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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Do they?’ asked Inges. ‘Pyk never said so.’

  ‘So this paragon of the medical profession was fallible after all,’ mused Michael. ‘Even I knew that. Well, I suppose I learned it because of Clippesby. He likes familiar places when he is deranged.’

  ‘You mean deranged in his sainthood,’ said Inges.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michael hastily. ‘That is exactly what I meant.’

  ‘Speaking of troubled minds, Kirwell is upset about Lady Lullington,’ Inges went on. ‘He feels it is not fair that she should precede him to Heaven when she was only a third of his age. It is Oxforde’s doing that he has lived so long, of course – him and his prayer.’

  ‘What prayer?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Oxforde composed one the night before he was hanged,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘And told Kirwell that as long as he kept it secret, he would enjoy a long and comfortable life.’

  ‘But recently, Kirwell has expressed a desire to die.’ Inges took up the tale. ‘So he gave the prayer to Abbot Robert, expecting to perish immediately. It did not work, and now he fears that he might be cursed with immortality. I hope he is, as the revenues would be—’

  ‘Cursed with immortality?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Most people would relish it.’

  ‘Not if they do not have eternal youth to go with it,’ replied Inges. ‘And poor Kirwell can do nothing but sleep and eat. Now he wishes that God had never bathed him in that miraculous glow at Oxforde’s tomb all those years ago.’

  ‘The glow that sounds like a shaft of sunlight?’ asked Bartholomew pointedly.

  Inges glared. ‘It was the Lord pointing at the Earth. Of course, I doubt He meant that particular grave to become a shrine, which is what those greedy bedeswomen made it into. Oxforde was a very nasty criminal, and should not be revered.’

  ‘I heard that Gynewell came here specifically to suppress the cult,’ said Michael.

  ‘He did,’ nodded Inges. ‘But it earns a fortune, so Abbot Robert let it start up again. The monastery is fond of money.’

  ‘So we are beginning to understand,’ murmured Michael.

  As the monks were still fiddling with their purifying accoutrements, Bartholomew went to ensure that being rousted from his bed had not been too great a strain for Kirwell. It did not take him long to ascertain that the old man was so deeply asleep that he probably did not know that he had been moved. Meanwhile, Michael sidled through the spectators, listening to scraps of conversation and noting who was standing with whom.

  ‘We wanted to wait for the Bishop,’ Marion was telling Henry and Appletre. ‘But Prioress Hagar said we have a duty to get the chapel back to normal as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Too right,’ declared Hagar, overhearing and going to join them. ‘Joan caused a lot of disruption by getting herself killed in here. Of course, she did have it coming to her.’

  ‘You think she deserved to be murdered?’ asked Henry, shocked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of her sordid “friendship” with Robert,’ explained Hagar, pursing her lips. ‘There will be none of that sort of thing now I am Prioress.’

  ‘It was inappropriate,’ agreed Henry sanctimoniously, although Appletre’s round face showed more understanding. ‘But I liked Joan, regardless.’

  Hagar shrugged. ‘She was all right, I suppose. But St Thomas’s Hospital will be happier and better run under me.’

  ‘It is nicer already in some ways,’ acknowledged Marion. ‘We are free to carry out our duties without interference – Joan was constantly watching us, to make sure we were not shirking.’

  ‘I plan on doing very little supervision,’ said Hagar airily. ‘I shall have more important matters to occupy my time.’

  ‘Yet I wish we could wait for the Bishop,’ said Marion unhappily. ‘Yvo says he is ecclesiastically equipped to perform this sort of ceremony, too, but we only have his word for it.’

  ‘He does possess the necessary authority,’ Appletre assured her. ‘And—’

  ‘Well, our pilgrims will be glad when we are open for business again.’ Hagar cut across him rudely. ‘They all love Oxforde. They love St Thomas’s relics, too, but not as much.’

  ‘Speaking of relics, where is the stone that killed Joan?’ asked Appletre, his blue eyes wide in his chubby, red-cheeked face. He crossed himself.

  ‘Back on the altar,’ replied Hagar. ‘I wiped some of the blood off it, but the rest we shall leave. People will assume it is St Thomas’s.’

  ‘That would be dishonest,’ said Henry sternly.

  ‘Only if they find out,’ interrupted Hagar with a predatory grin. ‘But I cannot stand here chattering. As Prioress, I have a great deal to do.’

  She sailed off, head held high, and Michael followed. When Bartholomew came to stand next to him, the monk was watching her berate Lullington for prising a crucifix off the wall when he had come to collect his wife’s personal effects. It belonged to the hospital, and she wanted it back.

  ‘She might have murdered Joan,’ Michael said in a low voice, watching her poke the knight in the chest when he started to argue. ‘There is a chilling ruthlessness in her.’

  ‘The same can be said about a lot of the people we have met since arriving here,’ replied Bartholomew soberly.

  As the ceremony still showed no signs of beginning, Bartholomew and Michael went to find out why. The reason soon became clear: Ramseye was asking questions that had Yvo reaching anxiously for his prayer book to assure himself that he knew what he was doing. Welbyrn was with them, smirking at the Prior’s increasing discomfiture.

  ‘Ramseye is undermining his confidence,’ murmured Michael. ‘So he will appear the better candidate when the election comes. A sly tactic, but an effective one.’

  Yvo’s voice was shrill with agitation as he responded to Ramseye’s latest query. ‘But I cannot stamp my Writ of Cleansing with the abbey’s seal, because I do not have it. Robert took it with him, if you recall.’

  ‘So he did,’ sighed Ramseye. ‘Never mind. People will probably accept the writ without it. Just state that you do hold the Bishop’s authority, and I am sure they will believe you.’

  The tone of his voice made it abundantly clear that he thought they would not.

  ‘Are you sure there is not another purple cope in the vestments chest?’ asked Welbyrn before Yvo could respond. ‘I thought we had one that fitted you.’

  ‘This one will suffice,’ said Ramseye with a patently false smile, as the Prior looked down at himself in dismay. ‘Just remember not to turn your back on the congregation.’

  Bartholomew had no particular liking for the Prior, but he thought that what Ramseye and Welbyrn were doing was cruel. He was about to say so to Michael when Welbyrn spotted him. The treasurer’s thick features creased into an ugly scowl.

  ‘Bartholomew! You will leave before the ceremony begins. I do not want you here.’

  Ramseye started at his crony’s outburst. ‘He can stay if he likes.’

  ‘No! He will criticise our theology, just as he did years ago.’

  ‘Nonsense! We are obedientiaries now, while he is just a physician.’

  ‘A physician with opinions about me,’ spat Welbyrn angrily. ‘He—’

  ‘We should make sure there are enough candles,’ interrupted Ramseye briskly. ‘I do not trust Trentham to do it, as his distress over Lady Lullington means he is not very reliable at the moment. Come, Brother.’

  He hustled Welbyrn away before the treasurer could say anything else, leaving Bartholomew perplexed by the depth of his old tutor’s dislike.

  ‘He is bellicose with everyone these days, so do not take him amiss,’ said Yvo, watching them go with a sullen expression. ‘I suspect he finds the post of treasurer too onerous. I shall relieve him of it when I am Abbot, so that he can become a simple monk again. But never mind him. Help me with this cope.’

  It was a fine vestment, and its exquisite quality was another indication of the abbey’s wealth. Unfortunately, Welbyrn had been right
to remark that it did not fit: it was far too big, and trailed rather ridiculously on the floor. From its ample size, Bartholomew assumed it had been made for Robert.

  ‘I wish I had not consented to do this,’ said Yvo wretchedly, clearly aware that he did not cut as majestic a figure as his predecessor. ‘I know we are losing pilgrim-money while the chapel is out of action, but I would sooner have waited for the Bishop.’

  ‘So why did you agree?’ asked Michael.

  Yvo’s misery intensified. ‘Prioress Hagar is a very persuasive woman.’

  He shuffled away despondently, and Bartholomew wondered whether it would be the absurdly oversized cope or his painful nervousness that would underline the fact that Yvo was wholly incapable of filling Robert’s shoes.

  ‘Hagar has her arm around Trentham,’ remarked Michael, ‘but whatever she is whispering in his ear is of no comfort, because he has started to cry again. We had better intervene. He has important duties to perform in a moment.’

  ‘I have just informed him that Joan’s will stipulates she is to be buried next to Oxforde,’ explained Hagar. ‘Indeed, it says we cannot have any of her belongings unless this wish is carried out. However, we cannot have common workmen rooting about near our shrine, so I have just told Trentham that he must dig her grave. He is our chaplain, after all.’

  ‘But I do not know how,’ sobbed Trentham. ‘I am a priest, not a sexton.’

  ‘We shall bury her on Thursday,’ said Hagar breezily, ‘so you have five days to master the skill. I am sure you will not let us down.’

  And with that she bustled off to her next prey, leaving Trentham staring after her tearfully. Gratefully, he accepted the scrap of clean linen that Bartholomew offered, to wipe his face and blow his nose.

  ‘I am sorry for what I said,’ he snuffled. ‘About you failing to help Lady Lullington. I know it was not your fault, but I was upset. She was my friend, you see.’

  ‘You can make up for your unkind words by answering a few questions,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could say he understood. ‘Start by telling us what you thought of Robert.’

  ‘He was not very nice,’ obliged Trentham, dabbing at his eyes. ‘Lady Lullington asked him to visit shortly after she was taken ill, but he never bothered. And he was horrible to Henry – he taunted him about being lame and the amount of time he likes to pray.’

  ‘What had Henry done to attract his ire?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew groaned, suspecting this ‘evidence’ would be used to promote his old classmate as a suspect for murder.

  ‘He is pious, which made Robert look irreligious,’ explained Trentham. ‘But I miss Pyk much more than the Abbot. He was kind to my old people, and he often “forgot” to charge the paupers in my parish for his services. He was a wonderful man.’

  ‘He was not friends with Spalling, was he?’ asked Michael wryly.

  ‘Spalling is right to draw attention to the plight of the poor,’ said Trentham with youthful intensity. ‘A family of beggars live near my church, and they suffered horribly last winter. It should not have happened when the abbey drips with riches.’

  ‘Then why did you not make Robert aware of their plight?’

  ‘I did, several times, and he said he would arrange for alms, but they never came. I do not know whether it slipped his mind or if he instructed Ramseye not to pay. Regardless, his heartlessness did not endear him to me or to my parishioners.’

  ‘Are these beggars the kind to bear a grudge?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Or can you name anyone else who might have wanted to make an end of Robert?’

  Trentham shook his head. ‘None of my flock are killers. Personally, I think the culprit was the enormous meal Robert devoured before he left. Pyk could not save him, so he rolled him in a ditch and fled before he could be accused of malpractice.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Physicians are not—’

  ‘I do not blame him,’ interrupted Trentham. ‘Indeed, if you are ever in a similar situation, I recommend you do it yourself. The abbey can be viciously vengeful.’

  The reconsecration ceremony did not last long. Yvo gabbled through it so fast that even William was impressed – and he was famous for the brevity of his offices. Bartholomew could only assume that Yvo thought a speedy service would not give his critics time to pick holes in his performance. All the while, he sprayed holy water around with such unrestrained generosity that those standing at the front were dripping by the time he had finished.

  The rite ended with a procession around the chapel, but when Yvo reached the door that led to the abbey, he kept on going, leaving the congregation to stand uncertainly, sure there must be more to come. Once they realised there was not, Hagar announced that applications could now be made for visiting Oxforde’s shrine. The bedeswomen were on hand to collect donations, and those who did not offer enough were invited to return another day.

  Some of the monks, including Henry and the Unholy Trinity, lingered to exchange polite greetings with the townsfolk, while Bartholomew and Michael listened to Langelee carping about Spalling’s rabble-rousing. Then Appletre joined them, babbling amiably about how he was torn between disappointment that the ceremony had been devoid of music and relief that Yvo had not tried to sing. Langelee waited impatiently for him to finish so he could resume his diatribe, gazing absently at the other obedientiaries as he did so. Then he frowned and his finger came up to point.

  ‘I know you! You lived in York once.’

  The remark was aimed at Nonton the cellarer, whose bleary eyes and red face suggested that he had been assiduous in checking the quality of his supplies that day.

  ‘Rubbish,’ retorted Nonton loudly, his brusque reply causing a number of people to turn and look at him. ‘I have never been there.’

  ‘Yes, you have, Brother Cellarer,’ countered Henry. ‘You went for a year, because we had to send an envoy to the Archbishop’s court, and Robert said you were the most easily spared.’

  ‘I knew it!’ cried Langelee, pleased with himself, although Nonton scowled furiously, and Bartholomew suspected that Henry would have been wiser to hold his tongue. ‘We met when the Archbishop’s new Mint opened, and there was a party afterwards. It was you who drank that whole jug of fermented honey and then did an impression of—’

  ‘Not me,’ interrupted Nonton, flushing crimson. ‘As cellarer, I am obliged to be abstemious, so it must have been someone else.’

  Bartholomew and Michael were not the only ones to exchange amused glances at this claim. Nonton’s anger deepened when he saw people were laughing at him.

  ‘It is true!’ he declared. ‘Any wine I consume is purely medicinal, for my chilblains. And I dislike being away from Peterborough, so I always expunge such journeys from my mind. If I was ever in York, I will have forgotten about it, so please do not attempt to discuss it with me again. You will be wasting your breath.’

  ‘If you hate leaving us so much, why do you always volunteer to go with Welbyrn when he visits Lincoln?’ asked Henry. His smile was innocently curious.

  ‘Because it is good for the soul to undertake unpleasant duties occasionally,’ snapped Nonton, ice in his voice. He turned away, to indicate the discussion was over.

  ‘It was him in York,’ whispered Langelee to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘I could never forget such entertainment as he provided that night. However, I understand why he is reluctant to confess – half the town is listening.’

  Clippesby and William came to join them, Cynric at their heels, and together they watched the chapel begin to empty of spectators. Lullington was among those who lingered. He stood at the altar, and stared so long and hard at the stone that had been used to kill Joan that the scholars’ interest was piqued. They moved towards him, and Michael sneezed when they were met by a potent waft of perfume.

  ‘He smells like a whore,’ muttered William in disgust.

  ‘A costly whore,’ whispered Langelee. ‘The Deputy Sheriff’s lady uses that scent, and a pot of it would keep Michaelhou
se in victuals for a month. Lullington has expensive tastes. That tunic is new, too. I wonder if he has been spending his wife’s money.’

  ‘Our condolences, Sir John,’ said Michael to the knight. ‘We were sorry to hear of your loss.’

  ‘What loss?’ demanded Lullington, whipping around to glower at him.

  ‘Your wife,’ replied Michael, taken aback by the peculiar response. ‘She died.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Lullington. ‘Yes. I shall miss her.’

  Trentham was trimming the altar candles, but he turned when he heard the knight’s remark. ‘In that case, you should pay your last respects. You were not with her when she passed away, so saying a prayer over her body is the least you can do now.’

  Lullington pulled a face. ‘I have seen more than my share of corpses in the battles I have fought. Must I be subjected to more of them in the evening of my life?’

  ‘What battles?’ asked Langelee keenly, while Bartholomew thought the knight’s life was more mid-afternoon than evening, and wondered how he had persuaded the King to let him retire so early. ‘I was a soldier myself before I took to scholarship and know a thing or two about warfare. And Cynric and Bartholomew were at Poitiers.’

  ‘I cannot recall,’ hedged Lullington. ‘I played significant roles in so many that they merge together in my mind.’

  ‘Well, never mind, because you can oblige me in another way,’ said Langelee, rubbing his hands together in happy anticipation. ‘I have not had the opportunity to hone my swordplay since arriving here, so we shall spar together. I can promise you a very good—’

  ‘No!’ cried Lullington in alarm. ‘I am too old.’

  ‘Nonsense! You are in your prime.’

  ‘Perhaps he will challenge you to a game of chess instead, Master,’ said Cynric acidly. ‘I imagine that is his preferred form of combat.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lullington, missing the sarcasm in the suggestion. ‘I shall be happy to defeat you at chess, Langelee. I am rather good at that.’

  ‘Your wife, Sir John,’ said Trentham impatiently. ‘If you really have seen so many corpses, then one more will make no difference. And it is not as if you were close. You could not even recall her name when I asked you for it last night, to put in my register.’