The Lost Abbot

Chapter 12

It was not long before Michael decided they were wasting their time hunting for Lullington: the abbey had far too many hiding places, and they had no idea where to look for him outside. Moreover, the opportunity to search Reginald’s home might not arise again – it had to be done that night. When he had hidden the poison, seals, gold and jewels in the guest house, the monk took a deep breath and indicated that Bartholomew was to follow him to the Abbey Gate.

They arrived to find it patrolled by a defensor, but the little Bolhithe Gate in the south wall was secured by no more than a bar; it was a simple matter to remove it and walk to the marketplace. The streets were very dark, although lights gleamed here and there. A baby was awake in one house, wailing insistently, while from another came the sound of laughter as friends whiled away the small hours together. A dog’s claws clicked as it trotted purposefully across the cobbles, and an owl hooted in the distance.

‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’ whispered Michael anxiously. ‘What if we are seen? It will not look good for the Bishop’s Commissioners to be caught raiding the homes of wealthy townsfolk.’

‘Then we shall have to be careful,’ said Bartholomew with more confidence than he felt. ‘Although if you have an idea that does not involve us breaking in, I am all ears.’

‘I do not,’ said Michael, after a moment during which Bartholomew could almost hear the monk’s mind working. ‘But I am not climbing through any windows. I am not built for that sort of thing. You do it, while I stand guard.’

‘I had a feeling that might be the plan.’

When they reached the cutler’s shop, Bartholomew led the way to the back, knowing it was what Cynric would do – the book-bearer possessed an unsavoury but useful talent for entering places uninvited. He looked at the house rather helplessly at first, but then saw that one of the windows had a defective shutter. He tugged on it, but nothing happened, so he pulled harder. Michael squawked in alarm when it dropped to the ground with a clatter.

‘It came off in my hand,’ whispered Bartholomew.

Michael shot him a reproachful glare. ‘In you go, and please hurry. If you are caught, I shall be mortified.’

Resisting the urge to point out that his capture would give them a lot more to worry about than mere mortification, Bartholomew clambered through the window. He had had the foresight to bring a tinderbox, so he lit one of the cutler’s lamps and headed for the workshop. He started by the door, and worked systematically until he arrived back where he had started, and then did the same in the filthy bedchamber. It was easier and quicker now that Lullington had removed much of the clutter, but despite his efforts, Bartholomew found nothing that might have a bearing on what had happened to Robert and Pyk.

The only unusual thing was that several silver pennies had fallen between the floorboards, and Reginald had neglected to retrieve them. As most people tended to be careful with money, Bartholomew prised one out. It was new and shiny, and came from Bishop Gynewell’s Mint in Lincoln, but that was not surprising – it was the one closest to Peterborough.

‘Nothing,’ he reported, climbing back through the window and promptly stumbling over a pile of discarded tiles. One slipped off the heap and landed with a loud crack. Michael cringed away in alarm.

‘My nerves!’ the monk complained. ‘They are not built for this kind of thing.’

‘Nor mine,’ retorted Bartholomew. His heart was pounding from tension. ‘You can burgle the Abbot’s House on your own, because I am not doing this again. Can we go now?’

‘I have something to show you first. While you were inside, I lit a candle and prodded about in that mound of grass you can see over there.’

‘The one that looks like a grave?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Michael’s reply was to relight his candle and lead the way to the shallow hole he had excavated. Bartholomew crouched down to see a skeletal human hand. It was not very big, although the state of the joints told him it had belonged to an adult.

‘Reginald’s wife? So the rumours were right – he did kill her?’

‘It looks that way, and think of the implications. The murder of a spouse is a powerful secret, and we know she disappeared shortly after Robert’s arrival. Do you recall what the gossiping servants told William about the Abbot’s relationship with Reginald?’

‘That Robert had some kind of hold over him – they were not friends, but something less pleasant. So can we assume that Robert discovered what Reginald had done, and used it to blackmail him?’

‘It makes sense to me, and we have been told countless times that Robert was not a good man – extortion might be just another of his failings. Yet how would he have found out?’

‘Perhaps he saw this grave-shaped heap and drew his own conclusions. Or perhaps Robert was less than principled with what he heard in the confessional – which may have been why Reginald turned pagan. However, what we should be asking is: what did Robert force Reginald to do that resulted in him wanting Trentham’s pardon?’

It was a question neither could answer, so Bartholomew scraped the soil back over the sad remains and turned to leave, eager to be away. Michael fell into step at his side.

‘I did some serious thinking while you were in Reginald’s house. I know Welbyrn was murdered – someone shoved him so he cracked his head on the side of the pool and left him to drown – and I am sorry, Matt, but my suspicions keep returning to Henry.’

‘Why would Henry turn from devout monk to ruthless murderer?’ demanded Bartholomew, speaking loudly enough to set a dog barking in the house they were passing.

Michael made an urgent gesture for him to lower his voice. ‘Perhaps because Welbyrn tried to poison you, his old friend. You did battle with Welbyrn once to protect him, so he may have thought it incumbent on him to return the favour.’

‘Hah!’ Bartholomew stopped walking to regard Michael triumphantly. ‘Then your theory has just collapsed, because Welbyrn did not poison me – William did.’

Michael gaped at the physician. The baby was still howling in the house they had passed earlier, and an owl glided silently along the lane, death on wings as it hunted rodents among the rubbish. The same clicking-clawed dog trotted past, this time going in the opposite direction. There was a faint hint of colour in the eastern sky; dawn would break soon.

‘William might be a bigoted old fool, but he would never harm you,’ said Michael, once he had recovered from his shock. ‘Or anyone else from Michaelhouse.’

‘Not deliberately,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He was trying to help, but he actually did something very dangerous. You see, he was with me when I physicked Lady Lullington. She was in agony, so I gave her a huge dose of an extremely powerful medicine.’

‘So he did the same for you? He thought you were in pain because you had scraped your elbow on the wall, so he decided to dose you with something to make you feel better?’

‘Precisely. Unfortunately, he failed to appreciate that I keep this particular potion for the terminally ill; I would never give it to anyone who might live.’

‘To help them towards the grave?’ asked Michael, round eyed. ‘Like Trentham–’

‘No, of course not! I mean it contains a potentially toxic combination of ingredients that should only be used in extreme cases, when relief of pain is the only recourse. I would never give it to someone for a graze.’

‘I remember William passing you a large beaker of watered wine,’ said Michael. ‘And I also recall you gulping it down quickly enough to alarm him.’

Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘I was thirsty because I had eaten those salty leeks.’

‘But Lady Lullington did not sleep for two nights and a day.’

‘She would have developed a tolerance for strong medicines during the weeks she was ill, and I suspect William dosed me with rather more than I gave her, on the grounds that she was small and frail and I am not. Moreover, I was drunk from the claret in the Swan, and combining wine and poppy syrup is never a good idea.’

‘Could he have killed you?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘Yes, quite possibly.’

‘So the Lombard slices were harmless?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I have been thinking about those, too. We know Welbyrn provided them, but I think they were meant to be a peace offering. He was terrified of what he thought was happening to him, and I believe he may have been sufficiently desperate to solicit my help.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘I would have said you were the last person he would have turned to.’

‘What choice did he have? Pyk was not here, and there is no other medicus in Peterborough. And he must have been aware that his visits to St Leonard’s were not helping.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘But then what? I know you are too honourable to allow personal animosity to interfere with your dealings with patients, but he probably judged people by his own shabby standards…’

‘Quite, so he decided to see if a gift would make us regard him in a more favourable light. He asked the cook to bake him some Lombard slices, because you had declared a liking for them. Unfortunately, William fed me the soporific, and you declared me poisoned…’

‘So he retrieved them from the Swan, lest the anonymously donated Lombard slices were blamed for your condition, which explains why they were in his scrip when he died.’

‘He was innocent of any wrongdoing, but it would have been a difficult charge to disprove, given his very public hostility towards us. And he would not have wanted to tell the truth, because that would have meant revealing that he might be losing his wits.’

‘When did you reason all this out?’

‘Earlier – I started to tell you in Lullington’s quarters, but you interrupted.’

‘It was hardly the right place.’ Michael shook his head. ‘But William! How could he?’

‘He is not a clever man, Brother. He will have no idea what he has done.’

Michael rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘So where does this leave us? I am so tired that I can barely think straight and–’

He stopped speaking when a torch flashed across the street. Moments later, there was another, and when one started to bob towards them, Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s sleeve and pulled him into a doorway. Both scholars held their breath as a number of people trotted past, their footsteps beating an urgent tattoo on the cobbles. At the very end of what was a sizeable mob was a familiar figure. Bartholomew stepped forward to intercept it.

‘What are you doing out at this time of night?’ demanded Langelee. He wore his boiled leather jerkin under his academic tabard, and his sword was at his waist.

‘Breaking into houses,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘What is happening? I can tell just by looking that these folk are up to no good.’

‘I told you earlier, Brother – Spalling aims to attack Aurifabro’s house.’

‘I did not realise it would be tonight,’ said Michael in alarm.

‘Nor did I,’ said Langelee grimly. ‘He just made a speech in a tavern, and suddenly his army was on the move.’

‘Then Aurifabro’s mercenaries will earn their keep today.’ Michael nodded at the eclectic array of hoes, scythes and kitchen knives that were being carried.

‘These people are no match for professional warriors.’ Bartholomew was horrified. ‘Moreover, they will run into Nonton and his defensores, who are still on the Torpe road looking for Robert’s body.’

‘I tried to dissuade them, so did Cynric,’ said Langelee, but their blood is up and we were lucky not to have been lynched. You must go to the abbey at once, and tell Prior Yvo to stop them.’

‘He will not help,’ predicted Michael. ‘Why would he, when a battle between Aurifabro and Spalling will injure two of the abbey’s enemies? And do not say he will want to save the defensores, because he would not mind being rid of them, either – Nonton intends to use them to intimidate the monks into voting for Ramseye in the election.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘We cannot stand by while people are slaughtered. There are children in Spalling’s throng!’

‘We had better follow them and see what opportunities arise.’ Langelee’s expression hardened as he fingered his sword. ‘And if not, then we had better be ready to fight.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael soberly. ‘But on whose side?’

The night was not as black as it had been, and the eastern sky was streaked with silver, although it would be another hour before the sun made its appearance. It was not easy to see where they were going, and Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee stumbled over ruts and potholes as they hurried through the market and along the Torpe road.

They heard Spalling’s raiders before they saw them: they were singing a revolutionary song that allowed them to march in time with the music. The result was a little disjointed, as the scholars were not the only ones who could not see where they were putting their feet, and the bobbing torches allocated to a chosen few were insufficient to light everyone’s way.

Bartholomew was horrified by the number of people who had rallied to Spalling’s call. Some were feisty young men fuelled by ale and a belief that the world owed them something, but most were folk who should not have allowed themselves to be cajoled into such reckless foolery – grandmothers, men with young families, pregnant women and youngsters who should have been in bed.

It was not long before the scholars reached the stragglers, which comprised old folk who could not walk fast enough to keep up with the main column and those who had imbibed their leader’s ale too liberally. The elderly insurgents hobbled along gamely, exchanging tales about the inconvenience of ageing bladders.

‘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 stand 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.’