‘What did you mean when you said the defensores Nonton lent us were feeble, Father?’ asked Michael, reining in his temper with difficulty. ‘How do you know?’
‘The servants again,’ replied William. ‘Apparently, Nonton has recruited two kinds of soldier: ones who know how to fight, and ones who look fierce but who actually possess no martial skills whatsoever and who are probably cowards. He supplied you with the latter kind.’
Bartholomew began to drowse. Then he supposed he should pay at least some attention to the conversation, so he forced himself to open his eyes. It was not easy, and when he finally managed it the room undulated alarmingly. He wanted to rub his damaged elbow, but his hand was suddenly too heavy to move. What was wrong with him? He tried to speak, but no words came, and when his eyes closed again, a crushing sense of darkness rushed in to meet him.
‘Matt?’ came Clippesby’s anxious voice. ‘Are you ill?’
He sensed his colleagues clustering around him, but it was as if they were speaking from a great distance. He felt himself drift further away, and the last thing he heard before he gave himself to the blackness was Michael’s horrified declaration.
‘The leeks. They were poisoned!’
Bartholomew knew it was Sunday, because he could hear the jubilant jangle of bells, and he also knew he should rouse himself and go to church. Someone else thought so, too, because he could feel his shoulder being shaken with irritating persistence. But he was still tired, and the bed was very comfortable. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
‘I am right: the leeks were poisoned,’ said Michael worriedly, when increasingly strenuous efforts on his part did nothing to jostle the physician awake.
‘It was not the leeks, Brother.’ William’s face was sober. ‘It was the Lombard slices. Clippesby and I visited the Swan as soon as we woke up this morning, and we quizzed Landlord Piel. He denied providing you with any – he has not sold cakes since his wife died. Ergo, someone else left them for you.’
‘You said you were too anxious about your investigation to eat any,’ Clippesby reminded Michael. ‘But that Matt took one on his way out.’
Michael was horrified. ‘They are my favourites, and I said so in both the Swan and the abbey. Anyone might have heard me…’
‘Quite,’ nodded William. ‘I searched the place thoroughly while I was there, but the cakes had disappeared. In other words, the culprit has slyly reclaimed the evidence.’
‘Or someone ate them after we left,’ Michael pointed out.
‘It is not that kind of establishment,’ said William. ‘Its wares are expensive, and the folk who patronise it are wealthy – they do not need to scavenge leftovers from other tables.’
Michael scrubbed at his face. ‘Matt ate one Lombard slice and it has sent him into a stupor. What would have happened to me had I sampled the entire plate?’
‘You would be dead,’ replied William baldly. ‘So we had better ensure we do not touch any food that does not come from a communal pot from now on. Pity – I was growing used to being properly fed; it makes a pleasant change from Michaelhouse.’
Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘Are you sure the Lombard slices were to blame? I tried one of those leeks, and it tasted very odd.’
‘Yes, because while William was looking for the cakes, I interviewed the tavern’s pig,’ said Clippesby. ‘She told me that Piel had over-salted his vegetables by mistake – she overheard him laughing about it with his potboys. The leftovers were in her slops, which did not please her, but she ate them anyway with no ill effects.’
‘So there you are, Brother,’ concluded William. ‘The leeks tasted nasty because there was too much salt, and the poison was in the Lombard slices – the pastries that Piel denies providing, and that have now mysteriously vanished.’
‘Do you think that whoever provided the cakes also ordered you ambushed when you did not eat them?’ asked Clippesby.
‘I hope so,’ said Michael softly. ‘Because I should not like to think there are two lots of people eager to kill me.’
Aware that the stakes had now been raised, and that the time was fast approaching when they would have to return to Cambridge, Michael became businesslike. He sent Clippesby to tell Langelee all they had reasoned, with orders to warn the Master to be on his guard, and told William to watch over Bartholomew.
‘What will you be doing?’ asked the Franciscan.
‘Visiting suspects,’ replied Michael harshly. ‘For trying to dispatch me and for murdering Robert, Pyk, Joan and Lady Lullington.’
‘Perhaps we should leave today,’ said William anxiously. ‘Gynewell cannot expect us to stay when we are in fear of our lives, and we can hire a cart to carry Matthew – he would be safer in one than on horseback, anyway.’
‘I am not in the habit of fleeing from villains,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘And Peterborough deserves answers. We will catch this killer and then we shall see him hang.’
Inspired by his own defiant words, Michael stalked out of the abbey, stopping only to inform a waiting Henry that visitors to the guest house would not be welcome that day. His first port of call was Reginald’s workshop, where a rhythmic hammering told him that the cutler was in. He tried to open the door but it was barred, so he knocked, courteously at first, and then with increasing irritation when there was no answer. Eventually, a grille was snapped open.
‘What do you want?’ barked Reginald.
‘To buy a knife,’ lied Michael. ‘You sell them, do you not?’
‘Yes, but not today. I am busy.’
Michael frowned suspiciously. ‘I am a customer. You cannot be too busy for those.’
‘Well, I am,’ declared Reginald. ‘And I do not do business with bishops’ commissioners, anyway. You have no right to poke your nose into Abbot Robert’s affairs.’
‘I am trying to learn what happened to him,’ replied Michael indignantly, aware that their hollered discussion was attracting amused glances from passers-by. ‘I am told he is probably dead, but there is also a possibility that he is in trouble and requires help. And as one of his friends, you should be doing all you can to assist me.’
‘He will not be in trouble,’ Reginald shouted back. ‘He has probably found a hovel somewhere, and is enjoying the peace and quiet. I would not blame him. His monks are a pious crowd, and I would not want to live among them.’
‘He is an abbot – such men like living among pious monks. And what about Pyk? Will he also be in this mud hut while the whole town mourns his loss?’
‘No, but he might have seized the opportunity to escape from his dreadful wife,’ Reginald shot back. ‘But I am not talking to you any more, because you will try to trick me. Now go away. I do not have any knives to sell you.’
Michael became aware of a presence behind him. It was Botilbrig, standing brazenly close to ensure he did not miss anything.
‘You should not buy one of his blades, anyway,’ he said, not at all discomfited by the monk’s annoyed glare. ‘They are all below standard, and he will cheat you.’
‘I heard that,’ yelled Reginald angrily. ‘There is nothing wrong with my cutlery.’
‘Then show me some,’ challenged Michael. ‘And at the same time, you can tell me why you think I might trick you. You should not be concerned if you have nothing to hide.’
‘He will have something to hide,’ whispered Botilbrig. ‘If there is anything untoward happening in Peterborough, you can be sure that Reginald will be at the heart of it. How else could a mere cutler afford a nice shop and such lovely clothes? There are rumours that he has discovered Oxforde’s treasure, you know.’
‘What treasure?’ asked Michael, forbearing to mention that the shop was squalid and the cutler’s clothes were a long way from being sartorial.
‘The things that Oxforde stole during his life of crime,’ explained Botilbrig impatiently. ‘He amassed a fortune, but he never told anyone where he hid it.’
Michael recalled what Clippesby’s grass
snake was alleged to have said. ‘Spalling maintains that Oxforde gave it all to the poor.’
Botilbrig spat. ‘Spalling never met Oxforde, or he would not make such a ridiculous claim. Oxforde was ruthless and greedy, and would no more have given his ill-gotten gains away than he would have flown to the moon.’
‘Some people believe it, or Oxforde’s shrine would not be so popular.’
‘Fools,’ sneered Botilbrig. ‘All misled by the witches at St Thomas’s Hospital, who have seized on Spalling’s remarks and used them to encourage even more folk to pray at his tomb.’
‘What are you saying out there, Botilbrig?’ demanded Reginald. ‘You had better not be telling him that stupid tale about me finding Oxforde’s treasure. It is a lie – I was not even born when he was hanged. Now go away, both of you, before I come out with my sharpest knife and hack you both to pieces.’
‘We had better do as he says,’ gulped Botilbrig, pulling on the monk’s arm. ‘He went after Master Pyk with a dagger once, just for asking concerned questions about Reginald’s wife. She vanished, you see.’
‘Vanished?’
‘We all suspect he killed her, but that was five years ago, shortly after Robert became Abbot, so you will not get him to admit it now. Too much time has passed. However, it means I do not want him after me with pointed implements.’
Michael turned his attention back to Reginald. It was frustrating, knowing the man might have information to help his enquiries, and he heartily wished he had a pack of beadles at his command, as he did in Cambridge. Beadles made short work of inconvenient doors.
‘How is your friend?’
Michael had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not seen Lullington approach. The knight was wearing a magnificent new cloak, although a light mail tunic could be seen underneath it, which led the monk to wonder what the man had done to warrant such precautions.
‘Still insensible,’ Michael replied shortly. ‘And if he fails to wake, I will not leave Peterborough until I catch the villain who poisoned him.’
‘Do not take that tone with me,’ objected Lullington. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Then who do you think might have done it?’
A sly expression flitted across Lullington’s face. ‘Where to start? Aurifabro is a vicious rogue. Then there is Ramseye, who is as cunning and duplicitous a fellow as I have ever met. Yvo will be innocent, though.’
As Michael knew that Yvo represented Lullington’s best chance of continued luxury, he was inclined to dismiss the last claim.
‘Trentham is also a villain,’ the knight went on. ‘Do not let that look of innocent youth deceive you, because he is a rascal. How dare he tell me how to treat my wife!’
The abbey’s cook, sacrist and brewer were also vilified, and it quickly became apparent that Lullington’s list of suspects just comprised people who had crossed him. Unwilling to waste more time listening to it, Michael went on the offensive.
‘I find it odd that you happened to be by the gate when we returned last night. What—’
‘Yvo has already explained what we were doing,’ snapped Lullington. ‘Waiting to get my wife’s … my jewellery from the treasury. If Welbyrn had not gone out without his Prior’s permission, we would not have been obliged to hang around waiting for him to come back.’
Michael moved to another subject. ‘I understand you and Robert were friends. Yet I am told he could be … difficult.’
‘He probably should not have taken the cowl,’ acknowledged Lullington. ‘He would have done better at court, for he had the wit and cunning to best any politician.’
‘What did you do when you learned he was missing? You, Pyk and Reginald were his particular friends, but Pyk is also lost and Reginald is not a caring man. That leaves you.’
‘What could I do, Brother?’ asked Lullington, spreading his hands. ‘I am a poor corrodian with very little money. Well, that has changed now my wife is dead—’
‘You could have gone to look for him. Did you?’
Lullington was decidedly furtive. ‘No, I left the search to the defensores. It would have been impolite to launch one of my own, and I am not a man to make a nuisance of myself.’
He strode away, leaving the monk staring after him thoughtfully.
Michael spent the rest of the day asking questions about Robert, Pyk, Lady Lullington and Joan, but learned nothing new. He attended vespers as the brash sun of afternoon faded to the softer tones of evening, where the exquisite harmonies of Appletre’s choir went some way to calming his troubled mind – until Yvo joined in and spoiled it with his discordant bray. When the office was over, Henry was waiting to conduct him to the chapter house, where the obedientiaries had assembled to hear a report on his progress.
The chapter house was a large building, designed to hold upwards of eighty monks. Like the church, it combined Norman strength with Gothic elegance, and the stained-glass windows were among the finest Michael had ever seen. A fire had been lit, despite the mild weather, and cushions prevented black-robed posteriors from becoming chilled on the stone seats. Michael sat on the bench that had been placed ready for him, and studied his interrogators.
Prior Yvo had claimed the Abbot’s throne-like chair, but his meagre frame did not fill it, which served to underline the fact that he was a lesser man than his predecessor. Ramseye, inscrutable as always, sat on his right, scribbling on a piece of parchment, while Welbyrn was scowling at the fire as though he might leap up and kick it. Nonton had turned away, pretending to cough while he took a gulp from the flask hidden in his sleeve, and Appletre hummed under his breath, fingers tapping out the rhythm of a new composition.
Somewhat irregularly – seculars were not normally permitted in the chapter house – Lullington was there, preening like a peacock in a handsome tunic bought with his dead wife’s jewels. He wore a sword in his belt, although he should not have been permitted to do so in an abbey, and it occurred to Michael that the obedientiaries aimed to intimidate the Bishop’s Commissioner by inviting an armed knight to the proceedings. Indignation at such tactics turned him testy and confrontational.
‘Why did you not search for Robert when he first failed to return home?’ he demanded.
‘We did,’ objected Yvo, startled by the anger in Michael’s voice. ‘I ordered the defensores to look for him, and Henry took a group of monks to speak to Aurifabro. I do not see what else could have been done.’
‘That was the following day. I want to know why you did nothing that night. For all you knew, he might have had an accident or been robbed. He might have been lying bleeding, waiting for help.’
‘He knew how to look after himself,’ said Ramseye. ‘Besides, Pyk was with him.’
‘I hardly think a physician counts as a bodyguard. They are trained to heal, not fight.’
‘But Pyk’s presence would have deterred robbers,’ explained Appletre, openly dismayed by Michael’s hostility. ‘He was popular, and soldiers are not always the best form of defence.’
He had a point, although Michael did not acknowledge it. ‘None of you went to inspect the road yourselves, to look for clues regarding his murder. Why not?’
‘Because he is not dead,’ snapped Welbyrn, while his colleagues exchanged weary glances behind his back. ‘Besides, none of us know how to do that sort of thing. We are monastics, not spies.’
‘That is why you are here, is it not?’ asked Ramseye silkily. ‘To poke around in ditches and bushes, and deduce answers from what you discover? Gynewell said you have unique talents. Of course, we have yet to see them.’
‘All you have done so far is ask impertinent questions and allow one of your number to be poisoned,’ said Nonton, taking over the attack. ‘Moreover, Joan was killed the moment after you arrived. It is damned suspicious, if you ask me.’
‘Hear, hear,’ crowed Welbyrn, eyes flashing with spite. ‘Before her, there had not been a suspicious death in Peterborough since Oxforde went on the rampage forty-five years ag
o.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Yvo. ‘Ours is a safe, law-abiding town.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael acidly. ‘Then what about Reginald the cutler’s wife, who disappeared five years ago?’
‘She ran away from her brutish husband,’ said Yvo. ‘There is no mystery there. Personally, I cannot imagine why our Abbot made friends with Reginald. I find him a most objectionable fellow.’
‘Perhaps Robert was trying to save Reginald’s soul,’ said Ramseye. The expression on his face was bland, although amusement flashed briefly in his eyes at the notion.
Welbyrn turned on Michael again. ‘From your questions, I assume you have discovered nothing since you arrived – not about Robert and Pyk, and not about Joan either. Moreover, I do not believe Clippesby is a saint. He seems more lunatic than holy to me – not that I am qualified to judge insanity, of course. We do not have madmen in Peterborough.’
‘Simon the cowherd is rational, is he?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘Simon is none of your damned business,’ yelled Welbyrn, so loudly and abruptly that everyone jumped. ‘How dare you pass judgement on him!’
‘He was only defending Clippesby,’ objected Appletre, hand to his chest to indicate the fright he had been given. ‘And your response is—’
He got no further, as Welbyrn surged forward and grabbed him by the front of his habit. Appletre’s rosy cheeks blanched in alarm.
‘You are a damned fool!’ raged Welbyrn, shaking the precentor like a dog with a rat. ‘Robert is not dead and Simon will be cured. You wait and see.’
He shoved Appletre away with such force that the smaller man staggered backwards and ended up in Nonton’s lap. Then Welbyrn stormed out, slamming the door behind him so hard that the sound reverberated like a thunderclap.
‘Does he often explode so?’ asked Michael, in the shocked silence that followed.
‘Just over the last few weeks,’ said Yvo, watching Appletre scramble off the cellarer’s knees. ‘It must be the strain of continuing to believe that Robert is alive when it is obvious that he is dead. Appletre can sing to him later – that should soothe his ragged nerves.’
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 17