of course.'
Brother Edwig set down his cup. 'I ap-pologize if I became heated. It is an old argument between the sacrist and me.' He gave his slash of a smile again, showing even white teeth. I nodded gravely in acknowledgement, then turned my gaze to the window, where the snow still whirled down. It was settling thickly now. There was a draught from the window and, although my front was warm where it faced the fire, my back was cold. Next to the window the novice gave a cough. His bowed head under its cap was in shadow, but I noticed his legs trembling under his habit.
The silence was broken by a sudden harsh voice.
'Fools! There will be no new building. Do you not know that the world has at last rolled down to its end? The Antichrist is here!' The Carthusian had half-risen from his bench. 'A thousand years of devotion to God, in all these houses of prayer, is ended. Soon there will be nothing, empty buildings and silence, silence for the Devil to fill with his roaring!' His voice rose to a shout as he fixed everyone in turn with bitter looks. The monks averted their eyes. Turning in his place, Brother Jerome lost his balance and fell sprawling across the bench, his face contorted with pain.
Prior Mortimus rose, slamming his hand on the table. 'God's death! Brother Jerome, you will leave this table and keep to your cell till the abbot decides what is to be done with you. Take him out!'
His neighbours lifted the Carthusian under the arms, hauled him quickly to his feet and hustled him from the refectory. As the door closed behind them, an exhalation of held breaths sounded across the room. Prior Mortimus turned to me.
'Once again, my apologies on behalf of the community.' There was a mumble of assent along the tables. 'I only ask you to excuse the man on the grounds that he is mad.'
'Who does he think is the Antichrist, I wonder? Me? No, Lord Cromwell more likely, or perhaps His Majesty the King?'
'No, sir, no.' There was an anxious murmur along the obedentiaries' table. Prior Mortimus set his thin lips.
'If I had my way, Jerome would be turned out of doors tomorrow to cry his madness in the streets till he was put in the Tower, or more likely the Bedlam, for that's where he belongs. The abbot only keeps him because he needs the favour of his cousin Sir Edward. You know of Jerome's connection with the late queen?' I nodded. 'But this is too much. He must go.'
I raised a hand, shaking my head. 'I take no official note of a madman's babble.' I felt a palpable sense of relief along the table at my words. I lowered my voice again, so only the obedentiaries could hear. 'I would have Brother Jerome kept here, I may wish to question him. Tell me, did he treat Master Singleton to such discourse as I have had?'
'Yes,' the prior replied bluntly. 'When he first arrived Brother Jerome accosted him in the yard and called him perjurer and liar. Commissioner Singleton gave as good as he got, calling him a Roman whoreson.'
'Perjurer and liar. That's more specific than the general abuse he's given me. I wonder what he meant?'
'God alone knows what madmen ever mean.'
Brother Guy leaned forward. 'He may be mad, Commissioner, but he would never have been capable of killing Commissioner Singleton. I have treated him. His left arm was wrenched out of its socket on the rack, the ligaments shredded. His right leg is scarcely better and his balance is gone, as you saw. He can scarcely carry himself, yet alone wield a weapon to sever a man's head. I have treated the effects of official torture before, in France,' he added in quieter tones, 'but never before in England. I am told it is a new thing.'