The Lost Abbot

Chapter 3

The next day was overcast and threatened rain. Bartholomew had slept badly, despite being tired. It was strange being in Peterborough again after so many years, and he was surprised by how much of it he had forgotten – the abbey precinct was hauntingly familiar, but he barely recalled the town.

He remembered the guest house, though, and had visited it often when school was over and interesting visitors were in residence. Some had told him tales of their journeys, which had fuelled his own eagerness to travel. It was a good place to be, warm in winter and cool in summer, with two large bedrooms on the upper floor and a hall below for eating and relaxing. Its blankets were clean and smelled of lavender, and the windows could be opened for fresh air. It was a healthy environment, and one of which he approved.

‘Why did your sister send you here when there was a perfectly good school not two streets from her home?’ asked Michael, as he tied his rope cingulum around his waist, fiddling fussily until he was satisfied with the way it fell.

Bartholomew’s parents had died when he was young, and it had fallen to Edith, ten years his senior, to raise him. ‘I doubt it was her idea.’

‘You mean it was your brother-in-law’s? I thought he liked you.’

‘He does, but he was a young man with a new wife. I imagine he wanted his privacy.’

‘Did you not mind being exiled?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘I would have done.’

‘I was very happy here, and the school is excellent, with patient, gentle masters. Except for Welbyrn and Ramseye, but they only came in my last few weeks.’

‘Ah, yes,’ mused Michael. ‘The treasurer and the almoner, neither men I liked. Tell me about them. Start with Welbyrn. He struck me as stupid. Is that fair?’

‘Not really. It was easy to tie him in logical knots when he was trying to teach, but stupid is too strong a word.’

‘You challenged your tutors in the schoolroom?’ Michael was unimpressed. ‘No wonder they do not seem very kindly disposed towards you!’

‘I would not have done it if their lessons had been better prepared.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Remind me to ban you from any classes of mine.’ He became thoughtful. ‘Perhaps I shall not make a bid for the abbacy after all, because the obedientiaries leave a lot to be desired. Mind you, so did Robert by all accounts.’

Bartholomew was fully aware that Michael was ambitious, and that Cambridge would not hold him for ever, but he was glad the inevitable was to be postponed for a while longer. The monk was his closest friend, and he would miss him if he left.

‘This was a happy place when I was young, but now it feels uneasy. Welbyrn stands alone in thinking that Robert is alive; he, Ramseye and Nonton have formed this so-called Unholy Trinity; and the monks are being forced to choose between the clever but unappealing Ramseye and the marginally more likeable but ineffectual Yvo.’

‘Lullington’s odious presence cannot help either,’ added Michael. ‘Appletre the precentor is a decent fellow, though. Do you remember him from the horde we met last night? No? Then I shall introduce you to him later. I do not want you leaving Peterborough under the impression that all Benedictines are quarrelsome and disagreeable.’

‘It is not just the Benedictines. There is friction in the town as well. Spalling and Aurifabro hate the abbey and each other, and both have followers.’

Michael nodded. ‘Meanwhile, the men of St Leonard’s and the women of St Thomas’s are at one another’s throats, and I am inclined to believe that one of them killed Joan, despite their denials. But today is Thursday and we are leaving in six days, so we had better make a start.’

‘What do you want to do first?’

‘After attending prime and eating breakfast, we shall ride to Aurifabro’s home in Torpe, and inspect the track where Robert disappeared. Who knows, perhaps we shall find him there.’

‘I imagine it has been thoroughly searched already.’

‘Do you? I suspect it was surveyed cursorily at best, given that most people seem quite happy that the Abbot is missing. Ergo, we might well happen across a corpse.’

Bartholomew was relieved when Clippesby seemed calmer after a night’s sleep. The wildness had gone from his eyes, and he appeared almost normal again as he knelt to recite his morning prayers. William lay with the blankets hauled over his head, doggedly determined to stay in his comfortable bed for as long as possible.

It was still early, so the bells had not yet rung for prime, and the abbey was peaceful. The only sounds were birdsong and a distant clatter from the bakery as bread was shovelled into the great ovens. Bartholomew was about to go for a walk, to savour the silence before the start of what was likely to be a trying day, when there was a knock on the door. He opened it to see a monk standing there, holding a jug of hot water.

‘Henry!’ he cried in delight, recognising his old classmate immediately.

The monk beamed as he was clapped affectionately on the shoulder. He had always been small, but now he verged on the minuscule, and his lame leg gave him a more pronounced limp than when he had been a child. He still possessed a head of thick fair hair, though, and the eyes held the same sweet gentleness that Bartholomew remembered so well.

‘Welbyrn told me that you had realised your childhood ambition to become a physician,’ he said, smiling. ‘Well done, although I cannot imagine how you cope with the gore.’

‘He revels in gore,’ remarked William from under the bedcovers. ‘And I suspect he practised anatomy when he was off studying in foreign schools.’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Dissection was not illegal in England, but it was frowned upon, and he did not want Henry to think him a ghoul. And while he had attended anatomical demonstrations when he had visited the medical faculties of Salerno and Padua, he had not performed one himself. Of course, that was not to say he had not wanted to – he was of the opinion that much could be learned from the dead.

‘What office do you hold, Brother Henry?’ asked Michael politely. ‘If you have been here since you were at school, you must be an obedientiary by now. Forgive me if we met last night, but Yvo bombarded us with so many introductions that my head was spinning.’

‘I am not an obedientiary, just a plain monk,’ replied Henry. ‘Like you.’

‘I am not a plain monk,’ said Michael, affronted. ‘I am the University’s Senior Proctor.’

‘My apologies. I should have guessed there was a reason for your fine habit.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you implying–’

‘Are you happy here?’ interrupted Bartholomew. He recalled that Henry could be scathing about monks who ignored the vows they had taken regarding poverty.

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Henry serenely. ‘I serve God, and that is all I ask of life.’

Michael snorted cynical disbelief at this claim, while an odd sound emerged from the bed containing William, too. Clippesby nodded his understanding, though.

‘I was surprised to see Welbyrn and Ramseye,’ Bartholomew forged on, before any of them could speak. ‘I thought they would have found greener pastures by now.’

‘They like it here. And they both improved once they were assigned duties that better suited their abilities. Ramseye is a highly skilled administrator, while Welbyrn grew more gentle. Neither is the tyrant you remember, Matthew.’

‘Welbyrn does not seem very gentle to me,’ said Michael, startled. ‘Indeed, his remarks and behaviour have revealed him to be spiteful, petty and miserly.’

Henry’s face clouded. ‘He has changed recently. Robert’s disappearance has upset him.’

‘He is certainly reluctant to acknowledge the possibility that the Abbot may be dead,’ agreed Michael. ‘To the point of belligerence.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Henry. ‘He has always been … vehement in his opinions, yet there is no real harm in him.’

Bartholomew recalled his childhood spats with Welbyrn. Most had been verbal, and they had only come to blows once – an encounter that had ended before more than a few cautious punches had been traded, when Welbyrn had tripped and hurt himself on a table.

‘Perhaps you will tell us what happened when Abbot Robert disappeared,’ said Michael.

‘Poor Robert,’ sighed Henry. ‘He and Pyk went to visit Aurifabro, but I did not know they had failed to return until Prior Yvo made the announcement the following morning.’

‘The following morning?’ echoed Michael. ‘Robert was not missed before then?’

‘The obedientiaries became alarmed that night, but as it was dark, they decided to wait for daylight before sending out a search party. The defensores set out at dawn, but came back empty-handed. I was with a group of monks who visited Aurifabro that afternoon, but he said Robert never arrived. He was worried about Pyk, though.’

‘He was not worried about Robert?’

‘No, he did not like Robert, but he admired Pyk, and sent his own mercenaries to hunt for them both. They had no more luck than our defensores.’

‘What else was done to find them?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The defensores searched other roads, and we still waylay travellers in the hope of news.’

‘I find this odd,’ mused Michael. ‘If a high-ranking scholar went missing, I would organise a hunt immediately. And I would continue that hunt until we found him.’

‘It is not for me to question the obedientiaries’ decisions, Brother.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But there is a difference between questioning decisions and making your concerns known.’

‘Appletre the precentor tried,’ said Henry, rather defensively. ‘He offered to take the defensores out again, but Ramseye said he would be wasting his time and that his uncle would come home when he was ready. But he never has.’

‘Do you think Robert is dead?’

‘Yes, I do. Ramseye and Yvo itch to take his place, and I doubt he would have left his throne unattended for so long, knowing that they circle like vultures.’

‘Then who might have killed him? Ramseye or Yvo? One of the monks?’

‘No,’ said Henry firmly. ‘We have all been praying for his safe return. You must look to the town for a culprit.’

‘Why? What did he do to Peterborough’s citizens to warrant being murdered?’

Henry hesitated, but then replied, although it clearly pained him to do so. ‘He set high rents for those who live in our houses and farms, and he was miserly with alms. But that is all I can tell you, Brother. You will have to interrogate someone else if you want to know more.’

The moment Henry had gone, William joined Michael in an assassination of his character. Michael had disliked him on sight, while William had detected an innate slyness that he said would make Henry a prime candidate for murderous behaviour. Bartholomew gaped at them.

‘Henry would never harm anyone,’ he objected. ‘He is a gentle, kindly–’

‘You have not met him in years,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He might have changed.’

‘The kitchen mouse does not like him, either,’ added Clippesby. ‘She said last night that she is unsure of his sincerity.’

‘There!’ pounced William, who only ever listened to Clippesby when the Dominican said something with which he agreed. ‘We all know that mice are never wrong.’

Bartholomew regarded them unhappily. Clippesby was astute, and his assessments were often shrewder than those of his saner colleagues. But then he cast his mind back to when he and Henry had been young, and he was sure they were wrong. Henry had never shown the slightest inclination to hurt anyone, verbally or physically. His lame leg had made him a natural target for bullies, but he had accepted the abuse with a quiet dignity that had eventually won their respect. Welbyrn’s hounding had persisted longer than the others’, and it had been that which had prompted Bartholomew to fight him.

‘Welbyrn is a villain, too,’ said Michael. ‘You will have to watch yourself around him, Matt, because he bears you a grudge. I could see it in his face last night.’

‘Because I broke his nose.’ Bartholomew shrugged at his companions’ astonishment. ‘At least, that is what he will tell you. The truth is that he was trying to hit me, but he lost his balance and fell over.’

‘You fought your schoolmasters, as well as exposing their intellectual shortcomings?’ asked Michael, wide eyed. ‘Lord! I am glad you were never a student of mine.’

The bells were ringing for prime, so the scholars walked to the church. Michael joined his Benedictine brethren in the chancel, while Bartholomew, William and Clippesby stood in the nave. As when he had been young, the physician’s eyes were drawn upwards, to the splendour of the painted ceiling, which was a riot of geometrical designs in gold, red and green. It soared above three tiers of sturdy Norman arches, all alive with carvings, statues and murals.

‘Things usually seem smaller as an adult than a child,’ he remarked. ‘But this church is even bigger than I remember it.’

‘The mouse said much the same thing,’ said Clippesby, nodding.

‘We had better keep him away from the Benedictines,’ muttered William. ‘They might relegate us to meaner quarters if they discover that our “saint” is just a plain old lunatic.’

‘Be kind to him, Father,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He was upset by Joan’s death.’

‘So was I,’ declared William. ‘Therefore, I have decided to catch her killer myself. I shall do it when I am not deciding who murdered Abbot Robert.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what would happen if the grubby Franciscan started throwing his weight around in the abbey. ‘Leave it to Michael.’

William looked angry. ‘He wants my help. Why do you think he made me a deputy Commissioner yesterday?’

Bartholomew suspected the ‘appointment’ would be withdrawn if the monk knew that William intended to act on it. He flailed around for a way to deter him, feeling Michael’s task was going to be difficult enough without William meddling.

‘It might be dangerous,’ was all he could manage on the spur of the moment.

William waved a dismissive hand. ‘I shall question the abbey’s servants – ask what they thought of Joan and Robert. And about some of our suspects, too – Aurifabro, Spalling and the obedientiaries. There can be no danger in that, and I imagine they will be more willing to confide in me – a lowly mendicant – than a lofty and ambitious Benedictine like Michael.’

Bartholomew nodded cautiously, supposing it would keep him occupied – and safely away from anyone Michael would not want offended.

‘And I shall interview the abbey’s animals,’ offered Clippesby. Bartholomew started: he had not known the Dominican was listening. ‘I saw a number of geese last night, and the horses will almost certainly have something to say.’

‘I am sure they will,’ muttered William, eyeing him disparagingly. He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘Do you want to know who I believe murdered Joan?’

Bartholomew was not surprised that William had already formed an opinion; the friar had always been a man for snap judgements. ‘Go on then,’ he said warily.

‘A Benedictine.’ William lowered his voice. ‘I do not like the Order, and as you pointed out yesterday, any of them could have gained access to the chapel via the back door. Ergo, a Black Monk slipped in and brained her.’

‘And his motive?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I shall find out from the servants,’ vowed William. ‘This morning.’

‘Then do it discreetly, or you may find yourself relegated to the stables tonight, exchanging confidences with Clippesby’s horses.’

A flash of alarm crossed William’s face, and Bartholomew hoped self-interest would be enough to keep the questions conciliatory.

‘What about Abbot Robert?’ the friar asked, after a moment. ‘Do you have a theory about him? If not, I do.’

‘Yes?’ Bartholomew braced himself for more hare-brained speculation.

‘Robert became ill on the journey, so Physician Pyk gave him medicine. But Pyk dispensed the wrong kind, and rather than face the consequences, he hid the body and fled. That is why both are missing.’

‘But the robin told me that Pyk was very good at his trade,’ argued Clippesby. ‘I doubt he made a mistake. But even if he did, he could just have claimed that Robert had a fatal seizure. No one would have challenged him.’

‘Rubbish,’ claimed William, although he wore a crestfallen expression. ‘But prime is starting, and I am not in the habit of chatting during sacred offices. Please be quiet now.’

Tactfully refraining from pointing out that it had been William doing most of the talking, Bartholomew and Clippesby bowed their heads.

Prime was a beautiful ceremony in Peterborough. The precentor was an innovative musician, and the monks had been taught to sing in parts rather than traditional plainsong. Bartholomew closed his eyes to listen to the exquisite harmonies, but opened them again when someone joined in who should not have done – a discordant yowl that clashed with the tenors. William was smirking, delighted at this example that not everything the Benedictines did was perfect; Clippesby did not seem to have noticed.

When the service was over, Michael was waiting to say that they had been invited to breakfast in the refectory. He began walking there briskly, as though afraid there might not be anything left if he dawdled.

‘Did you hear Prior Yvo caterwauling?’ he asked, slightly breathless from the rapid pace he was setting. ‘He ruined the Gloria.’

‘That was him, was it?’ asked William, amused. ‘Why did no one tell him to desist?’

‘We did, but he informed us that there was nothing wrong with his warbling, and that it was our ears that were out of tune.’

‘You are talking about Prior Yvo,’ came a voice from behind them. They turned to see a plump, round-faced, smiling little man who had been at the gathering of obedientiaries the previous evening. ‘He made himself heard this morning, even though I had begged him to stay silent. I had dedicated this morning’s music to poor Joan, you see. I was fond of her.’

‘This is Thomas Appletre,’ said Michael to his colleagues. ‘The precentor.’

The monk smiled a welcome. ‘Any friends of Bishop Gynewell are friends of mine; I admire him greatly. However, I hope he will appoint a new Abbot for Peterborough and not leave us to elect one of our own. I think an outsider would be a good idea.’

‘I am considering taking the post myself,’ confided Michael. ‘And–’

‘Oh, please do!’ cried Appletre in delight. ‘It would be wonderful to have a man who cares for music – and who might be persuaded to sing the responses on occasion.’

‘Well,’ said Michael, flattered. He was a talented musician, and it was unfortunate that Michaelhouse had one of the worst choirs in the country. ‘That would be pleasant. But there is more to an abbacy than a bit of chanting, you know.’

‘Not necessarily. You can do what Robert did – delegate all the tedious business to your obedientiaries and keep the enjoyable duties for yourself.’

‘What does being Peterborough’s precentor entail?’ asked William, while Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a meaningful glance at this latest revelation of the Abbot’s shortcomings.

‘Organising the music and setting the mortuary roll,’ replied Appletre. When the friar frowned his bemusement, he explained, ‘Arranging prayers for the dead. Of course, that has put me in an invidious position of late.’

‘Has it?’ asked William, puzzled. ‘Why?’

Appletre looked pained. ‘Because I should like to arrange some for Abbot Robert, but Welbyrn refuses to let me, on the grounds that he thinks he is still in the world of the living.’

‘But you believe Robert is dead?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes, I am afraid I do. He loved his food, you see, and I cannot see him staying away from the abbey’s table for a month without good cause. He took his victuals seriously.’

‘Tell me what you thought of him as Abbot,’ ordered Michael.

Appletre considered carefully before replying. ‘He was a strong man. Well, he had to be, because a weak one could not have controlled us obedientiaries – we are opinionated fellows, as you may have noticed. But I think he meant well, on the whole.’

‘Hardly resounding praise,’ murmured Michael, as they followed the precentor to the refectory. ‘But kinder than anything anyone else has said. Unfortunately, I suspect Appletre is one of those who looks for the good in everyone, so I am disinclined to believe him. Abbot Robert was an ugly customer, and that is all there is to it.’

The refectory was a long building near the cloister. There was a high table on a dais for the obedientiaries, and Prior Yvo took the Abbot’s chair at its head. Welbyrn and Nonton formed a sullen, formidable presence on his left, while Ramseye sat smiling enigmatically on his right with Appletre. The scent of expensive perfume preceded the arrival of Lullington, who informed the precentor in braying French that he would have to move, as Lullington himself intended to sit near Yvo that morning. Appletre joined the lesser officials at the far end of the table, openly relieved to be away from the centre of power and the tense politics that surged around it.

Like the rest of the abbey, the refectory was well designed and clean, with religious murals placed to inspire the brethren to holy thoughts as they ate. It did not take long for the visitors to see that the artist had wasted his time. The meal was sumptuous, and the monks’ attention was fixed entirely on the platters that were starting to arrive.

Bartholomew had never been very interested in fine food, mostly because he was unused to it – a life spent in universities had seen to that – and he had never really understood Michael’s devotion to his stomach. He began to appreciate it that day, though, and knew he needed to pace himself, or the rich fare would make him ill. Michael and William showed no such compunction, and fell to with undisguised relish. Bartholomew exchanged a wry smile with Clippesby, who was also inclined to be abstemious.

‘Lombard slices!’ whooped Michael in delight, making a grab for the plate that was being carried past by a servant. ‘My favourite. How very civilised to serve them for breakfast.’

As it was a Lenten day, meat was forbidden, but there were plenty of alternatives in the form of eggs, cheese, and fish. Bartholomew was somewhat startled to note that there were also kidneys, small balls of spiced minced liver and roasted chicken.

‘Those are not meat,’ explained Michael, his words almost indecipherable through his bulging cheeks. Meals were usually taken in silence, but an exception had been made that day in deference to the presence of the Bishop’s Commissioners.

‘No?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘What are they then? Vegetables?’

‘Of course not. What I meant was they are not meat for the purposes of our diet. The Rule of St Benedict prohibits eating the flesh-meat of quadrupeds on Lenten days. Well, chickens are not quadrupeds, and liver and kidneys are not flesh-meat.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking this a rather liberal interpretation. Offal and chicken were meat as far as he was concerned, and the medical authorities he respected would agree. He watched the brethren tuck in. ‘Regardless, it is not healthy to consume so much at breakfast. The Greek physician Galen says–’

‘Galen was a miserable old ascetic who probably lived a long but very unhappy life,’ interrupted Michael, snatching up an egg and inserting it whole into his mouth, as an act of defiance. ‘I would rather die young and happy.’

‘Then you are going the right way about it. You will never be an abbot or a bishop if–’

‘What are you two discussing down there?’ called Prior Yvo affably. The scholars had been allocated places at a table in the body of the hall, but near the dais, a ploy which meant that the obedientiaries loomed over them, symbolically asserting their superiority over mere Bishop’s Commissioners.

‘Spalling has put about a tale that the executed criminal Oxforde gave all his stolen money to the poor,’ replied Clippesby, assuming the remark was addressed to him. He held an enormous grass snake in the air. ‘This gentleman has just told me. It explains why none of his hoard has ever been found. Yet I am sceptical: felons are not usually generous.’

There was immediate consternation as the monks, not unreasonably, objected to the presence of a serpent at their breakfast table. Some thought it was an adder and flew into a panic, while others simply did not like creatures that slithered. Clippesby was bewildered by the fuss, as his Michaelhouse colleagues had grown used to him producing animals when the fancy took him, and no longer reacted. Bartholomew watched the commotion thoughtfully, finding the various responses revealing.

Welbyrn and Nonton surged forward with daggers, proclaiming their intention to kill the creature; as monks were supposed to forswear violence, Bartholomew wondered why they had armed themselves, particularly in a refectory. Yvo climbed on the table wailing about the snake crawling up his habit, while Lullington grabbed the sacrist and forcibly placed the man between himself and the source of danger. Appletre and the lesser officials struggled to restore calm, and Henry’s head was bowed in prayer. Meanwhile, Ramseye looked on with an expression that was difficult to gauge.

When Nonton seized Clippesby roughly in his determination to reach the snake, Bartholomew intervened. He helped the Dominican carry the now-agitated reptile outside, aware that Welbyrn and Nonton were watching its release with eagle eyes, no doubt with a view to dispatching it later.

‘It is a good thing he is holy,’ said Yvo, when everyone was back in his place and peace reigned once more. ‘Because otherwise I would have to ask you to find other lodgings.’

‘He is holy,’ asserted William, loath to lose the Benedictines’ luxurious hospitality quite so soon. ‘And his eccentricity is proof of it.’

‘I am not–’ began Clippesby in alarm.

‘There is a barn owl looking for you,’ interrupted William quickly. ‘Outside. You had better go and see what it wants. Hurry now.’

Clippesby regarded him askance. ‘Are you sun-touched, Father? A barn owl would not be looking for me. What a peculiar notion!’

‘Oh,’ said William, painfully aware that he was now the one who looked addled.

‘Not at this time of year and in daylight,’ Clippesby went on, to William’s profound relief. ‘It must have been some other bird. A hawk, perhaps. They often have things to say about excessive gluttony at the breakfast table.’

At an urgent nod from Michael, William took the Dominican’s arm and hustled him away before any other remarks about their hosts’ lifestyle could be made.

‘Your Clippesby is an unusual man,’ said Yvo, pursing his lips as he watched them go. ‘Our own saint-in-the-making – a fellow named Kirwell – does not commune with serpents.’

‘Tell me about the election you plan to hold,’ said Michael, partly for information, but mostly to prevent questions being asked about their colleague that could not truthfully be answered. ‘Why are you determined to do it so quickly?’

‘Because it is not good for an abbey to be without a leader in this day and age,’ replied Yvo. ‘And the sooner I am in office … I mean the sooner we have a replacement, the better.’

‘But why?’ pressed Michael. ‘Some abbeys manage for years without a titular head.’

‘It is a dangerous time for us. Aurifabro is a deadly enemy, while Spalling urges our peasants to rebel. Why do you think Robert told Nonton to recruit the defensores?’

‘Spalling,’ mused Michael. ‘You should not allow him to air such radical views. He will have the whole shire ablaze if he continues unchecked.’

‘He has always held controversial opinions,’ said Yvo unhappily. ‘And we did excommunicate him for them, but the Bishop pardoned him. All was calm for a while, but he started up again when Robert vanished. Unfortunately, I cannot excommunicate him a second time – the Bishop would not like it.’

‘He would not like his diocese inflamed by rebellion either,’ Michael pointed out.

‘That will not happen. Nonton and Welbyrn visit Lincoln a lot, and they say the rest of the See is calm. It is only Peterborough that is unsettled.’

‘Unfortunately, that is untrue. Cambridge is also full of treasonous talk, especially in the taverns after dark. Matt’s book-bearer predicts a national uprising, and I fear he is right.’

‘Why did Gynewell pardon Spalling?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to discuss Cynric’s revolutionary politics in a place where they might cause him trouble. ‘Bishops do not normally take the side of rabble-rousers against fellow clerics.’

Yvo sighed. ‘He said excommunication was an inappropriate punishment, and we should have put him in prison instead. Unfortunately, the common folk now think that Gynewell approves of Spalling, and any attempt to silence him meets with public protest. It is an awkward situation.’

‘Awkward indeed,’ agreed Michael.

The meal went on much longer than the ones in Michaelhouse for the simple reason that there was far more to eat. Michael grew restless, eager to visit Torpe before more of the day was lost. Sensing his impatience, Appletre came to sit with him, taking his mind off the wasted moments by asking about the Michaelhouse Choir, a subject dear to the monk’s heart. Ramseye abandoned his exalted spot on the dais to provide the same service for Bartholomew.

‘So you really did become a physician,’ the almoner said, indicating that Bartholomew was to make room for him on the bench. ‘I thought you would have seen sense and studied law instead. That is where the money lies.’

‘And you stayed in Peterborough.’ Bartholomew declined to explain that he had never been interested in making himself rich, suspecting that Ramseye would not understand.

Ramseye nodded. ‘I have not set foot outside it since you took us fishing in Peakirk that time. Well, I went to Torpe a few weeks back, but that is the sole extent of my travels.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘But Torpe is only two miles away!’

‘Quite, and I was relieved to get back, I can tell you. The jaunt took an entire morning, and I have never felt so vulnerable in all my life. But why the astonishment? Peterborough has everything I want, and the rest of the world is dirty, sordid and dangerous.’

Bartholomew struggled for something to say that would not reveal how very peculiar he found this to be. It was not uncommon to find labourers who had never left their villages, but senior churchmen tended to be more mobile – to inspect their foundations’ far-flung properties, if nothing else.

‘What did you think of Torpe?’ he managed to ask.

‘Terrible! It reeked of cows and the silence was unnerving – no bells, no street vendors, no carts or horses. I went because Robert wanted me to inspect the new paten Aurifabro was making. I tried to pass the duty to someone else, but he was insistent, so I had no choice.’

‘Did you like the paten?’ Bartholomew was wholly out of his depth in the discussion; even Michael, who hated travelling, was not this insular.

‘Oh, yes. It is a fabulous piece, and it is a pity that Yvo cancelled the commission.’ Ramseye shuddered. ‘The journey was a nightmare, though. It was pouring with rain and freezing cold. I am sure Robert picked a dismal day on purpose, to intensify my misery. As I said yesterday, my uncle could be cruel.’

‘You also said that you believe he is dead.’

‘I do. Why else would he abandon the comfortable life he had here? Besides, there is Pyk to consider. He is missing, too, which almost certainly means that someone killed them. A natural disaster, such as a fallen tree or a bolting horse, is unlikely to have taken them both and left no trace.’

‘Then who is the culprit?’

Ramseye gave the sly smirk Bartholomew remembered so well. ‘Well, the obvious choice is those who might benefit from his departure – namely Yvo and me. If you ask our brethren, they will probably tell you that we would do anything to be Abbot.’

‘Would it be true?’

‘Yes and no. I do want the abbacy, not for personal gain, but because I believe I can take Peterborough to new levels of greatness. I am not a murderer, though. However, I cannot say the same for Yvo – there is a ruthless streak beneath that insipid exterior.’

There was a ruthless streak in Ramseye, too, thought Bartholomew, one that looked the other way while Nonton and Welbyrn won votes for him by bullying. ‘You think Yvo arranged to have your uncle killed?’

‘I did not say that – I merely pointed out that he has a motive. However, he is not the only one. Your gentle Henry was often the butt of Robert’s sharp tongue, and the bedesfolk did not like him either, while our tenants hated him for being a harsh landlord.’

‘Are there any suspects who stand out above the others?’

‘Not really: they all despised him with equal passion. But I can tell you one thing: if Michael intends to provide Gynewell with a killer, he will have his work cut out for him. I doubt this particular mystery will ever be solved.’

Bartholomew was grateful when Yvo eventually stood to intone grace, allowing him to escape. He liked Ramseye no more as a man than he had as a youth, and was sorry the abbey had been obliged to endure his disagreeable presence for so many years. It deserved better.

Outside, he breathed in deeply of air that was rich with the scent of scythed grass and ripening crops. Sheep bleated in the distance, and swallows swooped around the nests they had built under the refectory’s eaves. He closed his eyes, but opened them in alarm when something breathed heavily and hotly on the back of his neck. It was his stallion, saddled and ready to go to Torpe. It eyed him challengingly, as if it knew there was about to be another contest of wills, one it fully intended to win.

‘Are you going to stand there daydreaming or shall we go?’ asked Michael.

He was already astride his own horse, and with him were four of the abbey’s defensores, dour, unsmiling men wearing an eclectic collection of armour. Yet they did not carry themselves like soldiers, and Bartholomew suspected they had been selected for their savage looks rather than their skill with weapons. Knowing he was being watched, he climbed into the saddle with as much grace as he could muster – not a vast amount, but at least he did not embarrass himself – and followed Michael out of the abbey.

Torpe lay west of the town, along a road that wound pleasantly through woods and farmland and occasionally touched the banks of the meandering River Nene. After a mile, the countryside turned into untamed heath, land that had once been under the plough but that had been abandoned after the plague. It was desolate and unsettling.

‘Aurifabro’s estates,’ explained one defensor. ‘He bought it for a pittance when the Death took all the farmers, and says it will make him rich when there is a demand for good pasture in the future.’

‘It would be a lonely place to die,’ said Michael, looking around uneasily. ‘I am not a man for fancy, but even the trees look depressed.’

Bartholomew knew what he meant, especially when they passed a lightning-blasted oak and its dead branches swayed to release a moan that sounded uncannily human. His disquiet transmitted itself to his horse, which promptly began to prance.

‘Grip with your knees,’ instructed Michael. ‘And shorten the reins. Lord, Matt! Do you remember nothing of what I have tried to teach you?’

‘We should have walked,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Michael was about to argue when the oak groaned with such heart-rending sorrow that the defensores crossed themselves and even he felt impelled to spur away from it. Bartholomew was concentrating on keeping his seat, but in the corner of his eye the ivy-swathed tree suddenly took on the shape of a monster with branches like ragged wings. Yet when he gazed directly at it, stomach churning with foolish alarm, the discomfiting image had gone.

The stallion was unsettled and took off like an arrow. Bartholomew let it have its head, hoping a gallop would tire it out. Unfortunately, once it was going it was reluctant to stop, and no amount of rein-shortening or knee-gripping could induce it to slow down. It entered Torpe in a fury of thundering hoofs, scattering chickens and goats, and he was aware of startled villagers stopping to gape.

It raced past a chapel, and Bartholomew was just wondering whether they might overshoot the village and carry on to the next one, when it veered into a cobbled yard. With nowhere left to run, it came to a standstill, and showed its disdain for its rider by ignoring his attempts to steer it back to the road and ambling towards a hay-filled manger. The physician jumped in alarm when he heard the unmistakable sound of a crossbow being wound.

‘Leave,’ came a low voice that dripped menace. ‘Now.’

Bartholomew twisted around in the saddle to see three of Aurifabro’s mercenaries, two of whom had weapons trained on him. Their captain stood with his hands on his hips, his face full of angry indignation.

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, pulling hard on the reins in an effort to separate horse from fodder. The animal ignored him and continued to munch. ‘Is Aurifabro at home?’

‘No,’ said the captain shortly. ‘And he did not say when he would be back.’

‘I will wait.’ Bartholomew was keen to dismount and recover from his furious ride.

‘You will not. We have orders to repel visitors while he is away, and that is what we shall do. Now get out, before I give orders to shoot you.’

To give emphasis to the threat, one of his cronies released a crossbow bolt, which snapped into the ground by the horse’s hoofs. The beast released a frightened whinny, and Bartholomew found himself on the move again. Fortunately, it turned left on leaving the yard, thus retracing its steps; he was vaguely aware of the astonished villagers watching him hurtle past a second time. The stallion slowed when it reached Michael and the defensores, its sides heaving and saliva foaming from its mouth.

‘Where did you take it?’ asked Michael disapprovingly. ‘Scotland? You have exhausted the poor creature.’

‘The “poor creature” almost got me killed,’ said Bartholomew crossly, dismounting while he could. He shoved the reins at Michael. ‘Aurifabro is out, his mercenaries are in, and I am walking back to Peterborough.’

The monk had no more luck in persuading the soldiers to let him into Aurifabro’s house than had Bartholomew, and he was disgruntled when he finally caught up with the physician.

‘That was a waste of a morning,’ he grumbled. ‘I shall mention Aurifabro’s lack of cooperation in my report to Gynewell. And you should not have stormed off alone. Two men disappeared on this road, you know.’

‘I thought I might find some clues if I travelled on foot,’ explained Bartholomew, moving so that the monk was between him and the stallion. The beast was guilelessly docile now it was being led by a man who knew what he was doing.

‘You found something?’ asked Michael eagerly.

‘No. However, if I had to pick somewhere to commit murder, the Torpe road would be high on my list of choices. No one lives on the part Aurifabro owns, large sections are obscured by trees, and there are ditches galore to hide in.’

They continued in silence, past a cluster of buildings that Bartholomew had barely noticed when he had been struggling to stay mounted. It was St Leonard’s Hospital, and a familiar figure stood outside its gate.

‘It is Botilbrig,’ said Michael. ‘Does he loiter at every entrance to the town?’

‘You are needed,’ the bedesman informed Bartholomew. ‘Lots of people are desperate for medical attention now that Pyk is gone. Some are waiting for you inside.’

‘I told them you would pass this way,’ said William apologetically, emerging to stand next to him. Clippesby was there, too. ‘Their plight moved me, and I thought you would not mind. Besides, they offered to show me their holy well if I helped to secure them a few moments of your time, and I like sacred things.’

‘They will need more than a few moments,’ murmured Clippesby, who had a piglet under one arm and a duck under the other. ‘There are dozens of them.’

‘Are you ready?’ asked Botilbrig, indicating the hospital with a gnarled hand.

‘I cannot refuse, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw Michael’s brows draw together in an irritable frown. ‘It would be unethical.’

Michael gave a gusty sigh, then lowered his voice so their colleagues would not hear. ‘I suppose I can replace you with William for the rest of the day, just this once. Do you mind keeping Clippesby? He should not be left alone.’

‘He should not,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He is still upset about Joan’s murder and–’

‘I am more concerned that he does not do something to show he is no saint,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Our continued comfort depends on it, so please be careful.’

‘You should not have lied about that,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘The truth is bound to emerge, and when it does, you will have some awkward questions to answer.’

‘Then we shall have to ensure it does not,’ said Michael, unrepentant.

The Hospital of St Leonard was larger than St Thomas’s, although it was Norman rather than Gothic. It boasted a range of picturesque cottages, sheds and stables, but its core comprised a chapel and an adjoining two-storeyed building with a hall on its ground floor and three smaller chambers above.

The hall had once held beds for lepers, but as its days of dealing with incurable diseases were over, it had been converted into a pleasant common room. There was a hearth at one end, in which a fire glowed despite the warmth of the day, and its furniture was simple but elegant. Several bedesmen were clearing a long trestle table of what looked to have been an ample meal, suggesting that Peterborough’s monks were not the only ones who knew how to cater to their personal comfort.

A long line of people stood patiently outside the hall, and Bartholomew assumed they were queuing for alms until he noticed that most were too well dressed to be beggars. With a start, he realised they were waiting to see him, and wondered if half of Peterborough had turned out. He jumped in alarm at a sudden shriek.

‘I am a bat,’ cried an elderly man, flapping his arms. ‘Get out of my way, or I shall entangle myself in your hair.’

‘Simon the cowherd,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘He has been without his wits for years now, and is one of us bedesmen. We did our best to make him sleep today, given that he is inclined to be disruptive, but he refused to drink the flagon of wine we tried to feed him.’

‘Bats never entangle themselves in hair, Simon,’ said Clippesby, addressing the cowherd softly and kindly. ‘It is a tale often put about, but it is wholly untrue.’

Simon lowered his arms and regarded the Dominican warily. ‘How do you know?’

‘They told me so themselves,’ replied Clippesby matter-of-factly.

Bartholomew was disconcerted when the remark was repeated in awed murmurs down the line of patients, but no one laughed, and there were further whispers that this was evidence of the Dominican’s saintliness. Entirely unwittingly, Clippesby reinforced the belief by favouring Simon with one of his sweetest smiles, an expression that revealed his innate goodness.

‘They talk to me, too,’ hollered the cowherd, beginning to dance again. ‘And so do the pigs and the bumblebees.’

‘Then you must tell me what they say.’ Clippesby caught his hand and led him to sit by the window; Simon went quietly, like a child.

‘That is the calmest he has been in years,’ said a tall, silver-haired man wonderingly. ‘Clippesby truly is holy. We are blessed today, with visits from a saint and a physician.’

‘I am having a consultation with both,’ announced Botilbrig. ‘They are only here because they took a liking to me yesterday, so I am within my rights to demand it.’

‘They had better tend Kirwell first,’ said the silver-haired man. He bowed to Bartholomew. ‘My name is Prior Inges, head of this fine hospital.’

‘I should have been Prior, rightly speaking,’ interposed Botilbrig. ‘As I am the eldest resident – other than Kirwell, of course. But Abbot Robert told me I was not clever enough, and appointed Inges instead. It was not very nice, actually.’

Inges ignored him. ‘Once you have seen Kirwell, I shall show you the healing well. You can begin seeing patients after that.’

‘Can I now?’ muttered Bartholomew, resenting the presumption.

‘Kirwell is our own saint,’ Inges went on, ‘whom God has blessed with an especially long life. He is a hundred and forty-three years old.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘Because we have irrefutable evidence – namely that he was born in the year of Magna Carta. He remembers his mother telling him so, you see.’

It was not Bartholomew’s idea of ‘irrefutable evidence’, but he followed Inges up the stairs to where Kirwell had been provided with a bedchamber all to himself. Someone was singing a ballad in a lilting tenor, so beautifully that Bartholomew stopped to listen. Inges had no such compunction, however, and barged in without ceremony.

‘Very nice, Appletre,’ he said briskly and in a manner that suggested it was time for the precentor to leave. ‘It was good of you to come.’

‘It is my pleasure,’ replied the precentor amiably. ‘Although I suspect I did more to send Kirwell to sleep than to entertain him.’

Kirwell lay in bed, wizened, concave-headed and entirely bald. Appletre was right to say that he had fallen asleep, for he snapped into wakefulness at Inges’s interruption, revealing rheumy eyes that were almost white. However, Bartholomew thought that while he might well be ninety, or even a hundred, he was certainly no more.

‘Here is the physician, Kirwell,’ announced Inges. ‘We brought him to you first, so keep him for as long as you like. The rest of us are happy to wait.’

‘I will come back later, then,’ said a figure who had been sitting quietly in the shadows. It was the young chaplain Trentham. He was blinking drowsily, suggesting that Appletre’s singing had had a soporific effect on him, too.

‘Please do,’ said Inges. ‘And then I shall finish telling you about my first day as abbey steward, when I was obliged to confront a vicious killer.’

‘On your first day?’ asked Appletre, wide-eyed. ‘That sounds nasty.’

‘It was,’ agreed Inges. ‘The culprit was a man who discovered his wife in bed with a shepherd. He fastened his hands around her throat and slowly wrung the life out of her.’

‘Oh,’ gulped Appletre, raising a hand to his own neck. ‘I have nightmares about that – someone doing something awful to my throat. Singing is my only skill, and without my voice, I would be useless. In fact, I would rather die than live without music.’

‘If someone strangled me, I would want it done vigorously,’ confided Inges. ‘Not like the man with his wife, which took an age. It is more merciful to grab one’s victim and finish him with one brief but powerful squeeze. There would be no pain and–’

‘Stop!’ cried Appletre, putting his hands over his ears. ‘Such a discussion is hardly appropriate in front of saints, physicians and priests – or precentors, for that matter.’

‘It is only idle chatter,’ shrugged Inges. ‘But we should not waste Doctor Bartholomew’s time, because he has a lot to do today. Thank you for coming, Appletre. You, too, Trentham. Kirwell enjoys these weekly sessions very much.’

Inges accompanied the priest and the precentor out, leaving Bartholomew alone with the patient. Kirwell turned his opaque eyes in the physician’s direction.

‘How much longer?’ he asked in a low voice.

Bartholomew sat next to him. ‘How much longer until what?’

‘Until I die,’ whispered the old man. ‘I am weary of life and want to sleep in my grave.’

‘That is not a question I can answer.’

‘I am tired of lying here while folk prod and gawp at me. The attention was fun to start with, but now I have had enough. So how much longer?’

‘Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?’

‘Yes, you can give me a potion that will ease me painlessly into death.’

‘Other than that,’ said Bartholomew.

Kirwell scowled. ‘Are you following Inges’s orders? Has he instructed you not to rob his hospital of its main source of income?’

‘He did not need to – physicians are not in the habit of dispatching people.’

Kirwell went on bitterly. ‘He sees me as too valuable to die. But I can barely recite my offices these days – I keep falling asleep halfway through them. I am no kind of priest now.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I attended the abbey school here, but I do not recall hearing about you. Yet you would have been ancient then – if you really are a hundred and forty-three, of course.’

‘Well, you should have paid more attention,’ sniffed Kirwell. ‘Because I have been a bedesman ever since Lawrence de Oxforde was hanged, which was long before you would have been learning your letters. Do you not know my story?’

‘I am afraid not.’

‘It began with his execution. I was praying by his grave the following day when there was a brilliant flash of light. It knocked me clean off my feet, and was declared miraculous by all who saw it.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. It did not sound very miraculous to him.

‘Afterwards, it was decided that I should live here at abbey expense. I was grateful, because my eyes were failing, and what use is a sightless cleric?’

‘What caused the light? The sun?’

Kirwell grimaced. ‘You are a practical man who looks for rational explanations of God’s mysteries. But you are wrong to be sceptical, because my life changed in that moment. Before, I was a frightened man, lonely, poor and going blind. After, I was a bedesman with every comfort at my fingertips. That was a miracle.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, his mind drifting to the people who were waiting to see him below. What manner of ailments would they present? Would any be new to him? Would the town’s apothecary be able to produce the complex remedies he might need to prescribe?

‘Oxforde gave me a prayer,’ Kirwell was saying. ‘One he composed the night before he was executed. I told him it was beautiful in an effort to touch his conscience, although it was actually rather trite. But he believed I was sincere, and he wrote it down for me.’

‘He could write?’ asked Bartholomew, pulling his mind away from medicine. He did not want to offend the old man by being inattentive.

‘Like you, he attended the abbey school. He promised that I would live long and happily, provided I never showed it to anyone else. I did not believe him, of course, and planned to sell it – some folk pay good prices for that sort of thing. But then that light flared over his tomb, so I decided to do as I was told. Within an hour, I was awarded my life of luxury.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering where the story was going.

‘But a month ago, I decided that I had had enough, so I told my story to Abbot Robert. He said that if I gave him the prayer, I would be released from my wearisome life.’

‘Really?’ Bartholomew wondered what Robert had been thinking. It was hardly appropriate for an abbot to encourage superstition, especially in a fellow religious.

Kirwell scowled. ‘I did as he suggested, but he is the one who is dead, while I still linger. It is not fair!’

‘I doubt Oxforde’s prayer is responsible for–’

‘Of course it is,’ declared Kirwell crossly. ‘I passed it to Robert two days before his fateful journey to Aurifabro, and now he is gone. But why him? He promised me death.’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, when he saw that Kirwell expected an answer.

‘Damn you, then,’ whispered the old man. ‘Damn you to Hell!’

His head dropped forward, and he began to drowse. Moving carefully, so as not to wake him, Bartholomew left.

Prior Inges was waiting in the hall below. ‘Did he bless you? Or touch you in benediction? He has been a bit remiss in that direction of late, but he has always admired physicians.’

Bartholomew did not like to say that he had been cursed. ‘Not exactly.’

Inges looked disappointed. ‘Perhaps he will oblige you next time. Holy men can be unpredictable, as I am sure you know from your Clippesby.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Bartholomew gestured towards the door, where the line of people seemed to be longer than ever. ‘I should make a start if you want me to see everyone today.’

‘Not before you inspect our well,’ said Inges. ‘We cannot have it said that we provided a Bishop’s Commissioner with an inadequate tour. Especially as Joan went to some trouble to show you everything at St Thomas’s.’

He grabbed Bartholomew’s sleeve and tugged him into the chapel. There were steps in one corner, leading down to a deep, stone-lined pool. The water was green and its surface rippled. Bartholomew put his hand in it, but withdrew it sharply. The spring was icy cold.

‘Now to business,’ said Inges. ‘As this is my hospital, you will give me half the fees you earn today. You will, of course, not charge my bedesmen: they will be seen for nothing. Do not worry about collecting the money – we shall do that before anyone is allowed in.’

‘What about those who cannot pay?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.

‘They will not be admitted,’ replied Inges. ‘I cannot abide beggars.’

Bartholomew moved towards the door. ‘Then I shall hold court in St Thomas’s–’

‘All right, all right. But they can only be seen when you have dealt with everyone else.’

‘They will be seen in the order in which they arrived.’

Inges considered for a moment, then thrust out his hand. ‘Agreed. The hospital will still make plenty of money, which will show those witches at St Thomas’s that they are not the only ones who can generate a decent income for the abbey.’

The terms having been negotiated, Bartholomew indicated that the first customer was to be shown in. It was a woman with a rash, and he lost count of how many people came after her, so when the last patient had been seen and sent on his way, he was surprised to see it was nearing dusk. He had been pleasantly impressed by Clippesby, who had proved himself invaluable, both by writing out instructions for the apothecary and by stopping Inges from cheating them.

‘Unfortunately, even after giving the apothecary everything we earned today, we still owe him eightpence for those who cannot afford their own remedies,’ the Dominican said as they walked through the marketplace, both grateful to stretch their legs after so long indoors. ‘Perhaps the abbey will pay. They are supposed to dispense alms, after all.’

‘I doubt it,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Welbyrn is tight-fisted with–’

‘That woman,’ interrupted Clippesby. ‘She looks uncannily like Matilde.’

Bartholomew followed the direction of the friar’s finger, and felt his stomach lurch. The lady in question was walking away from them, but her natural grace and the cut of her kirtle told him that she was Matilde! He stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then ran like fury. He dashed in front of a cart, causing the horse to rear in alarm, and collided with Spalling on the other side.

‘Have a care,’ the rebel cried, grabbing his arm. ‘It is not–’

Bartholomew tore free, but the woman was gone. He raced as fast as he could to the end of the market, looking wildly up the alleys to the sides, but there was no sign of her. He set off up the main road, peering desperately into the open doors of the houses he passed, but was at last forced to concede defeat. He returned to Clippesby.

‘We must have been mistaken,’ said the Dominican. ‘Why would Matilde be here? If she were still … in the country, she would have contacted you.’

The hesitation told Bartholomew that Clippesby was one of those who thought she was dead, killed by robbers on England’s dangerous highways, because no one could have vanished so completely and still be alive. The physician stubbornly refused to believe it, and liked to think that she had reached wherever she had been going and was living happily there.

‘It looked like her,’ he said, feeling foolish for haring off so abruptly.

Clippesby smiled. ‘It did. But no harm is done, other than frightening that poor horse. I shall have a word with him tomorrow, to ensure that he knows it was not malicious.’

Bartholomew was deeply unsettled. It was not the first time he thought he had seen Matilde since she had disappeared from his life, but it had not happened since he had met Julitta. His mind seething with emotions he could not begin to understand, he followed Clippesby back to the abbey.