'God's wounds, Whelplay, you are an oaf,' the prior shouted. 'Would ye have the king's commissioner's horses running loose in the courtyard?'

'No, Master Prior,' the boy replied in a trembling voice. 'I beg pardon.'

I stepped forward, taking Chancery's reins with one hand and offering my other arm to help the boy up, avoiding the dog shit on his robe.

'The horses will panic with all this disturbance,' I said mildly. 'Do not distress yourself, lad; such accidents happen to everyone.' I handed him the reins and with a glance at the prior's face, which had gone red with anger, he led the animals away. I turned back to the prior. 'Now, sir, if you would lead the way.'

The Scotsman glared at me. His face was puce now. 'With respect, sir, I am responsible for discipline in this house. The king has ordered many changes in our life here, and our younger brethren especially need to be taught obedience.'

'You have problems in getting the brethren to obey Lord Cromwell's new injunctions?'

'No, sir, I do not. So long as I am allowed to use discipline.'

'For slipping in a dog's mess?' I said mildly. 'Would it not be better to discipline those dogs, keep them out of the yard?'

The prior looked ready to argue, then suddenly let out a harsh bark of laughter.

'You're right, sir, but the abbot won't have the dogs shut up. He likes them kept fit for when he goes hunting.' As he spoke I watched the colour of his face fading from purple to its previous red. I reflected that he must be a man of unusually high choler.

'Hunting. I wonder what St Benedict would have said to that?'

'The abbot has his own rules,' the prior said meaningfully.

He led us past the row of outbuildings. Ahead I saw a fine two-storey house set in a rose garden, a well-built gentleman's residence which would not have looked out of place in Chancery Lane. We passed the stables and through the open doors I saw the boy leading Chancery into a stall. He turned, giving me a strange, intent look. We passed the brewery and the forge, whose red glow looked inviting in the cold. Next to it was a large outhouse with blocks of stone, carved and ornamented, visible through the open doors. Outside a trestle table was drawn up, on which plans had been laid out, and a grey-bearded man in a mason's apron stood with arms folded beside two monks who were arguing intently.

'It c-cannot be done, Brother,' the older monk said firmly. He was a short, plump man of around forty, with a fringe of curly black hair beneath his tonsure, a round pale face and hard little dark eyes. Fat little fingers waved over the plans. 'If we use Caen stone it w-will exhaust your entire annual budget for the next three years.'

'It can't be done cheaper,' the mason said. 'Not if it's done properly.'

'It must be done properly,' the other monk said emphatically in a deep, rich voice. 'Otherwise the whole symmetry of the church is destroyed, the eye would immediately be led to the different facing. If you can't agree, Master Bursar, I must take it to the abbot.'

'Take it then, it'll do you no good.' He broke off as he saw us, looked at us sharply with his black button eyes, then bent his face to the plans. The other monk studied us. He was tall and strongly built, in early middle age and with a deeply lined, handsome face and untidy yellow hair sticking out beneath his tonsure like a twist of straw. His eyes were large, a clear pale blue. He cast a lingering look at Mark, who returned his gaze coldly, then bowed to the prior as we passed, receiving a curt nod in return.

'Interesting,' I murmured to Mark. 'You'd think there was no threat hanging over this place. They're talking of renovating the church as though it would all go on for ever.'

'Did you see the look that tall monk gave me?'

'Yes. That was interesting too.'

We were passing the far wall of the church, nearly at the house, when a white-robed figure stepped from behind a buttress into our path. It was the Carthusian we had seen in the courtyard. The prior stepped quickly in front of him.

'Brother Jerome,' he called harshly, 'no trouble now! Back to your prayers!'

The Carthusian stepped round the prior, ignoring him except for a quick glance of contempt. I saw that he dragged his right leg and needed his crutch, held firmly under his right armpit, to move at all. His left arm hung limply at his side, misshapen, the hand held at a strange angle. He was a stringy man of about sixty, the straggling hair around his tonsure whiter than his stained and threadbare robes. The eyes in his thin pale face burned with the sort of ferocious intensity that seems bent on penetrating the soul. He stepped up to me, moving with surprising deftness to avoid the prior's outstretched arm.

'You are Lord Cromwell's man?' The voice was cracked and tremulous.

I am, sir.

'Know then that those who draw the sword shall die by the sword.'

'Matthew twenty-six, verse fifty-two,' I replied. 'What do you mean?' I thought of what had taken place here. 'Is that a confession?'

He laughed contemptuously. 'No, crookback, it is God's word, and it is true.' Prior Mortimus grabbed the Carthusian's good arm none too gently. He shook it off and hobbled away.

'Please ignore him.' The prior's face had gone pale this time; broken purple veins stood out on his cheeks. 'He is unhinged,' he added, setting his lips tight.

'Who is he? What is a Carthusian monk doing here?'

'He is a pensioner. We took him in as a favour to his cousin, who owns land nearby. Out of charity for his condition.'

'Which house is he from?'

The prior hesitated. 'The London house. He is known as Jerome of London.'

I stared. 'Where Prior Houghton and half the monks refused to take the oath of allegiance and were executed?'

'Brother Jerome took the oath. Eventually. After Master Cromwell applied certain pressures.' He gave me a hard stare. 'You understand?'

'He was racked?'

'With most dire pains. Giving in unhinged him. He deserved it for his disloyalty though, did he not? And this is how he repays our charity. He'll hear more about this.'

'What did he mean just now?'

'Jesu knows. I told you, the man's insane.' He turned away, and we followed him through a wooden gate into the abbot's garden, where a few livid winter roses stood out among the bare thorny branches. I glanced back, but the crippled monk had disappeared. The memory of those burning eyes made me shiver.

A fat man in the blue robe of a servant answered the prior's knock. He eyed us worriedly.

'Urgent visitors for his lordship, from the vicar general. Is he here?'

The servant bowed deeply. 'That terrible killing.' He crossed himself fervently. 'We had no warning of your coming, sirs. Abbot Fabian is not back, though he is expected any time. But pray come in.'

He ushered us into a wide hall, the panels brightly painted with hunting scenes.

'Perhaps you would wait in the reception room,' the prior suggested.

'Where is Dr Goodhaps?'

'In his room upstairs.'

'Then we will see him first.'

The prior nodded to the servant, who led us up a broad staircase to the upper floor. The prior halted before a closed door and knocked loudly. There was a squeal from within, then we heard a key turn and the door opened a crack. A thin face topped with untidy white hair peered out anxiously.

'Prior Mortimus,' the old man said in a squeaky voice, 'why clout the door like that? You startled me.'

A sardonic smile flickered briefly across Mortimus's face. 'Did I? Forgive me. Ye're safe now, good Doctor, Lord Cromwell has sent an emissary, a new commissioner.'

'Dr Goodhaps?' I asked. 'Commissioner Matthew Shardlake. I have been sent in reply to your letter. I come from Lord Cromwell.'