Dissolution

'These will interest you. Relics brought specially to my attention.' He set the casket on the table and pointed to a Latin inscription on the front. 'Look at that.'

'Barbara sanctissima,' I read. I peered at the skull. A few hairs still clung to the pate.

'The skull of St Barbara,' Cromwell said, slapping the casket with his palm. 'A young virgin murdered by her pagan father in Roman times. From the Cluniac Priory of Leeds. A most holy relic.' He bent and picked up a silver casket set with what looked like opals. 'And here – the skull of St Barbara, from Boxgrove nunnery in Lancashire.' He gave a harsh laugh. 'They say there are two-headed dragons in the Indies. Well, we have two-headed saints.'

'By Jesu.' I peered in at the skulls. 'I wonder who they were?'

He gave another bark of laughter and clapped me soundly on the arm. 'Ha, that's my Matthew, always after an answer for everything. It's that probing wit I need now. My Augmentations man in York says the gold casket is of Roman design. But it will be melted down in the Tower furnace like all the others and the skulls will go to the dunghill. Men should not worship bones.'

'So many of them.' I looked through the window, where the rain still beat down in torrents, sweeping the courtyard as the men continued unloading. Lord Cromwell crossed the room and stood looking out. I reflected that though he was now a peer, entitled to wear scarlet, he still dressed in the same style as I, the black gown and flat black cap of legal and clerical officials. The cap was silk velvet, though; the gown lined with beaver. I noticed his long brown hair had become flecked with grey.

'I must have those things taken in,' he said. 'I need them dry. Next time I burn a papist traitor, I want to use some of that wood.' He turned and smiled grimly at me. 'Then people will see that using the heretic's own images as fuel does not make him scream any the less, let alone make God strike out the fire.' His expression changed again, became sombre. 'Now come, sit down. We have business.' He sat behind his desk, motioning me brusquely to a chair facing him. I winced at a spasm from my back.

'You seem tired, Matthew.' He studied me with his large brown eyes. Like his face, their expression constantly changed and now they were cold.

'A little. It was a long ride.' I glanced over his desk. It was covered in papers, some with the royal seal glinting in the candlelight. A couple of small gold caskets appeared to be in use as paperweights.

'You did well to find the deeds to that woodland,' he said. 'Without them the matter could have dragged on in Chancery for years.'

'The monastery's ex-bursar had them. He took them when the house was dissolved. Apparently the local villagers wanted to claim the woods as common lands. Sir Richard suspected a local rival, but I started with the bursar as he would last have had the deeds.'

'Good. That was logical.'

'I tracked him to the village church where he had been made rector. He admitted it soon enough and gave them up.'

'The villagers paid the ex-monk, no doubt. Did you have him in charge of the justice?'

'He took no payment. I think he only wanted to help the villagers, their land is poor. I thought it better to make no stir.'

Lord Cromwell's face hardened and he leaned back in his chair. 'He had committed a criminal act, Matthew. You should have had him in charge, as an example to others. I hope you are not becoming soft. In these times I need hard men in my service, Matthew, hard men.' His face was suddenly full of the anger I had seen in him even when we first met ten years before. 'This is not Thomas More's Utopia, a nation of innocent savages waiting only for God's word to complete their happiness. This is a violent realm, stewed in the corruption of a decadent church.'

'I know.'

'The papists will use every means to prevent us from building the Christian commonwealth, and so by God's blood I will use every means to overcome them.'

'I am sorry if my judgement erred.'

'Some say you are soft, Matthew,' he said quietly. 'Lacking in fire and godly zeal, even perhaps in loyalty.'

Lord Cromwell had the trick of staring fixedly at you, unblinking, until you felt compelled to drop your gaze. You would look up again to find those hard brown eyes still boring into you. I felt my heart pound. I had tried to keep my doubts, my weariness, to myself; surely I had told nobody.

'My lord, I am as against papacy as I have always been.' As I said the words I could not help thinking of all those who must have made that answer before him, under interrogation about their loyalties. A stab of fear lanced through me, and I took deep breaths to calm myself, hoping he would not notice. After a moment he nodded slowly.

'I have a task for you, one suited to your talents. The future of Reform may depend on it.'

He leaned forward and picked up a little casket, holding it up. Within, at the centre of an intricately carved silver column, lay a glass phial containing a red powder.

'This,' he said quietly, 'is the blood of St Pantaleon, skinned alive by pagans. From Devon. On his saint's day, it was said, the blood liquefied. Hundreds came every year to watch the miracle, crawling on their hands and knees and paying for the privilege. But look.' He turned the casket round. 'See that little hole in the back? There was another hole in the wall where this was set, and a monk with a pipette would push little drops of coloured water inside the phial. And lo – the holy blood, or rather burnt umber, liquefies.'

I leaned forward, tracing the hole with my finger. 'I have heard of such deceits.'

'That is what monasticism is. Deceit, idolatry, greed, and secret loyalty to the bishop of Rome.' He turned the relic over in his hands, tiny red flakes trickling down. 'The monasteries are a canker in the heart of the realm and I will have it ripped out.'

'A start has been made. The smaller houses are down.'

'That barely scratched the surface. But they brought in some money, enough to whet the king's appetite to take the large ones where the real wealth is. Two hundred of them, owning a sixth of the country's wealth.'

'Is it truly as much as that?'

He nodded. 'Oh yes. But after the rebellion last winter, with twenty thousand rebels camped on the Don demanding their monasteries back, I have to proceed carefully. The king won't have any more forced surrenders, and he's right. What I need, Matthew, are voluntary surrenders.'

'But surely they'd never –'

He smiled wryly. 'There's more than one way to kill a pig. Now listen carefully, this information is secret.' He leaned forward, speaking quietly and intently.

'When I had the monasteries inspected two years ago, I made sure everything that might damage them was carefully recorded.' He nodded at the drawers lining the walls. 'It's all in there; sodomy, fornication, treasonable preaching. Assets secretly sold away. And I have more and more informers in the monasteries too.' He smiled grimly. 'I could have had a dozen abbots executed at Tyburn, but I have bided my time, kept up the pressure, issued strict new injunctions they have to follow. I have them terrified of me.' He smiled again, then suddenly tossed the relic in the air, catching it and setting it down among his papers.

'I have persuaded the king to let me pick a dozen houses on which I can bring particular pressures to bear. In the last two weeks I have sent out picked men, to offer the abbots the alternatives of voluntary surrender, with pensions for all and fat ones for the abbots, or prosecution. Lewes, with its treasonable preaching; Titchfield, where the prior has sent some choice information about his brethren; Peterborough. Once I've pressed a few into voluntary surrender, the others will realize the game is up and go quietly. I've been following the negotiations closely and everything was going well. Until yesterday.' He picked up a letter from his desk. 'Have you ever heard of the monastery of Scarnsea?'