The Lost Abbot

Chapter 10

Although dawn the next day was clear and blue, clouds were massing in the south-west, and a stiff wind indicated that it would not be long before rain swept across the countryside. Bartholomew regarded Michael with a distinct lack of enthusiasm when the monk suggested it was time they interviewed Aurifabro’s household in Torpe.

‘We have today and a few hours tomorrow before we must leave,’ said Michael. ‘This villain is not going to be the first killer to best me, and it would be a pity for my abbacy to begin with a sinister mystery surrounding the fate of my predecessor. Besides, Aurifabro virtually invited you.’

‘Yes, and he followed it by saying it would be safer and wiser to tell Bishop Gynewell that the case will never be solved. If it was an invitation, it was one cloaked in menace.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Michael. Then he relented. ‘We have no choice, Matt. We have questioned everyone in the abbey, plus a huge number of townsfolk, but answers have been in frustratingly short supply. Aurifabro’s servants are our last hope.’

Bartholomew made no reply, because Michael was right.

‘If you must go, then William and I will escort you,’ offered Clippesby. ‘There is a huge discrepancy in the quality of the defensores, and the ones Nonton plans to lend you today are hefty men who look mean, but who barely know one end of a weapon from another.’

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 himself 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.

Udela peered at the pebbles and nodded knowingly. ‘There is evil associated with the disappearance of Robert and Pyk. A terrible deed…’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, feeling he could have told her that himself.

‘But Pyk is innocent,’ said Udela, looking hard at him. ‘It is in your mind that he might have dispatched Robert, but it would not be true. The stones do not tell me this: my instinct does. Pyk was not a killer.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew sincerely. He liked the sound of Pyk, and it would do his profession scant good for the arch-villain to be a medicus.

‘There is nothing more specific, though,’ said Udela, inspecting the pebbles again, then shaking her head apologetically. ‘The spirits are frightened, which tells me that the wickedness is very strong. All I can say is that death and danger lie ahead for you.’

Bartholomew did not doubt it. Death was his daily companion, given that few of his remedies for serious diseases were effective, while he still had to make the return journey to Cambridge, which was likely to be every bit as perilous as the outward one. But despite his natural pragmatism, her words sent a shiver down his spine.

‘And a terrible monster with flailing claws,’ added Udela matter-of-factly. ‘It will stand over you screaming its fury, and its left hand is more lethal than its right.’

Wryly, Bartholomew supposed he would just have to make sure he avoided left-handed fiends for a while. He nodded his thanks to Udela, hoping she would not read in his face that he considered her prophecies a lot of nonsense.

‘There is one more thing.’ She smiled suddenly and sweetly. ‘And on this, the spirits are crystal clear. You will find love one day. I cannot say when, but it will come.’

Bartholomew stared at her, while the listening female servants issued a chorus of happy coos and Sylle nudged him in the ribs with a manly wink.

‘And that,’ said Udela, gathering up her stones, ‘is all I can tell you.’

Eventually, there was a rattle of hoofs outside as Aurifabro arrived home, more of his mercenaries at his heels. Watching the cavalcade, Bartholomew asked whether the goldsmith had always felt the need for such an elaborate personal guard.

‘He recruited these men a year ago,’ explained Udela, ‘to prevent the abbey from encroaching on his land by moving fences, diverting streams and that sort of thing.’

‘But they have accompanied him out and about since Robert disappeared,’ added Sylle. ‘I hate to say anything nice about Robert, but he did keep good order. Now he is dead, thieves abound and the roads are not safe for wealthy goldsmiths.’

‘Why do you think Master Aurifabro hopes a reasonable man will be appointed as the next Abbot?’ asked Udela. ‘Because he wants to make peace. It is expensive to keep these foreign soldiers, and we do not like them. They are louts.’

‘I have been told that the roads are more dangerous now Spalling spouts incendiary messages,’ said Bartholomew, more to gauge their reactions than because he believed it.

‘Spalling used to be such a nice boy,’ said Udela sadly. ‘Not like his father, who was a tyrant. I cannot imagine what has encouraged him to take so violently against our master. It is wholly undeserved – we are very generous with alms.’

‘Spalling does encourage the poor to strike at Aurifabro in particular,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Indeed, sometimes I wonder whether Peterborough only has one wealthy merchant, because he rarely mentions anyone else by name.’

Bartholomew was about to leave the kitchen and rejoin Michael when the goldsmith appeared at the door. Aurifabro’s expression was simultaneously wary and suspicious.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why is no work being done?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew has been tending our ailments,’ explained Udela, without a trace of servitude. ‘For free. I feel better already.’

‘You do not want him touching you,’ said Aurifabro. ‘He is a Corpse Examiner.’

‘It makes no difference,’ said Udela, cutting short the murmur of unease that began to ripple through the staff. ‘No evil aura hangs around him, or I would have seen it. He is as pure as the driven snow.’

‘Is he?’ asked Aurifabro doubtfully, while Bartholomew also regarded her askance.

‘Yes,’ said Udela, meeting her master’s eyes. ‘You have nothing to fear from him.’

Bartholomew was tempted to take her back to Cambridge with him – he could do with someone who spoke with such conviction on his behalf. Aurifabro nodded what might have been an apology and left. Bartholomew started to follow, but was waylaid by people who wanted to thank him for what he had done, so it was some time before he was able to escape.

‘There was nothing to find,’ Cynric murmured, as he followed the physician towards a smart solar in the main part of the house. ‘I had hoped that Robert and Pyk were being held prisoner, so I could rescue them, but I am fairly sure they were never here.’

‘So am I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Udela and the servants might have agreed to stay silent if Robert was locked up, but not Pyk. They like him too much.’

Cynric clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I will ask her a few more questions when I go for my private consultation. But be careful with Aurifabro. I do not trust him.’

Apparently, Aurifabro did not trust the scholars either, because his henchmen were ranged behind him as he lounged in a chair near the hearth.

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ he was telling Michael, who was sitting opposite. ‘I want you to leave.’

‘Now, now,’ said Michael, stretching out his legs and looking so relaxed that Aurifabro might have been forgiven for thinking that he was settling down for a nap. ‘That is no way to address the man who might be Peterborough’s next Abbot.’

Aurifabro stared at him. ‘You? But how will you defeat Yvo and Ramseye? The monks will be too frightened of the retribution that will follow if they vote for you.’

‘You think it will be decided by election, do you?’ said Michael, smugly condescending. ‘The Bishop will make his own selection, and I am his favourite canon.’

‘I see.’ Aurifabro stared at the floor for a moment, and seemed to reach a decision. He indicated with a snap of his fingers that refreshments were to be served, and tried for a conciliatory smile, an expression that did not quite work on his dour features. ‘As I told your physician last night, I am tired of my dispute with the abbey. I want peace.’

‘I do not see why that cannot be arranged,’ said Michael, accepting a goblet of wine and nodding his appreciation at its quality. ‘Of course, it depends on your cooperation in answering questions about Robert.’

‘Ask then, but please be brief. I am a busy man.’

‘Business is good, then, is it?’ probed Michael. ‘Spalling is right to claim you are one of the wealthiest merchants in the region?’

‘Yes, but I am also generous, and I do not understand why he singles me out for censure. Most merchants never donate a penny to the poor.’

‘How many times did Robert visit you?’ asked Michael, abruptly changing the subject.

‘A lot,’ growled the goldsmith. ‘He was a nuisance, and I was beginning to wish he had commissioned someone else to make his paten. He wanted to inspect it every few days, to see how it was coming along. And now the abbey refuses to buy it. Of course, I imagine a discerning man like you will be keen to have it on his high altar.’

‘I might. Did he come here just to inspect your craftsmanship?’

‘No, he tried to foist his oily friendship on me as well, although I was having none of it and I told him so.’

‘How did Robert take your rejections?’

‘Badly – he told me I would rot in Hell. But I care nothing for his curses or his religion. I am a son of the older faith, which is why I keep a witch in my home.’

‘Do you indeed?’ murmured Michael.

‘Udela is a great seer, and your physician should be grateful that she has my respect, because otherwise I would have trounced him for distracting my entire household from their duties. No one has done a stroke of work in hours.’

‘Tell me what happened the day Robert was due to visit you.’ Michael refused to be intimidated by the man’s bluster.

‘What, again?’ groaned Aurifabro.

‘Yes, again,’ snapped Michael. ‘You may not care about Robert, but Pyk was with him, and he seemed a decent soul.’

‘Yes, he was,’ acknowledged Aurifabro. ‘Very well then. Robert approached me that morning and said he was coming to see the paten. I told him I was going to visit my mother, but he threatened to cancel the commission unless I stayed in. He said he planned to leave the abbey after his noonday meal – God forbid that he should miss that – and ride to me in the afternoon.’

‘And Pyk? Why did he come?’

‘To tend my servants. He often travelled with Robert, as he was one of few who could tolerate the fellow’s company.’ Aurifabro’s habitual glower softened. ‘Everyone liked Pyk, and the sight of his great domed head and scarlet cloak lifted the spirits of all who saw them.’

‘Why did Robert come here to inspect the paten? Surely you have a workshop in town?’

‘Of course, but I was making this particular piece at home. However, Robert’s visits were such a trial that I was on the verge of taking it to Peterborough, just to avoid them.’

‘What do you say to the people who lay Robert’s disappearance at your door?’

‘That they are wrong,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘I had reasons to dislike the man – lots of them. But I am not in the habit of dispatching powerful churchmen. Or physicians.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But are you sure you know nothing – even something which may seem unimportant – that might explain what happened?’

Aurifabro closed his eyes and sat still for so long that Michael exchanged a bemused glance with Bartholomew, both wondering whether he had fallen asleep.

‘Just one thing,’ said the goldsmith at last. ‘Robert always took his seals with him when he left the abbey. It suggests he distrusted his obedientiaries – that he was afraid they might use them fraudulently.’

‘Clearly. So what are you suggesting?’

‘That if he thought them capable of forgery, why not other crimes, too – such as killing him and Pyk on a lonely road?’

Unwilling to be blamed for the disappearance of a second important churchman, Aurifabro instructed some of his mercenaries to escort the scholars safely away from Torpe. Michael demurred but the goldsmith was insistent, and six burly warriors kept them close and rather menacing company for a while, then turned without a word and rode back the way they had come. Both scholars and defensores were relieved when they had gone.

‘What do you think?’ Michael allowed his horse to settle into a more comfortable pace. ‘Did Aurifabro do away with Robert and Pyk, as half the town, most monks and Spalling believe?’

‘Robert, maybe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not Pyk. Besides, Aurifabro had a point about the seals – it does suggest that Robert distrusted his own house.’

‘Yes, but who in particular? Henry?’

‘No.’ Bartholomew was tired of arguing the point. ‘He is a good man – Udela said so.’

‘You mean the witch?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is meant to impress me, is it?’

‘There is nothing wrong with witches, Brother,’ put in Cynric. ‘But this one was wrong if she said Henry is good, because he is not. Nor are Ramseye and Yvo. They would certainly commit murder to become Abbot, and neither would hesitate to sacrifice Pyk in the process.’

‘Appletre admires Henry,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He–’

‘Appletre is like you in that respect,’ interrupted Michael acidly. ‘Unable to tell the villains from the decent men.’

There was no point arguing with such rigidly held convictions, and Bartholomew did not try. Behind them, the defensores began muttering that they would not be in Peterborough until midnight if the men they were guarding insisted on ambling along at such a leisurely pace. Although Bartholomew did not see Michael do anything with reins or knees, the monk’s horse immediately slowed further still.

‘Could Aurifabro’s mercenaries have killed Robert and Pyk without their master’s knowledge?’ asked Cynric. ‘They are ruthless brutes. Moreover, I heard them speaking French, and the outlaws who kept ambushing us on our way here spoke French.’

‘It is possible.’ Michael sighed irritably. ‘Our visit to Torpe was a waste of time, and we must go home tomorrow. You being poisoned did not help, Matt. We lost a whole day over that.’

‘My apologies. However, I am not the only one who has fallen foul of a toxic substance recently. So did a shepherd called Fletone, who died the day after Robert and Pyk disappeared.’

‘What?’ asked Michael in alarm.

‘His friends say he contracted mountain fever, which I think you will agree is unlikely around here. He diagnosed himself, being interested in medical matters, but he was raving by the time he was found, and I doubt he was rational.’

‘Neither are you, if you conclude from this that he was poisoned. There must be all manner of horrible diseases that could have carried him off.’

‘There are, but it is odd that Fletone should have contracted one on this particular road and on that particular day. Moreover, Reginald claimed that he had been poisoned–’

‘But you said Reginald died of apoplexy,’ interrupted Michael. ‘On account of his unhealthy diet and the fact that he had suffered previous attacks.’

‘Yes, he probably did. However, it is what he believed that is important. He must have had a reason for making such a remark – such as knowing what had happened to Fletone.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure you are fully recovered? Because that is wildly illogical! How could Reginald have “known” that Fletone was poisoned, when Fletone himself – and the people who knew him – thought he had mountain fever?’

‘Reginald would have known the truth if he had been involved in Fletone’s demise. Perhaps that is what made him act so suspiciously whenever we tried to talk to him.’

‘No,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘You are reading too much into the situation.’

The monk continued to pour scorn on the theory, but Bartholomew was not listening because they had reached the lightning-blasted oak where Sylle had found the dying Fletone. He reined in to look at it, understanding exactly why the villagers had named it the Dragon Tree. Its ivy-coated trunk looked like a body, two branches on its ‘back’ had the appearance of wings, and two more at the front formed arms with claws. It had a head, too, with gaping jaws that appeared to be baying at the sky. It had unnerved him when he had travelled to Torpe the first time, he recalled, by groaning so eerily that his horse had bolted.

He dismounted and began to poke around it with a stick, while Cynric and Michael watched in weary resignation, and the defensores complained in sullen voices about the delay. It had started to drizzle, and they wanted to be home.

‘There will be nothing to see now,’ said Cynric irritably. ‘Mother Udela told me that Fletone did not die here, anyway. Sylle carried him home and he breathed his last in Torpe. Besides, I have already explored the area around that tree. Twice.’

Bartholomew sniffed the air. ‘I can smell something unpleasant…’

‘There is a dead sheep nearby. One of Fletone’s, probably, which died when he was not around to look after it.’

Bartholomew found the animal and crouched next to it, putting his sleeve over his nose in an effort to filter out the stench. But even taking the mild weather into account, he did not think it had been dead for a month. He said so.

Michael was dismissive. ‘You usually tell me that time of death is impossible to estimate, but now you claim to be able to do it with sheep?’

‘The thing looked fairly fresh when I came across it last Thursday,’ put in Cynric, earning himself a scowl from the monk. ‘He is probably right.’

Bartholomew began to prod again. There was a ditch behind the Dragon Tree, which had widened to form a natural pond. He watched a blackbird hop along the edge, dipping its beak towards it every so often, but it did not drink, and eventually it flew away. He scooped some of the water into his hand and sniffed carefully. There was a faint odour of decay.

‘Something is buried near here,’ he said, standing up and looking around. ‘And putrefaction is leaking into the pond. That is what killed the sheep, and that is why the bird declined to drink.’

‘Sheep know to avoid bad water, boy,’ said Cynric, although he slid to the ground and began to make the kind of inspection at which he was skilled. The defensores’ grumbling grew louder, and Michael rolled his eyes.

‘Perhaps this one made a mistake.’ Bartholomew expanded his search to the left of the tree. ‘Or was too thirsty to care. However, there are no obvious injuries on it, and–’

‘Here!’ exclaimed Cynric suddenly. ‘Quick!’

Bartholomew hurried towards him. The book-bearer was kneeling by a particularly deep part of the ditch, which was overgrown with weeds and the roots of trees. Underneath them, a patch of red cloth was visible. It was costly stuff, shot through with gold thread.

‘Pyk had a cloak sewn from material like this,’ said Cynric soberly.