Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know?’
‘One of the chaffinches saw them at drill. I doubt these “warriors” will be much use.’
‘I told you the same,’ William reminded him. ‘Only I had it from the abbey’s servants, who are more reliable than birds. But Clippesby is right about one thing, Brother – you will be safer with him and me at your side.’
‘I need you to continue your enquiries here.’ Michael was loath to point out that neither was very useful in a fight. ‘But to deter thieves, I shall borrow an old habit from the abbey, while anyone looking at Matt will know that he is not worth robbing.’
‘You may have mine,’ said William generously, beginning to untie the oily cingulum that cinched it around his waist. ‘No villain would dare attack a Franciscan.’
‘No, thank you.’ Michael was unable to suppress a shudder at the thought of that particular garment next to his skin. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Saddle the horses while I beg a robe from Yvo. It will be far too big, of course, but a belt should help.’
‘Horses?’ gulped Bartholomew, sufficiently alarmed that he did not even smirk at the notion of the bulky Michael fitting into anything owned by the little Prior. ‘If we are pretending to be poor, it would be better to walk.’
‘We shall ride,’ declared Michael. ‘For three reasons. First, it will be faster, and we cannot afford to waste time. Second, it will allow us to escape if outlaws do appear. And third, it is too far to travel on foot.’ He softened. ‘You will not fall off if you grip with your knees and hold the reins as I have taught you.’
Bartholomew was not so sure, but he went to the stable and began the perplexing business of working out which strap went where. Michael appeared long before he had finished, clad in an old brown robe, and promptly began making adjustments to the physician’s handiwork. Then he led his horse outside, sprang into the saddle and started a series of fancy manoeuvres that showed him to be an equestrian par excellence.
Bartholomew muttered resentfully as he tried to keep Clippesby’s gentle mare from shifting about while he fastened the last buckle. He had rejected the black stallion the moment the two of them had made eye contact and he had read what was there.
‘Let me do it,’ said Cynric, making Bartholomew jump by appearing silently at his side. ‘And wait while I saddle mine, too.’
‘You are coming with us?’ asked Bartholomew, standing back in relief.
‘I had intended to ride with you on Sunday, but you were ill then, so I shall do it now instead. Spalling is vexed, but it cannot be helped – you will only get into trouble without me to look after you. Besides, there is a witch in Torpe who sells charms against danger and demons.’
‘Do you think you are in need of them, then?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned for him.
‘They are for you. Danger, because someone poisoned you; and demons, because I do not like what is happening with Oxforde.’
‘Oxforde?’
Cynric pursed his lips. ‘He was an evil rogue, who was buried in the chapel cemetery to prevent him rising from the dead and resuming his reign of terror. But Trentham is digging a hole right next to him, so it is only a matter of time before he escapes.’
Bartholomew knew better than to argue with Cynric on matters of superstition, but he could not help himself. ‘Men who have been dead for forty-five years cannot—’
‘Yes, they can,’ interrupted Cynric with absolute conviction. ‘It is Kirwell’s fault – he encouraged people to pray at this so-called shrine, and Oxforde’s wicked soul is awake and waiting. No wonder Kirwell has been cursed with such a long life! God is furious with him.’
‘I do not think—’
‘You do not understand these things, boy,’ said Cynric darkly. ‘But I will protect you, so do not worry.’
He soon had the horses ready, and once Bartholomew was mounted – no mean feat when even Clippesby’s docile nag knew who was in charge and let the physician know it – they set off towards Torpe. They were accompanied by the same four defensores who had gone with them the last time, although Cynric’s solid presence was far more reassuring to the scholars.
They soon reached the desolate land that Aurifabro had bought after the plague. Its silence was oppressive, the air was heavy with the threat of rain, and there was not so much as a tweet from a bird or a hiss of wind in the trees. Michael was uncommunicative, using the time to ponder the few clues he had gathered, and Cynric was also disinclined to chat. Reluctant to be alone with his thoughts, all of which revolved around Matilde and Julitta, Bartholomew dismounted, better to inspect the side of the road as he went.
‘I have already done that,’ said Cynric immediately.
‘So have I,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But there is no harm in doing it again.’
‘Just be ready to leap back on if I yell,’ warned Cynric. ‘It means robbers are coming and we need to escape. And do not take as long as you did earlier, or we will all die.’
Michael and Bartholomew arrived at Aurifabro’s house to find mercenaries still on guard, but this time the soldiers stepped aside and indicated that the visitors were to ride into the yard. The captain then informed them, in thickly accented English, that the goldsmith was out.
‘We shall wait for him to come back,’ determined Michael, dismounting. ‘And while we do, you can tell me what you know about the Abbot’s disappearance.’
‘Me?’ asked the captain in alarm. ‘Why? The first I heard about it was when Master Aurifabro ordered us to look for Robert and Pyk the following day – when we found nothing.’
Michael smiled wolfishly, more than happy to hone his interrogative skills on the goldsmith’s men. He plumped himself down on a bench, and beckoned the captain towards him. The man advanced warily.
‘I shall have a bit of a scout around, boy,’ whispered Cynric in the physician’s ear. ‘But you will have to distract the servants who are watching us from the kitchen window.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ asked Bartholomew, turning to see at least twenty faces looking at them with undisguised curiosity.
‘With free medical consultations,’ replied Cynric promptly.
Bartholomew baulked, feeling it was underhand, but Cynric was already striding towards the house and had made the offer before he could be stopped. The physician was about to withdraw it when he noticed that one of the servants had an interesting case of rhagades. Telling himself that the deception was defensible if he learned something about the condition to help others, he allowed himself to be led into a large, pleasant room that was spotlessly clean and smelled of fresh bread. He was a little disconcerted when two dozen retainers crowded in behind him with the clear intention of watching him work.
‘Perhaps I might use the scullery?’ he suggested, not liking the notion of an audience while people described what might be embarrassing ailments. It would be unfortunate if he prescribed the wrong treatment because half the symptoms had been deliberately omitted.
‘Why?’ asked the steward, a thickset man named Sylle, who had already mentioned that he had been cousin to the formidable Joan. He sounded bemused. ‘We will be crushed in there, and those at the back may not be able to see.’
‘He seeks to spare our blushes,’ explained an old woman called Mother Udela. She was small and frail, but the others treated her with a reverence verging on awe, not least because she had once travelled to Suffolk, a journey deep into the unknown as far as they were concerned. Bartholomew supposed she was the witch that Cynric had mentioned, and made a mental note to stay away from any discussions of religion.
‘There is no need for sculleries, Doctor,’ said Sylle. ‘We all know each other’s secrets.’
Bartholomew was not entirely happy, but those who lined up to secure his expertise did not seem to mind, and he was soon lost in his work. Most of the ailments were routine, but he took his time with each, not sure how long Cynric would need.
‘It is a pity Fletone is not here,’ said Udela,
watching him lance a boil. ‘He loved this kind of entertainment, and always said he was happiest when Pyk was visiting.’
Bartholomew had never thought of his work as ‘entertainment’ before. ‘Who is Fletone?’
‘A shepherd who died a month ago,’ replied Udela sadly. ‘The day after the Feast of St Swithin.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Abbot Robert disappeared on the Feast of St Swithin.’
‘Yes, coming here to inspect our master’s paten.’ Udela turned to one of the maids. ‘Fetch it, Mary. Doctor Bartholomew will appreciate its fine craftsmanship, and Master Aurifabro is too modest for his own good. His work should be touted about for all to admire.’
‘How did Fletone die?’ asked Bartholomew, more interested in that than the paten.
‘Mountain fever.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘Here? In the Fens?’
‘It is a serious condition,’ averred Udela, while the rest of the household nodded sagely. ‘I did my best, but he was beyond my skills. He needed a man like you.’
‘I have no experience with mountain fever. It is not very common in Cambridge.’
‘It is not very common here, either,’ said Sylle. ‘But Fletone always thought he would die of something unusual, and he was right. He made the diagnosis himself.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a little knowledge was a dangerous thing in his profession.
‘Of course, he was raving by the time Sylle found him,’ Udela went on. ‘He kept claiming that he had seen Pyk die.’
Bartholomew’s pulse quickened. ‘Did he say where?’
It was Sylle who replied. ‘Near that dead oak – the one we call the Dragon Tree – on the Peterborough road, which is where I found Fletone himself. But Pyk did not die there, of course, so it was his ghost that Fletone saw.’
‘How do you know Pyk did not die there?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that every onlooker was clutching some sort of amulet and murmuring incantations. It was, he thought sourly, like being in an entire room full of Cynrics.
‘For two reasons,’ replied Sylle. ‘First, because there was no Pyk when I found Fletone, dead or otherwise. And second, because Fletone’s sickness struck long after Pyk would have ridden past with Abbot Robert. Thus Fletone could not have seen Pyk die.’
‘Did Fletone tell you when he became ill, then?’
‘No, but that is the nature of mountain fever,’ said Udela with total confidence. ‘It strikes hard and fast. If Fletone had already been ill when Pyk and Robert went missing, he would have been dead long before Sylle discovered him the following day. It is a matter of logic.’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Sylle. ‘He was crawling around on the road when I happened across him, and did not survive long after I brought him home.’
‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ said Udela sadly. ‘He lived for Pyk’s visits, and would have hated being without a physician to consult.’
‘What do you think happened to Pyk and Robert?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to make of their tale.
‘Outlaws, most likely,’ replied Sylle. ‘One thing is sure, though: they are definitely dead. Robert would never have abandoned his abbey, and Pyk would never have abandoned us.’
‘Pyk was a good man.’ Udela smiled fondly. ‘He was even nice to Reginald.’
‘That scoundrel!’ spat Sylle, while Bartholomew glanced sharply at Udela, wondering why she should have singled out the cutler for such a remark. ‘He has been up to no good of late, hammering away in his workshop at peculiar hours. And I warrant he is not making knives, either.’
Udela’s bright gaze was on Bartholomew. ‘You started when I spoke Reginald’s name. Why? Do you know something about him that the rest of us do not?’
‘Only that he is dead.’
‘From apoplexy?’ Udela nodded sagely. ‘We always knew he would succumb to that, because Pyk warned him time and again not to drink melted butter, but he refused to listen.’
‘He was a greedy devil,’ said Sylle. ‘And thought of nothing but money. It served him right that there was a rumour saying that he had found Oxforde’s hoard.’
Bartholomew studied him closely, ‘I do not suppose that tale originated in Torpe, did it?’
Sylle’s expression was sly, but the physician could read the truth behind it. ‘Who can say? However, it annoyed him, which was satisfying.’
Bartholomew turned the conversation back to Robert. ‘Did you like the Abbot?’
‘No,’ replied Udela shortly. ‘We do not like any of the monastery’s officers – Welbyrn, Ramseye, Nonton, Yvo, Appletre. We like the common monks though, especially Henry.’
‘My cousin Joan used to tell us such tales about the obedientiaries,’ added Sylle, shaking his head and pursing his lips. ‘Almoners who refuse to feed the poor, cellarers who drink their own wines, treasurers who creep around the town after dark on evil business…’
‘Welbyrn was ill,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the need to protect his old tutor from unfair gossip. ‘He went to St Leonard’s for the healing waters.’
‘Joan never saw him doing that,’ said Sylle. ‘But she did see him meet Reginald at the witching hour, so I think we can safely assume that whatever Reginald was doing in his workshop involved the abbey’s loutish treasurer.’
‘Welbyrn is dead as well,’ said Bartholomew, feeling like a harbinger of doom.
‘I am not surprised,’ sighed Udela. ‘He came to me in a terrible state not long ago, and asked if self-murder was in his stars. It was not and I told him so. However, there were signs that he would not die naturally, although I kept that from him – he was suffering enough already.’
‘Suffering from what?’
‘He thought he was going insane because he kept forgetting things. His father took his own life because he lost his wits, and Welbyrn was afraid that the affliction had passed to him. Pyk told him his fears were groundless and so did I, but he did not believe us.’
No one had any more to add, so Bartholomew worked in silence for a while, tending two earaches, one indigestion and a case of gout. His every move was watched minutely by his audience, and the only sounds were the occasional approving murmur and – once – spontaneous applause. It made a pleasant change from the yawns of bored students.
‘Joan is going to be buried next to Oxforde,’ said Sylle eventually. ‘It was in her will.’
‘I know,’ said Udela disapprovingly. ‘I told her to change it. A good woman like her deserves better than to be near that vile wretch.’
‘But Oxforde is a saint,’ objected Sylle. ‘Miracles have occurred at his grave.’
‘Miracles!’ spat Udela. ‘There were never any miracles. Kirwell lied about that blinding light, just to get a place in the hospital. And he has done well out of it, because it is his life of leisure that has allowed him to live so long, not his purported saintliness.’
‘Abbot Robert always said that Kirwell was holy,’ argued Sylle. ‘So does Prior Yvo.’
‘Because they like the money pilgrims pay to touch him,’ scoffed Udela. ‘But the practice is deceitful, and I hope the new Abbot will put an end to it.’
‘Who will win the post?’ asked Sylle eagerly. ‘Have you consulted the stars?’
Udela inclined her head. ‘Yes, I have, but all I can say is that it will not be Yvo or Ramseye.’ She became thoughtful, then addressed Bartholomew. ‘Your portly friend would be worthy of the post. He has natural dignity, a clever mind and he is honourable.’
‘I am sure he would be the first to agree,’ said Bartholomew.
For the next hour, Bartholomew concentrated on medicine. He was vaguely aware of Cynric sidling in at the back of the room, and when the book-bearer caught his eye and gave a slight shake of the head, it took him a moment to understand what it meant. But the last patient was thanking him for his time, so he began packing away his implements, salves and bandages.
‘And now you may see the paten,’ said Sylle, as though Bartholomew had allowed hims
elf to be besieged by patients just for that end. He handed the physician a large golden plate. It was a magnificent piece, one of the finest Bartholomew had ever seen, and he understood exactly why the goldsmith was reluctant to melt it down.
‘Master Aurifabro made it himself,’ Udela was explaining. ‘He did not delegate to a lesser craftsman, as others might have done. Of course, now he does not know what to do with it, because our gods – the older ones – have no use for this sort of thing.’
‘Why did he take such trouble for a foundation he despises?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Oh, he likes the abbey,’ said Sylle. ‘It is the obedientiaries he loathes. He was terribly disappointed when Yvo cancelled the commission. This paten would have been in the abbey’s treasury long after we are in our graves, and was his path to immortality.’
‘Would you like a consultation, Doctor?’ asked Udela suddenly. ‘I will do it for free.’
Bartholomew regarded her blankly. ‘A consultation?’
‘An interview with the spirits,’ elaborated Udela, a little impatiently. ‘What other kind is there? And they will certainly answer today, because they have taken a shine to you.’
‘They have?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘They appreciate your generosity to us. It is not every physician who waives his fees in the name of human kindness.’
Bartholomew stood hastily. ‘It is good of you, but—’
‘Sit,’ commanded Udela, reaching into a pouch at her side and removing a handful of shiny stones. ‘Let us see what they have to say.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, still on his feet. He saw Cynric frantically signalling for him to show her proper respect. ‘It would not be—’
‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ said Udela irritably. ‘And I am trying to help.’
Before he could argue further, she had tossed the stones on the table, and firm hands were pushing him back into the chair. He could have tried to fight his way clear, but he had the sense that he would not get very far. Judging by the awed looks that had been exchanged when Udela had made the offer, free consultations were not granted often, and her flock was determined to ensure that this one was received with appropriate appreciation.
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 24