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

by Gregory, Susanna

‘The chicken is salty, too,’ said Michael, unrepentant.

  They were about to leave the Swan when Langelee arrived with Cynric and Spalling, the latter still wearing his farmer’s smock and hat. The Master slid on to the bench next to Michael, his face sombre, although Cynric remained with his new friend, pausing only to give the briefest of smiles to his old ones. The book-bearer and Spalling joined a group of carpenters at a table by the fire.

  ‘Peterborough is full of rebels,’ Langelee whispered. ‘Word that Spalling is fomenting unrest has reached the surrounding villages and farms, and people are flocking to join his little army. They are not soldiers, of course, but they already vastly outnumber Aurifabro’s mercenaries and the abbey’s defensores.’

  ‘Is this the beginning of the country-wide uprising that Cynric has been talking about ever since the plague?’ asked Michael. ‘And if so, does it pose a danger to my University?’

  ‘Possibly, although Spalling is concentrating his ire on the merchants at the moment. Specifically Aurifabro, who is sitting in the corner: look.’

  Bartholomew had not noticed the goldsmith while they had been talking, although Aurifabro had evidently noticed them, because he was scowling in their direction.

  ‘He has been glaring at us ever since we arrived,’ said Michael loudly. ‘I ignored him, as I do not allow other patrons’ bad manners to interfere with the important business of eating.’

  ‘Yes, I have been watching you,’ Aurifabro called back. Two mercenaries sat with him, while more lurked in the shadows leading to the kitchen. ‘You intend to blame me for Robert’s murder, and I will not have it.’

  The buzz of conversation in the tavern faded as people turned to see what was happening.

  ‘If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,’ said Michael coolly.

  ‘I am innocent,’ growled Aurifabro. ‘Forget it at your peril.’

  He stood up and stalked towards the door, his henchmen at his heels. Unfortunately, the path he chose took him past Spalling, who stretched out a burly arm to stop him.

  ‘My home is full of hungry men, women and children,’ the rebel declared in a voice like a trumpet. ‘The food has been taken from their mouths by the rich.’

  The mercenaries surged forward to push him away, and Cynric leapt to his feet with a dagger in his hand. Instinctively, Bartholomew started to go to the book-bearer’s aid, but Michael grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back. Then Landlord Piel arrived to interpose himself between the two factions.

  ‘Enjoy a quiet drink, if you will, Spalling,’ he said angrily, ‘but I will not have you haranguing my other customers. So either shut up or get out.’

  ‘I shall harangue whoever I like,’ declared Spalling indignantly. ‘It is not for you to still the voice of the oppressed. And if you try, I shall order your tavern burned to the ground when the time comes to redress this wicked imbalance between the classes—’

  He got no further, for the mercenaries seized his arms and marched him towards the door. He was a large man, but they were used to dealing with people who did not like where they were being taken, and his struggles, while determined, were futile. Bartholomew twisted away from Michael and hurried to prevent Cynric from going to Spalling’s rescue, but Cynric was no fool – he knew his chances of defeating so many professional soldiers were slim and he made no attempt to intervene.

  ‘You see, Brother?’ asked Langelee. ‘Spalling makes remarks like that wherever he goes – churches, taverns, the market. I hope to God he never learns that our University has more wealth than is decent. Cynric has said nothing so far, but he is so enamoured of the fellow that I fear trouble in the future.’

  ‘How dangerous is Spalling, exactly?’ asked Michael uneasily.

  Langelee shrugged. ‘Well, my Archbishop would not have liked him operating in his domain, and would have sent me to take care of the matter.’

  Michael winced. None of the Fellows were comfortable with what the Master had done for a living before he had decided that an academic career would be more rewarding. ‘I shall warn Gynewell. He must have the wherewithal to deal with this sort of situation.’

  He spoke just as Bartholomew returned to the table with Cynric, who frowned when he heard the last remark.

  ‘Spalling is a great leader,’ the book-bearer declared. ‘With vision. The Bishop will not want him silenced, because Gynewell is a decent man, too.’

  ‘As far as I can tell, most of Spalling’s “vision” revolves around how to transfer other people’s money to the poor – with him as their banker,’ countered Langelee acidly.

  Cynric shook his head earnestly. ‘You misunderstand him, Master. He sees the injustice of a situation where most of us work for a pittance while a minority grows fat from our labours, and he has solutions.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘To remove excess wealth from those with too much, and give it to those who have nothing,’ explained Cynric. ‘It is simple, but fair.’

  ‘Do you want a pay rise, then?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘I suppose we can manage one, although it will put the College in—’

  ‘No, you have always been generous.’ Cynric smiled, and continued. ‘But Spalling predicts great changes, ones that will result in a more equitable world. I am inclined to help him in his struggle.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Is this your way of telling us that you want to leave Michaelhouse? But what about your wife?’

  ‘She will understand, and it will not be for ever – just until this revolution has come to pass. Spalling needs men like me, who are handy with a sword.’

  ‘You mean he plans to fight for this paradise?’ Bartholomew was dismayed.

  ‘Only if the wealthy resist,’ replied Cynric. ‘But they will not, because they will see that surrendering their riches is the proper thing to do.’

  ‘You know better than that, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Spalling had dosed the book-bearer with some substance that had addled his wits. ‘No one parts with money willingly. Especially people who have a lot of it.’

  ‘They will when they see how many people are on our side. Please do not try to stop me, boy. You know I have felt strongly about this for a very long time.’

  ‘I will not stand by while you do something so manifestly reckless,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are my friend. I will not see you hanged as an insurgent when—’

  ‘I am doing what I think is right.’ Cynric gripped the physician’s arm in a rare and shy gesture of affection. ‘Just as you have always encouraged me to do. But I should take Spalling home now. We have had enough speeches for tonight.’

  He nodded a farewell and left, stopping only to mutter a few soft words to the carpenters at whose table he had been sitting. As one, they stood and followed him out. Bartholomew stared after them unhappily.

  ‘I will keep trying to talk sense into him,’ promised Langelee, although his grim expression suggested that he did not think he would succeed. ‘How much longer will you be here, Brother? In other words, how long do I have?’

  ‘Three full days,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Plus a little of Wednesday. After which we shall leave whether we have Robert’s killer or not. Oh, look – Lombard slices! When did they arrive? I thought the landlord said he did not have any.’

  ‘Perhaps he ordered them because you declared them your favourites the last time you were here,’ said Langelee. ‘Word has spread that you might be the next Abbot, so he doubtless aims to win your favour. But I had better go and try again to reason with Cynric.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Bartholomew. He stood, but was obliged to rest a hand on the wall to steady himself: the salty leeks had encouraged him to drink too much of Piel’s powerful wine. Michael, who had imbibed twice as much, was perfectly sober, of course.

  ‘The best thing you can do is help find the Abbot,’ said Langelee. ‘But do not worry about Cynric – he will come home with us, even if I have to tie him in a sack and carry him the
re.’

  It was a measure of Michael’s concern for the book-bearer that he did not even look at the Lombard slices as he left the tavern. Bartholomew took one and ate it as he followed, hoping it would mop up some of the wine sloshing around in his stomach.

  Outside, it was a cloudy night with no moon, which made walking difficult, especially along unfamiliar streets and – for Bartholomew – on legs that were embarrassingly wobbly. At one point, he reeled into a wall, scraping his elbow painfully. Then Michael gave a sharp hiss of alarm before grabbing the physician’s arm and hauling him towards the abbey.

  ‘What are you doing?’ slurred Bartholomew, trying to free himself.

  ‘Someone is muttering in French,’ replied the monk, hammering urgently on the door to be let in. ‘Just like the robbers who ambushed us on our way here.’

  Bartholomew had heard no muttering in French, but even so, he was relieved when they were inside the monastery with the gate closed behind them. He jumped when a figure materialised suddenly out of the gloom. It was Yvo, with Lullington and Henry behind him. He peered at them warily, wondering why they should be so far from their beds at such an hour of the night, particularly as they seemed unlikely companions.

  ‘Is anything wrong, Brother Michael?’ asked the Prior.

  ‘Yes – someone was about to attack us,’ declared Michael, fear turning to anger now he was safe. ‘I saw shadows milling about, and I heard them speaking French.’

  Yvo regarded him askance. ‘Peterborough is a busy place, Brother, and shadows “mill about” all the time. Moreover, many folk speak French. Indeed, we are using it now.’

  ‘So we are,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘And there would have been enough time for you to reach the monastery before us – just.’

  ‘I assure you, no one from the abbey—’ Yvo’s angry denial was interrupted by a rap on the door. The guard opened it, and the Unholy Trinity walked in, four defensores at their heels. All were armed.

  ‘I have been looking for you three all evening,’ snapped the Prior, promptly turning his back on the two scholars. ‘I did not give you permission to go out.’

  Welbyrn shrugged with calculated insolence. ‘We went to visit the town’s merchants, to discuss the problem that Spalling has become. It was Ramseye’s idea – and a good one, too.’

  ‘I know how I would deal with the man, left to my own devices,’ muttered Nonton darkly.

  ‘Why did you want us, Father Prior?’ asked Ramseye. He smiled unpleasantly. ‘To help you prepare for your next public appearance, given that the last one was less than impressive?’

  ‘No, he wanted Welbyrn to unlock the treasury for me.’ Lullington spoke before the Prior could defend himself. ‘My wife kept her jewellery there, and I intend to sell it tomorrow.’

  ‘But not before I have selected a piece for the abbey, as stipulated in her will,’ interposed Yvo sharply, treating him to a scowl. ‘Henry is going to choose it, given that he has the best eye for such things.’

  ‘Does he?’ Bartholomew was astonished that his principled friend should possess such a worldly talent.

  ‘You are thinking of hawking your wife’s possessions already, Sir John?’ asked Ramseye in distaste, sparing Henry the need to reply. ‘She is barely cold.’

  ‘I need the money,’ said Lullington stiffly. ‘Her jewels should have been mine years ago, rightfully speaking, but her sly father slipped a clause into our marriage contract, which kept them in her hands all these years. Well, that changes now.’

  ‘He has been making purchases since her death,’ explained Yvo. ‘And we do not want it said that abbey residents decline to pay their bills.’ He addressed Welbyrn. ‘So are you going to open the treasury, or do we stand here all night?’

  Still sniping at each other, the monastics and Lullington moved away, although Henry paused long enough to shoot Bartholomew an amiable smile. The physician watched them go, aware of two things: that Yvo had avoided returning to Michael’s accusation, and that the Unholy Trinity had been very heavily armed for a meeting with merchants. Meanwhile, Michael was angrily indignant that his claim of ambushers had been so summarily dismissed. He stalked to the guest house, where he told Clippesby and William what had happened.

  ‘But no one actually assaulted you?’ asked William. ‘You just saw people lurking and heard them speak French?’

  ‘I could read their intentions,’ snapped Michael, annoyed that even his own colleagues seemed to be doubting his word. ‘They would have been on us had we not fled. And look at Matt’s arm – we did not escape unscathed from the affair.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Clippesby sympathetically.

  ‘I do not trust any of them,’ Michael stormed on before Bartholomew could say that his stumble against a wall could hardly be blamed on someone else. ‘Welbyrn, Nonton, Ramseye, Lullington, Yvo and Henry. All six are on my list of suspects for dispatching Robert.’

  ‘Not Henry,’ said Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Besides, his lame leg means he is unlikely to have reached the abbey before us.’

  Michael ignored him. ‘Then we must remember that the incident took place near St Thomas’s Chapel, where the bedeswomen live and where Reginald has his shop. Meanwhile, Aurifabro and Spalling cannot have gone far.’

  He continued in this vein while Bartholomew, still queasy from the wine and salty leeks, went to lie down. The physician sat on the bed and was about to sink back and close his eyes when there was a knock on the door. He stood hastily when the Unholy Trinity trooped in.

  ‘Yvo has just told us what happened to you,’ declared Ramseye, all righteous indignation. ‘And while he may not be interested in attacks on the Bishop’s Commissioners, we are appalled.’

  ‘We are,’ said Welbyrn. It was impossible to tell whether he was sincere. ‘Especially as he mentioned that you thought the culprits might hail from the abbey.’

  ‘I hope you do not think our defensores are to blame,’ said Nonton, going to the table for wine. ‘Did we not lend you some when you went to Torpe the other day? If they had meant you harm, they would have assaulted you then – on a lonely road, miles from help.’

  ‘Those defensores could not have assaulted anyone,’ William murmured to his colleagues. ‘Nonton detailed the most feeble ones to protect you, and kept the best ones back for himself. He spent the day putting them through various training exercises.’

  ‘Of course, tonight’s affair was your own fault,’ said Welbyrn, frowning as he tried to hear what the Franciscan was muttering. ‘You should not have been out after dark.’

  ‘We were on official business,’ retorted Michael. ‘For the Bishop.’

  ‘In a tavern?’ smirked Ramseye. ‘I shall have to remember that one!’

  ‘We shall discuss it in the morning,’ said Clippesby, as Michael drew breath to make a scathing rejoinder. ‘It is late, and we are all tired.’

  ‘There speaks the saint,’ jeered Welbyrn. ‘We had better do as he suggests, Brothers, because we do not want to be struck down. He might—’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Clippesby’s confusion. He was loath for the Dominican to discover that night what had been claimed about him, as he did not feel equal to soothing the dismay that would certainly follow.

  ‘Or what?’ challenged Welbyrn. ‘You have no authority here. You are nothing but a physician with a sinister interest in corpses.’

  ‘You might find yourself the object of his attentions if you do not shut up,’ snarled William. ‘And Clippesby is right: we shall discuss this matter tomorrow, when you have regained your wits and accept that it is not politic to insult the Bishop’s—’

  ‘Who are you calling witless?’ shrieked Welbyrn with such sudden fury that even the other two members of the Unholy Trinity reacted with shock; Ramseye jerked away from him, and Nonton’s hand went to the knife he carried in his belt. ‘How dare you! It—’

  ‘Come, Welbyrn,’ ordered Ramseye sharply, stepping forward to lay a wary hand on the treas
urer’s arm. When Welbyrn resisted, Nonton came to help, and together, almoner and cellarer bundled him out of the guest house and into the darkness beyond.

  Bartholomew watched William bar the door behind them, thinking that Welbyrn’s face had been abnormally flushed. Was something wrong with him? But he did not feel like pondering medical matters that night. He lay on the bed, but the moment he was comfortable, he realised that he was still very thirsty. Wearily, he started to rise, but William waved him back down and went to pour him some watered wine.

  ‘I heard and saw nothing out there, Brother,’ Bartholomew said, watching the friar fiddle with jugs and goblets and wondering what was taking so long. He felt his eyes begin to close: the Benedictine’s beds really were extremely luxurious, and he wished the ones at Michaelhouse were half as soft. ‘Are you sure you—’

  ‘Of course I did,’ snapped Michael. ‘And so would you, if you had not been drunk. It is fortunate that I remained sober, or we both might be dead.’

  ‘Right.’ Bartholomew was disinclined to argue, although it occurred to him that since Michael had downed a lot more wine than he had, the monk was probably not a reliable witness either. William finally presented him with a brimming beaker, and he was thirsty enough to drain the lot in a single draught. ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘Yes, but you cannot have any,’ said William, regarding the empty goblet in alarm. ‘It is unwise to gulp claret – even watered – after a serious injury, especially for a man who is usually abstemious.’

  Michael began to hold forth again before Bartholomew could inform William that a graze did not constitute a serious injury. Piqued by the friar’s presumptions, Bartholomew considered going to get a drink himself but was not sure he could manage it without reeling, and he was reluctant to let the others see him totter – he would never hear the end of it. He closed his eyes again.

  ‘It might have been anyone,’ the monk was fuming. ‘Aurifabro’s mercenaries, Spalling and his rabble, the obedientiaries and their defensores, the bedesfolk, Reginald…’

  ‘Lullington,’ added William. ‘The abbey servants say he only pretended to be Robert’s friend, in order to accumulate privileges as corrodian. And I saw armour under his gipon tonight.’