The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  Worse yet, one of the King’s favourite ministers was in the process of founding a new College, and Michael was uneasy with the entire venture – the unseemly speed with which matters were being pushed along, the fact that only lawyers would be permitted to enrol there, and the resentment that was brewing in the rest of the University, which felt it was being bulldozed. Michael had promised to write Winwick Hall’s charter himself, to prevent the founder from slipping anything sly into it, but if the return journey took as long as the outward one, he would be too late. The resulting strain did not render him an amiable travelling companion.

  ‘Yes,’ William flashed back. ‘Benedictines are venal and greedy, and everyone knows it. And if you do not believe me, then look at the size and grandeur of this abbey.’

  The Franciscan had a point. It had been four hundred years since the Black Monks had arrived in Peterborough, which had given them ample time to build themselves one of the finest monasteries in the country. Michael was disinclined to admit it, though.

  ‘You should not have brought him,’ he said testily to Langelee. ‘He has been nothing but trouble the entire way.’

  ‘How dare you—’ began William hotly.

  ‘I have already explained why he had to come,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘He upset a lot of people by accusing the Deputy Sheriff of corruption last month, and this jaunt will allow time for tempers to cool.’

  ‘But I was right,’ objected William, stung. ‘He is corrupt.’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But you should not have made the point in a public sermon. Your remarks almost caused a riot.’

  ‘And me?’ asked Clippesby, the last of the four Fellows to be travelling. He was a Dominican, who spoke to animals and claimed they answered back. Most people considered him insane, although Bartholomew often thought that the gentle, compassionate friar was more rational than the rest of the Fellows put together. ‘Why did you drag me all the way out here? I made no slurs against deputy sheriffs.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But Thelnetham will be Acting Master while I am away, and he does not like you – it seemed prudent to eliminate a source of discord. Besides, just think of all the new creatures you will meet. It is an opportunity to expand your social life.’

  Clippesby shot him a baleful look. He did not usually let his colleagues’ opinions of his eccentricities perturb him, but even his serene tolerance had been put to the test on the journey. ‘It was inconvenient, Master. I had hoped to complete my theological treatise on rabbits this summer. Now it will remain unfinished until Christmas.’

  ‘A lunatic discourse, full of the heresy that your Order loves,’ scoffed William. He harboured a passionate aversion to Dominicans, and it was fortunate that Clippesby usually ignored his bigoted eccentricities or blood would have been spilled.

  ‘Do not waste your time on essays, Clippesby,’ advised Langelee. ‘I never read anything my fellow philosophers write. Their ramblings are either boring or nonsensical. Or both.’

  His Fellows exchanged wry glances.

  ‘And Matt?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Surely it was unnecessary to force him to come? He is needed at home, where he has huge numbers of patients relying on him.’

  ‘There are two reasons why he could not be left,’ replied Langelee crisply. ‘Julitta Holm and Gonville Hall.’

  Bartholomew felt himself blush. He had believed his affection for Julitta was secret, and had been mortified to learn that half the town knew how he felt. He would have to be more discreet in future, because her friendship meant a lot to him, and he was unwilling to give it up. She was wife to Surgeon Holm, a selfish, arrogant man with a negligible grasp of medicine who was unworthy of her in every way.

  ‘Julitta,’ mused William. ‘Her husband might prefer the company of men, but he still objects to being cuckolded. And matrimony is a sacred—’

  ‘Gonville Hall is the greater crime,’ Langelee cut in disapprovingly. He scowled at Bartholomew. ‘You did not have to fail all its medical students at their final disputations last month.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘They could not answer any of my questions. Would you want to be treated by them, if you were ill or injured?’

  ‘I am rarely ill, and only poor warriors are injured,’ countered Langelee, missing the point.

  ‘Besides, if you had wanted me out of Cambridge, why could I not have gone to Clare instead?’ Bartholomew went on. ‘I have heard many good things about the place, and I had intended to visit it this summer.’

  ‘It is overrated,’ declared Michael briskly. ‘You will enjoy yourself far more in Peterborough, and I was right to encourage the Master to bring you.’ He kicked his horse into a canter before Bartholomew could inform him that he had disliked his plans being hijacked. ‘If we hurry, we shall be in time for dinner, and I am famished.’

  ‘He is always famished,’ muttered Cynric. The Welsh book-bearer was the sixth and last member of the party. ‘And it is hardly natural.’

  Cynric was more friend than servant to Bartholomew, but although he was usually eager for adventure, he had not wanted to go to Peterborough either. He had carved a pleasant life for himself in Cambridge, with an agreeable wife, a job that entailed little real work, and like-minded cronies with whom to set the world to rights over jugs of ale of an evening. It was only loyalty to the Fellows that had induced him to make the journey, afraid that unless he was there, they might come to harm. And given the number of attacks they had fended off, his concern had been justified.

  Bartholomew was glad to talk about something other than Julitta and his conflict with Gonville Hall. ‘There will be scant time for feasting once we arrive in Peterborough. Michael will have to carry out his orders.’

  These ‘orders’ were the real reason they were there: to find out what happened to Abbot Robert, who left his monastery a month before, and had not been seen or heard of since.

  The little town of Peterborough was dominated by its abbey. Within its precincts, the church, chapter house and cloisters were the largest structures, but it also boasted a number of other buildings that turned it into a self-contained village – refectory, dormitory, almonry, sacristy, kitchens, bakery, brewery, pantries, stables and lodgings for guests and servants.

  Bartholomew had attended the monastery school, and as they rode through the town’s outskirts he found some parts reassuringly familiar. Others, he was sure he had never seen before, but that was to be expected; he had been twelve when he had left, which had been more years ago than he cared to remember.

  ‘If Brother Michael had not accepted the honour of being made a canon of Lincoln Cathedral two years ago,’ Cynric muttered resentfully in Bartholomew’s ear, ‘we would not be in this position now. And I do not like Peterborough.’

  Bartholomew laughed. Despite his reluctance to leave, the journey had been good for him. The nagging fatigue that had dogged him all term had gone, and while he missed Julitta and worried about his patients, he was fitter and more relaxed than he had been in months.

  ‘You cannot say you do not like it. We have only just arrived.’

  Cynric gave him a meaningful look, and clutched one of the amulets he wore around his neck. ‘It is a feeling, boy, and I have learned not to ignore those. I sense wickedness here, and there will be evil spirits involved. You can be sure of that.’

  There had been a time when Bartholomew would have tried to convince the book-bearer that such a notion was ridiculous, but Cynric had grown more superstitious and opinionated with age, and the physician now knew better than to try.

  ‘Brother Michael’s canonisation means that Bishop Gynewell has a hold over him,’ Cynric went on sourly. ‘He should have held out for one in Ely instead, because then we would not have been sent here to hunt for mysteriously vanished Abbots.’

  ‘Michael is a long way from sainthood yet,’ said Bartholomew, although he could see from Cynric’s glare that the book-bearer did not want a lecture on ecclesiastical termin
ology.

  ‘Once the Bishop named him as Commissioner, he had no choice but to come to Peterborough,’ Cynric grumbled on. ‘But that should not have meant that half of Michaelhouse is forced to travel with him. It is unfair.’

  Bartholomew made no reply. He had been regaled with Cynric’s displeasure over the venture ever since they had left, and he was tired of discussing it.

  ‘I understand why most of us are here,’ the book-bearer continued. ‘Brother Michael was ordered to come by the Bishop; you and Father William had to escape awkward situations; Clippesby could not be left with mean old Thelnetham; and I am here to look after you. But what about the Master? I do not believe he is here to see old friends.’

  As it happened, Cynric was right to be suspicious of Langelee’s motives. Bartholomew was not the only one who disobeyed the University’s strictures against women, and the Master’s latest conquest was the Deputy Sheriff’s wife. The man had discovered the affair the same day that William had accused him of dishonesty, and rather than risk having war declared on Michaelhouse, Langelee had opted for a tactical withdrawal. Bartholomew was the only Fellow entrusted with this information, on the grounds that Langelee did not think the others – all clerics in holy orders – would understand.

  ‘He does have a friend here,’ Bartholomew replied, although Langelee had confessed that he had only met Master Spalling once, and the expansive invitation to ‘visit any time’ had been issued after a night of heavy drinking. In truth, Langelee did not know whether Spalling would remember him, let alone agree to a house guest.

  ‘Well, I am glad he came,’ conceded Cynric, albeit reluctantly. ‘You and I could not have beaten off those robbers alone – we would have been slaughtered.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, wincing when he recalled the delight with which the Master had greeted the opportunity to hone his martial skills. Bartholomew’s own talents in that direction were modest, as befitted a man whose profession was healing. Bad timing had put him in Poitiers when a small force led by the Prince of Wales had encountered the French army – which had taught him how to hold his own; but he disliked fighting and avoided it when he could.

  ‘Do you think we will survive the return journey?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Or shall we be doomed to spend the rest of our lives in this infernal place? My wife will not like that.’

  ‘Neither will my students,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘You had better dismount, Matt,’ called Michael, as scattered houses gave way to proper streets. ‘We do not want anyone trampled. The resulting fuss might make us late for dinner.’

  With Bartholomew, horses sensed who was master and immediately exercised their ascendancy by bucking, prancing or heading off to enjoy the grass. The docile nag he had taken from College had been shot during an ambush, leaving him with a fierce stallion that had a tendency to bolt. He did as Michael suggested and passed him the reins, feeling that the beast needed to be in responsible hands if there were people about.

  It was not long before their precautions paid off. The road, which had been wide, narrowed abruptly, and an elderly man stepped in front of them. The stallion reared in shock, and even Michael’s superior abilities were tested as he struggled to control it. Bartholomew would have stood no chance, and blood would certainly have been spilled.

  ‘You are not allowed to bring dangerous animals in here,’ screeched the man, cringing away as hoofs flailed. He was an ancient specimen, with bandy legs, no teeth and wispy grey hair; he wore the robes of a Benedictine lay brother. ‘It is forbidden.’

  ‘I imagine it is forbidden to race out in front of travellers and frighten their mounts, too,’ retorted Michael.

  ‘Are you the Bishop’s Commissioner?’ asked the old man, peering up at him.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said William before the monk could reply for himself. ‘And so are we.’

  ‘What, all of you?’ asked the old man, startled. He was not the only one to be surprised: it was also news to Michael, Langelee, Clippesby, Bartholomew and Cynric. ‘Why so many?’

  ‘Because the Bishop thought Brother Michael might need us,’ replied William loftily.

  ‘I see,’ said the old man with a philosophical shrug, as if the workings of a prelate’s mind were beyond his ken. ‘We expected you ages ago because the Bishop asked you to come at once, but you have taken weeks. Why? Do you not consider our predicament pressing?’

  ‘And who are you, pray?’ asked Michael coolly.

  ‘Roger Botilbrig, bedesman of St Leonard’s Hospital. That means I have served the abbey all my life – I was their best brewer – and I now live in retirement at abbey expense.’

  ‘I know what a bedesman is,’ said Michael, disliking the assumption that he was a fool.

  Botilbrig went on as if the monk had not spoken. ‘My duties are mostly praying for the hospital’s founders, but that is a bit tedious, so I offered to wait for you instead, to escort you to the abbey. Of course, I did not expect to be kept hanging around this long.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Michael dryly. ‘However, our journey has been fraught with—’

  ‘Apology accepted.’ Botilbrig gave a sudden toothless grin. ‘Bishop Gynewell told us to expect a very large monk, and he was not exaggerating. You are a princely specimen.’

  William sniggered, Langelee and Cynric smothered smiles, and Bartholomew waited for an explosion. Clippesby began murmuring to the wasp that had landed on his sleeve.

  ‘I am not fat,’ declared Michael tightly. ‘I have big bones. Matt here will confirm it, because he is my personal physician.’

  Bartholomew blinked, astonished to learn that he had been awarded such a title.

  ‘A physician?’ asked Botilbrig, brightening. ‘Good! We do not have one of our own any more, not since Master Pyk disappeared at the same time as Abbot Robert. Most of us have ailments that need tending, so it is thoughtful of you to bring us one. I have a sore—’

  ‘He will be helping me,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He will not have time for patients. However, the fact that more than one man is adrift is news to us. Gynewell said it was just the Abbot.’

  ‘The Abbot and Pyk,’ stated Botilbrig. ‘They disappeared a month ago, on St Swithin’s Day, and have not been seen since. It will not be easy to find them after all this time, but the Bishop says you are good at solving mysteries, so we are all expecting a speedy solution.’

  ‘So no pressure then,’ murmured Langelee to Michael.

  Botilbrig hobbled along the road, gabbling non-stop as he pointed out features of interest. The physician was the only one who listened. William had turned resentful again, claiming that he should be persecuting heretics in Cambridge, not sent to distant outposts just because he had made a few perfectly justifiable remarks about a devious official. Cynric was nodding agreement; Langelee was trying to recall where Spalling had said he lived; Michael was reflecting unhappily on the task he had been set; and Clippesby had been stung by the wasp.

  Eventually, they arrived at the town centre, which comprised a marketplace bordered by handsome houses on three sides and abbey buildings on the fourth. The square was alive with activity. Wooden stalls with colourful roofs stood in neat rows, selling goods that ranged from cakes and candles to bread and baskets. Bartholomew braced himself, expecting it to smell like the one in Cambridge – a brutal combination of dung, urine, stagnant water and rotting offal – so he was pleasantly surprised when all he could detect was fresh straw and baking bread.

  ‘Here is the Abbey Gate,’ said Botilbrig, stopping outside a handsome edifice. With a somewhat proprietary air, he addressed the gaggle of people who had stopped to stare at the newcomers. ‘These are the Bishop’s Commissioners, and I am showing them what’s what.’

  ‘They took their time,’ muttered one woman. ‘We expected them weeks ago.’

  ‘We came as fast as we could,’ said William indignantly.

  ‘There is a chapel by the gate; we should go there first, to give thanks for our safe arrival
,’ said Clippesby, earning himself a murmur of approval from the onlookers for his piety, although that had not been his intention.

  ‘Of course,’ said William, unwilling to be seen as less devout than a Dominican. Then he frowned as he peered at it. ‘Are there shops in its undercroft? There are! Blasphemy!’

  ‘That is St Thomas’s Hospital, and there are shops below it because it is run by greedy bedeswomen,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘The workshop on the corner is owned by Reginald the cutler, who is as foul a villain as ever walked the Earth. He is quite rich, though, so Abbot Robert never minded spending time in his company.’

  ‘Clippesby is right: we should say a prayer,’ said Michael, raising mystified eyebrows at Botilbrig’s peculiar medley of revelations. ‘It has been a difficult journey, after all.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Botilbrig. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Amongst other calamities, we were attacked five times by robbers,’ replied William. ‘Ones who spoke French – I heard them quite distinctly. They must live in this town, as they only became a serious nuisance during the last few miles.’

  ‘I see,’ said Botilbrig. ‘Then you should indeed give thanks, but do not do it at St Thomas’s. That place pays homage to executed felons and is full of false relics. Come to the Hospital of St Leonard instead.’

  ‘Peterborough has two hospitals?’ said William, impressed, although Bartholomew had already told him as much. Clearly the friar had not trusted his colleague’s memory.

  ‘They were founded for lepers,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘Although St Leonard’s is now used to house bedesmen, like me. St Thomas’s still takes lepers, though, which should make you think twice about stepping inside its chapel.’

  ‘There has not been a case of leprosy in this country for years,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘These unfortunates will have contracted another skin disease, such as—’