'Look! What's happened to him?'
Brother Guy lay face down on the floor under the big crucifix, arms extended in front of him. Sunlight glinted on his shaven brown pate. For a moment I was alarmed, then I heard the murmur of Latin prayer, soft but fervent. As we went on I reflected again that I must be careful how far I took the Spanish Moor into my confidence. He had confided in me, and was the most agreeable of those I had met here. But the sight of him lying prone, making fervid entreaties of a piece of wood, reminded me that as much as the others he was muzzled in the old heresies and superstitions, enemy of all I stood for.
CHAPTER 15
Outside, the morning was bitterly cold again under a clear blue sky. During the night the wind had blown big drifts against the walls, leaving parts of the courtyard almost bare of snow. It made a strange sight. We passed once again through the gate. Turning, I saw Bugge the gatekeeper peering out, withdrawing his head when he caught my glance. I blew out my cheeks.
'God's wounds, it's a relief to be away from all those eyes.' I looked up the road, which like the courtyard was a sea of drifts. The whole landscape, even the marsh, was white, broken only by skeletal black trees, clumps of reeds in the marsh and, in the distance, the grey sea. I had obtained another staff from Brother Guy, and took a firm grip on it.
'Thank Heaven for these overshoes,' Mark ventured.
'Yes. The whole country will be a sea of mud when this snow melts.'
'If it ever does.'
We had a long trudge through the drear landscape, and it was an hour before we reached the first streets of Scarnsea. We said little, for we were both still in sombre mood. There was hardly anyone about that day and in the bright sunlight I noticed anew how dilapidated most of the buildings were.
'We need Westgate Street,' I said as we arrived again in the square. At the wharf a small boat was pulled up, an official in a black coat inspecting bales of cloth while a couple of townsmen stood by, stamping their feet against the cold. Out at sea, at the mouth of the channel through the marsh, stood a large ship.
'The customs man,' Mark observed.
'They must be taking cloth over to France.'
We turned into a street of new, well-built houses. On the door of the largest the town's arms were engraved. I knocked, and the well-dressed servant who answered confirmed it was Justice Copynger's house. We were led to wait in a fine drawing room with cushioned wooden chairs and a buffet displaying a great richness of gold plate.
'He does himself well,' Mark observed.
'Indeed.' I crossed to where the portrait of a stern-looking man with fair hair and a spade-shaped beard hung on the wall. 'That's very good. And painted in this room, by the background.'
'He's rich then—' Mark broke off as the door opened to admit the original of the painting, a tall, strongly built man in his forties. He was swathed in a brown robe trimmed with sable fur and had a severe, serious air. He shook my hand firmly.
'Master Shardlake, this is an honour. I am Gilbert Copynger, Justice of the town and Lord Cromwell's most loyal servant. I knew poor Master Singleton; I thank Christ you have been sent. That monastery is a cesspit of corruption and heresy.'
'Nothing is straightforward there, certainly.' I indicated Mark. 'My assistant.'
He nodded briefly. 'Come through to my study. You will take some refreshment? I think the Devil himself has sent this weather. Are you kept warm at the monastery?'
'The monks have fires in every chamber.'