I saw that in a couple of places the wall had crumbled and been patched up, crudely and unevenly. Unhooking the bunch of keys from my belt, I found one that fitted the heavy, ancient lock. The gate creaked open and I stepped out onto a narrow path. It ran alongside the wall, the land dropping away at the edge a final few inches to the marsh. I had not realized it came so close. In places the path was broken where the mire had advanced right up to the wall, undermining it so it had had to be rebuilt. It was even more crudely patched outside. In places an agile man could climb that uneven surface. 'Damn it to hell,' I muttered, for now I could not eliminate even that possibility.
I looked out over the marsh. Covered with snow, broken by thick clusters of reeds and frozen stagnant pools, it stretched for half a mile to the broad band of the river, the blue sky reflected in its unfrozen waters. Beyond the river the ground rose slowly again to a woodland horizon. Everything was still, a pair of seabirds on the river the only sign of life. As I watched they rose into the air, calling their sad cries to the cold heavens.
Halfway between the river and where I stood was a large knoll, an island in the marsh. It was topped with a jumble of low ruins. That must be the place Brother Gabriel had mentioned, where the monks had first settled. Curious, and holding my staff carefully, I set one foot down from the path. To my surprise, the ground under the snow was firm. I let down my other leg and took a step forward. Again I felt firm ground. But it was only a skin of frozen, matted grass, and suddenly my foot crunched through, squelching into miry softness. I let out a cry, dropping my staff. My leg was being sucked slowly into what felt like thick mud; I felt slime and icy water come over the top of my overshoe and trickle down my shin.
I flailed my arms wildly to keep my balance; I had a horror of tipping over and landing face down in the mud. My left leg was still on firm ground and I pulled back with all my strength, terrified that leg too would crunch through a skin of solid ground into some nameless depth. But the ground there held and, sweating with exertion and fear, I was able, painfully slowly, to pull out the other leg, black with mud. A sucking, gurgling sound and a cesspit odour came from the mire. I stepped back and sat with a thump on the path, my heart pounding. My staff lay where it had fallen on the marsh, but I did not think of trying to rescue it. Looking down at my leg encased in stinking mud, I cursed myself for a fool. Lord Cromwell's face would have been worth seeing had he learned that his carefully chosen commissioner had braved the mysteries and dangers of Scarnsea only to fall in a bog and drown.
'You are a noddle,' I said aloud.
I heard a sound behind me, and turned sharply. The gate in the wall was open and Brother Edwig was standing there, a warm coat over his habit, staring at me in amazement.
'Master Sh-Shardlake, are you all right?' He gazed around the bare landscape, and I realized he had heard me talking to myself.
'Yes, Brother Edwig.' I climbed to my feet, realizing I did not cut an impressive figure, bespattered with mud as I was. 'I have had a slight accident. I nearly fell in.'
He shook his head. 'You should not go in there, sir. It is very dangerous.'
'So I see. But what are you doing out here, Brother? Is there no work in the counting house?'
'I have been v-v-visiting the sick novice with the abbot. I wanted to c-clear my head. Sometimes I come out here for a walk.'
I looked at him curiously. He was not someone I could easily imagine tramping through snowy orchards for exercise.
'I like to come out here and l-look out towards the r-r-river. It is c-calming.'
'So long as one minds one's footing?'
'Er — yes. C-can I help you back, sir? You are c-covered with mud.'
I was starting to shiver. 'I can manage. But yes, I should go back.'
We returned through the gate and plodded back to the monastery. I went as fast as I could, my sodden leg like a block of ice.
'How is the novice?'
He shook his head. 'He appears to be r-recovering, but one can never tell with these chesty agues. I had one m-myself last winter; it kept me out of the c-counting house two weeks.' He shook his head.
'And what is your opinion of Simon Whelplay's treatment by the prior?'
He shook his head again, impatiently. 'It is d-difficult. We must have discipline.'
'But should one not temper the wind to the shorn lamb?'
'P-people need certainty, they n-need to know that if they do wrong they will be p-punished.' He looked at me. 'Do you not th-think so, sir?'