At an urgent nod from Michael, William took the Dominican’s arm and hustled him away before any other remarks about their hosts’ lifestyle could be made.
‘Your Clippesby is an unusual man,’ said Yvo, pursing his lips as he watched them go. ‘Our own saint-in-the-making – a fellow named Kirwell – does not commune with serpents.’
‘Tell me about the election you plan to hold,’ said Michael, partly for information, but mostly to prevent questions being asked about their colleague that could not truthfully be answered. ‘Why are you determined to do it so quickly?’
‘Because it is not good for an abbey to be without a leader in this day and age,’ replied Yvo. ‘And the sooner I am in office … I mean the sooner we have a replacement, the better.’
‘But why?’ pressed Michael. ‘Some abbeys manage for years without a titular head.’
‘It is a dangerous time for us. Aurifabro is a deadly enemy, while Spalling urges our peasants to rebel. Why do you think Robert told Nonton to recruit the defensores?’
‘Spalling,’ mused Michael. ‘You should not allow him to air such radical views. He will have the whole shire ablaze if he continues unchecked.’
‘He has always held controversial opinions,’ said Yvo unhappily. ‘And we did excommunicate him for them, but the Bishop pardoned him. All was calm for a while, but he started up again when Robert vanished. Unfortunately, I cannot excommunicate him a second time – the Bishop would not like it.’
‘He would not like his diocese inflamed by rebellion either,’ Michael pointed out.
‘That will not happen. Nonton and Welbyrn visit Lincoln a lot, and they say the rest of the See is calm. It is only Peterborough that is unsettled.’
‘Unfortunately, that is untrue. Cambridge is also full of treasonous talk, especially in the taverns after dark. Matt’s book-bearer predicts a national uprising, and I fear he is right.’
‘Why did Gynewell pardon Spalling?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to discuss Cynric’s revolutionary politics in a place where they might cause him trouble. ‘Bishops do not normally take the side of rabble-rousers against fellow clerics.’
Yvo sighed. ‘He said excommunication was an inappropriate punishment, and we should have put him in prison instead. Unfortunately, the common folk now think that Gynewell approves of Spalling, and any attempt to silence him meets with public protest. It is an awkward situation.’
‘Awkward indeed,’ agreed Michael.
The meal went on much longer than the ones in Michaelhouse for the simple reason that there was far more to eat. Michael grew restless, eager to visit Torpe before more of the day was lost. Sensing his impatience, Appletre came to sit with him, taking his mind off the wasted moments by asking about the Michaelhouse Choir, a subject dear to the monk’s heart. Ramseye abandoned his exalted spot on the dais to provide the same service for Bartholomew.
‘So you really did become a physician,’ the almoner said, indicating that Bartholomew was to make room for him on the bench. ‘I thought you would have seen sense and studied law instead. That is where the money lies.’
‘And you stayed in Peterborough.’ Bartholomew declined to explain that he had never been interested in making himself rich, suspecting that Ramseye would not understand.
Ramseye nodded. ‘I have not set foot outside it since you took us fishing in Peakirk that time. Well, I went to Torpe a few weeks back, but that is the sole extent of my travels.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘But Torpe is only two miles away!’
‘Quite, and I was relieved to get back, I can tell you. The jaunt took an entire morning, and I have never felt so vulnerable in all my life. But why the astonishment? Peterborough has everything I want, and the rest of the world is dirty, sordid and dangerous.’
Bartholomew struggled for something to say that would not reveal how very peculiar he found this to be. It was not uncommon to find labourers who had never left their villages, but senior churchmen tended to be more mobile – to inspect their foundations’ far-flung properties, if nothing else.
‘What did you think of Torpe?’ he managed to ask.
‘Terrible! It reeked of cows and the silence was unnerving – no bells, no street vendors, no carts or horses. I went because Robert wanted me to inspect the new paten Aurifabro was making. I tried to pass the duty to someone else, but he was insistent, so I had no choice.’
‘Did you like the paten?’ Bartholomew was wholly out of his depth in the discussion; even Michael, who hated travelling, was not this insular.
‘Oh, yes. It is a fabulous piece, and it is a pity that Yvo cancelled the commission.’ Ramseye shuddered. ‘The journey was a nightmare, though. It was pouring with rain and freezing cold. I am sure Robert picked a dismal day on purpose, to intensify my misery. As I said yesterday, my uncle could be cruel.’
‘You also said that you believe he is dead.’
‘I do. Why else would he abandon the comfortable life he had here? Besides, there is Pyk to consider. He is missing, too, which almost certainly means that someone killed them. A natural disaster, such as a fallen tree or a bolting horse, is unlikely to have taken them both and left no trace.’
‘Then who is the culprit?’
Ramseye gave the sly smirk Bartholomew remembered so well. ‘Well, the obvious choice is those who might benefit from his departure – namely Yvo and me. If you ask our brethren, they will probably tell you that we would do anything to be Abbot.’
‘Would it be true?’
‘Yes and no. I do want the abbacy, not for personal gain, but because I believe I can take Peterborough to new levels of greatness. I am not a murderer, though. However, I cannot say the same for Yvo – there is a ruthless streak beneath that insipid exterior.’
There was a ruthless streak in Ramseye, too, thought Bartholomew, one that looked the other way while Nonton and Welbyrn won votes for him by bullying. ‘You think Yvo arranged to have your uncle killed?’
‘I did not say that – I merely pointed out that he has a motive. However, he is not the only one. Your gentle Henry was often the butt of Robert’s sharp tongue, and the bedesfolk did not like him either, while our tenants hated him for being a harsh landlord.’
‘Are there any suspects who stand out above the others?’
‘Not really: they all despised him with equal passion. But I can tell you one thing: if Michael intends to provide Gynewell with a killer, he will have his work cut out for him. I doubt this particular mystery will ever be solved.’
Bartholomew was grateful when Yvo eventually stood to intone grace, allowing him to escape. He liked Ramseye no more as a man than he had as a youth, and was sorry the abbey had been obliged to endure his disagreeable presence for so many years. It deserved better.
Outside, he breathed in deeply of air that was rich with the scent of scythed grass and ripening crops. Sheep bleated in the distance, and swallows swooped around the nests they had built under the refectory’s eaves. He closed his eyes, but opened them in alarm when something breathed heavily and hotly on the back of his neck. It was his stallion, saddled and ready to go to Torpe. It eyed him challengingly, as if it knew there was about to be another contest of wills, one it fully intended to win.
‘Are you going to stand there daydreaming or shall we go?’ asked Michael.
He was already astride his own horse, and with him were four of the abbey’s defensores, dour, unsmiling men wearing an eclectic collection of armour. Yet they did not carry themselves like soldiers, and Bartholomew suspected they had been selected for their savage looks rather than their skill with weapons. Knowing he was being watched, he climbed into the saddle with as much grace as he could muster – not a vast amount, but at least he did not embarrass himself – and followed Michael out of the abbey.
Torpe lay west of the town, along a road that wound pleasantly through woods and farmland and occasionally touched the banks of the meandering River Nene. After a mile, the countryside turned into untamed heath,
land that had once been under the plough but that had been abandoned after the plague. It was desolate and unsettling.
‘Aurifabro’s estates,’ explained one defensor. ‘He bought it for a pittance when the Death took all the farmers, and says it will make him rich when there is a demand for good pasture in the future.’
‘It would be a lonely place to die,’ said Michael, looking around uneasily. ‘I am not a man for fancy, but even the trees look depressed.’
Bartholomew knew what he meant, especially when they passed a lightning-blasted oak and its dead branches swayed to release a moan that sounded uncannily human. His disquiet transmitted itself to his horse, which promptly began to prance.
‘Grip with your knees,’ instructed Michael. ‘And shorten the reins. Lord, Matt! Do you remember nothing of what I have tried to teach you?’
‘We should have walked,’ muttered Bartholomew.
Michael was about to argue when the oak groaned with such heart-rending sorrow that the defensores crossed themselves and even he felt impelled to spur away from it. Bartholomew was concentrating on keeping his seat, but in the corner of his eye the ivy-swathed tree suddenly took on the shape of a monster with branches like ragged wings. Yet when he gazed directly at it, stomach churning with foolish alarm, the discomfiting image had gone.
The stallion was unsettled and took off like an arrow. Bartholomew let it have its head, hoping a gallop would tire it out. Unfortunately, once it was going it was reluctant to stop, and no amount of rein-shortening or knee-gripping could induce it to slow down. It entered Torpe in a fury of thundering hoofs, scattering chickens and goats, and he was aware of startled villagers stopping to gape.
It raced past a chapel, and Bartholomew was just wondering whether they might overshoot the village and carry on to the next one, when it veered into a cobbled yard. With nowhere left to run, it came to a standstill, and showed its disdain for its rider by ignoring his attempts to steer it back to the road and ambling towards a hay-filled manger. The physician jumped in alarm when he heard the unmistakable sound of a crossbow being wound.
‘Leave,’ came a low voice that dripped menace. ‘Now.’
Bartholomew twisted around in the saddle to see three of Aurifabro’s mercenaries, two of whom had weapons trained on him. Their captain stood with his hands on his hips, his face full of angry indignation.
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, pulling hard on the reins in an effort to separate horse from fodder. The animal ignored him and continued to munch. ‘Is Aurifabro at home?’
‘No,’ said the captain shortly. ‘And he did not say when he would be back.’
‘I will wait.’ Bartholomew was keen to dismount and recover from his furious ride.
‘You will not. We have orders to repel visitors while he is away, and that is what we shall do. Now get out, before I give orders to shoot you.’
To give emphasis to the threat, one of his cronies released a crossbow bolt, which snapped into the ground by the horse’s hoofs. The beast released a frightened whinny, and Bartholomew found himself on the move again. Fortunately, it turned left on leaving the yard, thus retracing its steps; he was vaguely aware of the astonished villagers watching him hurtle past a second time. The stallion slowed when it reached Michael and the defensores, its sides heaving and saliva foaming from its mouth.
‘Where did you take it?’ asked Michael disapprovingly. ‘Scotland? You have exhausted the poor creature.’
‘The “poor creature” almost got me killed,’ said Bartholomew crossly, dismounting while he could. He shoved the reins at Michael. ‘Aurifabro is out, his mercenaries are in, and I am walking back to Peterborough.’
The monk had no more luck in persuading the soldiers to let him into Aurifabro’s house than had Bartholomew, and he was disgruntled when he finally caught up with the physician.
‘That was a waste of a morning,’ he grumbled. ‘I shall mention Aurifabro’s lack of cooperation in my report to Gynewell. And you should not have stormed off alone. Two men disappeared on this road, you know.’
‘I thought I might find some clues if I travelled on foot,’ explained Bartholomew, moving so that the monk was between him and the stallion. The beast was guilelessly docile now it was being led by a man who knew what he was doing.
‘You found something?’ asked Michael eagerly.
‘No. However, if I had to pick somewhere to commit murder, the Torpe road would be high on my list of choices. No one lives on the part Aurifabro owns, large sections are obscured by trees, and there are ditches galore to hide in.’
They continued in silence, past a cluster of buildings that Bartholomew had barely noticed when he had been struggling to stay mounted. It was St Leonard’s Hospital, and a familiar figure stood outside its gate.
‘It is Botilbrig,’ said Michael. ‘Does he loiter at every entrance to the town?’
‘You are needed,’ the bedesman informed Bartholomew. ‘Lots of people are desperate for medical attention now that Pyk is gone. Some are waiting for you inside.’
‘I told them you would pass this way,’ said William apologetically, emerging to stand next to him. Clippesby was there, too. ‘Their plight moved me, and I thought you would not mind. Besides, they offered to show me their holy well if I helped to secure them a few moments of your time, and I like sacred things.’
‘They will need more than a few moments,’ murmured Clippesby, who had a piglet under one arm and a duck under the other. ‘There are dozens of them.’
‘Are you ready?’ asked Botilbrig, indicating the hospital with a gnarled hand.
‘I cannot refuse, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw Michael’s brows draw together in an irritable frown. ‘It would be unethical.’
Michael gave a gusty sigh, then lowered his voice so their colleagues would not hear. ‘I suppose I can replace you with William for the rest of the day, just this once. Do you mind keeping Clippesby? He should not be left alone.’
‘He should not,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He is still upset about Joan’s murder and—’
‘I am more concerned that he does not do something to show he is no saint,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Our continued comfort depends on it, so please be careful.’
‘You should not have lied about that,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘The truth is bound to emerge, and when it does, you will have some awkward questions to answer.’
‘Then we shall have to ensure it does not,’ said Michael, unrepentant.
The Hospital of St Leonard was larger than St Thomas’s, although it was Norman rather than Gothic. It boasted a range of picturesque cottages, sheds and stables, but its core comprised a chapel and an adjoining two-storeyed building with a hall on its ground floor and three smaller chambers above.
The hall had once held beds for lepers, but as its days of dealing with incurable diseases were over, it had been converted into a pleasant common room. There was a hearth at one end, in which a fire glowed despite the warmth of the day, and its furniture was simple but elegant. Several bedesmen were clearing a long trestle table of what looked to have been an ample meal, suggesting that Peterborough’s monks were not the only ones who knew how to cater to their personal comfort.
A long line of people stood patiently outside the hall, and Bartholomew assumed they were queuing for alms until he noticed that most were too well dressed to be beggars. With a start, he realised they were waiting to see him, and wondered if half of Peterborough had turned out. He jumped in alarm at a sudden shriek.
‘I am a bat,’ cried an elderly man, flapping his arms. ‘Get out of my way, or I shall entangle myself in your hair.’
‘Simon the cowherd,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘He has been without his wits for years now, and is one of us bedesmen. We did our best to make him sleep today, given that he is inclined to be disruptive, but he refused to drink the flagon of wine we tried to feed him.’
‘Bats never entangle themselves in hair, Simon,’ said Clippesby, addressing the
cowherd softly and kindly. ‘It is a tale often put about, but it is wholly untrue.’
Simon lowered his arms and regarded the Dominican warily. ‘How do you know?’
‘They told me so themselves,’ replied Clippesby matter-of-factly.
Bartholomew was disconcerted when the remark was repeated in awed murmurs down the line of patients, but no one laughed, and there were further whispers that this was evidence of the Dominican’s saintliness. Entirely unwittingly, Clippesby reinforced the belief by favouring Simon with one of his sweetest smiles, an expression that revealed his innate goodness.
‘They talk to me, too,’ hollered the cowherd, beginning to dance again. ‘And so do the pigs and the bumblebees.’
‘Then you must tell me what they say.’ Clippesby caught his hand and led him to sit by the window; Simon went quietly, like a child.
‘That is the calmest he has been in years,’ said a tall, silver-haired man wonderingly. ‘Clippesby truly is holy. We are blessed today, with visits from a saint and a physician.’
‘I am having a consultation with both,’ announced Botilbrig. ‘They are only here because they took a liking to me yesterday, so I am within my rights to demand it.’
‘They had better tend Kirwell first,’ said the silver-haired man. He bowed to Bartholomew. ‘My name is Prior Inges, head of this fine hospital.’
‘I should have been Prior, rightly speaking,’ interposed Botilbrig. ‘As I am the eldest resident – other than Kirwell, of course. But Abbot Robert told me I was not clever enough, and appointed Inges instead. It was not very nice, actually.’
Inges ignored him. ‘Once you have seen Kirwell, I shall show you the healing well. You can begin seeing patients after that.’
‘Can I now?’ muttered Bartholomew, resenting the presumption.
‘Kirwell is our own saint,’ Inges went on, ‘whom God has blessed with an especially long life. He is a hundred and forty-three years old.’
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 9