‘I suspect that might be beyond my modest skills, Father Prior,’ said Appletre, his anxious eyes suggesting he was loath to be manhandled again.
‘Well, try,’ snapped Yvo. ‘I do not like it when he is fierce. To be frank, he frightens me.’
‘Very well,’ gulped Appletre. ‘As soon as I have said a prayer for Matthew in the church. Henry is there now, and has been much of the day. He is worried about his old friend.’
Michael narrowed his eyes, pondering the possibility that guilt might have led Henry to spend so many hours on his knees. He bowed a curt farewell to his brethren and returned to the guest house, where he found that Bartholomew was not the only one fast asleep. So was William. The friar stirred when the door opened, and Michael noted with relief that Bartholomew did, too: the effects of whatever he had been fed were wearing off. As he wanted time alone, to think, the monk suggested that William attend compline.
He had not been pondering long when Clippesby arrived. He had a visitor with him, swathed in a cloak with a hood. Uninvited, the person stepped into the room and let the hood fall away, so that her face was visible in the candlelight.
‘Matilde!’ exclaimed Michael.
The love of Bartholomew’s life glided towards the bed, and Michael thought it was a pity the physician was not awake to see her. Then it occurred to him that perhaps it was for the best, given his recent fondness for Julitta Holm.
‘I heard some of the bedeswomen talking,’ whispered Matilde, her lovely face anxious. ‘They said the visiting medicus had been poisoned, so I waited outside the abbey, hoping for news. Then I saw Clippesby, who smuggled me inside.’
‘Let us hope he can smuggle you out again,’ said Michael, glaring at the Dominican. ‘Women are not allowed in here, and breaking that particular rule would see us ousted for certain. Then I would never solve the Abbot’s murder.’
Matilde waved an irritable hand to indicate her disregard for what she deemed foolish regulations. ‘What about Matt? How serious is this poison?’
‘It was delivered in Lombard slices,’ explained Michael. ‘An unpardonable sacrilege, which makes me even more determined to catch the culprit. Fortunately, Matt only ate one, and I imagine we could wake him now if we shook him hard enough.’
‘No,’ said Matilde hastily. ‘Let him rest.’
‘When he told me that he had seen you, I assumed he had imagined it.’ Michael’s expression was reproachful. ‘As used to happen several times a week when you first left.’
Matilde winced. ‘I am travelling north. It is bad luck that put us together now.’
‘He will be glad to have you back,’ said Clippesby warmly. ‘He was never the same after you left.’
‘That is not why I am here,’ said Matilde. ‘Michael understands – I explained it to him when we met in Clare last summer.’
Clippesby gaped at the monk. ‘You knew where she was, but did not tell Matt? I hope you had a good reason, because that is not the act of a friend. Indeed, not even a goat would do it, and they are notoriously unromantic.’
‘He did it because I asked him to,’ explained Matilde, when Michael made no attempt to defend himself. ‘If I had married Matt, he would have lost his University post. I have no money of my own – I lost every penny to thieves shortly after leaving Cambridge – so he would have had to give up his poorer patients, too. He would have been unhappy, and would have grown to hate his life. And perhaps hate me, too, for bringing him to it.’
‘You put me in an impossible situation,’ said Michael softly. ‘I have been obliged to pass remarks about you that must have made him think I was losing my wits.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Matilde. ‘But it was for the best.’
‘I beg to differ,’ argued Michael. ‘He does not care about money, and would be happier with you regardless.’ Then a vision of Julitta flashed into his mind. ‘Probably.’
‘On reflection, I am not so sure,’ said Clippesby, making Michael regard him sharply. ‘He would hate turning paupers away in favour of calculating horoscopes for the wealthy. He spends all his stipend on them, and I have recently learned how expensive medicines can be. He would certainly baulk at not being able to practise in what he sees as an ethical manner.’
‘You see, Brother?’ murmured Matilde. ‘I always said Clippesby was the wisest of Michaelhouse’s Fellows.’
‘But you must talk to him before you go,’ Clippesby continued. ‘Explain your reasons. You may cajole Michael into lying for you again, but you will not persuade me.’
‘Nor me, not this time,’ asserted Michael. ‘It was one of the most unpleasant things I have ever had to do, and that includes once abstaining from meat for the whole of Lent.’
Matilde shook her head. ‘That would be too painful for both of us. But I will dictate a letter, if you will write it for me.’
‘That depends on what you plan to say,’ replied Michael suspiciously.
‘I shall ask him not to come after me, because I will not be found,’ said Matilde. ‘However, I shall also say that I have decided to do something about my impoverished circumstances, and that if I succeed, I shall return to Cambridge to see whether he might be interested in … in a resumption of our friendship.’
‘How will you succeed?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘By taking up burglary?’
‘That would be one way, I suppose,’ said Matilde with the wry smile he remembered so well. ‘But I am hoping to work through more legitimate channels. An old friend has agreed to help me, and I am astute with finances. I shall do my best to acquire the fortune that will keep Matt’s paupers in salves and potions.’
Michael looked sceptical, but Clippesby grinned.
‘If anyone can do it, you can,’ the Dominican said.
CHAPTER 7
When Bartholomew woke the following day, he found it difficult to rally his thoughts. He was lethargic, and had backache from lying in one position too long. Even so, he did not possess the energy to move, so he stared at the ceiling, watching the first tendrils of light creep across it as dawn broke. Only when he heard his colleagues stir did he sit up.
‘At last!’ exclaimed Michael in relief. ‘I am glad to have you back, because I shall need your help today. Not to mention the fact that we have been worried. In future, perhaps you would stay away from poison.’
‘Poison,’ murmured Bartholomew, as events filtered slowly back into his mind.
‘We have not caught the culprit yet,’ said William. ‘But last night was eventful, even so. First, we had news that Spalling has made Cynric his official deputy. Then Inges arrived to say that Welbyrn had died in St Leonard’s well. But before either of those, Matilde came and…’
He trailed off, horrified with himself for the inadvertent slip. Michael glowered, Clippesby rolled his eyes, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had misheard.
‘I was going to tell you after breakfast, Matt,’ said the monk wearily. ‘You must be hungry after lying about for so long without so much as a crumb to eat.’
Clippesby took William’s arm. ‘Come, Father. There is a sparrow you should meet, one who might be able to tutor you in the art of discretion.’
‘No, I want to know what—’ But when William saw the dark expression on Michael’s face, he left the room in what could best be described as a scurry.
When the door had closed, Michael turned warily to Bartholomew. ‘Are you well enough for this? I do not think I could stand the strain of a relapse.’
Bartholomew was experiencing an awful churning in his stomach, and could tell from Michael’s face that he was about to be told something he would not like.
‘A drink or some food must have been laced with a soporific,’ he said, aware that his speech was slurred – his tongue could not seem to form the words properly. ‘But now I am awake, the effects will soon dissipate. There will be no relapse.’
‘A soporific?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! I have been going around telling everyone that you were poisoned!’
‘Soporifics can be toxic in the wrong hands.’
‘William and Clippesby deduced that it was in the Lombard slices. I blamed the leeks, but Piel’s pig ate the rest of those with no ill effects…’
‘The leeks came from a communal pot, but the pastries appeared out of nowhere – and you left the tavern without eating any.’ Bartholomew wished his wits were sharper, for he knew that Michael had managed to sidetrack him, but he was not alert enough to stop it.
‘I learned nothing to help our investigation while you were asleep,’ the monk went on. ‘And the situation is now desperate, because we leave the day after tomorrow.’
‘Was Matilde really here?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael ignored the question. ‘Seeing what one cake did to you, I dread to imagine what would have happened had we finished the plate. We both had a very narrow escape.’
‘Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Please.’
‘As William said, a lot happened last night.’ Michael was determined to postpone the inevitable. ‘Spalling held a rally of his supporters and declared Cynric his lieutenant. According to Langelee, the announcement took Cynric by surprise, but it is a cause dear to his heart, and Langelee said he responded with delight. He intends to stay here after we leave.’
‘I am sure he does. But what did Matilde—’
‘Then Lullington accused you of murdering Welbyrn – your ancient feud is common knowledge, and Lullington made much of the fact that you once broke Welbyrn’s nose. Ramseye defended you, though, pointing out that you were insensible at the time.’
‘Ramseye did?’ Bartholomew was struggling to follow the gabbled tale.
‘He said you could not have walked to the door, let alone gone all the way to St Leonard’s, and he argued so convincingly that I did not have to defend you myself. Of course, now everyone is flailing around for another suspect, and the usual names have been aired – Spalling, Aurifabro, Reginald, the bedesfolk…’
‘Has Welbyrn been murdered?’
‘I hope you will be able to tell me that when you examine his body. I ordered everything left as it was found, in the hope that there will be clues as to what happened.’
‘Matilde,’ prompted Bartholomew, feeling they had skated around the issue quite long enough. ‘What did William mean when he said she came?’
Michael took a moment to compose himself, then began, starting with how he had met her in Clare the previous year, and the vow she had extracted from him never to mention it. He finished by handing over the letter she had dictated. After he had read it, Bartholomew was silent for a very long time.
‘You did not have to make that promise,’ he said eventually. ‘You could have refused.’
‘She was very insistent.’
‘You have resisted more powerful people than her.’
‘I was not happy about it, believe me. So what will you do? Leave the University and set up a practice of wealthy people, so she will know she means more to you than your paupers? Wait for her to earn her own fortune? Or has she been superseded in your affections by Julitta?’
Bartholomew chose to ignore the last question. ‘The Matilde I remember would not have left a letter when she could have spoken to me directly. She was never a coward.’
‘She said it would have been too painful to meet in person.’
‘Perhaps.’ Bartholomew was silent again, before saying in a low voice, ‘But I did not think you would keep such a thing from me.’
Michael winced. ‘I told her it was a mistake, but she persuaded me that it was in your best interests – in the best interests of both of you.’
Bartholomew nodded, but made no reply, and Michael suspected, with a pang, that while Bartholomew might have lost the love of his life for the second time and perhaps permanently, he himself had just lost the trust of a friend.
The effects of whatever Bartholomew had swallowed lingered in the form of a persistent lethargy, even after he had eaten a breakfast that William assured him was safe, followed by copious amounts of his favourite cure-all – boiled barley water. He struggled to think about the news he had been given, but it was not easy when all he wanted to do was sleep, so he went for a walk, hoping fresh air would revive him. He left the abbey and turned south, but did not have the energy to go far. He stopped on the rough wooden bridge that spanned the river.
It was quiet there, with only the occasional cart rumbling past to intrude on his thoughts. A heron strutted and stabbed in the shallows, and two crows cawed in a nearby elm. The fields were full of crops that were turning gold under the summer sun, and the air was rich with the scent of warm earth and scythed grass.
He leaned on the railing and stared down at the sluggish water, wondering when he had last been beset by such a bewildering gamut of emotions. Uppermost was relief that Matilde had not been killed on the King’s highways, as most of his colleagues had believed. The rest were far more complicated, and involved a confusing combination of hope, hurt, exasperation, resentment and unease.
Should he be angry with Michael for keeping a secret of such magnitude from him; a betrayal, in fact, of their friendship? The monk, more than anyone, knew the depth of his feelings for Matilde and the lengths to which he had gone to find her after she had left.
As he pondered, peculiarities in the monk’s past behaviour began to make sense. The first time Michael had been to Clare he had returned sullen and snappish, and had spent the next twelve months informing Bartholomew that the place was not worth seeing. Encouraging Langelee to bring him to Peterborough had been yet another way to prevent him from going there, although it could not have misfired more badly. And finally, there was his recent uncharacteristically whimsical remark that he enjoyed Bartholomew’s company – clearly he had been anticipating the day when the truth would come out.
But Michael had not asked to be placed in such an invidious position, and it would be unfair to blame him for what had happened. Although Bartholomew was exasperated with him – and disappointed that he had allowed himself to be browbeaten by Matilde – he bore him no malice, and supposed he had better say so lest the incident drove a wedge between them. Michaelhouse was too small for two of its Fellows to be at loggerheads, and when all was said and done, Michael had been a good friend in the past.
He watched a leaf undulate under the bridge. Should he abandon his University, patients and students a second time, and try to find Matilde, despite the plea in her letter that begged him not to? Should he resign his Fellowship and start recruiting wealthy patients so that she knew he would produce horoscopes for the rich if it meant her return? Or should he put her from his mind, on the grounds that the woman he had loved would not have been afraid to face him, and that time and experience might have turned her into a different person?
Her letter had outlined a complex plan that involved borrowing money and making certain investments. She seemed confident that it would work – the only question being the time it would take – and she would then return to Cambridge. As money had never been important to him, it seemed inconceivable that it should be the thing that stood between him and happiness, but he was not so naïve as to believe that everyone felt that way. And Matilde was a woman of refined tastes.
But what about Julitta? Her arrival in his life had reminded him that Matilde was not the only woman in the world. Did that mean his love for Matilde had diminished, and he should refuse her if she arrived back with a fortune in her purse? His relationship with Julitta was still fairly new, but he knew he could come to love her just as deeply in time. Of course, she was already married, and so would never be fully available to him, unless something fatal happened to Surgeon Holm. But what if—
‘I thought I might find you here.’
He whipped around to see Cynric standing beside him. He had not heard the book-bearer approach, and the Welshman’s eyes gleamed in the knowledge that he had not lost the ability to creep up behind his master and startle him out of his wits.
‘I c
ame to tell you that she has gone,’ said Cynric. ‘Matilde, I mean. Last night, Father William came to tell me what had happened, so we went to see if we could persuade her to stay. We managed to locate the inn where she had been lodging, but she had already left.’
‘Did the taverner know where she might be going?’
‘She was careful to let nothing slip. I spent the rest of the night searching the roads, but she left no trace of her passing.’ Cynric’s dark face was grudgingly impressed. ‘I can track most people, as you know, but she eluded me. She might have gone in any direction, and I doubt you will catch her. But if you want to try, I will go with you.’
‘I thought you had been made Spalling’s deputy.’
Cynric nodded proudly. ‘But I am willing to leave him for a while, to help you with Matilde.’
‘Perhaps I should accept. It would keep you out of trouble.’
‘You mean with Spalling? But he is right, boy. The poor have been poor long enough, and it is time to put matters right. You will join us eventually – you are not a man to sit by while injustices are done. I would not have stayed with you so long if you were.’
‘There is a difference between wanting justice and insurgency, Cynric. Besides, Spalling does not seem entirely rational to me.’
‘Only because you are poisoned and your wits are awry. But here he is, come to collect me. We are off to Aurifabro’s shop again, to berate him for suppressing his workers.’
‘You mean the workers who say he is a generous employer?’ Bartholomew held up his hands in surrender when he saw Cynric ready to argue; he did not feel equal to debating the morality of England’s social order that morning, and wished he had held his tongue.
Spalling had taken care with his dress that day, and had donned an outfit reminiscent of a ploughboy’s, although his fine calfskin boots had never been anywhere near a field.
‘Want to come, physician?’ he asked amiably. ‘You will enjoy watching that villain Aurifabro denounced for his greed and miserliness.’
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 18
