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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Where is St Leonard’s?’ asked William, before they could be regaled with a list. The physician was difficult to stop once he started to hold forth about medicine, and not all his discourses made for pleasant listening.

  ‘A short walk west of the town,’ replied Botilbrig proudly. ‘We have a holy well, too, along with a man who is a hundred and forty-three years old. We will let you touch him if you put a few coins in the oblations box.’

  ‘Is that possible, Matthew?’ asked William. ‘Do people really live to such a great age? I know they did in the Bible, but those were different times.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, although the doubt was clear in his voice.

  Botilbrig regarded him coolly. ‘Of course it is possible. Now come along. It is not far – just straight through the town, out the other side and along a—’

  ‘We are not leaving now we have arrived at last,’ interrupted Langelee firmly. ‘So my clerics will pray in this chapel. They can visit St Leonard’s another time.’

  ‘They will be sorry,’ warned Botilbrig. ‘It is a dark and gloomy place, not like pretty St Leonard’s. I was saying to Master Spalling only last night that—’

  ‘Spalling?’ pounced Langelee. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘In the large house out by the parish church,’ replied Botilbrig, regarding him curiously. ‘Why? Do you know him? If so, you had better not tell the monks.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Because they hate him.’ Botilbrig spoke as if this were something he should know.

  ‘And why do they hate him?’ pressed Michael, struggling for patience.

  ‘Because he says it is wrong for abbeys, nobles and merchants to have lots of money when ordinary folk have none,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘I am loyal to the abbey, of course, but it is difficult to dislike Spalling. He is very popular in the town.’

  ‘Perhaps I will join you at his home, Master,’ said Cynric to Langelee. The book-bearer had radical views on social justice, and Spalling sounded like his kind of man.

  ‘And perhaps I will stay in the abbey,’ countered Langelee. ‘I do not recall Spalling harbouring controversial opinions when I met him in York.’

  ‘You are in luck,’ said Botilbrig with a grin. ‘Because here he comes now. I shall be able to introduce you.’

  The scholars turned to see a man striding towards them. He had an impressive mane of long yellow hair, while his beard was full, bushy and gold. His enormous size, along with the fact that he was wearing a simple tunic in the kind of brown homespun favoured by working men, made him an arresting figure. He was trailed by a host of people, and when he stopped walking, so did they, shuffling to a standstill at his heels.

  ‘Another greedy monk, come to devour the fruits of our labour,’ he spat, blue eyes blazing as he glared at Michael. ‘I thought our troubles had eased when the Death reduced their number from sixty-four to thirty-two, but they have been increasing since, and will soon be back to their former strength.’

  ‘They lost half their number to plague?’ asked Bartholomew with quiet compassion. The disease that had ravaged the country, eliminating entire communities and striking indiscriminately at old, young, rich and poor had been a terrible experience. He could still recall the helplessness that had gripped him when all his remedies and treatments failed, and he had been forced to watch much-loved patients die one after another.

  ‘Yes, and it is a pity it was not more,’ declared Spalling uncompromisingly. ‘They deserve to rot in Hell for the crimes they commit against the common man.’

  Behind him, there was a murmur of approval, although Botilbrig looked uncomfortable, caught between his admiration for a man with attractive opinions and his loyalty to the place that housed and fed him.

  ‘And this is your friend, Master?’ asked Michael of Langelee, all frosty hauteur. ‘Your taste in companions has always been dubious, but you have excelled yourself this time.’

  Spalling frowned at Langelee. ‘You are an acquaintance of mine? I do not recognise you.’

  ‘I am Master of Michaelhouse now,’ explained Langelee, also struggling to see something familiar in Spalling, and thus indicating that the evening they had enjoyed together had been wilder than he had led his colleagues to believe. ‘But we met when I was working for the Archbishop of York.’

  ‘That wily old scoundrel!’ snorted Spalling. ‘You did the right thing by abandoning him and opting for the life of a poor scholar. You are welcome in my house, sir.’

  Langelee regarded him coolly; he had admired and respected his Archbishop. ‘Thank you, but I think I must remain with my Fellows. They will only get themselves into trouble without me to supervise them.’

  ‘I approve of the two friars and the pauper.’ Spalling flapped a hand towards William, Clippesby and Bartholomew, who looked down at his clothes and supposed he could do with some new ones. ‘But not the fat Benedictine. I despise that Order with a passion. Ask anyone in Peterborough.’

  ‘Brother Michael is our College’s finest theologian,’ said Langelee stiffly. ‘And—’

  ‘Other than me,’ put in William.

  ‘And he also runs the University. Do not let his ample girth deceive you. He eats very little, and his weight is entirely due to his unusually heavy bones. Here is his personal physician, who will support what I say.’

  ‘Very heavy,’ obliged Bartholomew, aware that the only reason Langelee considered Michael’s appetite modest was because he possessed a gargantuan one of his own. Michael was glowering at him, so he added, ‘Lead has nothing on them.’

  ‘Well, in that case, perhaps I shall make an exception,’ said Spalling graciously. ‘The plump devils in this abbey do nothing but eat, and it is the poor who labour to keep them in bread. Do not glare at me, Botilbrig. You know I am right. They almost worked you into an early grave before I intervened and ordered them to make you a bedesman.’

  ‘They would have let me retire anyway,’ objected Botilbrig. ‘It was just a question of time. And not all the monks are fat. Brother Henry is skin and bone, while—’

  ‘You will stay with me,’ said Spalling to Langelee, although it was more order than invitation, and judging from the Master’s face, not one he was keen to follow. ‘I want to hear more about this University of yours. The physician can come, too, because his clothes reveal him to be impoverished, and the needy are always welcome in my home.’

  ‘The physician will stay with me in the abbey,’ stated Michael. ‘You can take the Franciscan, though. He is poor, as you can see from his habit.’

  ‘His habit denotes filth, not destitution,’ countered Spalling with commendable astuteness. ‘But I cannot stand here arguing all day. I am a busy man – I have a wealthy merchant to berate for his miserliness before dinner, and I aim to shame him into donating enough money for a handsome meal for my faithful followers. So come along, those who wish to see me in action.’

  Langelee considered for a moment, then turned to his Fellows. ‘I think I will go with him. Michaelhouse’s coffers are always empty, and if he really can persuade rich men to part with their gold I should like to learn his secret. Come with me, Cynric. Your sword will not be needed in the monastery, but it may be useful at Spalling’s house.’

  Cynric looked pleased with the opportunity to spend more time with a man who harboured radical opinions, and he and Langelee joined the straggling line of disciples who followed their golden-headed leader. Michael watched them go.

  ‘I wonder the abbey lets him roam about, spouting that sort of nonsense to visitors.’

  ‘The monks are not happy, and even excommunicated him at one point,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘But Bishop Gynewell overturned their verdict, on the grounds that it was too harsh.’

  ‘We had better make ourselves known to whoever is in charge before we miss dinner,’ said Michael, pushing Spalling from his mind as he turned towards the Abbey Gate. ‘Langelee is right: I eat very little, but I feel the need for a morsel now. Tha
t man upset me.’

  ‘Ignore him, Brother,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘He may dress like a peasant, but he does not work like one. His hands were as soft as a lady’s, and he had spilled egg custard down his tunic – hardly paupers’ fare. I sense a good deal of the hypocrite in Spalling.’

  ‘We shall visit the abbey as soon as we have said our prayers,’ said Clippesby, indicating the hospital. ‘And if we miss dinner, then so be it.’

  Michael looked set to argue, but William and Clippesby were striding towards the door, so he had no choice but to do likewise, unless he wanted to be seen as the cleric who put victuals before his devotions. And after Spalling’s remarks he was disinclined to do that.

  The hospital chapel was a small, neat building, with a frieze in a panel above the gate depicting the murder of St Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral. It had narrow windows with pointed tops and a thatched roof. Inside, it was dark, especially after the brilliance of the sunlight, and its walls were painted in sombre greens and blues, rendering it gloomy. Bedesman Botilbrig pointedly declined to follow, and confined himself to standing in the porch, muttering disparaging comments about the women who ran it.

  For a modestly sized place, it was amply provided with doors – the large one that opened on to the market square, a smaller one that gave access to the abbey, and two tiny ones in the north wall. The first of these led to the adjoining hospital, while the other led to a graveyard – a necessity when inmates were likely to be ailing or elderly.

  Bartholomew said a few quick prayers and then prowled, leaving his colleagues to manage the serious devotions. He could not recall being in St Thomas’s before, and supposed it had not featured in his youthful explorations. It was surprisingly busy, with one clot of pilgrims at the altar, where Michael, William and Clippesby were obliged to jostle for a place, and a second cluster bustling in and out of the cemetery door.

  Curious as to why a graveyard should be so popular, Bartholomew eased his way through the penitents until he emerged in a pretty walled garden with gravelled paths. There were perhaps forty mounds, some recent, but most marked with wooden crosses that were grey and cracked with age. People were congregating around one near the wall, which was all but invisible under a heap of flowers. Supervising the operation was a vast lady in the robes of a lay sister. She saw him hovering and came to greet him.

  ‘This is where Lawrence de Oxforde is buried,’ she announced. ‘Have you come to see if he will work a miracle for you? He has performed many since his death forty-five years ago.’

  Bartholomew was bemused as memories flooded back. ‘I remember some folk claiming that wishes had been granted at his grave, but I thought his cult had been suppressed, on the grounds that the Church dislikes executed felons being venerated.’

  ‘It was suppressed, but Abbot Robert turns a blind eye,’ confided the woman. ‘Of course, I understand why the Church disapproves – Oxforde was a violent thief. Yet miracles do occur here, and it is not for the likes of you and me to question the mysterious workings of God.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ conceded Bartholomew cautiously, recalling what he had been told about the infamous Oxforde when he had been a schoolboy. The man had been a ruthless criminal with an inflated sense of his own worth, who had died astonished that the King had not granted him a pardon. He had murdered at least twenty people, including children, and had burgled himself a fortune, although none of it had ever been recovered.

  ‘Kneel at his grave and ask for anything you like,’ invited the woman. ‘Being a felon himself, he is very broad-minded. And when you have finished, you may leave your donation with me – Joan Sylle.’

  ‘I have nothing to ask, Sister,’ said Bartholomew, backing away.

  ‘Oh, come,’ coaxed Joan. ‘Surely you yearn for something? Perhaps there is a woman you would like to fall into your arms? That is exactly the kind of favour Oxforde grants.’

  Bartholomew’s retreat stopped abruptly when two faces flashed into his mind. One was Julitta’s and the other belonged to Matilde. It had been more than three years since Matilde had left Cambridge, disappearing so completely that not even months of determined searching had tracked her down. He would not mind either of them falling into his arms.

  ‘I have just learned that this chapel owns some genuine relics, Matthew,’ came William’s excited voice from behind him. Bartholomew supposed he should be grateful for the timely interruption, sure his colleagues would not approve of him petitioning an executed criminal to help with his unsatisfactory love life.

  ‘Of course we do,’ said Joan, flashing large teeth in a grin that verged on the predatory. ‘Would you like a private viewing? I know you are the Bishop’s Commissioners, so I am more than happy to clear the chapel to accommodate you.’

  ‘That would be kind,’ said William eagerly. ‘What do you have?’

  Joan swelled with pride. ‘The flagstone where St Thomas Becket was standing when he was murdered, the green tunic he was wearing, and two enormous flasks of his blood.’

  Bartholomew was sceptical, knowing that if every drop of ‘Becket Blood’ was genuine, the man would have had enough to fill a lake. Moreover, he was sure the saint would not have been wearing a green tunic when he was cut down.

  ‘Impressive,’ murmured William, pressing a coin into her hand.

  ‘You shall see them at once. Nothing is too much fuss for the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

  ‘Good,’ said William. ‘Because I am very interested in lucrative … I mean saintly relics. So is Matthew. He is a physician, who knows the healing value of such objects.’

  ‘A physician?’ asked Joan keenly. ‘Good! My poor knees have not been the same since Master Pyk disappeared, so you can treat them now he is gone.’

  Before Bartholomew could inform her that he would not be in Peterborough long enough to see patients, she began to shoo the pilgrims out of the chapel and the graveyard, driving them before her like sheep. They were dismayed, but she ignored their objections, and it was not long until they were ousted. She was careful to leave Michael and Clippesby alone, though; they continued to kneel quietly, side by side.

  ‘There is the blood,’ said Joan, nodding proudly at two ornate vases that stood on the altar. Then she pointed to the reliquary that had been placed in an alcove beneath them. ‘And his tunic is in that nice box.’

  ‘Where is the flagstone?’ asked William keenly.

  ‘In front of the altar. The lump you see next to the candle is a bit that broke off when we dropped it. If you look carefully, you can see blood on it. It is the martyr’s.’

  Bartholomew doubted that blood would still be in evidence after almost two hundred years. Fortunately, Joan did not notice his scepticism, because William enthused enough over her treasures for both of them.

  ‘May I touch the tunic?’ the friar begged. ‘Please?’

  Joan gazed pointedly at his grimy hands, but her disapproval dissipated with the appearance of another coin. ‘On one condition: that your physician tends one of our inmates. She is in terrible pain, and I do not like to see such suffering.’

  ‘He will oblige you at once,’ said William, grabbing the tunic, and lifting it to his lips.

  Bartholomew was not happy with William for volunteering his services in so cavalier a manner, but he could not refuse help to someone in need, so he followed Joan through one of the small doors in the north wall. William trailed at his heels, still gushing his delight at being allowed to touch the sainted Becket’s clothing. Beyond the door was a short passage, which emerged into a large, bright room that was flooded with sunlight. All three blinked: it was dazzling after the shadowy chapel.

  ‘This is our hall,’ explained Joan. ‘Where we eat and hold meetings. We keep the sick and elderly bedeswomen in the adjoining chamber.’

  There were six beds in the second room. The residents brightened when Joan told them that she had found a physician, and clamoured their ailments at Bartholomew as he passed. Joan grabbed his arm and hauled him
on, declaring that Lady Lullington must come first.

  ‘Yes, tend her, poor soul,’ called one crone. ‘It is unfair that she should endure such torments while her pig of a husband struts around enjoying himself with Abbot Robert. Or he did, before Robert vanished.’

  ‘Lullington does not even visit her,’ added another. ‘Despite her giving him six children.’

  ‘Shame on him,’ declared William, who rarely waited to hear the whole story before passing judgement. ‘Where is this hapless woman?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ replied Joan. ‘In a separate room, on account of her being a lady.’

  William and Bartholomew followed her up a spiral staircase and were shown into another pleasant chamber, this one with pale green walls. It was a soothing, quiet place, although the woman who lay on the bed was grey and shrunken with pain. A priest knelt at her side, his face wet with tears. He was a young man with a mop of unruly brown curls, and his priestly robe was frayed and thin.

  ‘Gentle Trentham,’ the sick woman was whispering, forcing a smile as she touched his hand. ‘Do not grieve so. You know I am not afraid to die.’

  The priest nodded without much conviction. He scrambled to his feet as Joan ushered in the visitors, and gripped Bartholomew’s arm roughly when informed that here was a medicus.

  ‘Please help her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It is not fair …’ He turned and stumbled from the room, choking back another sob.

  ‘He is too soft for his own good, blubbering every time one of us prepares to meet her Maker,’ said Joan with a sigh. ‘Yet he is a kindly soul, who takes his duties as chaplain seriously. I would not change him for one with a harder heart.’

  ‘Nor would I,’ whispered Lady Lullington softly.

  The patient had probably not been large when she had been healthy, but illness had turned her skeletal. The hands that lay on the covers were almost translucent, and when she raised one to beckon Bartholomew towards her, he could see it was an effort.

  ‘Master Pyk told me that I would recover, but I am not inclined to believe him. What do you say? Am I dying?’