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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Udela peered at the pebbles and nodded knowingly. ‘There is evil associated with the disappearance of Robert and Pyk. A terrible deed…’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, feeling he could have told her that himself.

  ‘But Pyk is innocent,’ said Udela, looking hard at him. ‘It is in your mind that he might have dispatched Robert, but it would not be true. The stones do not tell me this: my instinct does. Pyk was not a killer.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew sincerely. He liked the sound of Pyk, and it would do his profession scant good for the arch-villain to be a medicus.

  ‘There is nothing more specific, though,’ said Udela, inspecting the pebbles again, then shaking her head apologetically. ‘The spirits are frightened, which tells me that the wickedness is very strong. All I can say is that death and danger lie ahead for you.’

  Bartholomew did not doubt it. Death was his daily companion, given that few of his remedies for serious diseases were effective, while he still had to make the return journey to Cambridge, which was likely to be every bit as perilous as the outward one. But despite his natural pragmatism, her words sent a shiver down his spine.

  ‘And a terrible monster with flailing claws,’ added Udela matter-of-factly. ‘It will stand over you screaming its fury, and its left hand is more lethal than its right.’

  Wryly, Bartholomew supposed he would just have to make sure he avoided left-handed fiends for a while. He nodded his thanks to Udela, hoping she would not read in his face that he considered her prophecies a lot of nonsense.

  ‘There is one more thing.’ She smiled suddenly and sweetly. ‘And on this, the spirits are crystal clear. You will find love one day. I cannot say when, but it will come.’

  Bartholomew stared at her, while the listening female servants issued a chorus of happy coos and Sylle nudged him in the ribs with a manly wink.

  ‘And that,’ said Udela, gathering up her stones, ‘is all I can tell you.’

  Eventually, there was a rattle of hoofs outside as Aurifabro arrived home, more of his mercenaries at his heels. Watching the cavalcade, Bartholomew asked whether the goldsmith had always felt the need for such an elaborate personal guard.

  ‘He recruited these men a year ago,’ explained Udela, ‘to prevent the abbey from encroaching on his land by moving fences, diverting streams and that sort of thing.’

  ‘But they have accompanied him out and about since Robert disappeared,’ added Sylle. ‘I hate to say anything nice about Robert, but he did keep good order. Now he is dead, thieves abound and the roads are not safe for wealthy goldsmiths.’

  ‘Why do you think Master Aurifabro hopes a reasonable man will be appointed as the next Abbot?’ asked Udela. ‘Because he wants to make peace. It is expensive to keep these foreign soldiers, and we do not like them. They are louts.’

  ‘I have been told that the roads are more dangerous now Spalling spouts incendiary messages,’ said Bartholomew, more to gauge their reactions than because he believed it.

  ‘Spalling used to be such a nice boy,’ said Udela sadly. ‘Not like his father, who was a tyrant. I cannot imagine what has encouraged him to take so violently against our master. It is wholly undeserved – we are very generous with alms.’

  ‘Spalling does encourage the poor to strike at Aurifabro in particular,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Indeed, sometimes I wonder whether Peterborough only has one wealthy merchant, because he rarely mentions anyone else by name.’

  Bartholomew was about to leave the kitchen and rejoin Michael when the goldsmith appeared at the door. Aurifabro’s expression was simultaneously wary and suspicious.

  ‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why is no work being done?’

  ‘Doctor Bartholomew has been tending our ailments,’ explained Udela, without a trace of servitude. ‘For free. I feel better already.’

  ‘You do not want him touching you,’ said Aurifabro. ‘He is a Corpse Examiner.’

  ‘It makes no difference,’ said Udela, cutting short the murmur of unease that began to ripple through the staff. ‘No evil aura hangs around him, or I would have seen it. He is as pure as the driven snow.’

  ‘Is he?’ asked Aurifabro doubtfully, while Bartholomew also regarded her askance.

  ‘Yes,’ said Udela, meeting her master’s eyes. ‘You have nothing to fear from him.’

  Bartholomew was tempted to take her back to Cambridge with him – he could do with someone who spoke with such conviction on his behalf. Aurifabro nodded what might have been an apology and left. Bartholomew started to follow, but was waylaid by people who wanted to thank him for what he had done, so it was some time before he was able to escape.

  ‘There was nothing to find,’ Cynric murmured, as he followed the physician towards a smart solar in the main part of the house. ‘I had hoped that Robert and Pyk were being held prisoner, so I could rescue them, but I am fairly sure they were never here.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Udela and the servants might have agreed to stay silent if Robert was locked up, but not Pyk. They like him too much.’

  Cynric clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I will ask her a few more questions when I go for my private consultation. But be careful with Aurifabro. I do not trust him.’

  Apparently, Aurifabro did not trust the scholars either, because his henchmen were ranged behind him as he lounged in a chair near the hearth.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ he was telling Michael, who was sitting opposite. ‘I want you to leave.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Michael, stretching out his legs and looking so relaxed that Aurifabro might have been forgiven for thinking that he was settling down for a nap. ‘That is no way to address the man who might be Peterborough’s next Abbot.’

  Aurifabro stared at him. ‘You? But how will you defeat Yvo and Ramseye? The monks will be too frightened of the retribution that will follow if they vote for you.’

  ‘You think it will be decided by election, do you?’ said Michael, smugly condescending. ‘The Bishop will make his own selection, and I am his favourite canon.’

  ‘I see.’ Aurifabro stared at the floor for a moment, and seemed to reach a decision. He indicated with a snap of his fingers that refreshments were to be served, and tried for a conciliatory smile, an expression that did not quite work on his dour features. ‘As I told your physician last night, I am tired of my dispute with the abbey. I want peace.’

  ‘I do not see why that cannot be arranged,’ said Michael, accepting a goblet of wine and nodding his appreciation at its quality. ‘Of course, it depends on your cooperation in answering questions about Robert.’

  ‘Ask then, but please be brief. I am a busy man.’

  ‘Business is good, then, is it?’ probed Michael. ‘Spalling is right to claim you are one of the wealthiest merchants in the region?’

  ‘Yes, but I am also generous, and I do not understand why he singles me out for censure. Most merchants never donate a penny to the poor.’

  ‘How many times did Robert visit you?’ asked Michael, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘A lot,’ growled the goldsmith. ‘He was a nuisance, and I was beginning to wish he had commissioned someone else to make his paten. He wanted to inspect it every few days, to see how it was coming along. And now the abbey refuses to buy it. Of course, I imagine a discerning man like you will be keen to have it on his high altar.’

  ‘I might. Did he come here just to inspect your craftsmanship?’

  ‘No, he tried to foist his oily friendship on me as well, although I was having none of it and I told him so.’

  ‘How did Robert take your rejections?’

  ‘Badly – he told me I would rot in Hell. But I care nothing for his curses or his religion. I am a son of the older faith, which is why I keep a witch in my home.’

  ‘Do you indeed?’ murmured Michael.

  ‘Udela is a great seer, and your physician should be grateful that she has my respect, because otherwis
e I would have trounced him for distracting my entire household from their duties. No one has done a stroke of work in hours.’

  ‘Tell me what happened the day Robert was due to visit you.’ Michael refused to be intimidated by the man’s bluster.

  ‘What, again?’ groaned Aurifabro.

  ‘Yes, again,’ snapped Michael. ‘You may not care about Robert, but Pyk was with him, and he seemed a decent soul.’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ acknowledged Aurifabro. ‘Very well then. Robert approached me that morning and said he was coming to see the paten. I told him I was going to visit my mother, but he threatened to cancel the commission unless I stayed in. He said he planned to leave the abbey after his noonday meal – God forbid that he should miss that – and ride to me in the afternoon.’

  ‘And Pyk? Why did he come?’

  ‘To tend my servants. He often travelled with Robert, as he was one of few who could tolerate the fellow’s company.’ Aurifabro’s habitual glower softened. ‘Everyone liked Pyk, and the sight of his great domed head and scarlet cloak lifted the spirits of all who saw them.’

  ‘Why did Robert come here to inspect the paten? Surely you have a workshop in town?’

  ‘Of course, but I was making this particular piece at home. However, Robert’s visits were such a trial that I was on the verge of taking it to Peterborough, just to avoid them.’

  ‘What do you say to the people who lay Robert’s disappearance at your door?’

  ‘That they are wrong,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘I had reasons to dislike the man – lots of them. But I am not in the habit of dispatching powerful churchmen. Or physicians.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But are you sure you know nothing – even something which may seem unimportant – that might explain what happened?’

  Aurifabro closed his eyes and sat still for so long that Michael exchanged a bemused glance with Bartholomew, both wondering whether he had fallen asleep.

  ‘Just one thing,’ said the goldsmith at last. ‘Robert always took his seals with him when he left the abbey. It suggests he distrusted his obedientiaries – that he was afraid they might use them fraudulently.’

  ‘Clearly. So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘That if he thought them capable of forgery, why not other crimes, too – such as killing him and Pyk on a lonely road?’

  Unwilling to be blamed for the disappearance of a second important churchman, Aurifabro instructed some of his mercenaries to escort the scholars safely away from Torpe. Michael demurred but the goldsmith was insistent, and six burly warriors kept them close and rather menacing company for a while, then turned without a word and rode back the way they had come. Both scholars and defensores were relieved when they had gone.

  ‘What do you think?’ Michael allowed his horse to settle into a more comfortable pace. ‘Did Aurifabro do away with Robert and Pyk, as half the town, most monks and Spalling believe?’

  ‘Robert, maybe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not Pyk. Besides, Aurifabro had a point about the seals – it does suggest that Robert distrusted his own house.’

  ‘Yes, but who in particular? Henry?’

  ‘No.’ Bartholomew was tired of arguing the point. ‘He is a good man – Udela said so.’

  ‘You mean the witch?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is meant to impress me, is it?’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with witches, Brother,’ put in Cynric. ‘But this one was wrong if she said Henry is good, because he is not. Nor are Ramseye and Yvo. They would certainly commit murder to become Abbot, and neither would hesitate to sacrifice Pyk in the process.’

  ‘Appletre admires Henry,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He—’

  ‘Appletre is like you in that respect,’ interrupted Michael acidly. ‘Unable to tell the villains from the decent men.’

  There was no point arguing with such rigidly held convictions, and Bartholomew did not try. Behind them, the defensores began muttering that they would not be in Peterborough until midnight if the men they were guarding insisted on ambling along at such a leisurely pace. Although Bartholomew did not see Michael do anything with reins or knees, the monk’s horse immediately slowed further still.

  ‘Could Aurifabro’s mercenaries have killed Robert and Pyk without their master’s knowledge?’ asked Cynric. ‘They are ruthless brutes. Moreover, I heard them speaking French, and the outlaws who kept ambushing us on our way here spoke French.’

  ‘It is possible.’ Michael sighed irritably. ‘Our visit to Torpe was a waste of time, and we must go home tomorrow. You being poisoned did not help, Matt. We lost a whole day over that.’

  ‘My apologies. However, I am not the only one who has fallen foul of a toxic substance recently. So did a shepherd called Fletone, who died the day after Robert and Pyk disappeared.’

  ‘What?’ asked Michael in alarm.

  ‘His friends say he contracted mountain fever, which I think you will agree is unlikely around here. He diagnosed himself, being interested in medical matters, but he was raving by the time he was found, and I doubt he was rational.’

  ‘Neither are you, if you conclude from this that he was poisoned. There must be all manner of horrible diseases that could have carried him off.’

  ‘There are, but it is odd that Fletone should have contracted one on this particular road and on that particular day. Moreover, Reginald claimed that he had been poisoned—’

  ‘But you said Reginald died of apoplexy,’ interrupted Michael. ‘On account of his unhealthy diet and the fact that he had suffered previous attacks.’

  ‘Yes, he probably did. However, it is what he believed that is important. He must have had a reason for making such a remark – such as knowing what had happened to Fletone.’

  Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure you are fully recovered? Because that is wildly illogical! How could Reginald have “known” that Fletone was poisoned, when Fletone himself – and the people who knew him – thought he had mountain fever?’

  ‘Reginald would have known the truth if he had been involved in Fletone’s demise. Perhaps that is what made him act so suspiciously whenever we tried to talk to him.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘You are reading too much into the situation.’

  The monk continued to pour scorn on the theory, but Bartholomew was not listening because they had reached the lightning-blasted oak where Sylle had found the dying Fletone. He reined in to look at it, understanding exactly why the villagers had named it the Dragon Tree. Its ivy-coated trunk looked like a body, two branches on its ‘back’ had the appearance of wings, and two more at the front formed arms with claws. It had a head, too, with gaping jaws that appeared to be baying at the sky. It had unnerved him when he had travelled to Torpe the first time, he recalled, by groaning so eerily that his horse had bolted.

  He dismounted and began to poke around it with a stick, while Cynric and Michael watched in weary resignation, and the defensores complained in sullen voices about the delay. It had started to drizzle, and they wanted to be home.

  ‘There will be nothing to see now,’ said Cynric irritably. ‘Mother Udela told me that Fletone did not die here, anyway. Sylle carried him home and he breathed his last in Torpe. Besides, I have already explored the area around that tree. Twice.’

  Bartholomew sniffed the air. ‘I can smell something unpleasant…’

  ‘There is a dead sheep nearby. One of Fletone’s, probably, which died when he was not around to look after it.’

  Bartholomew found the animal and crouched next to it, putting his sleeve over his nose in an effort to filter out the stench. But even taking the mild weather into account, he did not think it had been dead for a month. He said so.

  Michael was dismissive. ‘You usually tell me that time of death is impossible to estimate, but now you claim to be able to do it with sheep?’

  ‘The thing looked fairly fresh when I came across it last Thursday,’ put in Cynric, earning himself a scowl from the monk. ‘He
is probably right.’

  Bartholomew began to prod again. There was a ditch behind the Dragon Tree, which had widened to form a natural pond. He watched a blackbird hop along the edge, dipping its beak towards it every so often, but it did not drink, and eventually it flew away. He scooped some of the water into his hand and sniffed carefully. There was a faint odour of decay.

  ‘Something is buried near here,’ he said, standing up and looking around. ‘And putrefaction is leaking into the pond. That is what killed the sheep, and that is why the bird declined to drink.’

  ‘Sheep know to avoid bad water, boy,’ said Cynric, although he slid to the ground and began to make the kind of inspection at which he was skilled. The defensores’ grumbling grew louder, and Michael rolled his eyes.

  ‘Perhaps this one made a mistake.’ Bartholomew expanded his search to the left of the tree. ‘Or was too thirsty to care. However, there are no obvious injuries on it, and—’

  ‘Here!’ exclaimed Cynric suddenly. ‘Quick!’

  Bartholomew hurried towards him. The book-bearer was kneeling by a particularly deep part of the ditch, which was overgrown with weeds and the roots of trees. Underneath them, a patch of red cloth was visible. It was costly stuff, shot through with gold thread.

  ‘Pyk had a cloak sewn from material like this,’ said Cynric soberly.

  CHAPTER 11

  Bartholomew pulled the vegetation away, and it was not long before he had exposed the body hidden beneath. It was almost completely underwater, and might have lain undiscovered for ever if the dead sheep had not alerted him to the fact that something was wrong.

  It was not pleasant inspecting what remained, because the water had caused the soft tissues to rot and swell – Pyk would be unrecognisable to anyone who had known him. Bartholomew did what he could, causing Michael to gaze studiously in the opposite direction and Cynric to move away under the pretext of hunting for Robert. The defensores huddled inside their cloaks against the rain, and also kept their distance.