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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘They will be massacred,’ breathed Bartholomew, torn between exasperation and despair. ‘They are making such a racket with their singing, stamping and chattering that Aurifabro’s men will hear them coming a mile away.’

  ‘I told Spalling that his only chance of success would be to launch a surprise attack, but he refused to listen.’ Langelee’s voice was thick with disgust. ‘The man is an ass!’

  ‘Where is Cynric? Surely he can see that this madness will end in disaster?’

  ‘Of course, but Spalling has everyone convinced that God is with them, so Cynric’s warnings have gone unheeded.’

  ‘Something is happening ahead,’ said Michael urgently. ‘By the Dragon Tree. Everyone has stopped walking.’

  They broke into a run, and caught up with the vanguard just as Spalling was launching into one of his speeches. He was dressed as a foot-soldier, although there was nothing common about the quality of his jerkin and helmet – they had been made to protect their wearer well. He was railing at Nonton, whose defensores had drawn their weapons. Appletre hovered behind the cellarer, white-faced and frightened.

  ‘The poor have been downtrodden long enough,’ Spalling was bawling. ‘And tonight we shall redress the balance. It is the first step towards a fairer society.’

  ‘Stop, please!’ shouted Appletre. ‘Stay here and help us look for corpses instead. We have found Pyk, although he is sadly rotted, and now we must hunt for the Abbot. There is a deep pond nearby that looks promising. I am sure he will be in it, and we shall need assistance to haul him out, if Pyk is anything to go by.’

  Not surprisingly, this invitation was met with scant enthusiasm.

  ‘Bold defensores,’ said Spalling, addressing the abbey’s soldiers. ‘Will you join us? We shall loot Aurifabro’s house before we burn it, and it would be a pity for you to miss out.’

  The greedy glances exchanged between the defensores suggested they thought so, too.

  ‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Aurifabro will fight to protect his property, and you will die. Moreover, if the scent of rebellion carries, it may ignite—’

  ‘I hope so,’ declared Spalling hotly. ‘It is what we have been working towards.’

  ‘Bloodshed and mayhem?’ demanded Michael. ‘Is that what you itch to see?’

  ‘If that is what it takes to set the poor free, then yes.’ Spalling raised his voice. ‘The brave men of Peterborough are not afraid of Aurifabro’s louts. Are they?’

  There was a resounding denial, louder and rougher than the previous chorus, because the defensores had joined in.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Appletre. He swallowed hard when everyone looked at him. ‘I heard you singing when you arrived, but you were out of tune. Stay with me, and I shall teach you how to—’

  ‘Are you ready?’ roared Spalling, shooting Appletre a disdainful look. ‘Are you willing to take what is rightfully yours, my good people?’

  A wild cheer said they were. Spalling shouldered the scholars out of the way and resumed his march, while the defensores tossed their tools aside and followed. Appletre scurried after them, pleading with them to see reason.

  ‘Why did you not order your men to stay here, Nonton?’ demanded Michael angrily, seeing the cellarer watching silently from the side of the road. ‘You must see that the abbey cannot be involved in this.’

  ‘Involved in what?’ asked Nonton. ‘Ridding Peterborough of a villain who has made nasty accusations against our foundation – a heretic who keeps a witch in his house? The Bishop will applaud our decision to stand with the townsfolk.’

  ‘He will not,’ snapped Michael. ‘Especially if this rebellion spreads to other parts of his diocese. Can you not see the damage it may do?’

  Nonton snorted his disdain, and turned to follow his men: the defensores were not the only ones whose imagination had been fired by talk of plunder. Helplessly, the scholars watched him leave. Then Appletre came racing back.

  ‘Spalling threatened to punch me when I tried to reason with him,’ he said, close to tears in his agitation. ‘But he will lead everyone to destruction! What are we going to do? We must stop them before blood is spilled.’

  ‘How?’ asked Michael, exasperated. ‘We have no army.’

  ‘I shall fetch Prior Yvo,’ said Appletre with sudden determination. ‘Nonton will have no choice but to obey him, and once the defensores turn back, the others may follow.’

  He was trotting back towards the town, short legs pumping furiously, before Michael could tell him he was wasting his time.

  ‘This is all wrong,’ came a quiet voice from behind them. It was Cynric, staring unhappily at the receding torches. ‘The redistribution of property is a noble goal, but Spalling is talking about looting, which is not the same thing at all. And what about the witch?’

  ‘What about her?’ asked Michael warily.

  ‘She will not be pleased if she is killed,’ explained Cynric worriedly. ‘She might curse us. It will be a—’

  He was interrupted by a sudden scream from the road ahead. It was followed by more cries, some of pain, others of fear.

  ‘It has started,’ said Langelee grimly. ‘I guessed correctly – Aurifabro has pre-empted Spalling and has launched a counterattack.’

  They raced towards the commotion. Dawn was approaching rapidly now, and it was light enough to see that the road was blocked by a wall of mounted, well-armed men, some carrying bows. Langelee’s bleak prediction was right.

  Spalling’s people milled in terror as arrows rained down among them. They outnumbered the mercenaries ten to one, but hoes and pitchforks were no match for real weapons, and they lacked the skill to know how to press their advantage. Nonton and his defensores, who might have evened the odds, were suddenly nowhere to be seen.

  From the rear, Spalling screamed at his troops to advance, but bewildered and frightened, they simply cowered. Then Aurifabro appeared, sitting astride a massive warhorse. He wore a helmet, armour and carried a sword, but although Bartholomew could tell he was uncomfortably unfamiliar with them, he appeared distressingly invincible to Spalling’s peasants. They issued a collective moan of despair.

  ‘I have had enough of your nonsense, Spalling,’ the goldsmith announced in a ringing voice. The townsfolk went silent. ‘You want a fight? Then let us have one and resolve our differences once and for all.’

  ‘Very well,’ Spalling yelled back, careful to keep plenty of people between him and the mercenaries’ bows. ‘And when you are defeated, all your riches will belong to me … I mean to the poor. God stands with us today, because not only do you crush peasants with your greed, but you murdered Abbot Robert and poor Pyk.’

  ‘You murdered them,’ Aurifabro snarled. ‘Just as you have been attacking other travellers on our roads. It makes sense to me now: you have not been using your own money to provoke unrest – these robberies have funded it.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ bellowed Spalling, outraged. ‘How dare you accuse us of being criminals. We are doing God’s work, whereas you are an evil pagan who lives with a witch.’

  ‘There is nothing evil about my religion,’ spat Aurifabro. ‘Yours is the one that pays homage to executed criminals.’ He turned to someone who was standing behind him. ‘Bless us, Mother Udela, and let us see whose deity is stronger.’

  ‘Lord!’ gulped Cynric at Bartholomew’s side. ‘I cannot fight a witch!’

  ‘Stop this madness,’ ordered Michael, striding forward and interposing himself between the two sides. ‘It is not—’

  ‘Prepare to advance!’ shouted Aurifabro to his men. ‘On my mark.’

  There were a number of metallic clangs as the townsfolk in the vanguard dropped their tools and turned to flee. They collided with those who clustered behind them, causing chaos and panic. Unable to escape, some fell to their knees and began to beg for mercy. The savage expressions on the mercenaries’ faces suggested it was unlikely to be given.

  Appalled, Bartholomew shouldered his way through Spalling’s rabble to stan
d at Michael’s side. Langelee followed, and so did Cynric. Bartholomew knew their frail barrier of four men was unlikely to survive Aurifabro’s charge, although Langelee’s white-fisted grip on his sword suggested that he would not go down easily.

  ‘We are the Bishop’s Commissioners,’ declared Michael, drawing himself up to his full, considerable height and using the voice that had quelled riots in Cambridge. ‘And we order you all, in Gynewell’s name, to turn around and go home. There will be no battle today.’

  Aurifabro laughed, a shrill, mocking sound that made Cynric clutch anxiously at one of his amulets. At that moment, a rogue gust of wind blew and the grass at the side of the road gave a sharp hiss, as if in anger. More of Spalling’s people downed weapons and ran.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ cried Spalling. He sounded desperate. ‘It is the Devil talking to Aurifabro. Fight, my valiant people. Prove that Peterborough men do not bow to Satan.’

  Far from inspiring his troops, Spalling’s words served to eliminate any residual resolve they might have possessed, as taking on the Prince of Darkness was not what they had had in mind when they set out to put the world to rights. More slunk away or fell to their knees.

  ‘Steady!’ howled Aurifabro to his soldiers. He raised his sword, although it was heavy and not designed to be waved with one hand, so it wobbled precariously. ‘Cha—’

  ‘Wait!’ came a high, wavering voice from behind Spalling. It was feeble, but still piercing enough to make the goldsmith falter. ‘Stop! In the name of all that is holy.’

  For a moment, nothing happened, but then Spalling’s rabble parted to allow some people through. It was the bedesfolk – men and women – clad in their ceremonial finery. They might have been an imposing sight if they had not been panting, hobbling and wheezing after what had obviously been a rapid dash.

  Some carried a litter bearing Kirwell, who was scowling his displeasure at being hauled from his comfortable bed and spirited around the countryside. Behind them, Botilbrig and Inges staggered under the weight of a flagstone, while Hagar and Marion held the vases containing St Thomas Becket’s blood. Appletre was with them, and Bartholomew could only suppose that he had met them on the road and had urged them to hurry.

  ‘Retreat,’ ordered Aurifabro angrily, obviously disconcerted by the fact that he would have to plough through a lot of old folk in order to reach his quarry. ‘Or you will die, too.’

  ‘We have brought our relics,’ announced Hagar, although no one needed to be told. ‘We command you, in the name of St Thomas Becket and St Leonard, to go home. All of you.’

  ‘You cannot kill defenceless elders, Aurifabro,’ said Michael quickly. ‘Neither the King nor the Bishop will condone that. You must stand down.’

  Aurifabro stared at him, eyes glittering. ‘I will take my chances.’

  ‘Then if you will not listen to us,’ said Appletre, ‘listen to him.’

  From the bedesfolk’s midst, someone was ushered forward. His substantial girth and haughty bearing showed he was a man of some importance, although his silver hair was unkempt and his robes were stained with mud. He was scowling furiously, and jerked away from the propelling hands as if their touch was an outrage.

  ‘It is Abbot Robert,’ declared Hagar in a ringing voice. ‘Come home at last.’

  CHAPTER 13

  For a moment, no one spoke, then Spalling’s followers surged towards the angry Abbot, begging him to order Aurifabro and his mercenaries home. Robert regarded them with an arrogant disdain, which suggested that there was a good reason why he had been unpopular.

  ‘I was sure he was dead,’ murmured Michael, staring in astonishment as Robert began to dispense blessings, which he did sparingly, as though he did not want to expend what was a limited supply. ‘I wonder where he has been.’

  ‘Nowhere pleasant,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Look at the state of him.’

  ‘God be praised!’ bawled Spalling, silencing the hubbub and reclaiming the attention at the same time. ‘Aurifabro has released the poor Abbot at last. It is a sign that God is on our side, so let us trounce his mercenaries and—’

  ‘I never had him,’ objected Aurifabro indignantly. ‘And anyone who says otherwise is a liar.’

  ‘I was seized by brigands,’ declared Robert in a strong, steady voice. ‘I do not know yet on whose orders. But I escaped. However, I did not expect to find my domain in a state of war. What is going on? And where are my defensores? Surely they should be on hand to prevent this sort of thing?’

  ‘They slunk away when they saw me,’ said Aurifabro, not bothering to hide his contempt for the abbey’s unreliable troops. ‘As did Nonton.’

  ‘We found Robert walking down the road,’ explained Hagar, obviously proud to be part of the company who had arrived to save the day. ‘He wanted to return to his abbey, to let his monks know he is safe, but we persuaded him to turn around and deal with this situation first.’

  ‘It is a pity we did not meet him sooner,’ muttered Inges, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Because then we would not have had to tote these heavy relics and Kirwell all the way out here.’

  ‘A pity indeed,’ came Kirwell’s querulous voice. ‘Will I never be left in peace?’

  Appletre stepped forward, beaming. ‘We are delighted to see you safe, Father Abbot. But where have you been?’

  ‘Imprisoned in a hut somewhere to the north of here,’ replied Robert frostily. He gave a fastidious shudder. ‘But I refuse to discuss it until I have bathed and changed.’

  ‘You had better call a truce first,’ said Langelee, nodding towards the onlookers.

  ‘Why should I?’ demanded Robert, eyeing the goldsmith coldly. ‘I have no love for Aurifabro, and I do not care what happens to him today.’

  ‘What will happen is that he will win a victory which will make him impossible to govern in the future,’ hissed Langelee. ‘So unless you want trouble with him for the rest of your reign, you would be wise to do as we say. After all, we are the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

  Robert regarded him icily, and it seemed he would refuse, but then he turned to Aurifabro and spoke, albeit with obvious reluctance.

  ‘I apologise if the abbey or the town has caused you offence in my absence, but there will be no fighting today. We shall all go home and thank our respective gods that we live to see another day.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ muttered Kirwell.

  ‘I agree,’ said Spalling, determined to keep his status as leader. He turned to his people. ‘We could have bested these louts if the defensores had stood firm, but their cowardly retreat has weakened us, so we shall do as the Abbot suggests for now.’

  ‘But you claimed we could take Aurifabro on our own,’ said a baker accusingly. ‘You told us we were so strong that the mercenaries would run when they saw us coming.’

  ‘And what about the money that you promised would be ours?’ called someone else. ‘Our rightful part of Aurifabro’s wealth?’

  The goldsmith released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘I am disinclined to share it with you – you are not poor, just greedy. And I shall accept Robert’s apology on one condition: that he buys my paten. If not, we shall do battle here and now, because I am tired of Spalling and his ridiculous lies. I am not intimidated by him, his army or these “holy” relics.’

  ‘Maybe not, but your mercenaries are,’ said Michael quietly, nodding to where several of them were eyeing the blood, stones and Kirwell uncomfortably. ‘And the abbey will buy the paten. Do not argue, Abbot Robert. I speak with the Bishop’s voice. The abbey will honour the arrangement it made with Aurifabro.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Robert, although the furious flash in his eyes suggested he resented the interference, and that the matter was far from over.

  ‘Good,’ said Langelee in relief. He glared at Spalling. ‘I told you this was a bad idea, and you should have listened. Half these people might have been dead by now if the ancients had not intervened.’

  ‘Here, who are
you calling ancient?’ demanded Botilbrig. He jabbed a gnarled finger at Kirwell. ‘He is ancient. We are in our prime.’

  There was no more to be said, so the townsfolk began to shuffle back towards the town, rather less defiantly than when they had left it. Inges and Hagar, arm in arm in a rare display of unity, led the way. Robert was next, slapping angrily at the grateful hands that reached out to touch him, but Spalling was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Slithered away with his tail between his legs,’ said Langelee in disgust. ‘He should be here, assuring his troops that there is no shame in refusing an encounter they could not have won. The man is no kind of leader.’

  Aurifabro watched in silence, and Bartholomew took the opportunity to put a question to him. The goldsmith regarded him suspiciously at first, but Udela indicated with a nod that he should reply. He obliged, then turned away to snap orders for the road to be guarded day and night until it was certain that the trouble was over.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew took a corner of Kirwell’s litter. The bedesmen were incapable of lugging it home, and the townsfolk were too shamefaced to approach a man they considered holy, so the task had fallen to the scholars. Kirwell muttered venomously at the inadvertent jostling.

  ‘I asked if he had been charged to melt gold into a bar recently – like the one we found in Lullington’s quarters. He told me that Robert had paid him to consolidate a number of rings and bracelets last spring – gifts made to the shrines by pilgrims. It is common practice, apparently.’

  ‘It is,’ nodded Langelee. ‘My Archbishop often did it, as ingots are portable and more easily stored than handfuls of lumpy jewellery.’

  ‘Be careful!’ snapped Kirwell, when the Master shifted his grip, and the whole litter tilted.

  ‘I am eager for Robert to tell us about Lullington’s role in his abduction,’ said Michael. ‘I would ask him now, but an open road is no place for such a discussion, so we shall have it in his solar, where we can enjoy a restorative cup of wine.’