Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) by C. J. Sansom Read Free Book Online Page B

rents and dues to the monastery to keep those lazy drones of monks. Scarnsea port was given as a prize to one of William the Conqueror’s knights, who granted land to the Benedictines and had the monastery built. Paid for with English taxes, of course.’
     
    A peal of bells sounded from the direction of the monastery, loud in the still air.
     
    ‘They’ve seen us coming,’ Mark said with a laugh.
     
    ‘They’d need good eyes. Unless it’s one of their miracles. God’s wounds, those bells are loud.’
     
    The tolling continued as we approached the walls, the noise reverberating through my skull. I was tired and my back had pained me increasingly as the day wore on, so that now I rode slumped over Chancery’s broad back. I pulled myself upright; I needed to establish a presence at the monastery from the start. Only now did I appreciate the full extent of the place. The walls, faced with flints set in plaster, were twelve feet high. The enclosure reached back from the road to the very edge of the marsh. A little way along there was a large Norman gatehouse, and as we watched a cart laden with barrels and led by two big shire horses rattled out onto the road. We reined in our horses, and it rumbled past us towards the town, the driver touching his cap to us.
     
    ‘Beer,’ I noted.
     
    ‘Empty barrels?’ Mark asked.
     
    ‘No, full ones. The monastery brewhouse has a monopoly in supplying the town’s beer. They can set the price. It’s in the founding charter.’
     
    ‘So if anyone gets drunk, it’s on holy beer?’
     
    ‘It’s common enough. The Norman founders kept the monks comfortable in return for prayers for their souls in perpetuity. Everyone was happy, except those who paid for it all. Thank God, those bells have stopped.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Now, come. Don’t say anything, take your lead from me.’
     
    We rode up to the gatehouse, a solid affair faced with carvings of heraldic beasts. The gates were closed. Looking up, I glimpsed a face peering down from the window of the gatekeeper’s house on the first floor, quickly withdrawn. I dismounted and banged on a small side gate set in the wall. After a few moments it opened to reveal a tall, burly man with a head as bald as an egg, wearing a greasy leather apron. He glared at us.
     
    ‘Wod’ya want?’
     
    ‘I am the king’s commissioner. Kindly take us to the abbot.’ I spoke coldly.
     
    He looked at us suspiciously. ‘We’re expecting nobody. This is an enclosed monastery. You got papers?’
     
    I reached into my robe and thrust my papers at him. ‘The Monastery of St Donatus the Ascendant of Scarnsea is a Benedictine house. It is not an enclosed order, people may come and go at the abbot’s pleasure. Or perhaps we are at the wrong monastery,’ I added sarcastically. The churl gave me a sharp look as he glanced at the papers - it was clear he could not read - before handing them back.
     
    ‘You’ve made them richer by a couple of smears, fellow. What’s your name?’
     
    ‘Bugge,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll have ye taken to Master Abbot, sirs.’ He stood aside and we led the horses through, finding ourselves in a broad space under the pillars supporting the gatehouse.
     
    ‘Please wait.’
     
    I nodded, and he stomped off and left us.
     
    I passed under the pillars and looked into the courtyard. Ahead stood the great monastery church, solidly built of white stone now yellow with age. Like all the other buildings it was of French limestone, built in the Norman way with wide windows, quite unlike the contemporary style of high narrow windows and arches reaching to the heavens. Big as it was, three hundred feet long and with twin towers a hundred feet high, the church gave an impression of squat power, rooted to the earth.
     
    To the left, against the far wall, stood the usual outbuildings - stables, mason’s workshop, brewery. The courtyard was full of the sort of activity familiar to me from Lichfield: tradesmen