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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Do not clamour at me,’ snapped the Abbot irritably. ‘Well, Appletre? Did you trick them into revealing all they have learned?’

  ‘I believe so,’ replied Appletre, smiling smugly at Bartholomew, who saw in that moment that the precentor was not deranged at all, but a cunning manipulator who had deceived him with ease. ‘They know about the Mint, so they will have to be eliminated.’

  ‘You are involved?’ asked Michael, regarding the Abbot in shock.

  Robert smiled coldly. ‘You do not think Appletre and Nonton could have managed all this alone, do you?’

  There was silence in the solar after the Abbot had made his declaration, but it did not last. A drunken cheer from the revellers drifted through the window. Then Lullington walked in, gloriously clad in more robes paid for with his murdered wife’s jewels. Michael pointed accusingly at him and started to stand, but Robert snapped his fingers and the archers’ bows came up simultaneously. He sat again.

  ‘I am the Bishop’s Commissioner,’ he said. ‘You cannot hold me against my will.’

  ‘Is that so?’ murmured Robert, going to his table and beginning to sort through the documents that lay there. He cocked his head. ‘Can I hear Kirwell singing?’

  Lullington laughed softly. ‘Wailing, not singing. The old fool cannot understand why he remains alive after parting with Oxforde’s prayer.’

  At the mention of Kirwell and the parchment passed to him by a criminal on the gibbet, the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Bartholomew’s mind. He spoke to Michael.

  ‘Robert was never abducted – he went missing of his own accord. To look for treasure.’

  Robert regarded him coldly. ‘I did it for my Order. Running an abbey is expensive.’

  ‘It started when Kirwell decided to die and gave Oxforde’s prayer to Robert,’ Bartholomew explained to Michael. ‘The one he had promised never to show to another person. Except it was not a prayer, was it, Father Abbot?’

  Robert smiled. ‘Kirwell was almost blind when he was Oxforde’s confessor, so he had never read what had been written.’

  ‘It was instructions,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘which told the reader how to find the money that Oxforde stole during his life of crime.’

  ‘Of course,’ breathed Michael. ‘That is why there has been a recent rumour that Oxforde gave it to the poor – to stop anyone else from looking. Not that they would have done after all this time, but nothing has been left to chance.’

  Robert inclined his silver head. ‘It also made Oxforde’s cult more popular, thus increasing donations. We could not lose.’

  ‘So that is where you have been?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘Not held prisoner by outlaws, but grubbing about for a burglar’s hoard?’

  ‘On Aurifabro’s land,’ elaborated Bartholomew. ‘While Spalling and the defensores kept him and his mercenaries distracted with spats.’

  ‘You went out with a spade in person?’ asked Michael, regarding the Abbot askance. ‘Most senior churchmen delegate that sort of thing to minions.’

  ‘He does not trust anyone,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Too right!’ muttered Robert. ‘There is a fortune at stake.’

  ‘I would have helped you, Father Abbot,’ said Appletre reproachfully. ‘If I had, Gynewell would not have sent commissioners to make a nuisance of themselves.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Robert, although he said no more and his silence revealed far more than words: he did not trust his precentor, either.

  ‘So where is this fabled treasure?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew stole an agitated glance towards the granary. Smoke was pouring from it now, and he fancied he could hear the crackle of the flames within. ‘Or has a month in the wilderness left you empty handed?’

  ‘Finding it has been more difficult than I anticipated.’ Robert turned back to Appletre. ‘You failed me this morning. You promised that Aurifabro would be killed or ousted, but he is still in residence, preventing me from conducting a proper search of his estates.’

  ‘Spalling’s people crumbled at the first hurdle,’ explained Appletre, rolling his eyes. ‘And Nonton’s idiots ran away. I was on my way to fetch the real defensores when I saw you had run into the bedesfolk, at which point it seemed more prudent to let the matter go. You must have thought so, too, or you would not have ordered everyone home.’

  A billow of white sailed past the window. ‘The granary,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘You will have no abbey to rule if you do not put out the fire.’

  ‘I shall rebuild on a much grander scale once I have Oxforde’s hoard,’ said Robert. ‘And my munificence and vision will be remembered for centuries to come.’

  ‘And your monks?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘They cannot be rebuilt with money.’

  Robert did not deign to reply. He glanced at the table. ‘Are those my seals and gold?’

  ‘Michael says he found them in Lullington’s quarters,’ replied Appletre. ‘Is it true?’

  It was the knight who answered. ‘Robert could hardly take them with him, and he is not such a fool as to leave them where Yvo and his devious nephew might have got hold of them. So he gave them to me to mind.’

  ‘You will not profit from poisoning your wife, Lullington,’ warned Michael. He sounded as despairing as Bartholomew felt. ‘I have already written to the Bishop about it.’

  It was satisfying to see the smugness fade from the knight’s face.

  ‘What?’ demanded Robert, shocked. ‘You did away with her?’

  ‘She started asking me awkward questions about your disappearance,’ replied Lullington. ‘And she was tenacious – she would have found the truth. She was supposed to die quickly, but the potion was defective, and when I saw her corpse…’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with the poison.’ Bartholomew made no attempt to conceal his contempt. ‘It was your ineptitude that sentenced her to a lingering death.’

  ‘Damn!’ cried Robert. ‘This could ruin everything! The Bishop will come for an explanation and—’

  ‘And you will inform him that there is no truth in Michael’s accusation,’ the knight flashed back. ‘Or I shall tell him exactly what has been going on here.’

  Suddenly, Lullington’s face contorted in agony, after which he pitched forward and lay still. Appletre was behind him, holding a dagger.

  ‘So much for not being violent,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘You believed that, did you?’ asked Appletre mildly. He turned to his Abbot, who was scowling as he toed the bleeding body away from his rugs. ‘We shall tell the Bishop that Lullington killed himself in a fit of remorse.’

  Michael released a sharp bark of mocking laughter. ‘Do you really imagine that Gynewell will see nothing suspicious in the deaths of Lullington, his wife, Welbyrn, Reginald, Joan, Spalling and us? He will tear your abbey to pieces looking for the culprits.’

  ‘Joan?’ asked Robert sharply. ‘And Welbyrn? When did this happen?’

  ‘I will explain later,’ said Appletre quickly. ‘After we have—’

  ‘He killed them both,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Welbyrn was murdered in cold blood because he was loyal to you: he was the only one who insisted you were still alive—’

  ‘You know why we encouraged people to think you dead, Father Abbot,’ said Appletre. ‘To see who would take advantage of the situation and thus show themselves to be your enemies. And it worked: Yvo and Ramseye are the two who must be watched.’

  ‘What happened to Welbyrn?’ asked Robert flatly.

  ‘He committed suicide,’ replied Appletre briskly. ‘Like his father. He had become very unpredictable, so it was for the best.’

  ‘Appletre murdered him,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘And Joan.’

  ‘Ignore him, Father Abbot,’ said Appletre irritably. ‘He is trying to create a rift between us with his lying accusations. Well, it will not work.’

  Robert said nothing, and Bartholomew felt the stirrings of hope. The Abbot would see he had recruited a dangero
us accomplice, and would have second thoughts about what he had set in motion. But any spark of optimism died when Robert addressed his precentor.

  ‘If Gynewell does descend on us, I am sure we can devise a tale that will satisfy him. And if not … well, I have never liked him. It is time we had a new Bishop.’

  There was nothing Bartholomew and Michael could do as they were bundled into a corner and told to stand with their hands on their heads, Bartholomew struggling to keep the knife hidden as he did so. The Abbot became businesslike. He snapped his fingers, and several more defensores appeared. He ordered them to toss Lullington’s body in the granary.

  ‘Then we can say that he started the fire as a way to end his own life,’ he explained. ‘But first, don these scholars’ clothes and make a show of leaving town. Keep your hoods up, so no one can see your faces. When they fail to arrive home, we shall blame their deaths on robbers.’

  ‘You will kill me?’ asked Michael reproachfully. ‘A fellow Benedictine?’

  Robert shrugged. ‘Why not? I killed Pyk, and he was a better man than you. He would have been a useful asset with his sharp wits and local knowledge, but he said he wanted nothing to do with Oxforde’s treasure. He left me no choice but to tap him on the head.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. Pyk had endured a lot more than a ‘tap’. Something else became clear, too.

  ‘Aurifabro’s shepherd saw you, and raved about it in his “delirium”,’ he said. ‘But Fletone did not die of mountain fever, and I suspect he was ill far longer than the few hours stipulated by his friends on the basis of his own amateur diagnosis. You poisoned him.’

  ‘I persuaded him to swallow something from Pyk’s medical bag,’ said Robert, full of arrogant disdain. ‘He obliged eagerly, the fool! Of course, it was Reginald’s idea.’

  Bartholomew supposed that explained how the cutler had known that Fletone had been poisoned, and why he feared the same fate might have befallen him.

  ‘Did you know that Appletre hit Joan over the head with a relic?’ asked Michael in a final, desperate attempt to cause trouble. ‘A relic, Father Abbot, a holy thing.’

  ‘Botilbrig did it,’ stated Appletre. ‘He always was jealous that she chose you over him.’

  Bartholomew was appalled that the bedesman should bear the brunt of Robert’s inevitable wrath. ‘Where is your conscience, Appletre? How can you sing in a church, knowing that you have committed such terrible crimes?’

  ‘Leave my singing out of it,’ snapped Appletre. He turned to Robert and gestured out of the window. ‘The townsfolk will see that smoke soon, and come to investigate. We should not be found with prisoners when they do.’

  ‘Then take these two outside and shoot them,’ said Robert. He scowled at Michael. ‘Call it revenge for you forcing me to buy Aurifabro’s damned paten in front of the whole town.’

  ‘Will you use that to pay for it?’ asked Appletre, nodding towards the jewels and the gold bar that lay on the table. ‘Given that we still do not have Oxforde’s treasure?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Robert coolly. ‘When this is over, I shall make a pilgrimage to Canterbury, to cleanse my soul. I have endured enough privation for the abbey, and I plan to use these to make the journey as pleasant as possible.’

  ‘Then your sins will not be expiated,’ warned Michael. ‘You—’

  ‘Kill them, and put their corpses with Lullington’s,’ said the Abbot briskly. ‘But do not forget to remove their clothes first.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, while Michael began to mutter prayers of contrition, under no illusion about the ruthlessness of the men they were confronting. ‘You will never find the treasure, because it is not on Aurifabro’s land. You have been looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘Enough,’ said Appletre, indicating that the defensores were to take their captives away.

  ‘I know where it is,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘It is here. In the abbey.’

  CHAPTER 15

  The solar was silent after Bartholomew made his announcement. Through the window, he saw that the granary roof was alight at last, and that the wind was carrying sparks towards the thatched roof of St Thomas’s Hospital. He could hear singing and cheering, and its drunken quality meant the revellers were unlikely to realise the danger they were in until it was too late.

  ‘The physician is lying,’ said Appletre. ‘He is a stranger, so how can he know more than those of us who have lived here for years? Besides, the treasure cannot be in the abbey or we would have found it.’

  Robert ignored him. ‘Tell me,’ he said to Bartholomew, steel in his voice.

  ‘Why should I? You will kill me the moment you know.’

  Robert smiled unpleasantly. ‘Yes, but there are many ways to die, and I am sure you would not like your fat friend to pay the price for your reticence.’

  ‘I cannot tell you,’ said Bartholomew quickly, when one of the bowmen stepped forward with a knife. ‘I will have to show you. But I shall need Michael’s help.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Robert suspiciously.

  Bartholomew met his glare steadily. ‘Because I cannot do it on my own.’

  Robert stared at him for a moment, then addressed his precentor. ‘Go with them to see whether he is telling the truth. If he is, kill them quickly. If not, make him sorry he tried to play games.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Appletre.

  ‘To the hospital, to tell my flock about my abduction. And while I am there, I shall inform my nephew and Yvo – and Henry, because I hate his sickly piety – that they are to have the opportunity to serve God in some of our remoter properties. That will teach them to cross me.’

  Robert held the precentor’s gaze for a moment, so it was clear that the threat applied to him as well, then strode away, an impressive figure in his fine habit. At a nod from Appletre, the defensores shoved Bartholomew and Michael down the stairs, where they met Nonton coming up to make his report. The cellarer was furious when he saw Bartholomew alive, and raised a fist, but Appletre knocked it down.

  ‘Not yet. The Abbot wants him to show us where Oxford hid his hoard.’

  Nonton regarded the physician uncertainly. ‘Does he know?’

  ‘He claims he does. If he is telling the truth, we are to kill him cleanly. If not…’

  Bartholomew began walking, so he would not have to look at the gloating anticipation in Nonton’s face. Michael came to trot at his side.

  ‘Do you really know, Matt, or are you bluffing?’

  ‘It is in Oxforde’s tomb.’

  Michael stared at him. ‘How in God’s name did you deduce that?’

  ‘Because of something Simon the cowherd said – that he had seen Oxforde in his golden grave. I did not understand what he meant at the time—’

  ‘But Simon is addled!’ hissed Michael in alarm. ‘He was speaking gibberish.’

  ‘Actually, he made perfect sense. Think about it, Brother. What was Oxforde was doing when he was caught?’

  Michael frowned. ‘Digging by the tomb of a silversmith, who was alleged to have interred some of his favourite jewellery in the plot next door.’

  ‘Exactly. Why would a successful thief bother with a few baubles that necessitated a lot of hard work? The answer is that he would not: Oxforde was actually hiding what he had already stolen. Then it was decided that he would be buried in the hole he himself had made…’

  ‘Because he was so evil it was thought that only hallowed ground could keep him from returning to terrorise the living.’ Michael stopped to ponder, but started moving again when an archer prodded him in the back. ‘So why did Oxforde write in his “prayer” that it was hidden on land now owned by Aurifabro?’

  ‘That was a ruse, to keep his real hoard safe.’

  ‘It was not much of one. Kirwell kept it secret it for forty-five years.’

  ‘Oxforde reckoned without the sunbeam. Had that not happened, Kirwell would have sold the prayer, and a hunt would have ensued.’

  ‘But Oxford
e had been condemned to death. Why did he bother?’

  ‘Because he did not believe the sentence would be carried out. Everyone says he expected a reprieve right up until the noose tightened around his neck. He thought he would be alive to enjoy his treasure, and this was his way of keeping people away from it.’

  ‘I hope to God you are right,’ muttered Michael. ‘Because I dread to think what will happen to us if you are not.’

  ‘We are dead either way, Brother. So think of a way to escape, because sparks are flying towards the hospital roof. It is not just our lives that are at risk here, but two hundred monks, bedesfolk and abbey servants.’

  Appletre’s eyebrows shot up in understanding as they entered the cemetery. ‘Of course! It is obvious now that I think about it. Fetch spades, Nonton. This pair will dig for us.’

  There was a lacklustre cheer from the hospital, which Bartholomew interpreted as meaning that Robert had just walked in. The granary was now well and truly alight, and he could see defensores at the gate telling concerned townsfolk that the monks did not need help to extinguish it. He considered yelling a warning, but doubted it would be understood. He glanced up at the hospital roof. How long would it be before it ignited?

  ‘Not there,’ snapped Nonton, when in a feeble attempt to win more time, Bartholomew aimed for the hole that Trentham had made for Joan. ‘Do not try my patience.’

  Bartholomew moved the flowers that covered Oxforde’s grave, and at a nod from Nonton he and Michael began to dig. Unfortunately for them, the ground was neither too hard nor too wet, and their progress was alarmingly rapid. One of the guards drew the excavated earth into a pile as they hurled it out, so it could be shovelled back again when they had finished. Clearly the bedeswomen were not to know what had been done to their shrine. Appletre watched, humming under his breath, while Nonton drank from his flask. Then Bartholomew saw smoke curling from the hospital roof.

  ‘This is madness!’ he cried, flinging down his spade and appealing to his captors. ‘Some of your choir is in there, Appletre. You cannot condemn them to be burned alive.’