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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Welbyrn scowled at the physician. ‘What are you doing here? The hospital is closed from dusk until dawn.’

  Bartholomew could hardly tell him the truth. ‘Just taking the air. And you?’

  ‘That is none of your business,’ snarled Welbyrn, clenching his fists angrily.

  ‘You seem unwell,’ said Bartholomew gently, noting the dark rings under the treasurer’s eyes and the unhealthy blotchiness of his skin. ‘Would you like me to—’

  ‘No, I am not,’ yelled Welbyrn with explosive fury. ‘How dare you!’

  Bartholomew stepped back in surprise as spittle flew from Welbyrn’s mouth and the treasurer’s face turned from pale to mottled red. ‘I was only trying to—’

  ‘I am not ill,’ Welbyrn screamed. ‘And if you ever mention it again – to me or to anyone else – I will thrash you to within an inch of your life. Do you understand?’

  Bartholomew watched him stamp away, astonished that his well-meaning concern should have sparked such an outburst. Next to him, Inges was glowering.

  ‘His unholy racket will have woken my bedesmen,’ he said, overlooking the fact that it had been his own bellow that had sparked the row. ‘And the elderly need their rest.’

  ‘Is Welbyrn often like that?’ asked Bartholomew, still bemused.

  ‘He has been of late. Moreover, he never used to be concerned about Simon, but now he asks after him constantly. I have no idea why. However, as you are here, would you see to my bunions again? The potion you smeared on them yesterday afforded me such relief.’

  When Bartholomew returned to the guest house, it was to learn that he had been invited to another sumptuous breakfast with the monks. He declined, having no desire to encounter Welbyrn again, but Michael muttered that he needed him there to make observations on the behaviour of potential suspects. Reluctantly, the physician trailed after him to the refectory.

  As it was a meat day, the repast included an obscene number of cold cuts from, it seemed, any creature that had had the misfortune to stray into the Benedictines’ range – ox, rabbit, hare, duck, venison, quail, capon, lamb, goat and goose. Michael and William chomped through them all, although Clippesby regarded the carnage in dismay.

  That morning, the scholars found themselves elevated to the exalted company on the dais, and Bartholomew’s heart sank when he was placed between Welbyrn and Ramseye. He glanced into the body of the hall, where Henry shot him a sympathetic smile.

  ‘If you say one word about this morning,’ Welbyrn breathed in the physician’s ear, under the pretence of passing him the eggs, ‘you will be sorry. You may have escaped justice when you broke my nose, but it will not happen a second time.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. Surely Welbyrn was not still vexed over the outcome of their childhood fisticuffs, especially as the mishap had been largely his own fault? If he had not been trying to land such a hard punch, he would not have lost his balance and fallen over.

  ‘It is delightful to see you again after so many years, Matt,’ Ramseye was saying on his other side. ‘And you have done better than your shabby appearance would have us believe. William tells me that you are now the University’s Corpse Examiner. Such a lofty achievement!’

  ‘The University’s what?’ asked Welbyrn, regarding Bartholomew as though he had just sprouted horns. ‘What in God’s name is a Corpse Examiner?’

  ‘Nothing in God’s name,’ drawled Ramseye. ‘I suspect it involves dissection, although William assures me that it is no more than inspired poking and prodding.’

  ‘Well, you had better not try it here or you will spend the rest of your stay in prison,’ growled Welbyrn. ‘I am not having that sort of thing going on. This is a respectable place.’

  ‘A respectable place that does nothing to find its missing Abbot,’ retorted Bartholomew, irritated enough to indulge in a rejoinder. ‘Or the town’s only physician.’

  ‘We searched,’ objected Ramseye, cutting across the more colourful response Welbyrn started to make. ‘But there was no sign of them, and with outlaws at large, it would have been irresponsible to keep the defensores out any longer. We do not want more deaths at their hands.’

  ‘More deaths at their hands?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘You think Robert and Pyk might have been killed by outlaws? Why did you not say so before?’

  ‘I did not think it was necessary to state the obvious,’ replied Ramseye smoothly. ‘Nor to explain that by “outlaw” I mean villains who rob and steal to order – men who are in the pay of rogues like Aurifabro and Spalling.’

  ‘Robert is not dead,’ said Welbyrn between gritted teeth. ‘He will return when he sees fit.’

  ‘Then let us hope it is before Yvo or Ramseye is elected to take his place,’ remarked Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘I doubt either will relinquish what he has won, and Robert will have a fight on his hands.’

  ‘That is why I support Ramseye,’ said Welbyrn tightly. ‘He has agreed to step aside when Robert returns, whereas Yvo maintains that any Abbot who abandons his post should be replaced with someone more reliable.’

  Ramseye inclined his head, although Bartholomew thought Welbyrn was insane if he believed it. Welbyrn turned his attention to his food, and Bartholomew noted that whatever had been bothering him earlier had not affected his appetite.

  ‘Father William told me yesterday that the villains who ambushed you on your way here spoke French,’ said Appletre, who was sitting on Ramseye’s other side. ‘Aurifabro’s men are foreigners…’

  ‘What our Brother Precentor is trying to say is that the robbers and the men who murdered Abbot Robert are probably one and the same.’ Ramseye spoke in a low voice, so that Welbyrn would not hear. ‘He is too tactful to say so outright, but I believe in plain speaking. If I were in your position, I would concentrate my enquiries on Aurifabro. And Spalling.’

  ‘Not Spalling,’ argued Appletre. ‘I doubt his horde knows anything other than English.’

  ‘The men who attacked us did speak French,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But so did we at times, so I am not sure it is significant.’

  ‘William claims that the raids turned what should have been a journey of a couple of days into an ordeal lasting almost a fortnight,’ said Appletre. ‘What happened, exactly?’

  ‘We lost two horses to arrows,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Then William was knocked senseless by a stone that was thrown at us. Not long after, Michael suffered a bruised shoulder, and Clippesby lost his saddlebag. It contained the psalter he was given at his ordination, so we had to go back to look for it. And on top of all that, there were violent rainstorms and flooded streams.’

  He did not include the fact that two tumbles from his horse had delayed them as well – once when he had been trampled and had been unable to ride for a day, and another when the animal had bolted and it had taken them hours to find it.

  ‘Nasty!’ said Ramseye with a shudder. ‘But travelling is dangerous, which is why I never do it myself. However, we shall lend you a few defensores when you leave. We do not want you to stay longer than necessary because you are too frightened to go.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘I imagine you do not.’

  Yvo stood to say grace at that point, leaving Bartholomew relieved that the ordeal of his old teachers’ company was at an end. They disappeared about their duties without another word, so he went to pass the time of day with Henry. It was not long before they were joined by Michael, Appletre positively dancing at his heels.

  ‘We have a treat in store for you, Henry,’ the precentor said, his round cheeks flushed with pleasure. ‘I have just persuaded Brother Michael to sing one of our offices later.’

  ‘I thought we would be riding to Torpe again, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘In the hope that Aurifabro will be home this morning.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘I am hoping that will not be necessary – that we will uncover enough clues here to obviate the need to trek out there a second time.’

  ‘
You are right to be wary of public highways,’ said Henry. ‘Especially after what happened to Robert and Pyk. However, if you do go, I shall pray for your safe return.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Michael, ‘if we come to harm, I shall know who to blame.’

  ‘I wish everyone would lay aside their differences and live in peace,’ sighed Appletre, cutting across the irritable retort Henry started to make. ‘I am sure some of Aurifabro’s men have lovely voices, and my town choir is currently rather short of basses.’

  ‘You would do better recruiting from among the clergy, Appletre,’ said Henry sternly. ‘It is not right for seculars to sing in our holy church.’

  ‘I plan to question the monks this morning,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew stared at his old friend, surprised to hear such a sentiment from him. ‘I shall need your help, Matt.’

  ‘I am afraid you cannot have him,’ said Henry with a smile that held a faint trace of triumph. ‘There are abbey residents who need his services. They could not see him yesterday, as he was busy with bedesmen and townsfolk, so they would like a consultation today.’

  ‘Then they are going to be disappointed,’ objected Michael indignantly. ‘He is here to help me find out what happened to Robert, not to play physician for the entire region.’

  ‘We will pay him.’ Henry’s expression turned a little sly. ‘And as he owes the apothecary rather a lot of money, he has little choice in the matter.’

  He was right: Bartholomew could not leave Peterborough until he had discharged his debts, and his Michaelhouse colleagues had no spare funds to lend him. Michael opened his mouth to argue, but then a cunning gleam flashed in his eyes.

  ‘Of course he cannot refuse to help the sick,’ he said, suddenly all gracious charm. ‘I shall help him by collecting the fees he earns – and use the opportunity to ask a few questions at the same time.’

  Henry’s smile grew stiff when he saw he had been outmanoeuvred, although Appletre beamed happily at the example of compromise and cooperation.

  ‘Incidentally,’ the precentor said to Michael, ‘I have been thinking about what you asked me yesterday: how Abbot Robert spent the morning before he took his fateful journey to Torpe. And I have remembered something.’

  ‘What?’ asked Michael, when Appletre only looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Well, it is not much, but I was standing at the Abbey Gate that day, waiting for a new trumpet to be delivered, when I happened to overhear Robert talking to Aurifabro. The Abbot was insisting on seeing the paten that afternoon, and Aurifabro was trying to put him off.’

  ‘Aurifabro did not want him to visit?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘Yes, but I did not hear the reason, so I am afraid you will have to ask Aurifabro himself.’

  ‘I have remembered something, too,’ added Henry. The serene expression was back in place. ‘Abbot Robert also visited Reginald the cutler that morning.’

  ‘Why is that odd?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘There is good in Reginald, no matter what everyone says,’ said Henry. ‘Yet I always thought his friendship with Robert was curious. They are two very different men.’

  ‘Robert was different from Pyk, too, but no one ever questions their friendship,’ said Appletre, regarding Henry reproachfully. ‘Or Robert’s association with Lullington.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Henry, although his face indicated that he thought otherwise.

  It was another brutally exhausting day for Bartholomew, who was convinced that every monk, lay brother and servant in the abbey had contrived to develop aches, fevers, rashes, boils, coughs, stiff joints or pains in the innards for him to treat. Even Ramseye came, complaining of persistent indigestion. Welbyrn was conspicuous by his absence, although Bartholomew felt he might actually have benefited from medical advice.

  At noon, when Michael had gone to sing sext in the church, Bartholomew went for a walk around the marketplace, a brief respite from the long line of demanding patients. While he was out, he met Cynric, who was with Spalling.

  ‘So, you see,’ Spalling was informing the book-bearer, ‘it is only a matter of time before the natural order establishes itself at last. There are more poor than rich, so it is only right that their voices should be heard before anyone else’s.’

  ‘The rich will not like it,’ warned Cynric, although Bartholomew could tell from his bright eyes that he wholly approved of what Spalling was saying.

  ‘No,’ agreed Spalling. ‘But that should not stop us. I advocate rule by the people, which means men like us, not wealthy barons who are more French than English. Ah, Bartholomew. You have a good man here; you should be proud of him.’

  ‘I am,’ said Bartholomew, watching Cynric flush with pleasure at the rebel’s praise. ‘But it is unwise to discuss this sort of thing in public places. There are—’

  ‘Cynric has decent, noble opinions.’ Spalling cut across him. ‘Ones that match my own, and I am honoured to call him a friend.’

  He strutted away, leaving Cynric staring after him in open admiration, and Bartholomew had to shake the book-bearer’s arm to gain his attention.

  ‘It is one thing to share these views with trusted cronies in Cambridge,’ he said warningly. ‘But another altogether to confide them to strangers. It is dangerous to preach sedition.’

  ‘It is not sedition, it is justice, and it is good to meet a man who sees everything so clearly.’ Cynric sighed longingly. ‘I wish there was someone who could make speeches like him at home. My friends at the King’s Head would love to hear what he has to say.’

  ‘I am sure they would, but his is reckless talk, Cynric.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but that does not mean he is wrong.’

  They both turned when someone approached. It was Langelee, who was no more happy with Cynric’s burgeoning appreciation of Spalling than was Bartholomew.

  ‘I am all for a man being free to say what he likes,’ grumbled the Master. ‘But Spalling intends to ignite a rebellion.’

  ‘Would that be so terrible?’ asked Cynric. ‘Is it not time we had a fairer world?’

  ‘Spalling does not care about fairness,’ argued Langelee. ‘He just wants the poor to rise up against anyone with money. I feel sorry for Aurifabro, who is the target of most of his vitriol. Spalling even accuses him of hiring the outlaws who attacked us.’

  ‘Perhaps he is right,’ said Cynric defensively. ‘Aurifabro’s mercenaries are French, and we all heard that language spoken when they ambushed us.’

  ‘I am acutely uneasy,’ Langelee went on, ignoring him. ‘Men gather in Spalling’s house every night to talk about the day when the poor will rule. They are all wind and no substance, but they have the capacity to do a great deal of damage, even so.’

  Bartholomew escaped from the truculent debate that followed, and returned to his duties in the abbey. Mid-afternoon, William and Clippesby came to report the results of their enquiries to Michael. Other than witnesses who claimed that Welbyrn often visited St Leonard’s Hospital at night, neither had unearthed much of significance. Bartholomew turned back to his queue of patients, where his attention was soon snagged by an unusual palsy.

  ‘That was a wasted day,’ said Michael in disgust, as the last customer hobbled away. It was dark and they had been working by lamplight for some time. ‘And we only have four more full ones left before we must leave. We learned nothing new at all.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Bartholomew, ‘I discovered that quinsy responds well to—’

  ‘I meant nothing to help our enquiry. We already knew that Robert was unpopular. Confirmation from the common monks is interesting, but hardly helpful.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

  ‘Still, at least I now have a good sense of the man,’ Michael went on. ‘He was corrupt, greedy and selfish, and there was nothing he would not do for money.’

  ‘You refer to him in the past tense. Do you now believe he is dead, too?’


  Michael nodded. ‘On that point everyone agrees: he would never have left his domain for so long without an explanation. Moreover, he was going to see Aurifabro – a dangerous enemy with mercenaries at his command.’

  ‘It is odd that he chose Pyk to go with him. Or rather, it is odd that Pyk consented to go. Pyk had lots of friends, and did not have to spend time with the likes of Robert.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is not often that one hears nothing bad about a man, but Pyk seems to have been a paragon of virtue – kind, generous and decent.’

  ‘You sound sceptical.’

  Michael smiled. ‘Even my jaded view of the world acknowledges that such men do exist. However, your friend Henry is not one of them.’

  Bartholomew blinked his surprise at the remark out of the blue. ‘Henry is—’

  ‘I know you were childhood playmates, but I sense something untoward in that man, and I urge you to be cautious in your dealings with him. Yet he is friends with Appletre…’

  ‘Yes?’ said Bartholomew a little sharply. ‘Why should that make a difference?’

  ‘Because Appletre is a decent fellow. He is not overly endowed with wits, but he cannot help that. Of course, it means he cannot see the evil in Henry, either.’

  ‘Henry is not evil,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He has always been gentle, even as a child. Welbyrn and Ramseye bullied him relentlessly, but he never complained.’

  ‘Not to you, perhaps, but no one likes being maltreated. And if you do not believe that men bear grudges, then look at Welbyrn and Ramseye. Even I can see that they have not forgiven you for your disruptive behaviour in their classes.’

  ‘That might be true of them, but not Henry. He—’

  ‘But if the obedientiaries leave much to be desired,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen, ‘the monks are as fine a body of men as I have ever met – with the obvious exception of Henry, of course. I would not mind ruling them, although I would have to appoint new officers.’

  ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ Bartholomew spoke stiffly, angry with Michael for vilifying someone he liked.