‘I am fairly sure it is him,’ said Bartholomew eventually, sitting back on his heels. ‘Henry mentioned his domed head, and so did Aurifabro. Then there is his distinctive cloak…’
‘How did he die?’ asked Michael.
‘Probably bludgeoned, but I will look more closely when we get him back to Peterborough.’
‘Is there any sign of Robert? If so, it is almost an anti-climax. I was sure some terrible plot was brewing, but here we are with two men set upon on a deserted stretch of road, murdered and rolled into a ditch. It is rather banal.’
‘The ditch is clear in both directions,’ reported Cynric, coming back when he saw Bartholomew’s grisly examination was over. ‘Does it mean Robert is still alive?’
‘Pyk’s fate makes that unlikely,’ replied Michael soberly. ‘He is dead, and it is just a case of locating his body. We shall return to Peterborough, and order a thorough search in the morning. It is too late to start now – it will be dark soon.’
Bartholomew started to roll Pyk in his cloak, but then had second thoughts. The body was in such a poor state that they could not toss it over the back of a horse, or they would lose bits of it en route. However, if it was left unattended by the pool while they fetched a bier it would attract scavengers, and he doubted the defensores would agree to guard it. Gently, he eased it back into the ditch, supposing it could rest there for a little longer.
He was just climbing back into the saddle when the attack came. Suddenly, the air was full of screaming voices and an arrow narrowly missed his face. He heard Cynric yelling for him to mount up fast, while Michael brandished the stave he had looped into his saddle. The defensores were a distant cluster of thundering hoofs as they galloped away from the danger. Terrified, Bartholomew’s horse ripped away from him and joined them.
Bartholomew had no weapons with which to defend himself, so he grabbed a stick from the ground. He managed to score a swipe that sent one ambusher reeling away, but a second man came, and a third, and he was forced to give ground until he was backed up against the bole of the dead oak. He ducked as a cudgel swung at his head, and it smacked into the mat of ivy behind him. Immediately, a wrenching groan made him and his assailants glance upwards in alarm. The wood was rotten, and the weight of the ivy had rendered it unstable. The hefty swipe was enough to make one of the dragon’s ‘arms’ begin to fall.
Udela’s words filled Bartholomew’s mind – of a monster whose left hand was more deadly than its right. Reacting instinctively, he flung himself towards the weaker one. His opponents howled in horror as the branch crashed among them, and one went silent when it caught him on the top of the head.
Then Cynric was among them, wielding his sword like a demon and howling in Welsh. The surviving attackers turned and fled.
It felt like an age before Bartholomew, riding pillion behind Cynric, saw the lights of Peterborough twinkling in the distance. They arrived to find a huge crowd had gathered at the Abbey Gate, where the defensores were telling their story. Voices were raised in shock and recrimination, but Prior Yvo was wholly incapable of imposing order. Ramseye stood to one side, arms folded, as he watched his rival struggle for some semblance of control.
The safe arrival of the Bishop’s Commissioners was met with a variety of reactions. Clippesby, William and the common monks surged forward with a delighted cheer; Appletre sang a hymn of thanksgiving; Lullington shrugged; Ramseye’s face wore its usual mask of inscrutability; and Nonton raised a flask and took a gulp from it. Henry and Yvo exchanged a brief glance, then joined those who were clamouring their relief.
‘The defensores claimed you were dead,’ said Henry, crossing himself. ‘That they narrowly escaped after their efforts to protect you had failed.’
Bartholomew gave the soldiers a hard stare. They glowered back defiantly, making it clear that they would vigorously deny any accusations of cowardice.
‘I am glad to see you unscathed,’ said Yvo, although he spoke without warmth. ‘I was just arranging for Nonton to collect your corpses. And Pyk’s.’ He turned to the cellarer, who was in the process of draining whatever was in his flask. ‘Are you ready? The sooner you set out, the sooner you can return.’
Nonton frowned his bemusement. ‘You still want me to go?’
‘Of course! It would be improper to leave Pyk in a ditch another night.’
‘Besides, we do not want to lose him again,’ added Ramseye with a look that was impossible to interpret.
‘True,’ nodded Henry. ‘Obviously, the rogues who attacked Matt and Michael are the same as the ones who killed Pyk. They may try to dispose of the evidence.’
‘Are you sure Nonton and his men will be safe out there with outlaws lurking?’ asked Appletre worriedly. ‘Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow. I am sure Pyk would not—’
‘Our brave defensores will not be defeated a second time,’ said Yvo. It was difficult to tell whether he was being ironic. ‘This is the sort of thing we hired them for, after all.’
‘To collect murder victims in the middle of the night?’ asked Michael.
Lullington stepped forward, all bristling self-importance. ‘You cannot be sure that Pyk was murdered. He probably died of natural causes.’
‘And then hid himself in a ditch?’ retorted Michael. ‘Besides, my Corpse Examiner says he was murdered, and that is good enough for me.’
‘The Corpse Examiner,’ muttered Lullington, giving Bartholomew a glance that was far from friendly. ‘I might have known.’
Appletre addressed Yvo, his face sombre. ‘I want it on record that I do not believe this is a good idea. The living are more important than retrieving a man who has been dead for a month. Nonton may be marching into danger.’
‘Appletre is right,’ agreed Henry. ‘These villains will be vengeful and angry after their failure to kill the Bishop’s Commissioners, and—’
‘All the more reason to collect Pyk tonight, then,’ interrupted Yvo, waving away their concerns with an impatient flick of his hand. ‘Lest they vent their spleen on his body. And while Nonton is out, he can look for Robert. It is high time we proved him dead.’
‘In the dark?’ Nonton’s voice dripped contempt. ‘Pyk was so well concealed that he evaded all our previous daylight searches, so how can we expect to find Robert when we cannot see?’
‘Well, try,’ snapped Yvo. ‘That is an order, and I am in charge here. You and your louts will take no more orders from Ramseye until after the election. Is that clear?’
Nonton’s dark, angry expression said it was, although Ramseye’s only reaction was a small and rather secretive smile. Bartholomew noticed that the defensores who had been detailed to accompany the cellarer were more of the burly ones, said to be lesser warriors than their smaller counterparts, and he could only suppose that Nonton favoured brawn over military competence for this particular mission as well.
‘Nonton can collect the robber who died, too,’ said Michael. ‘Then we shall—’
‘You killed one?’ cried Henry in horror. ‘But you are a monk!’
‘I am aware of that,’ snapped Michael, treating him to a look that had subdued many a recalcitrant student. Henry, however, only stared back with accusing eyes. ‘But it was an accident – part of a tree fell on him.’
‘Who was he?’ asked Ramseye. ‘Did you recognise him?’
‘No,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We removed his face-scarf, but he was unfamiliar. Of course, that means nothing – we do not know many people in Peterborough.’
‘I shall ride with Nonton,’ announced Appletre suddenly. He swallowed so hard that it sounded like a gulp. ‘I am better at negotiating than him.’
‘Negotiating?’ asked Nonton in confusion. ‘Why would we want to do that?’
‘To avoid violence,’ explained Appletre, his usually rosy cheeks devoid of colour in the flickering torchlight. ‘I have a better chance of persuading these villains to stand down than a man who looks ready for a spat.’
‘But I am ready for
a spat,’ declared Nonton belligerently. ‘And how will you negotiate, exactly? By singing to them?’
‘Better that than knocking them senseless with wine fumes,’ muttered Walter the cook. Lullington sniggered, and Yvo’s eyes flashed briefly with amusement.
‘You cannot go, Appletre,’ whispered Henry, appalled. ‘You will be … let me do it.’
‘No,’ said Appletre with quiet dignity. ‘I appreciate the dangers, believe me – I am not a brave man. But I am treasurer now, not just a precentor, and I know my duty.’
‘Good,’ said Yvo, with a speed that made Bartholomew wonder whether the Prior wanted to be rid of the man he had so recently promoted. Could it be because Appletre intended to vote for Ramseye in the looming election? ‘Off you go then.’
‘Perhaps you should accompany them as well, Sir John,’ suggested Ramseye slyly. ‘I am sure our men would appreciate having a knight among their number.’
‘No,’ said Lullington quickly, while the expressions of the defensores also suggested they would be happier without whatever the corrodian could provide. ‘It is better that I stay here, and coordinate the operation.’
Before anyone could ask him what was to be coordinated, Nonton slurred a command and his men set off, one or two riding, but most on foot. Cynric offered to go with them, to guide them to the body, but was curtly informed that they knew where the Dragon Tree was and did not need a visitor to tell them.
‘It is a pity the abbey was not so assiduous when Robert went missing,’ remarked Michael. ‘Because then the Bishop would never have needed to appoint Commissioners.’
Once Nonton, Appletre and the defensores had gone, Yvo ordered his monks to bed. They went reluctantly, giving the impression that they would rather have waited for their people to return. Henry was one of the last to go, gazing anxiously at the gate, as if he thought he might conjure them back through it if he stared long enough. He asked Yvo for permission to keep a vigil, and his expression became piously exultant as he aimed for the church.
Meanwhile, Lullington was muttering to Yvo, although he slunk away when he saw the scholars watching. Ramseye had also lingered, and Yvo issued a curt order for him to retire to the dormitory immediately. An expression of such dark fury flashed across the almoner’s face that Bartholomew recoiled, but the look disappeared so fast that he wondered if it had been his imagination or the torches casting strange shadows.
‘I recommend you rest now,’ said Yvo, coming to address the scholars. It was more command than suggestion. ‘We shall talk in the morning. Goodnight.’
Given no choice, Michael led the way to the guest house, where lamps shed a welcoming glow into the night. Bread, cheese and wine had been left, but none of the scholars took any, although Michael shot them a longing glance. Lest the monk allowed hunger to triumph over common sense, Bartholomew tipped the wine out of the window and Cynric parcelled up the food in a cloth, ready to discard on his way to Spalling’s house.
‘Yvo was right, you know,’ said William. ‘Pyk’s body is evidence that he was murdered, and by the time Nonton reaches that Dragon Tree the outlaws may have spirited it away.’
‘What would be the point?’ asked Michael. ‘We have seen it now, and reported it.’
‘Yes, but people do not believe or trust us.’ William glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Especially now they know one of us holds the disturbing title of Corpse Examiner.’
Michael winced. ‘Perhaps we should devise a more innocuous one when we go home, because it does have a sinister ring. Lord! My legs are like jelly. We were lucky the branch chose that particular moment to fall, or we might have joined Pyk in the ditch.’
‘There would not have been room,’ said Cynric absently. ‘Especially for you.’
‘Meaning what, pray?’ asked Michael, a little dangerously.
‘Someone with heavy bones,’ supplied Bartholomew. ‘But Cynric makes a valid point, Brother: Robert was large, whereas Pyk was small. Perhaps Robert would not fit in the ditch, which explains why he is not there – he had to be taken elsewhere.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Shall I look tomorrow?’
‘No, let the abbey do it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is too dangerous for you.’
Cynric gave him a look that expressed his disdain for that sentiment, then stood, the parcel of food under his arm. ‘I had better go. Spalling is making a speech tonight in one of the taverns, and I would hate to miss it. Would you like to come?’
‘No, thank you,’ replied Michael in distaste. ‘But it was good of you to break off your campaign to help us today. There is no question that we would have been killed without you.’
‘And without Udela’s warning,’ added Cynric. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘She told me what she had seen when she rolled her stones for you – the monster with the left-handed claw. It was the Dragon Tree, and the south-pointing branch fell down.’
Bartholomew was unwilling to discuss such matters with the fanatical William in the room. However, although he was trying to ignore it, a voice in his head kept whispering that if Udela had been right about the oak, then perhaps she would also be right about him finding love. He shook himself impatiently. What was he thinking? The old woman had no more idea of what the future held than he did.
‘Lord!’ he breathed, as something occurred to him. He stared at Cynric. ‘Could it mean Udela knew, rather than predicted, that ambushers were waiting there? That people from Aurifabro’s household were responsible? The assault did occur after the mercenaries had left us – perhaps they donned disguises and doubled back.’
‘If they had been the culprits, we would be dead,’ replied Cynric soberly. ‘They are professionals.’
‘Then who?’ asked Michael. ‘Spalling’s rabble? They might have been fended off by a monk, a physician, a book-bearer and a tree.’
‘It was not them, either,’ said Cynric sharply. ‘They will be in the tavern, waiting for Spalling’s address and the free ale that will follow.’
‘You are right to doubt Spalling’s efficacy as a warrior, though, Brother,’ said Clippesby. ‘The man is a coward, who will flee at the first sign of trouble. I am surprised his followers cannot see through his wordy bluster.’
‘Could the other defensores have attacked us?’ asked Bartholomew, after a short pause during which everyone stared at the Dominican in astonishment. He rarely disparaged anyone, and it was odd to hear such a bald denouncement coming from him – so odd that Cynric was too startled to defend his hero. ‘It would explain why ours vanished with such indecent speed.’
‘But we rode hard after the attack,’ said the book-bearer, belatedly shooting Clippesby a cross glance. ‘We would have caught up with them.’
‘Not necessarily,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘We spent some time inspecting the man who was killed. Perhaps there is a good reason why so many of them went out on foot just now – their horses are winded from what would have been a furious gallop.’
‘That is certainly possible,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘Some of them were wearing armour before Yvo issued the order to go and collect Pyk. Of course, they are soldiers, so perhaps they dress like that all the time.’
They exchanged an uneasy glance at the notion that they were about to spend the night in a place where other residents might want them dead. Cynric offered to stay and stand guard, and Bartholomew was inclined to accept – to keep him away from Spalling, but William offered to do it instead. When the book-bearer started to argue, a coin was tossed to decide the matter.
‘What now?’ sighed Michael, when Cynric had gone. ‘I do not feel like sleeping, but there is nothing we can do tonight.’
‘We can return to Reginald’s shop,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure the answers to some of our mysteries lie there.’
‘Perhaps, but the place has been sealed, and I doubt if Yvo will agree to let us in.’
‘I am not suggesting we ask permission.’
Michael was shocked. ‘You mean burgle it? Break in like com
mon thieves?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Unless you have a better idea.’
‘Very well.’ Michael’s abrupt capitulation revealed the depth of his desperation. ‘We shall go after nocturns. It is the darkest part of the night, when all innocent folk should be abed. Hopefully, we can commit our crime with no one any the wiser.’
‘Then let us pray that you find answers,’ said William grimly. ‘Because it is Wednesday tomorrow, when we must leave. And do not suggest staying another day, Brother, because the University will riot if you are not back in time to write Winwick Hall’s charter. We cannot risk Michaelhouse’s safety to save Peterborough.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael determinedly. ‘We cannot.’
Bartholomew estimated that they had roughly four hours before embarking on their nocturnal expedition, but was too tense even to think about sleeping. Not only was he nervous about doing something that would land them in trouble if they were caught, but his thoughts were a bewildering jumble of questions – about their mysteries, Udela’s unnerving predictions, and Matilde and Julitta. He was glad when William announced that he and Clippesby had information to impart, as it represented a distraction.
‘Me first,’ the Franciscan said, giving Clippesby a shove. He addressed Michael. ‘Trentham is still struggling to dig Joan’s grave – people keep coming to talk to him, so his progress is slow. To help, I offered to save him some time by hearing the bedeswomen’s confessions. And I learned something about Joan.’
‘Then you cannot tell us,’ said Michael sharply. ‘The Seal of Confession is sacred.’
‘I was not going to repeat anything from those,’ said William indignantly. ‘Although you would be bored senseless if I did – I have never encountered such a dull catalogue of sins. What I learned was in their hall afterwards, when they were thanking me with ale and cakes.’
‘Well?’ asked Michael, when the Franciscan paused.
‘You will recall that Joan was acting as a guard on the day she was murdered, minding Becket’s relics and Oxforde’s tomb. Well, that was highly unusual, because she never undertook such lowly duties as a rule – it is Marion and Elene’s responsibility. But she did it that day to impress us, the Bishop’s Commissioners.’
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 26
