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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘I doubt it would thrive with me in charge. But you have often expressed a desire for high office, and this may be your chance. I should like to see you happy, even if it does mean being deprived of your company.’

  ‘You would?’ An oddly guilty expression flashed across Michael’s face. ‘I may remind you of that sentiment one day.’

  It was a curious thing to say, and Bartholomew was about to demand an explanation when the landlord arrived. Michael told him to bring a sample of his wares, but when food as well as wine began to arrive, Bartholomew regarded him disapprovingly.

  Michael shrugged. ‘It would be rude to decline, and I do not want him remembering the insult when I am Abbot.’ He raised his voice suddenly, silencing the drone of conversation around them. ‘Landlord! This is a splendid repast, but do you have any Lombard slices? I like them best of all pastries.’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ replied the landlord apologetically. ‘My wife used to bake them, but she died in the Death, and I have never attempted them myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew was not sure whether the monk was sorrier to hear about the landlord’s loss or the absence of his favourite food. ‘My condolences. But the rest looks splendid, and Matt will help me do it justice.’

  ‘Here come Langelee and Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, nodding towards the door. ‘They can spare me a bout of indigestion.’

  Cynric’s face was flushed with excitement as he sat at their table. ‘That Spalling is a tremendous man,’ he enthused. ‘He has such hopes for the future!’

  ‘Hopes for a rebellion, more like,’ said Langelee sourly. ‘I do not understand it at all – he was not like this in York. There, he was rather quiet.’

  ‘He is not quiet now,’ said Cynric approvingly. ‘He had forty men in his house last night, all listening to a very stirring speech. It was even better than the one made by the Prince of Wales at Poitiers, just before we went into battle. Do you remember that, boy?’

  ‘Vividly,’ replied Bartholomew bleakly.

  ‘Here he is,’ said Cynric, eyes lighting as his hero strode confidently through the door.

  Spalling was wearing a new set of workman’s clothes, this time the kind donned by stonemasons, although without the dust. The real craftsmen nodded approvingly, although Bartholomew was no more convinced by the attire than he had been the first time they had met Spalling. He thought the man was a fraud, and hoped Cynric would not be too disillusioned when he eventually came to realise it, too.

  ‘Aurifabro!’ Spalling roared in a voice designed to carry. ‘So this is where you are skulking. Did you not hear that I have been looking for you?’

  Aurifabro regarded him with dislike. ‘Yes, but I am not at your beck and call. Piss off.’

  ‘Now watch.’ Cynric was full of admiration. ‘You are about to see an obscenely wealthy merchant berated for keeping all his money to himself and starving his artisans.’

  ‘Are his artisans the men sitting with him?’ asked Bartholomew. Cynric nodded. ‘Then they are hardly starving – their clothes suggest they are affluent in their own right. Just because Aurifabro employs them does not mean—’

  ‘He has more money than them,’ interrupted Cynric shortly. ‘And it is not fair.’

  ‘He is bedazzled by the man,’ whispered Langelee in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Like a lover. You will not persuade him to see reason. I have tried, but I was wasting my breath.’

  ‘You will listen to me, Aurifabro,’ Spalling was bellowing. ‘When will you stop making yourself rich at others’ expense, and share your ill-gotten gains with the poor?’

  The landlord stormed up to him. ‘You can take that sort of talk outside. This is a respectable establishment, and we do not want your raving—’

  ‘And you are just as bad, Nicholas Piel,’ raged Spalling, turning on him. ‘I know why your tavern is so opulent – because you fleece your customers!’

  ‘My wares are expensive,’ acknowledged Piel haughtily. ‘But quality costs, and those who want cheap rubbish can go elsewhere. I do not force people to come – they do it because they like what I offer.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Aurifabro. ‘Now sod off, Spalling.’

  ‘I am going nowhere,’ declared Spalling. ‘Not until I have had my say. I ask you again, Aurifabro: when will you share your money with the downtrodden masses?’

  His voice was so loud that people stopped in the street outside to listen. There was an appreciative growl from the paupers, although those who were better off exchanged exasperated glances. Immediately, several rough men in boiled leather jerkins shouldered their way into the tavern: they were Aurifabro’s mercenaries.

  ‘When you give up yours, you damned hypocrite,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘You inherited a fortune when your father died, and you own a fancy house. Give your money to the poor if you feel so strongly about it.’

  ‘I shall,’ averred Spalling. ‘In time.’

  ‘In time!’ jeered the goldsmith. ‘You mean never. And how are you feeding all the peasants who flock to hear you rant? I know for a fact that you have not touched your own funds, so where does the money come from?’

  ‘He does keep a lavish table,’ murmured Langelee. ‘We were entertained royally last night, and so were his forty friends. Indeed, I warrant we fared better than you.’

  ‘I would not bet on it,’ Bartholomew muttered back.

  ‘If you cannot silence this braggart, I am leaving,’ said Aurifabro to the landlord. ‘I came here for a quiet drink, not to be harangued by fools.’

  ‘Out,’ ordered Piel, turning angrily to Spalling. ‘Before I pick you up and…’

  Cynric was one of several men who came to stand at Spalling’s side, and the landlord faltered. Aurifabro stood and walked towards the door instead, his mercenaries in tow. Piel’s face was a mask of dismay when the artisans rose to follow their employer out.

  ‘Leave Aurifabro alone, Spalling,’ hissed one as he passed. ‘He pays us extremely well, and we have no complaints.’

  There was a growl of agreement from the others.

  ‘A word, please, Master Aurifabro,’ said Michael, running after the goldsmith, and grabbing his arm just as he reached the street. ‘I have been asked—’

  One of the mercenaries shot forward and shoved the monk away, fingering his dagger as he did so. His fellows immediately moved to form a protective barrier around Aurifabro, their faces bright with the prospect of violence. Bartholomew hurried to Michael’s side, although he was not sure what he would be able to do in the event of trouble. He could hold his own in a brawl with students, but these were experienced warriors.

  ‘It is all right,’ Aurifabro told his men. ‘This monk is not one of the villains from the abbey. He is the Bishop’s man, and I have nothing against Gynewell.’

  ‘Other than the fact that he pardoned Spalling after Robert had excommunicated him,’ countered the soldier with the dagger. ‘You thought he should have stayed excommunicated.’

  ‘I did,’ said Aurifabro, his eyes fixed on Michael. ‘It was hard to know who to support in that particular quarrel – the stupid firebrand Spalling, whose so-called principles have only driven him to action recently; or the greedy, unscrupulous Robert, who should not have been placed in charge of a brothel, let alone an abbey.’

  ‘As you know, Gynewell has commissioned us to find out what happened to Robert,’ said Michael pleasantly. ‘So will you answer some questions?’

  ‘That depends on what you ask.’

  ‘Fair enough. Will you tell me what you thought of him?’

  ‘He was a villain, and I cannot imagine why Pyk put up with him. But Pyk always was an amiable fool, incapable of distinguishing between good men and bad.’

  ‘Can you be more specific? How was Robert a villain?’

  ‘He was sly over the paten he asked me to make, for a start. Once I had invested weeks of my time in it, he reduced the price, knowing I had no choice but to agree – it is not something
I can offer to another buyer: no one else around here is in the market for expensive religious regalia.’

  ‘Why did you agree to make it in the first place?’

  ‘I should have refused, but it was a big order, and I liked the notion of my work being on display in such a grand setting. Of course, now he is dead, the abbey has refused to honour the agreement I struck with him, so I am landed with the thing after all.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Michael.

  ‘At home. I wrote to ask if Gynewell would buy it for Lincoln Cathedral, but he said he would prefer to have it donated. And I am not giving the Church anything. I like Gynewell, but my religion is the older one.’

  ‘You mean you are a heathen?’ asked Michael in distaste.

  Aurifabro nodded. ‘Ever since the plague. It makes more sense to me than your aloof saints and martyrs, who failed to answer my prayers as my children lay dying. And as for Lawrence of Oxforde … I cannot condone any organisation that pays homage to a criminal.’

  ‘Robert,’ prompted Michael. ‘Tell us what happened the day he went missing.’

  ‘He told me in the morning that he was coming to see the paten. I asked him not to.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Because I wanted to visit my mother in Barnack. He threatened to cancel the commission unless I made myself available, so I was forced to change my plans. I waited, but he never arrived. I assumed he was delayed by other business and had not bothered to let me know.’

  ‘What then?’ asked Michael.

  ‘A group of monks arrived the next day, and told me that he and Pyk were missing. I admired Pyk, so I sent my men to scour the area for them both, but they found nothing. The abbey, on the other hand, conducted a search that was cursory at best.’

  ‘You think they could have done more?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘I would, had one of my people gone missing. But, as I said, Robert was a villain, and the abbey is obviously glad to be rid of him.’

  ‘What do you think happened to Robert?’ asked Michael.

  ‘There are three possibilities. First, he was murdered, and there is no shortage of suspects, given that he was hated by all. Second, he is in hiding, although that seems unlikely, because he liked his creature comforts. And third, he was killed by robbers.’

  ‘The same robbers who have been causing trouble on the King’s highways?’

  ‘Yes. The abbey and Spalling will tell you that my mercenaries are responsible, but you should not believe them. They are liars.’

  At that moment, young Trentham shuffled past, his face a mask of misery. He shot Bartholomew a baleful glance, to tell him he was still not forgiven for being unable to save Lady Lullington. The scowl sparked an idea in Bartholomew’s mind.

  ‘We have assumed the target was Robert,’ he said. ‘And Pyk just happened to be with him. But what if it was the other way around? I know from personal experience that people are often angry when physicians cannot cure their loved ones.’

  ‘No one would have taken against Pyk,’ said Aurifabro firmly. ‘He was not like other medici – he was a good man. Even his wife will have to concede that.’

  ‘Pyk was married?’ asked Michael.

  Aurifabro nodded. ‘To a woman named Pernel, although not happily, unfortunately. Of course, there is a fourth possibility: that Robert and Pyk have been kidnapped.’

  ‘Then the culprits would have sent word to the abbey,’ said Bartholomew, ‘demanding payment and giving details of how to make it.’

  ‘Perhaps they did,’ said Aurifabro, ‘and the abbey refused to pay. However, if that happened, you will never find out, because it is not the sort of thing they will admit.’

  ‘May we visit you in Torpe tomorrow?’ asked Michael. ‘I want to retrace their journey.’ He did not say that he was also keen to confirm the goldsmith’s story with his servants.

  ‘No,’ said Aurifabro shortly. ‘No Benedictine is welcome on my land, not even one who has been hired by the Bishop.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Bartholomew could not go with Michael to question Pernel Pyk, because people kept waylaying him to report how they were faring after their consultations with him in St Leonard’s Hospital. The monk went alone, but the mistress of the house was out. Eventually, both returned to the chapel, which was now full of people – it was not every day that a sacred building was purified after a murder, and the citizens of Peterborough were keen to see how it was done.

  ‘The whole town is here,’ whispered Michael. ‘Even Spalling, and he hates the abbey.’

  He nodded to where the rebel was standing with a huge contingent of the town’s poor. Most were farm labourers, sun-bronzed, sturdy people in smocks and straw hats. None looked particularly downtrodden, and they were healthier and better fed than the ones who worked around Cambridge. Spalling had changed his clothes to match theirs, although his tunic was made from finer wool and his hat was worn at a rakish angle.

  ‘Aurifabro has deigned to appear, too,’ murmured Michael, seeing the goldsmith near the altar. ‘And he is not even a Christian. We had better keep our distance – we do not want to be singed if he is struck by a thunderbolt.’

  ‘It is a good thing Cynric did not hear you say that,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He tends to believe those kind of statements.’

  ‘Just as he believes everything that falls from Spalling’s lips. No good will come from that association, Matt. Perhaps you should order him home before it lands him in trouble.’

  ‘I will talk to him, but he is a free man and must decide for himself what is right.’

  The bedesmen had also turned out. They had brought Kirwell on a litter, although he was fast asleep and seemed oblivious to the hands that reached out to touch him – and to the clink of coins that were collected from those who wanted to avail themselves of the privilege.

  ‘Some of those ancients are suspects for killing Joan,’ mused Bartholomew, watching the spectacle. ‘Yet none of them look guilty, not even Botilbrig, who is the obvious candidate.’

  Michael gestured to the other side of the chapel. ‘Nor do the bedeswomen, who also had reason to want Joan dead. But Reginald is standing by the cemetery door. Shall we go to see whether he will answer our questions now?’

  ‘We might as well, I suppose. There is no sign that the ceremony is about to begin.’

  They eased their way through the throng towards the cutler, who whipped around in alarm when Michael tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘I am not talking to you,’ he declared, eyes furtive as he glanced around. ‘I have nothing to say, and what I do in my workshop is my own affair.’

  The last words were delivered in a hissing snarl that turned his face scarlet and caused the veins to stand out on his neck. Bartholomew was concerned.

  ‘Take some deep breaths,’ he advised. ‘And try to relax your—’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ snapped Reginald, redder than ever. ‘I cannot help it if I am obliged to do things that … But I am not saying more. You will trap me into admitting … And Abbot Robert is not here to protect me.’

  ‘To protect you from what?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the tirade.

  ‘Trouble,’ replied Reginald shortly. He tugged at his tunic, as though the material was too tight around his throat.

  ‘You really should sit down. You will feel better if—’

  ‘I am not staying here to be interrogated.’ Reginald began to back away. ‘You will pretend to befriend me, but all the time you will be trying to trip me up. Robert warned me about men like you.’

  Before either scholar could ask what he meant, Reginald had fled, leaving them staring after him in astonishment.

  ‘Now that is a guilty conscience,’ said Michael. ‘We shall have to tackle him again later, and find out exactly what he has done.’

  It was not long before there was a flurry of activity and the Benedictines arrived. The obedientiaries were first, grand in their ceremonial finery, although the monks wore their working
clothes; many had muddy hands or sleeves rolled up, having come directly from their labours. When they saw Michael and Bartholomew among the onlookers, Nonton scowled, Welbyrn ignored them, Ramseye’s grin was wholly unreadable, and Prior Yvo shot them a glance that was full of panic.

  ‘Poor Yvo,’ said Henry, coming to talk to the scholars. Appletre was at his side, and so was Lullington until he saw who Henry was talking to, at which point he muttered an obscenity in French and left. ‘It is his first public ceremony as Acting Abbot, so he is under pressure to make a good impression.’

  ‘He will not do it if he looks frightened,’ remarked Appletre. ‘He will only succeed in unnerving people. But that is a good thing – it will give Ramseye an edge.’

  ‘You want Ramseye to become Abbot?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘I thought you hoped that an outsider would be appointed instead.’

  ‘I did – I do – but I still have to vote in Thursday’s election, and the choice is Ramseye or Yvo,’ explained Appletre. ‘So I shall support Ramseye, because he promised to let me stay on as precentor. But if Yvo wins, he will take over those duties himself, and his voice is…’

  ‘Like a rusty saw,’ supplied Michael, when the precentor flailed around for the right words. ‘But Ramseye and Yvo cannot be the only candidates from the abbey. What about you, Henry? Do you have no ambitions in that direction?’

  Henry seemed shocked. ‘Good gracious, no! I would not be a good Abbot. Indeed, I have declined promotion several times, lest it interfere with my service to God.’

  He raised his eyes heavenward, and Michael was girding himself up for a tart rejoinder when Inges arrived, asking Bartholomew to sedate Simon. The cowherd had been odder than usual that day and Inges was afraid he would disrupt the ceremony. Bartholomew declined, on the grounds that it was unethical to dose lunatics with soporifics for the convenience of others, and recommended a walk in the water meadows instead.

  ‘Why?’ asked Inges, bemused.

  ‘Because taking him to a familiar place might soothe him,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Those with disturbed minds often find comfort in places they have known well.’