Jerome sat still, his eyes distant.

'The pain in my leg and shoulder worsened, but I had not the strength to move. I hooked my good arm through the bars to support myself and leaned half-insensible against the door, listening to Smeaton's sobs. After a while he grew calmer and called again, his voice shaking.

'"Brother, I signed a false confession. It helped condemn the queen. Will I go to hell?"

'"If it was tortured from you God will not condemn you for that. A false confession is not like an oath before God," I added bitterly.

'"Brother, I am afraid for my soul. I have sinned with women, it has been easy."

'"If you truly repent, the Lord will forgive you."

'"But I don't repent, Brother." He laughed hysterically. "It was always pleasure. I do not want to die and never know pleasure again."

'"You must compose your soul," I urged him. "You must repent truly, or it will be the fire."

'"It will be purgatory anyway." He began sobbing again, but my head was swimming, I was too weak to call out any more, and I crawled back to my stinking mattress. I did not know the time of day; there is no light down there but the torches in the corridor. I slept a while. Twice I was woken when guards brought a visitor to Smeaton's cell.'

Jerome's eyes flickered up to meet mine for a second, then slid away again. 'Both times I heard him crying most piteously. Then later I woke to see the guard pass with a priest, and there was muttering for a long time, though whether Smeaton made proper confession in the end and saved his soul I do not know. I drifted off to sleep again and when I woke again to my pain all was silent. There are no windows down there, but I knew, somehow, that it was morning and he was gone, dead.' His eyes focused on me again. 'Know then that your master tortured a false confession from an innocent man and killed him. He is a man of blood.'

'Have you told anyone else this story?' I asked.

He gave a strange, twisted smile. 'No. I have had no need.'

'What do you mean?'

'It does not matter.'

'No, it does not matter, for I say the whole thing is a tissue of lies.'

He only shrugged.

'Very well. You have led me away from Robin Singleton again. Why did you call him perjurer and traitor?'

Again he gave that strange, savage smile. 'Because he is. He is a tool of that monster Cromwell, as you are. You all perjure yourselves and betray your due allegiance to the pope.'

I took a deep breath. 'Jerome of London, I can think of only one man who could have hated the commissioner, or rather his office, enough to devise a mad plot to kill him, and that is you. Your infirmity would prevent you from doing the deed yourself, but you are a man who would cozen another to do it. I put it to you that you are responsible for his death.'

The Carthusian reached for his crutch again and stood up painfully. He placed his right hand over his heart; it trembled slightly. He looked me in the eye, still smiling, a secret smile that made me shiver.

'Commissioner Singleton was a heretic and a cruel man and I am glad he is dead. May it vex Lord Cromwell. But I swear on my soul, before God and of my own free will, that I had no part in the killing of Robin Singleton, and I also swear I know of no man in this house of weaklings and fools who would have the fierce stomach to do it. There, I have replied to your accusation. And now I am tired, I would sleep.' He lay back on the bed and stretched himself out.

'Very well, Jerome of London. But we shall speak again.' I motioned Mark to the door. Outside, I locked it and we passed back down the corridor, watched from their open doors by the monks, who had now returned from Sext. As we reached the door to the cloister yard it was thrown open and Brother Athelstan hurried in out of the snow that still tumbled down, his habit white. He pulled up short at the sight of me.

'So, Brother. I have found the reason you are in bad odour with Brother Edwig. You left his private room unguarded.'

He shuffled from foot to foot, his straggly beard dripping melted snow onto the rush matting. 'Yes, sir.'

'That information would have been more use than your tales of mutterings in chapter. What happened?'

He looked at me, his eyes afraid. 'I did not think it important, sir. I came in to do some work and found Commissioner Singleton upstairs in Brother Edwig's room, looking at a book. I pleaded with him not to take it, or at least to let me take a record, for I knew Brother Edwig would be angry with me. When he returned and I told him, he said I should have kept an eye on what Commissioner Singleton was doing.'

'So he was angry.'

'Very, sir.' He hung his head.

'Did you know what was in the book he had?'

'No, sir, I only deal with the ledgers in the office. I do not know what books Brother Edwig has upstairs.'

'Why did you not tell me about this?'

He shifted from foot to foot. 'I was afraid, sir. Afraid that if you asked Brother Edwig about it he would know I had spoken. He is a hard man, sir.'

'And you are a fool. Let me advise you, Brother. A good informer must be prepared to give information even at risk to himself. Otherwise he will be mistrusted. Now begone from my sight.'

He vanished down the corridor at a run. Mark and I hunched ourselves into our coats and stepped out into the blizzard. I looked around the white cloister.

'God's nails, was there ever such weather? I wanted to go round to that fish pond, but we can't in this. Come on, back to the infirmary.'

As we trudged back to our room, I noticed Mark's face was thoughtful and sombre. We found Alice in the infirmary kitchen, boiling herbs.

'You look cold, sirs. Can I bring you some warm wine?'

'Thank you, Alice,' I said. 'The warmer the better.'

Back in our room Mark took a cushion and sat before the fire. I lowered myself onto the bed.

'Jerome knows something,' I said quietly. 'He wasn't involved in the killing, or he wouldn't have given his oath, but he knows something. It was in that smile of his.'

'He's so mazed after being tortured I don't think he knows what he means.'

'No. He's consumed with anger and shame, but his wits are there.'

Mark stared into the fire. 'Is it true then, what he said about Mark Smeaton? That Lord Cromwell tortured him into making a false confession?'

'No.' I bit my lip. 'I don't believe it.'

'You would not wish to,' Mark said quietly.

'No! I don't believe Lord Cromwell was there when Jerome was tortured either. That was a lie. I saw him in the days before Anne Boleyn's execution. He was constantly attending the king, he wouldn't have had time to go to the Tower. And he wouldn't have behaved like that; he wouldn't. Jerome invented it.' I realized my fists were clenched tight.

Mark looked at me. 'Sir, was it not obvious to you from his manner that everything Jerome said was true?'

I hesitated. There had been a terrible sincerity about the way the Carthusian spoke. He had been tortured, of course, that was plain to see. But made to swear a false oath by Lord Cromwell himself? I could not believe that of my master, nor the story of his involvement with Mark Smeaton and his torture – alleged torture, I told myself. I ran my hands through my hair.

'There are some men who are skilled in making false words seem true. I remember there was a man I prosecuted once, who pretended to be a licensed goldsmith, he fooled the guild-'

'It's hardly the same, sir-'

'I cannot believe Lord Cromwell would have prepared false evidence against Anne Boleyn. You forget I have known him for years, Mark; he rose to power in the first place because of her reformist sympathies. She was his patron. Why would he help kill her?'

'Because the king wanted it, and Lord Cromwell would do anything to keep his position? That is what they whisper at Augmentations.'