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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘For money, of course,’ said Cynric before the rebel could reply for himself. ‘They paid him to do their bidding. And he is the perfect choice – he has a history of fighting them, so no one suspects they are in cahoots. How could I have been deceived?’

  ‘You played right into my hands.’ Spalling seized the opportunity to boast, less to gloat over Cynric than to remind Nonton of how clever he had been. ‘You and Langelee are the only ones who can fight, and I neatly deprived Michael of your protection. It should have been easy to dispatch him inside the abbey.’

  ‘And have everyone know that we killed the Bishop’s Commissioner?’ asked Nonton acidly, in response to Spalling’s challenging look. ‘You are a damned fool if you think that was ever an option! But enough chat. Light the fires, and let us make an end to this business.’

  ‘What fires?’ asked Cynric, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘The ones that will dispose of inconvenient bodies,’ replied Nonton shortly.

  By craning his neck, Bartholomew could see that the defensores had prepared several piles of kindling, placed so they would ignite the remaining grain. Spalling crouched down and fiddled with a tinderbox. The moment the first heap began to smoulder, he moved to the second. He was kneeling by the third when Nonton hit him over the head with a cudgel. Bartholomew winced at the sound of smashing bone.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ gasped Cynric, shocked. ‘He was on your side!’

  ‘He is unpredictable, unreliable and greedy, and I was never comfortable with him as an ally. Do not bother calling for help, by the way. No one will hear you.’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘You cannot—’

  ‘Out, quick,’ Nonton ordered his men. ‘And tell Appletre to sing louder. I doubt anyone will hear screams from the hospital, but one cannot be too careful.’

  ‘Appletre,’ said Bartholomew, as the door slammed, and there came the sound of a bar being placed across it. ‘I should have guessed that he was involved.’

  CHAPTER 14

  The granary roof and walls had been well soaked by summer showers, so would take a while to ignite, but the sacks, grain and straw were bone dry. Bartholomew strained desperately against his bonds as smoke billowed towards him, but Nonton had known what he was doing when he had tied the knots, and they held fast. He sagged in defeat.

  ‘No, do not give up,’ shouted Cynric urgently. ‘Keep trying to fight loose. And while you do, tell me why you suspected Appletre.’

  Bartholomew resumed his struggles, although he knew it was hopeless. ‘Because of the way he hared off to fetch Yvo when we were on the Torpe road. He knew the Prior would not help, but he insisted on going anyway. It was to consult with his accomplices.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Cynric was hurling himself from side to side, frantically trying to tear free.

  ‘No. He offered to go with the defensores to collect Pyk, which was unnecessary and odd. And when Spalling’s rabble passed him on the road, his invitation to hunt for rotting corpses was meant to ensure they kept going – it was an offer he knew would be refused. Finally, there was his dogged insistence that I join the celebrations in the hospital – to keep me out of the way.’

  Henry had insisted, too, he thought but could not bring himself to say. He coughed as a waft of smoke swirled towards him.

  ‘Do not worry,’ came a quiet voice at his side. It was Clippesby. ‘I am here.’

  ‘Thank God!’ cried Cynric. ‘Cut us loose, Father. Do you have a knife?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Clippesby, startled. ‘I never carry one, because—’

  ‘Take the one from my boot. Quickly!’

  The Dominican began to do as he was told, at the same time explaining how he came to be there.

  ‘The defensores took me to pray in the church, but while we were walking there, I saw you being dragged in here. The moment they left – there is an advantage in being considered a saint, as they did not hesitate when I asked them to leave me alone – I came to rescue you. There is a back door … I heard everything Spalling and Nonton said.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ hissed Cynric urgently. ‘Hurry!’

  But Clippesby was not a practical man, and hacking through the ropes took far longer than it should have done. By the time Bartholomew and Cynric were free, the granary was full of smoke. They staggered towards the rear door only to find it blocked by a blazing heap of corn.

  ‘Down,’ gasped Bartholomew, dropping to the floor where the air was clearer. ‘We will crawl around the walls until we find another way out.’

  ‘There is only one other door, and Nonton just barred it,’ gulped Cynric. ‘And granaries are not designed to have holes, lest rats come in. We are doomed! The charms I bought from Udela are worthless!’

  ‘Follow me,’ said Clippesby, unfazed. ‘The mice showed me what to do.’

  Bartholomew scrambled after him, noting that the post to which he had been tied was already smouldering. Then he collided with Clippesby, who had stopped and was struggling with a hatch. Bartholomew shoved the friar out of the way, and kicked it with all his might. It flew open. He scrambled out, the others close on his heels, and slammed it shut behind him.

  When they were clear of the building, he glanced back. There was no sign of the fire, because it was contained within the thick walls and roof. However, it would not stay that way for long – the flames would bake out the confining dampness and eventually erupt in a blazing inferno. The abbey could doubtless afford to lose it, but fires had a habit of spreading with terrifying speed – the conflagration might even reach the town, given the direction of the wind.

  ‘I will go to the hospital and fetch help,’ he said, but Cynric grabbed his arm.

  ‘Nonton or his men will kill you long before you get there.’

  ‘We must raise the alarm.’ Bartholomew tried to pull away from him. ‘The monks and lay brethren will not be part of this plot – it is obvious that they were encouraged into the hospital to keep them out of the way. When they hear the granary is on fire—’

  ‘No!’ cried Cynric, intensifying his grip. ‘You can see defensores patrolling around it from here – the proper ones, not the weaklings. You will never get past them.’

  ‘Can we fight them?’

  Cynric shook his head. ‘There are too many.’

  ‘What about ringing a bell?’ suggested Clippesby. ‘Or yelling?’

  ‘No, because Appletre is in there, conducting the singing and urging them to howl as loudly as they can: he will prevent you from making yourself heard. However, I might be able to reach Lady Lullington’s window, which is farthest from the patrols. Then I can run downstairs and persuade someone to help me disable the precentor. It will not be easy, though – everyone likes Appletre, and will be reluctant to believe ill of him.’

  ‘The building next to the granary is a stable,’ whispered Clippesby worriedly. ‘We cannot leave the horses in danger. They must be moved.’

  ‘Then do it, Father – we will never reach Cambridge in time to prevent a riot without them.’ Cynric turned to Bartholomew. ‘Go to the Abbot’s House, and tell Brother Michael what is happening. But be careful: if Nonton or the defensores see you, you are dead.’

  With Cynric’s warning ringing in his ears, Bartholomew began to run. Defensores were everywhere, and he chafed whenever he was obliged to duck into a doorway or hide behind a buttress, fretting at the wasted moments.

  ‘Nonton is stupid to have set the granary alight,’ he heard one soldier say to another as they passed. Bartholomew held his breath in an agony of tension when they paused so close that he could have reached out and touched them. ‘If it catches, it could destroy the whole monastery.’

  ‘So?’ asked his crony. ‘Who cares?’

  ‘You will, when they spend all their money rebuilding it, and have none left to pay you. Besides, I got a house in town, and it only takes one stray spark…’

  Desperately, Bartholomew wondered how to turn their concern to his advantage. S
hould he leap out and urge them to abandon a leader who would almost certainly cheat them? Or would they just shoot him? He suspected they would turn him over to Nonton, who would certainly not let him escape a second time. He clenched his fists in increasing agitation as one produced a flask of wine and both enjoyed several swigs before moving on.

  It felt like an age before he reached the Abbot’s House. There were no guards and he could hear Michael talking in the solar, so he tore up the stairs and flung open the door. And then stopped in shock.

  Michael was sitting in a chair with his hands on his knees, while two archers covered him with crossbows. Appletre was pacing back and forth in front of him, rosy cheeks flushed and his movements jerky and excited. Bartholomew could hear singing from the hospital – a drunken chorus that did not need a conductor, and he was angry with himself for not realising it. There was no sign of Robert.

  ‘Run, Matt!’ howled Michael when he saw the physician. ‘Now!’

  His mind churning in confusion, Bartholomew turned to race back down the steps, but it was already too late. One of the bowmen reacted with formidable speed, and brought him down in a flying tackle. Bartholomew struggled as hard as he could, but two more men came to help, and it was not long before he was overpowered. Then he was dragged back to the solar, and shoved forward so hard that he fell at Michael’s feet.

  ‘Stay down,’ Appletre barked when he started to stand.

  ‘The granary is on fire,’ Bartholomew gasped, as Michael leaned forward to rest a hand on his shoulder, warning him to do as he was told. ‘Raise the alarm before—’

  ‘It is not,’ said Appletre, glancing out of the window, where nothing looked amiss with the building in question. ‘Besides, I shall not care if it is. I never did like it – its acoustics for singing are dreadful.’

  He sounded deranged, and Bartholomew regarded him in alarm.

  ‘Nonton lied to you, Appletre,’ said Michael. ‘He claimed Matt was dead.’

  ‘Spalling is dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Nonton murdered him.’

  ‘On my orders.’ Appletre bounced up and down on his toes, as excited as a child with a new toy. Bartholomew wondered why he had not seen incipient lunacy in his enthusiasms before. ‘Nonton is a loyal soldier, as I keep telling you. He would never betray me.’

  ‘But he did betray you.’ Bartholomew understood what Michael had been trying to do and pitched in to help. ‘He told me everything. For example, he said that you killed Joan.’

  Appletre stared at him. ‘Did he? Damn! I thought no one saw me.’

  Bartholomew felt his jaw drop. It had been a bluff intended to disconcert, and Appletre’s response meant that he was the one thrown off balance. Then he glimpsed a wisp of smoke issuing through the granary roof. It would not be long before it burst into flames. He dragged his attention away from it and forced himself to concentrate on the mysteries they had been charged with solving – Appletre’s admission about Joan had answered several questions.

  ‘She was murdered in St Thomas’s Chapel,’ he said to Michael. ‘Where you had gone to give thanks for our safe arrival. It was bright that day, and every time we went from the sunshine into the gloom we were forced to wait for our eyes to adjust.’

  ‘Are you saying he mistook her for me?’ Michael regarded him in disbelief.

  ‘Yes – she was tall, fat and wore a billowing robe. And Appletre was sun-blinded as he crept in through the back door.’

  ‘And I suppose we must remember what Clippesby told us,’ added Michael, for once overlooking the reference to his girth. ‘That she did not usually guard the relics, and had done so that day to impress the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

  ‘The stupid woman,’ spat Appletre. ‘She should not have been there.’

  ‘So it was her fault, was it?’ asked Bartholomew coldly. ‘Not yours?’

  Appletre surged forward angrily, and Bartholomew braced himself for a punch, but the precentor stopped abruptly. ‘No. I am not a violent man.’

  ‘You are a fool, Appletre,’ said Michael in disdain, while Bartholomew assessed the archers, weighing up his chances of besting them. They were tense and watchful, and he knew he would be shot before he could stand. ‘If you kill me, Gynewell will appoint another agent.’

  ‘Not so. His conscience will never permit him to order a second man to his death, and he cannot come himself, because he is having trouble with his Mint.’

  ‘His Mint!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in understanding. ‘Now I know what Reginald was doing! He was a cutler, skilled in working with metal. But he was not making knives – he was producing counterfeit coins. I found some that had fallen on his floor.’

  ‘You did what?’ asked Appletre dangerously. ‘I gave orders to keep everyone out.’

  ‘It was you who sent that instruction to Henry, was it?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘With a defensor who then rode away to Lincoln? But we did not need to see the money to understand what Reginald was doing – we heard him hammering as he worked with the coining dies.’

  He gestured to the table, where the one he had found in Reginald’s workshop – the one he had dismissed as an idle curiosity – lay among the other oddments that had been collected and brought to the abbey for ‘safe-keeping’.

  ‘And why should Reginald forge money?’ sneered Appletre.

  ‘To be taken to Lincoln, which is the reason why Gynewell is not in a position to visit Peterborough.’ Bartholomew glanced out of the window again: the smoke was thicker and blacker. Hope surged: someone from the town would see it and raise the alarm. He pressed on with his deductions. ‘The Mint is his responsibility, and the King considers counterfeiting a more serious matter than the disappearance of an abbot.’

  ‘We have been told that Nonton and Welbyrn regularly visited Lincoln.’ Michael took up the tale. ‘One of them must have laid hold of a die and brought it back to Peterborough.’

  ‘Counterfeiting is a capital crime,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘And Reginald would not have done it willingly. But he was coerced, perhaps on pain of being charged with killing his wife. The strain of his predicament almost certainly contributed to his death.’

  ‘It takes skill to manufacture coins,’ added Michael. ‘But one man was on hand to explain how it was done – Nonton, who was seconded to work in the Archbishop of York’s court for a year. Langelee saw him there.’

  ‘At the Mint,’ added Bartholomew. ‘York has one, as well as Lincoln. He—’

  He broke off as Appletre snatched a knife from one of the archers and advanced with murder in his eyes.

  There was little Bartholomew could do to defend himself when he was on the floor with two bows pointed at him. The archers smirked in anticipation of blood.

  ‘Do not do this, Appletre!’ cried Michael. ‘Think of your immortal soul.’

  Appletre stopped abruptly. ‘True. I have heard there is not much singing in Hell.’

  He dropped the blade and backed away, leaving both scholars and the archers gazing at him in astonishment. And Welbyrn thought he had been losing his mind, thought Bartholomew, deftly reaching out to snag the dagger when the archers’ bemused attention was on the precentor.

  ‘The granary is smouldering,’ Bartholomew said, glancing out of the window yet again. ‘You must sound the alarm. It could ignite at any moment, and if a spark lands on the hospital, Peterborough will lose its monks, bedesfolk and servants in a single stroke.’

  Horror speared through him when he saw the unconcern on the precentor’s face.

  ‘Appletre!’ cried Michael. ‘You cannot risk the abbey for whatever wild scheme—’

  ‘It is not wild,’ shouted Appletre. ‘Nonton knows what he is doing. Besides, we shall be sent more monks if these die, and I am not averse to having some new basses. It—’

  ‘You are insane!’ cried Bartholomew, shocked. ‘You—’

  ‘I am not!’ screamed Appletre, fists clenching. Then he stepped backwards suddenly, and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was
calm. ‘I will not let you aggravate me. As I said, I am not a violent man.’

  Bartholomew was far from sure about that, and knew that he and Michael would not be allowed to leave Peterborough alive. With nothing to lose he decided he would have answers, even if getting them did goad the precentor to rage.

  ‘You killed Welbyrn.’ Again, it was a guess, but the guilty flash in Appletre’s eyes told him he was right. ‘He had started to brood about his father, wondering if he might go mad, too. You followed him to St Leonard’s and pushed him in the well, leaving him to drown—’

  ‘Stop!’ snarled Appletre, while Michael regarded Bartholomew uneasily.

  ‘But it is you who are mad,’ Bartholomew pressed on. ‘There was no need to harm—’

  ‘There was every need – he kept questioning our decisions, and he wanted to recruit Ramseye, which would have been a disaster. Our almoner may be a sly rogue, but he would never agree to what we intend. And then Welbyrn threatened to tell you everything in exchange for a cure for his creeping insanity.’

  ‘He was not—’ began Bartholomew.

  ‘But he thought you would refuse to treat him.’ Appletre cut across what the physician started to say. ‘So he tried to make friends first. He sent you Lombard slices, but when you were poisoned, he became more unpredictable than ever – the dismay of losing his chance of a remedy was too much for his fragile mind. I had no choice but to kill him.’

  ‘You are despicable,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.

  ‘Shoot him,’ ordered Appletre, turning to the bowmen.

  Bartholomew struggled to his feet as the archers took aim, reluctant to die lying down. He gripped the knife behind his back, but despite his rage against the plump-cheeked little man who danced from foot to foot in front of him, he could not bring himself to lob it. He was a physician, not a killer, and he did not want his last act on Earth to be the taking of a life.

  ‘No!’ came an urgent shout from the doorway. ‘It will make a mess on my rugs.’

  ‘Robert!’ exclaimed Michael, as the Abbot stepped into the solar, resplendent in a clean habit. ‘Thank God! I came to talk to you, but this lunatic has been holding me captive and—’