‘French, Yvo,’ said Lullington crossly. ‘Or English, if you must. I do not understand why you insist on Latin. Bishop Gynewell, who is a personal friend, speaks French to me.’
‘Bishop Gynewell is a personal friend of mine, too,’ said Michael. ‘And he will not be impressed when he hears that Peterborough’s officials are constantly at each other’s throats. He will appoint an outsider as Abbot. Indeed, I might put myself forward for the post, and he will certainly choose me, should I express an interest.’
Yvo gaped at him, and so did Bartholomew, while Lullington looked the monk up and down appraisingly, as if deciding whether to shift his allegiance.
‘You cannot,’ said Bartholomew, eventually finding his voice. ‘The University—’
‘Will flounder without me,’ finished Michael comfortably. ‘Yes, I know. But I cannot devote myself to it for ever, and I have always said that my next post will be either an abbacy or a bishopric. Peterborough is not Ely, but it has potential.’
‘How is your wife, Sir John?’ asked Bartholomew, purely to silence Michael before he went any further. He was not sure Peterborough would be such a plum appointment, given the bitter disputes that were bubbling, and he wanted to tell his friend so before remarks were made that might later be difficult to retract.
‘What?’ asked Lullington, blinking. ‘What about her?’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘She is unwell.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lullington. He waved his hand rather carelessly. ‘But she will be with God soon, which is good, because the abbey resents the extra mouth to feed.’
‘Her death will ease our financial burden,’ agreed Welbyrn, overhearing and coming to voice an opinion. Bartholomew regarded them in disbelief, sure the frail figure did not eat much, and probably had not done for weeks. Before he could say so, Yvo clapped his hands.
‘Take your seats, please, gentleman. Time is passing.’
Once everyone was sitting around a large table, Yvo began to make introductions. He began with the Unholy Trinity. ‘You have met our almoner, treasurer and cellarer.’
Ramseye nodded a polite greeting, but Welbyrn and Nonton did not. Nonton was refilling his goblet again, while Welbyrn, presumably to show the Bishop’s Commissioners that he was an important man with heavy responsibilities, was scanning some documents.
‘My God!’ Ramseye exclaimed suddenly, gaping at Bartholomew. ‘I thought there was something familiar about you earlier, but I could not place it. Yet I recognise you now you are in the light and have dressed in marginally more respectable clothes. Welbyrn, look!’
‘It is Matt Bartholomew!’ breathed Welbyrn, parchments forgotten. ‘The lad who declined to learn his theology. I see from his attire that he has not amounted to much.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Michael, while a number of responses were on the tip of Bartholomew’s tongue, none of them polite. ‘He is the University’s most distinguished medicus and has the favour of the Prince of Wales.’
This was misleading. First, there were only two medici in the University, and being more distinguished than Doctor Rougham was no great accomplishment. And second, the Prince of Wales had noticed Bartholomew once, after the Battle of Poitiers, when he had ministered to the wounded. The physician was sure he had long since been forgotten.
‘I am pleased you realised your ambition to become a healer,’ said Ramseye with a sly smile, although Welbyrn’s dark, heavy features were full of disbelief at Michael’s claims. ‘I cannot imagine a better profession for someone like you.’
Bartholomew was not sure what he meant, but was certain it was nothing complimentary. He declined to reply, so Prior Yvo began to introduce the other obedientiaries. As Peterborough was a large foundation, a vast number of monks held official appointments, although Bartholomew was disappointed to note that Henry was not among them. He and Michael nodded politely as sacrist, precentor, cook, succentor, novice-master, pittancer, chamberlain and brewer were presented, along with their various assistants and deputies. The long list of names and faces soon merged into a blur.
‘Now, Brother Michael,’ said Yvo, when he had finished. ‘What do you need to make an end to your investigation? It would be good to have the matter resolved tonight.’
‘I think I may need a little longer than that,’ said Michael, taken aback. ‘But we can certainly make a start. When was the last time you saw Abbot Robert?’
‘A month ago,’ supplied Yvo. ‘On St Swithin’s Day. He went to visit Aurifabro, who owns a manor in the nearby village of Torpe. He never arrived.’
Not revealing that he already knew this, Michael merely remarked, ‘I thought he and Aurifabro hated each other.’
‘They did, but Aurifabro is the town’s only goldsmith, and we wanted a new ceremonial paten,’ explained Ramseye. ‘We had no choice but to use him. My uncle took Pyk to ensure his safety on that fateful journey, but unfortunately it did not work.’
‘Pyk?’ probed Michael guilelessly.
‘The town’s physician, who is probably the most popular man in Peterborough,’ provided Yvo. ‘He disappeared at the same time.’
‘A medicus seems an odd choice of protector,’ said Michael. ‘Or was Pyk a warrior?’
There was a general chuckle at this notion. ‘Pyk was not a fighting man,’ said an apple-cheeked, chubby man, whom Bartholomew thought was the precentor. ‘Far from it.’
‘Why did Robert not take his defensores?’ pressed Michael.
‘Presumably, because he did not want to insult Aurifabro with a show of force,’ replied Ramseye with a shrug. ‘But we cannot answer for certain, because my uncle rarely took anyone into his confidence.’
He sounded bitter. Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but could read nothing in the bland face.
‘I told him to take a few defensores,’ put in Welbyrn. ‘But he said he would not be in danger, and I am inclined to agree. When he returns—’
‘He will not return,’ growled Nonton. ‘Aurifabro is a murderous bastard, and violence is part of his nature. Robert should have known better.’
‘He is not dead,’ snapped Welbyrn. ‘Why must you persist in saying he is?’
‘What time did Robert leave the abbey?’ asked Michael loudly, cutting into the burgeoning spat.
‘After the midday meal,’ replied Yvo. ‘We had ox kidneys that day, and he was a glutton for those. He ate a large dish of them, and rode off shortly afterwards.’
‘And his purpose was to inspect a paten?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he not delegate that sort of task? To the sacrist, for example, whose duty it is to manage such affairs?’
‘As Ramseye has pointed out, Robert did not discuss his decisions with us,’ replied Yvo. ‘However, the paten was a costly venture, so it is not unreasonable that he was keen to assess its progress himself.’
‘Is it finished now?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘No,’ replied Yvo. ‘When Robert failed to return, I told Aurifabro that we no longer wanted it. He is livid, but our Abbot died on a visit to his lair, so what does he expect?’
‘What about Pyk?’ asked Michael. ‘Did his family search for him?’
‘His patients did,’ nodded Yvo. ‘As I said, he was popular, and he is sorely missed. Much more than Robert, although it grieves me to say it.’
He did not look particularly grieved, and neither did his colleagues.
‘Tell me about Robert as a man,’ instructed Michael. ‘What was he like?’
Immediately, most of the monks stared at the table, unwilling to catch his eye. Welbyrn scowled and twisted one of the documents in his big hands, while Nonton poured himself another drink. Ramseye looked faintly amused, as if he found his colleagues’ behaviour entertaining. It was Prior Yvo who broke the uncomfortable silence.
‘He was ambitious, greedy and ruthless. I am not in the habit of speaking ill of the dead, but false eulogies will not help your investigation, Brother.’
‘My uncle could be cruel,’ acknowledged
Ramseye. ‘And spiteful, on occasion.’
‘He was my friend,’ said Lullington. ‘But even I am forced to admit that he was difficult.’
Their remarks opened the floodgates, and all the monks began to bombard him with examples of the Abbot’s shortcomings. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance: how were they to isolate a single suspect when it seemed that the entire monastery had disliked him?
‘So to summarise,’ said Michael, when the gush had slowed to a trickle, ‘this bullying, greedy, cruel man set out to inspect a paten with Pyk, and neither man has been seen since.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Yvo. ‘However, remember that both were well-dressed and rode fine horses, which was reckless with so many outlaws about. And Robert carried his official seals, which are solid gold.’
‘His seals?’ asked Michael, startled to learn that they were not safely locked in a chest, as was the custom. ‘Was he in the habit of taking them out and about with him?’
‘Yes,’ replied Yvo. ‘He never left them here, because he was afraid we might use them without his permission. And as you know, no abbey business can be transacted without them.’
‘So he did not trust you,’ stated Michael baldly.
There was another uncomfortable silence. Again it was Yvo who broke it.
‘No, but that says more about him than us. Hah! There is the bell for vespers.’
There was a collective sigh of relief that the interrogation was over, followed by an immediate scraping of benches on the floor as the monks rose and began to file towards the door.
‘Thank you for your time, Brother,’ said Yvo with a gracious nod of his head. ‘Perhaps we shall resume our discussion tomorrow.’
His tone of voice made it clear he thought it unlikely.
CHAPTER 3
The next day was overcast and threatened rain. Bartholomew had slept badly, despite being tired. It was strange being in Peterborough again after so many years, and he was surprised by how much of it he had forgotten – the abbey precinct was hauntingly familiar, but he barely recalled the town.
He remembered the guest house, though, and had visited it often when school was over and interesting visitors were in residence. Some had told him tales of their journeys, which had fuelled his own eagerness to travel. It was a good place to be, warm in winter and cool in summer, with two large bedrooms on the upper floor and a hall below for eating and relaxing. Its blankets were clean and smelled of lavender, and the windows could be opened for fresh air. It was a healthy environment, and one of which he approved.
‘Why did your sister send you here when there was a perfectly good school not two streets from her home?’ asked Michael, as he tied his rope cingulum around his waist, fiddling fussily until he was satisfied with the way it fell.
Bartholomew’s parents had died when he was young, and it had fallen to Edith, ten years his senior, to raise him. ‘I doubt it was her idea.’
‘You mean it was your brother-in-law’s? I thought he liked you.’
‘He does, but he was a young man with a new wife. I imagine he wanted his privacy.’
‘Did you not mind being exiled?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘I would have done.’
‘I was very happy here, and the school is excellent, with patient, gentle masters. Except for Welbyrn and Ramseye, but they only came in my last few weeks.’
‘Ah, yes,’ mused Michael. ‘The treasurer and the almoner, neither men I liked. Tell me about them. Start with Welbyrn. He struck me as stupid. Is that fair?’
‘Not really. It was easy to tie him in logical knots when he was trying to teach, but stupid is too strong a word.’
‘You challenged your tutors in the schoolroom?’ Michael was unimpressed. ‘No wonder they do not seem very kindly disposed towards you!’
‘I would not have done it if their lessons had been better prepared.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Remind me to ban you from any classes of mine.’ He became thoughtful. ‘Perhaps I shall not make a bid for the abbacy after all, because the obedientiaries leave a lot to be desired. Mind you, so did Robert by all accounts.’
Bartholomew was fully aware that Michael was ambitious, and that Cambridge would not hold him for ever, but he was glad the inevitable was to be postponed for a while longer. The monk was his closest friend, and he would miss him if he left.
‘This was a happy place when I was young, but now it feels uneasy. Welbyrn stands alone in thinking that Robert is alive; he, Ramseye and Nonton have formed this so-called Unholy Trinity; and the monks are being forced to choose between the clever but unappealing Ramseye and the marginally more likeable but ineffectual Yvo.’
‘Lullington’s odious presence cannot help either,’ added Michael. ‘Appletre the precentor is a decent fellow, though. Do you remember him from the horde we met last night? No? Then I shall introduce you to him later. I do not want you leaving Peterborough under the impression that all Benedictines are quarrelsome and disagreeable.’
‘It is not just the Benedictines. There is friction in the town as well. Spalling and Aurifabro hate the abbey and each other, and both have followers.’
Michael nodded. ‘Meanwhile, the men of St Leonard’s and the women of St Thomas’s are at one another’s throats, and I am inclined to believe that one of them killed Joan, despite their denials. But today is Thursday and we are leaving in six days, so we had better make a start.’
‘What do you want to do first?’
‘After attending prime and eating breakfast, we shall ride to Aurifabro’s home in Torpe, and inspect the track where Robert disappeared. Who knows, perhaps we shall find him there.’
‘I imagine it has been thoroughly searched already.’
‘Do you? I suspect it was surveyed cursorily at best, given that most people seem quite happy that the Abbot is missing. Ergo, we might well happen across a corpse.’
Bartholomew was relieved when Clippesby seemed calmer after a night’s sleep. The wildness had gone from his eyes, and he appeared almost normal again as he knelt to recite his morning prayers. William lay with the blankets hauled over his head, doggedly determined to stay in his comfortable bed for as long as possible.
It was still early, so the bells had not yet rung for prime, and the abbey was peaceful. The only sounds were birdsong and a distant clatter from the bakery as bread was shovelled into the great ovens. Bartholomew was about to go for a walk, to savour the silence before the start of what was likely to be a trying day, when there was a knock on the door. He opened it to see a monk standing there, holding a jug of hot water.
‘Henry!’ he cried in delight, recognising his old classmate immediately.
The monk beamed as he was clapped affectionately on the shoulder. He had always been small, but now he verged on the minuscule, and his lame leg gave him a more pronounced limp than when he had been a child. He still possessed a head of thick fair hair, though, and the eyes held the same sweet gentleness that Bartholomew remembered so well.
‘Welbyrn told me that you had realised your childhood ambition to become a physician,’ he said, smiling. ‘Well done, although I cannot imagine how you cope with the gore.’
‘He revels in gore,’ remarked William from under the bedcovers. ‘And I suspect he practised anatomy when he was off studying in foreign schools.’
‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Dissection was not illegal in England, but it was frowned upon, and he did not want Henry to think him a ghoul. And while he had attended anatomical demonstrations when he had visited the medical faculties of Salerno and Padua, he had not performed one himself. Of course, that was not to say he had not wanted to – he was of the opinion that much could be learned from the dead.
‘What office do you hold, Brother Henry?’ asked Michael politely. ‘If you have been here since you were at school, you must be an obedientiary by now. Forgive me if we met last night, but Yvo bombarded us with so many introductions that my head was spinning.’
‘I am not an
obedientiary, just a plain monk,’ replied Henry. ‘Like you.’
‘I am not a plain monk,’ said Michael, affronted. ‘I am the University’s Senior Proctor.’
‘My apologies. I should have guessed there was a reason for your fine habit.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you implying—’
‘Are you happy here?’ interrupted Bartholomew. He recalled that Henry could be scathing about monks who ignored the vows they had taken regarding poverty.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Henry serenely. ‘I serve God, and that is all I ask of life.’
Michael snorted cynical disbelief at this claim, while an odd sound emerged from the bed containing William, too. Clippesby nodded his understanding, though.
‘I was surprised to see Welbyrn and Ramseye,’ Bartholomew forged on, before any of them could speak. ‘I thought they would have found greener pastures by now.’
‘They like it here. And they both improved once they were assigned duties that better suited their abilities. Ramseye is a highly skilled administrator, while Welbyrn grew more gentle. Neither is the tyrant you remember, Matthew.’
‘Welbyrn does not seem very gentle to me,’ said Michael, startled. ‘Indeed, his remarks and behaviour have revealed him to be spiteful, petty and miserly.’
Henry’s face clouded. ‘He has changed recently. Robert’s disappearance has upset him.’
‘He is certainly reluctant to acknowledge the possibility that the Abbot may be dead,’ agreed Michael. ‘To the point of belligerence.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Henry. ‘He has always been … vehement in his opinions, yet there is no real harm in him.’
Bartholomew recalled his childhood spats with Welbyrn. Most had been verbal, and they had only come to blows once – an encounter that had ended before more than a few cautious punches had been traded, when Welbyrn had tripped and hurt himself on a table.
‘Perhaps you will tell us what happened when Abbot Robert disappeared,’ said Michael.
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 7
