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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘He will need it,’ smirked Langelee. ‘Spalling’s throng and the bedesfolk are pawing him relentlessly, and I doubt he is used to such liberties.’

  ‘He should try being me,’ muttered Kirwell bitterly. ‘Then he would know.’

  Ahead, the Abbot was indeed the subject of intense attention. People grabbed his clothes, patted his hair, and poked his limbs to see whether he had been injured. He assured them that he was not, but they were indignant on his behalf and muttered all manner of revenge against the culprits.

  ‘I thought no one liked him,’ remarked Cynric. ‘Yet here he is, being fawned over.’

  ‘Because he is dishevelled,’ explained Michael. ‘They feel sorry for him. They would have been less sympathetic if he had appeared sleek and groomed.’

  ‘I wonder how many of his monks will be pleased to see him,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I know two who will not: Ramseye and Yvo.’

  ‘What about you, Brother?’ asked Cynric. ‘Are you horribly disappointed?’

  ‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘On reflection, I think I would rather be a bishop than an abbot.’

  ‘Gynewell had better watch himself, then,’ grinned Langelee.

  Bartholomew was still thinking about Robert. ‘So who kidnapped him, given that neither Spalling nor Aurifabro claim responsibility? Unless the defensores did it – which I think you will agree is unlikely – it means there is yet another band on the loose.’

  ‘Can we walk a little faster?’ Michael picked up the pace. ‘There are a lot of questions still to be answered, and time is short. We leave Peterborough today – now Robert is home, my duty to Gynewell is discharged. I am sorry we have not exposed the rogue who killed Joan and Welbyrn, but we can stay no longer.’

  They walked in silence the rest of the way, concentrating on the balance between speed and not joggling the litter. When they reached St Leonard’s, Botilbrig was waiting to say there had been a change of plan: Kirwell was to be taken to St Thomas’s instead.

  ‘I am not a pack animal,’ grumbled Michael. ‘And besides, I thought you were at war with St Thomas’s. Why would you want him carted there?’

  ‘Because the women are going to hold a feast to celebrate our victory,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘Us bedesmen are invited, including him.’

  ‘A feast?’ asked Kirwell with eager greed. ‘Very well, then, but tell these Commissioners to be careful with me. Being carried by them is akin to lying on a bucking stallion.’

  ‘We do not have time for this,’ Michael fretted. ‘We still have Lullington to confront and the Abbot to question – and I had hoped to be riding home by now.’

  The town was oddly deserted as they approached, and the few market stalls that were open drew scant trade. Bartholomew could only suppose that people were either sleeping off their night of rebellion, or were telling the tale to those who had not taken part.

  While the others waited, Michael none too patiently, Bartholomew carried Kirwell into St Thomas’s. Once inside, he saw that Botilbrig had not been exaggerating when he had said that the women intended to celebrate: the hall adjoining the chapel was packed, not only with bedesfolk, but with Benedictines and abbey servants. The place reeked of ale, and despite the early hour, more than one face was already flushed with over-indulgence.

  ‘Inges has gone to fetch the rest of the monks,’ said Hagar, revelling in her role as one of those who had averted a crisis.

  ‘I doubt they will come,’ cautioned Bartholomew. ‘They will be too busy with Robert.’

  ‘They will be grateful for an opportunity to elude him,’ countered Hagar. She turned as the door opened. ‘See? Here they are now. Besides, Robert will be more concerned with putting his own affairs in order than with his flock today.’

  From what he had been told about the Abbot, Bartholomew suspected she was right. He left Kirwell in Inges’s care, and hurried towards the door, eager now to be going home. Julitta would be waiting, and although his feelings were still in terrible turmoil, he did know that he was looking forward to seeing her again.

  ‘Join us!’ cried Marion, as the physician weaved his way through the throng. Her long teeth gleamed. ‘Elene is making cakes, and Henry is fetching another cask of wine.’

  ‘There is water, too,’ added Botilbrig, aiming to entice. ‘From the well.’

  ‘Really?’ Bartholomew hoped it was not the stuff in which Welbyrn had spent the night.

  ‘And Walter the cook has provided some nuts,’ added Appletre, bustling up to join them. His plump face was pink with happiness. ‘It is a veritable feast! Moreover, I plan to lead a little impromptu singing soon, because Robert has made me precentor again. Please stay.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, edging away.

  ‘Why?’ asked Appletre, dismayed. ‘There cannot be anything more pressing to do, not now Robert is home. And you deserve some reward for all your efforts.’

  ‘There will not be time.’ Bartholomew saw the disappointment on the precentor’s face and was sorry. ‘But perhaps we can spare a few moments later.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Appletre. ‘But come via the abbey door – Hagar is going to lock the one that leads to the market, to exclude interlopers. I can see her point: the townsfolk should not see us letting our hair down. Yet we all need to unwind – it has been a trying time.’

  ‘It certainly has,’ agreed Bartholomew fervently.

  Outside, Langelee was yawning hugely. ‘I will collect our bags from Spalling’s home, Cynric. You go to the guest house, and start packing for the others. We leave this morning, whether Michael has finished with Robert or not.’

  There were no guards on the Abbey Gate, and the monastery appeared to be abandoned as Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric hurried through it. The only people in evidence were Henry and four lay brothers, who were toting barrels of wine towards the hospital.

  ‘Robert said it was too early for claret,’ Henry explained with a grin. ‘But this is a special occasion, so I defied him and raided the cellars anyway. It will mean trouble later, but the bedesfolk deserve their reward.’

  ‘The whole abbey is invited,’ added one of the servants gleefully. ‘Monks and lay brethren alike. We all want to hear how the relics defeated Aurifabro.’

  ‘Join us,’ urged Henry. ‘Much as I enjoyed hearing Inges’s account, I would sooner have it from someone less inclined to exaggerate.’

  ‘Perhaps later,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But surely the monks should be welcoming Robert home, not drinking wine in the hospital?’

  ‘Or even saying prayers for his safe deliverance?’ added Michael pointedly.

  Henry’s wry expression answered Michael’s question, and he addressed the rest of his reply to Bartholomew. ‘The Abbot will only summon us when he has ensured that his worldly affairs are in order. We will not be needed for a while yet.’

  ‘Have you seen Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing they had better ensure the knight did not slip away before he could be charged with his wife’s murder.

  ‘He is with Robert,’ replied Henry. ‘But please have a cup of wine with us. We have been all doom and gloom since you arrived, and I should like you to see us at our best.’

  ‘We are busy,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Good day to you.’

  Bartholomew shot Henry an apologetic glance as he hurried after Michael. He started to remonstrate with the monk for his bad manners, but Michael waved his protests aside with the curt reminder that they had no time for idle chatter.

  They reached the guest house to find William and Clippesby waiting, their faces troubled. William held out a letter, which had arrived at dawn. Michael paled when he saw it bore the University’s seal. He snatched it and began to read, while Bartholomew told William and Clippesby all that had happened. He was interrupted by a strangled wail from Michael.

  ‘It is from the Chancellor. He says my Junior Proctor has written Winwick Hall’s charter, and plans to present it as a fait accompli on Saturday. There will be a riot for certain, beca
use he does not have the skill or the experience to draw up such a complex document!’

  ‘It has already caused trouble,’ said William, thus revealing that he had read the missive, even though it had been addressed to Michael and marked as private. ‘There have been three brawls over the matter, which have resulted in several injuries and damage to property.’

  ‘Damn Gynewell!’ cried Michael. ‘He should not have forced me to come here.’

  ‘We must leave at once.’ William hefted his saddlebag over his shoulder – he and Clippesby had put their time to good use, and had packed for Bartholomew and Michael, too.

  Michael retrieved the seals, gold and jewels he had hidden. ‘We shall – the moment I have returned these to their rightful owner.’

  ‘What about Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘And the killer of Joan and Welbyrn?’ added Clippesby.

  ‘Henry says Lullington is with Robert, so I shall confront him when I give the Abbot his treasure. And there is nothing we can do about Joan and Welbyrn, because we are out of time.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ offered Bartholomew. ‘You cannot tackle Lullington alone.’

  ‘I am not a dying woman,’ said Michael acidly. ‘So I doubt Lullington will challenge me, and the Abbot will be there anyway. Be ready to leave the moment I return. And stay away from Henry – I sense danger in that man. Do you hear?’

  He left before the others could say whether they had heard or not. Bartholomew slumped on the bed, exhausted. He closed his eyes, but Appletre was leading the revellers in a popular tavern song that involved a repetitive chorus of the kind tipsy people seemed to love, and sleep was impossible. There was laughter, too – the town might be smarting from its humiliation on the Torpe road, but the abbey’s residents were in excellent spirits.

  ‘They are very rowdy,’ remarked Clippesby. ‘It must be the wine. Henry selected a very powerful brew, and no one has had any breakfast.’

  Cynric stared out of the window. ‘Yet the defensores are not drinking powerful wine in the hospital, even though they are the kind of men who will like it most.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ countered William. ‘I saw a few enter the place myself.’

  ‘No, I mean the real soldiers,’ said Cynric. ‘The proper ones, not the cowardly brutes who were with Nonton on the Torpe road.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I have a bad feeling about today, boy. I sense something nasty in the air.’

  Bartholomew forced himself to stand up. ‘Stay here,’ he instructed Clippesby and William. ‘Cynric and I will scout around, to see if we can spot anything amiss.’

  ‘Such as what?’ demanded William. ‘Any plot that might have been brewing has been thwarted by Robert’s escape. Moreover, I do not see why we should sit here while Michael hobnobs with the Abbot. We deserve a drink after all our hard work. Come on, Clippesby.’

  ‘No,’ said Clippesby. ‘Cynric is right: something is wrong.’

  ‘Says who?’ asked William scathingly. ‘That snail I saw you talking to – the one that Henry stepped on shortly afterwards?’

  Clippesby winced. ‘Listen! There is not a bird anywhere in the entire precinct. Something horrible is about to happen.’

  ‘Bah!’ spat William. ‘A cup of wine will put paid to these silly fancies. However, if you are too stupid to take my advice, then stay here. I, however, am going to join the fun.’

  Cynric stopped and raised a triumphant finger when he and Bartholomew stepped out of the guest-house door, a gesture that said he had been right after all. Bartholomew could see or hear nothing to warrant such a response, and started to ask what he meant, but Cynric waved him to silence. Bartholomew felt ridiculous as they crept along in stealth mode, and hoped no one would see them. No one did, because every building was deserted.

  Glancing behind him, he saw William enter the hospital, after which three cheers were raised for the Bishop’s Commissioners. Bartholomew was about to remark that they had done nothing to deserve them when Cynric whipped around and bundled him roughly into a doorway. Moments later, two defensores walked past, holding Clippesby between them.

  ‘But I do not want to go to the hospital chapel,’ the Dominican was objecting. ‘It is noisy there. I would rather pray in the church.’

  ‘Perhaps we should let him,’ said one to the other nervously. ‘He is a saint, after all.’

  ‘We were told that everyone had to be in St Thomas’s,’ countered the second. ‘And I am not disobeying orders. I do not want to end up like Welbyrn. Or Joan, for that matter.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Clippesby, bewildered.

  ‘Ignore him, Father,’ said the first, scowling at his companion over the Dominican’s head. ‘He is just blathering. You will enjoy yourself in the hospital – there is wine and nuts.’

  When they had gone, Bartholomew regarded Cynric in alarm.

  ‘We had better find out what is happening fast,’ whispered the book-bearer. ‘Because I have a strong sense that the business with Aurifabro was just the start.’

  ‘The start of what?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to make sense of what he had heard.

  ‘I do not know. That is what we must—’

  ‘Stand still and put your hands in the air,’ came a voice suddenly. ‘Or these gentlemen will shoot you.’

  It was Nonton and several defensores, all of whom were armed with bows and swords. Spalling was with them, his face cold and hard as he addressed the book-bearer.

  ‘It was your fault that we failed on the Torpe road, Cynric. Aurifabro’s wealth would have been mine by now if you had led the charge as I ordered.’

  ‘Would have been yours?’ echoed Cynric sharply. ‘You mean the people’s.’

  Spalling sneered. ‘Large sums of money are bad for the common folk – they spend it all on drink and whores. I never intended to let them keep it.’

  ‘But you said—’ began Cynric in a stunned gasp.

  ‘It does not matter now,’ interrupted Spalling. ‘My so-called army comprised nothing but cowards, so our rebellion is over.’ He seemed to have forgotten that he had hardly set a shining example. He turned to Nonton. ‘Disarm them. And watch Cynric – he is dangerous.’

  ‘He will not misbehave if he wants his friend alive,’ said Nonton, grabbing Bartholomew and shoving a knife against his throat.

  The physician flinched from the sour odour of second-hand wine, still struggling to comprehend what was happening. Why had the cellarer thrown in his lot with the abbey’s sworn enemy? Meanwhile, Cynric recovered quickly from the shock of seeing his hero in a less than attractive light, and went on the offensive.

  ‘Our people would have defeated Aurifabro had you followed my advice,’ he snapped. ‘You lost that fight, not them.’ He glared at Nonton. ‘And you did not help by running away.’

  ‘Those particular defensores are not warriors,’ replied Nonton coolly. ‘However, these are, so annoy them at your peril. But enough chat. Come with me. And remember that any tricks will result in a dead medicus.’

  Bartholomew and Cynric were bundled towards the granary, a stalwart structure that stood near the west wall. It had a large door at the front, and a smaller one at the rear. The bulk of its grain had been used the previous winter, although a few mounds of corn remained, along with several heaps of empty sacks and some bales of straw. It had a dry, musty smell, and the dust that was kicked up by the soldiers’ feet made Bartholomew cough. Nonton fastened him to one of the wooden pillars that supported the roof, where the hard, tight little knots began to cut off the circulation in his hands. Spalling tied Cynric to another.

  ‘There will be a revolution, Cynric,’ said Spalling softly. ‘Anyone with eyes can see that it is coming, not just here, but across the whole country. You will have your dream of social justice eventually, so do not take our defeat here too badly.’

  ‘But you will not be part of it,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘You encourage others to pour their possessions into the common pot, but you do not
do it yourself. You are a hypocrite! You strut around pretending to be one of us, but your clothes are always clean, and you eat like a king.’

  ‘Clippesby saw through you,’ said Bartholomew, speaking quickly as Spalling took an angry step towards the Welshman. ‘He guessed you would flee at the first sign of trouble.’

  ‘The saint?’ asked Spalling uneasily, and his advance faltered. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ snarled Cynric. ‘He knows that the highway thieves are men under your control. He is disgusted, and will have plenty to say when he speaks to the Bishop.’

  Cynric was bluffing, because Clippesby had drawn no such conclusions, and would not take them to Gynewell if he had, but Spalling was horrified. His guilty face spoke volumes, and more answers flooded into in Bartholomew’s mind.

  ‘So the attacks on our journey to Peterborough were not attempts to rob us,’ he surmised. ‘They were to prevent the Bishop’s Commissioner from reaching his destination. No other travellers were ambushed five times, but your men kept failing, so had to try again and again.’

  ‘But we fought them off with ease,’ said Cynric in disdain. ‘Just as we did when they tried to kill us by the Dragon Tree. And I know why. It is because you were in command, and you are a pathetic warrior who should not be allowed anywhere near a sword.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with my leadership or my fighting skills,’ snapped Spalling, nettled. He glared at Nonton. ‘We failed because you provided me with inadequate soldiers.’

  ‘It was you who Brother Michael heard cursing in French outside the Swan, too,’ Cynric went on. ‘You probably intended to stage another ambush, but you lost courage and—’

  ‘I did not lose courage,’ objected Spalling, shooting an uneasy glance at Nonton, whose face was a mask of disgust. ‘I merely decided that an attack was unnecessary. Michael heard me, which was enough to make him conclude that it was Aurifabro’s mercenaries lurking in the dark with malevolent intentions. My objective was achieved without violence.’

  ‘Why are you working with the abbey?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to point out that Michael had concluded nothing of the kind. ‘Its monks excommunicated you.’