The Lost Abbot

Chapter 4

It took Bartholomew a long time to fall asleep that night, and when he did, his dreams teemed with confusing visions. He had loved Matilde for so many years that it had been unthinkable that anyone else should take her place, but then he had met Julitta. At first, the attraction had been that she reminded him of Matilde, but he had quickly come to love her for herself. Yet he had desperately wanted the woman he had spotted to be Matilde, so what did that say about the strength of his feelings for Julitta?

He woke long before it was light the following morning and went outside, loath to disturb the others by lighting a candle to read. Although it was still dark, there were signs that it would be a pretty day – the sky was clear, the stars fading to softer pinpricks with the promise of dawn. He inhaled deeply of the scent of damp earth and summer flowers, aware that his agitation was, if anything, even greater than it had been the previous night. He began to wonder whether he would ever recover from the wound Matilde had inflicted.

To take his mind off it, he walked to St Thomas’s Hospital, where he found Lady Lullington awake and grey with pain. She smiled gratefully when he prepared more medicine, and he knew she hoped it would stop her from waking again. When she slept, he returned to the guest house, but his colleagues were still asleep, and he did not feel like being inside anyway.

As he leaned against the doorpost, trying not to think about Matilde and Julitta, he saw a shadow edging along the dormitory wall. It was moving in a way that could only be described as furtive, stopping every so often to ensure it was not being followed. When it emerged to cross the open space between the cloisters and the Abbey Gate, its silhouette was clearly visible, and Bartholomew was surprised to recognise Welbyrn’s hulking form.

It was none of his business, but Bartholomew followed anyway, curious as to why his old tutor should feel the need to skulk around his own abbey. Welbyrn unbarred the gate and threaded through the silent streets until he reached Westgate, and it did not take Bartholomew long to surmise that he was aiming for St Leonard’s Hospital. Once there, the treasurer glanced around carefully before unlocking the door and slinking over the threshold.

As he could hardly pursue Welbyrn inside, Bartholomew continued walking, but he did not go far before retracing his steps – it was hardly sensible to wander along the Torpe road alone, given what had happened to the Abbot and Pyk. He had just drawn level with the hospital again when a shape appeared with an unholy screech that made him leap in fright.

‘I am a tiger!’ It was Simon the cowherd, hands splayed to look like claws. ‘I shall tear you limb from limb.’

‘God’s teeth!’ swore Bartholomew, taking a deep breath to control his thudding heart. He forced a smile. ‘It is cold out here, Simon. Let me take you back inside.’

‘I will eat your bones,’ raved Simon, although he was unresisting as Bartholomew guided him towards the door. ‘And suck out your brains. Oxforde knew me as a tiger. I saw him in his golden grave when I was a youth. So did Kirwell.’

‘That was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew, speaking softly to calm him. Simon would wake the other bedesmen if he continued to holler.

‘It was yesterday,’ declared Simon. ‘Ask my cattle. Do you know my cattle? They have all gone now, but I still know their names. Daisy, Clover, Nettle … I am a tiger!’

Bartholomew put his finger to his lips as he guided the cowherd upstairs to an empty bed, where he carefully tucked him in. The old man closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Inges, making Bartholomew start a second time by speaking at his shoulder. ‘Welbyrn must have forgotten to lock the door again.’

‘How long has Simon been a resident here?’ asked Bartholomew, following Inges out of the dormitory and out on to a landing, where they could talk without disturbing the others.

‘About ten years, when his madness reached the point where he was no longer able to work. There are those who blame Oxforde for his lunacy, but the truth is that Simon was fey-witted long before he witnessed the blinding light in St Thomas’s cemetery.’

‘Kirwell was knocked from his feet – or so he said.’

‘He was, and a number of folk saw it happen. It was the morning after Oxforde’s execution. Can you can cure Simon, by the way? Pyk said it was impossible.’

‘Pyk was right. You are doing all that can be done already – treating Simon with kindness, and ensuring that his needs are met.’

‘He is no trouble.’ Inges led the way down the stairs to the chapel. ‘I like a tiger in the house, anyway – it keeps those damned bedeswomen out. Hey, you!’

The last words were delivered in a stentorian bellow that had the slumbering residents upstairs whimpering in alarm. Welbyrn, who had been in the process of sneaking through the chapel door, stopped dead in his tracks, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more furtive expression. Inges stalked towards him.

‘You damned fool!’ the Prior snapped. ‘You have done it again.’

‘Do not address me in that insolent manner,’ snarled Welbyrn, masking his discomfiture with aggression. ‘I am Brother Treasurer to you.’

‘You left the door unlocked and Simon escaped, Brother Treasurer.’ Inges’s tone was acidic. ‘For the third time this month.’

‘Not me,’ claimed Welbyrn, although the guilty flash in his eyes suggested otherwise. ‘I saw the door ajar as I was passing and came to investigate. Someone else must have done it.’

‘Passing on the way to where?’ demanded Inges. ‘There is nothing else on this road except Torpe, and I am sure you were not going there at this time of day. Simon might have reached the town if Doctor Bartholomew had not stopped him. And the last time that happened, he came home covered in honey and we had to pay the bill.’

‘How is he?’ enquired Welbyrn, transparently changing the subject. ‘Any better?’

‘No,’ said Inges shortly. ‘Why do you keep asking? He is incurably insane. Pyk declared him so, and Doctor Bartholomew agrees.’

Welbyrn scowled at the physician. ‘What are you doing here? The hospital is closed from dusk until dawn.’

Bartholomew could hardly tell him the truth. ‘Just taking the air. And you?’

‘That is none of your business,’ snarled Welbyrn, clenching his fists angrily.

‘You seem unwell,’ said Bartholomew gently, noting the dark rings under the treasurer’s eyes and the unhealthy blotchiness of his skin. ‘Would you like me to–’

‘No, I am not,’ yelled Welbyrn with explosive fury. ‘How dare you!’

Bartholomew stepped back in surprise as spittle flew from Welbyrn’s mouth and the treasurer’s face turned from pale to mottled red. ‘I was only trying to–’

‘I am not ill,’ Welbyrn screamed. ‘And if you ever mention it again – to me or to anyone else – I will thrash you to within an inch of your life. Do you understand?’

Bartholomew watched him stamp away, astonished that his well-meaning concern should have sparked such an outburst. Next to him, Inges was glowering.

‘His unholy racket will have woken my bedesmen,’ he said, overlooking the fact that it had been his own bellow that had sparked the row. ‘And the elderly need their rest.’

‘Is Welbyrn often like that?’ asked Bartholomew, still bemused.

‘He has been of late. Moreover, he never used to be concerned about Simon, but now he asks after him constantly. I have no idea why. However, as you are here, would you see to my bunions again? The potion you smeared on them yesterday afforded me such relief.’

When Bartholomew returned to the guest house, it was to learn that he had been invited to another sumptuous breakfast with the monks. He declined, having no desire to encounter Welbyrn again, but Michael muttered that he needed him there to make observations on the behaviour of potential suspects. Reluctantly, the physician trailed after him to the refectory.

As it was a meat day, the repast included an obscene number of cold cuts from, it seemed, any creature that had had the misfortune to stray into the Benedictines’ range – ox, rabbit, hare, duck, venison, quail, capon, lamb, goat and goose. Michael and William chomped through them all, although Clippesby regarded the carnage in dismay.

That morning, the scholars found themselves elevated to the exalted company on the dais, and Bartholomew’s heart sank when he was placed between Welbyrn and Ramseye. He glanced into the body of the hall, where Henry shot him a sympathetic smile.

‘If you say one word about this morning,’ Welbyrn breathed in the physician’s ear, under the pretence of passing him the eggs, ‘you will be sorry. You may have escaped justice when you broke my nose, but it will not happen a second time.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. Surely Welbyrn was not still vexed over the outcome of their childhood fisticuffs, especially as the mishap had been largely his own fault? If he had not been trying to land such a hard punch, he would not have lost his balance and fallen over.

‘It is delightful to see you again after so many years, Matt,’ Ramseye was saying on his other side. ‘And you have done better than your shabby appearance would have us believe. William tells me that you are now the University’s Corpse Examiner. Such a lofty achievement!’

‘The University’s what?’ asked Welbyrn, regarding Bartholomew as though he had just sprouted horns. ‘What in God’s name is a Corpse Examiner?’

‘Nothing in God’s name,’ drawled Ramseye. ‘I suspect it involves dissection, although William assures me that it is no more than inspired poking and prodding.’

‘Well, you had better not try it here or you will spend the rest of your stay in prison,’ growled Welbyrn. ‘I am not having that sort of thing going on. This is a respectable place.’

‘A respectable place that does nothing to find its missing Abbot,’ retorted Bartholomew, irritated enough to indulge in a rejoinder. ‘Or the town’s only physician.’

‘We searched,’ objected Ramseye, cutting across the more colourful response Welbyrn started to make. ‘But there was no sign of them, and with outlaws at large, it would have been irresponsible to keep the defensores out any longer. We do not want more deaths at their hands.’

‘More deaths at their hands?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘You think Robert and Pyk might have been killed by outlaws? Why did you not say so before?’

‘I did not think it was necessary to state the obvious,’ replied Ramseye smoothly. ‘Nor to explain that by “outlaw” I mean villains who rob and steal to order – men who are in the pay of rogues like Aurifabro and Spalling.’

‘Robert is not dead,’ said Welbyrn between gritted teeth. ‘He will return when he sees fit.’

‘Then let us hope it is before Yvo or Ramseye is elected to take his place,’ remarked Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘I doubt either will relinquish what he has won, and Robert will have a fight on his hands.’

‘That is why I support Ramseye,’ said Welbyrn tightly. ‘He has agreed to step aside when Robert returns, whereas Yvo maintains that any Abbot who abandons his post should be replaced with someone more reliable.’

Ramseye inclined his head, although Bartholomew thought Welbyrn was insane if he believed it. Welbyrn turned his attention to his food, and Bartholomew noted that whatever had been bothering him earlier had not affected his appetite.

‘Father William told me yesterday that the villains who ambushed you on your way here spoke French,’ said Appletre, who was sitting on Ramseye’s other side. ‘Aurifabro’s men are foreigners…’

‘What our Brother Precentor is trying to say is that the robbers and the men who murdered Abbot Robert are probably one and the same.’ Ramseye spoke in a low voice, so that Welbyrn would not hear. ‘He is too tactful to say so outright, but I believe in plain speaking. If I were in your position, I would concentrate my enquiries on Aurifabro. And Spalling.’

‘Not Spalling,’ argued Appletre. ‘I doubt his horde knows anything other than English.’

‘The men who attacked us did speak French,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But so did we at times, so I am not sure it is significant.’

‘William claims that the raids turned what should have been a journey of a couple of days into an ordeal lasting almost a fortnight,’ said Appletre. ‘What happened, exactly?’

‘We lost two horses to arrows,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Then William was knocked senseless by a stone that was thrown at us. Not long after, Michael suffered a bruised shoulder, and Clippesby lost his saddlebag. It contained the psalter he was given at his ordination, so we had to go back to look for it. And on top of all that, there were violent rainstorms and flooded streams.’

He did not include the fact that two tumbles from his horse had delayed them as well – once when he had been trampled and had been unable to ride for a day, and another when the animal had bolted and it had taken them hours to find it.

‘Nasty!’ said Ramseye with a shudder. ‘But travelling is dangerous, which is why I never do it myself. However, we shall lend you a few defensores when you leave. We do not want you to stay longer than necessary because you are too frightened to go.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘I imagine you do not.’

Yvo stood to say grace at that point, leaving Bartholomew relieved that the ordeal of his old teachers’ company was at an end. They disappeared about their duties without another word, so he went to pass the time of day with Henry. It was not long before they were joined by Michael, Appletre positively dancing at his heels.

‘We have a treat in store for you, Henry,’ the precentor said, his round cheeks flushed with pleasure. ‘I have just persuaded Brother Michael to sing one of our offices later.’

‘I thought we would be riding to Torpe again, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘In the hope that Aurifabro will be home this morning.’

Michael grimaced. ‘I am hoping that will not be necessary – that we will uncover enough clues here to obviate the need to trek out there a second time.’

‘You are right to be wary of public highways,’ said Henry. ‘Especially after what happened to Robert and Pyk. However, if you do go, I shall pray for your safe return.’

‘Well, then,’ said Michael, ‘if we come to harm, I shall know who to blame.’

‘I wish everyone would lay aside their differences and live in peace,’ sighed Appletre, cutting across the irritable retort Henry started to make. ‘I am sure some of Aurifabro’s men have lovely voices, and my town choir is currently rather short of basses.’

‘You would do better recruiting from among the clergy, Appletre,’ said Henry sternly. ‘It is not right for seculars to sing in our holy church.’

‘I plan to question the monks this morning,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew stared at his old friend, surprised to hear such a sentiment from him. ‘I shall need your help, Matt.’

‘I am afraid you cannot have him,’ said Henry with a smile that held a faint trace of triumph. ‘There are abbey residents who need his services. They could not see him yesterday, as he was busy with bedesmen and townsfolk, so they would like a consultation today.’

‘Then they are going to be disappointed,’ objected Michael indignantly. ‘He is here to help me find out what happened to Robert, not to play physician for the entire region.’

‘We will pay him.’ Henry’s expression turned a little sly. ‘And as he owes the apothecary rather a lot of money, he has little choice in the matter.’

He was right: Bartholomew could not leave Peterborough until he had discharged his debts, and his Michaelhouse colleagues had no spare funds to lend him. Michael opened his mouth to argue, but then a cunning gleam flashed in his eyes.

‘Of course he cannot refuse to help the sick,’ he said, suddenly all gracious charm. ‘I shall help him by collecting the fees he earns – and use the opportunity to ask a few questions at the same time.’

Henry’s smile grew stiff when he saw he had been outmanoeuvred, although Appletre beamed happily at the example of compromise and cooperation.

‘Incidentally,’ the precentor said to Michael, ‘I have been thinking about what you asked me yesterday: how Abbot Robert spent the morning before he took his fateful journey to Torpe. And I have remembered something.’

‘What?’ asked Michael, when Appletre only looked pleased with himself.

‘Well, it is not much, but I was standing at the Abbey Gate that day, waiting for a new trumpet to be delivered, when I happened to overhear Robert talking to Aurifabro. The Abbot was insisting on seeing the paten that afternoon, and Aurifabro was trying to put him off.’

‘Aurifabro did not want him to visit?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Did he say why?’

‘Yes, but I did not hear the reason, so I am afraid you will have to ask Aurifabro himself.’

‘I have remembered something, too,’ added Henry. The serene expression was back in place. ‘Abbot Robert also visited Reginald the cutler that morning.’

‘Why is that odd?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘There is good in Reginald, no matter what everyone says,’ said Henry. ‘Yet I always thought his friendship with Robert was curious. They are two very different men.’

‘Robert was different from Pyk, too, but no one ever questions their friendship,’ said Appletre, regarding Henry reproachfully. ‘Or Robert’s association with Lullington.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Henry, although his face indicated that he thought otherwise.

It was another brutally exhausting day for Bartholomew, who was convinced that every monk, lay brother and servant in the abbey had contrived to develop aches, fevers, rashes, boils, coughs, stiff joints or pains in the innards for him to treat. Even Ramseye came, complaining of persistent indigestion. Welbyrn was conspicuous by his absence, although Bartholomew felt he might actually have benefited from medical advice.

At noon, when Michael had gone to sing sext in the church, Bartholomew went for a walk around the marketplace, a brief respite from the long line of demanding patients. While he was out, he met Cynric, who was with Spalling.

‘So, you see,’ Spalling was informing the book-bearer, ‘it is only a matter of time before the natural order establishes itself at last. There are more poor than rich, so it is only right that their voices should be heard before anyone else’s.’

‘The rich will not like it,’ warned Cynric, although Bartholomew could tell from his bright eyes that he wholly approved of what Spalling was saying.

‘No,’ agreed Spalling. ‘But that should not stop us. I advocate rule by the people, which means men like us, not wealthy barons who are more French than English. Ah, Bartholomew. You have a good man here; you should be proud of him.’

‘I am,’ said Bartholomew, watching Cynric flush with pleasure at the rebel’s praise. ‘But it is unwise to discuss this sort of thing in public places. There are–’

‘Cynric has decent, noble opinions.’ Spalling cut across him. ‘Ones that match my own, and I am honoured to call him a friend.’

He strutted away, leaving Cynric staring after him in open admiration, and Bartholomew had to shake the book-bearer’s arm to gain his attention.

‘It is one thing to share these views with trusted cronies in Cambridge,’ he said warningly. ‘But another altogether to confide them to strangers. It is dangerous to preach sedition.’

‘It is not sedition, it is justice, and it is good to meet a man who sees everything so clearly.’ Cynric sighed longingly. ‘I wish there was someone who could make speeches like him at home. My friends at the King’s Head would love to hear what he has to say.’

‘I am sure they would, but his is reckless talk, Cynric.’

‘Perhaps so, but that does not mean he is wrong.’

They both turned when someone approached. It was Langelee, who was no more happy with Cynric’s burgeoning appreciation of Spalling than was Bartholomew.

‘I am all for a man being free to say what he likes,’ grumbled the Master. ‘But Spalling intends to ignite a rebellion.’

‘Would that be so terrible?’ asked Cynric. ‘Is it not time we had a fairer world?’

‘Spalling does not care about fairness,’ argued Langelee. ‘He just wants the poor to rise up against anyone with money. I feel sorry for Aurifabro, who is the target of most of his vitriol. Spalling even accuses him of hiring the outlaws who attacked us.’

‘Perhaps he is right,’ said Cynric defensively. ‘Aurifabro’s mercenaries are French, and we all heard that language spoken when they ambushed us.’

‘I am acutely uneasy,’ Langelee went on, ignoring him. ‘Men gather in Spalling’s house every night to talk about the day when the poor will rule. They are all wind and no substance, but they have the capacity to do a great deal of damage, even so.’

Bartholomew escaped from the truculent debate that followed, and returned to his duties in the abbey. Mid-afternoon, William and Clippesby came to report the results of their enquiries to Michael. Other than witnesses who claimed that Welbyrn often visited St Leonard’s Hospital at night, neither had unearthed much of significance. Bartholomew turned back to his queue of patients, where his attention was soon snagged by an unusual palsy.

‘That was a wasted day,’ said Michael in disgust, as the last customer hobbled away. It was dark and they had been working by lamplight for some time. ‘And we only have four more full ones left before we must leave. We learned nothing new at all.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Bartholomew, ‘I discovered that quinsy responds well to–’

‘I meant nothing to help our enquiry. We already knew that Robert was unpopular. Confirmation from the common monks is interesting, but hardly helpful.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

‘Still, at least I now have a good sense of the man,’ Michael went on. ‘He was corrupt, greedy and selfish, and there was nothing he would not do for money.’

‘You refer to him in the past tense. Do you now believe he is dead, too?’

Michael nodded. ‘On that point everyone agrees: he would never have left his domain for so long without an explanation. Moreover, he was going to see Aurifabro – a dangerous enemy with mercenaries at his command.’

‘It is odd that he chose Pyk to go with him. Or rather, it is odd that Pyk consented to go. Pyk had lots of friends, and did not have to spend time with the likes of Robert.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is not often that one hears nothing bad about a man, but Pyk seems to have been a paragon of virtue – kind, generous and decent.’

‘You sound sceptical.’

Michael smiled. ‘Even my jaded view of the world acknowledges that such men do exist. However, your friend Henry is not one of them.’

Bartholomew blinked his surprise at the remark out of the blue. ‘Henry is–’

‘I know you were childhood playmates, but I sense something untoward in that man, and I urge you to be cautious in your dealings with him. Yet he is friends with Appletre…’

‘Yes?’ said Bartholomew a little sharply. ‘Why should that make a difference?’

‘Because Appletre is a decent fellow. He is not overly endowed with wits, but he cannot help that. Of course, it means he cannot see the evil in Henry, either.’

‘Henry is not evil,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He has always been gentle, even as a child. Welbyrn and Ramseye bullied him relentlessly, but he never complained.’

‘Not to you, perhaps, but no one likes being maltreated. And if you do not believe that men bear grudges, then look at Welbyrn and Ramseye. Even I can see that they have not forgiven you for your disruptive behaviour in their classes.’

‘That might be true of them, but not Henry. He–’

‘But if the obedientiaries leave much to be desired,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen, ‘the monks are as fine a body of men as I have ever met – with the obvious exception of Henry, of course. I would not mind ruling them, although I would have to appoint new officers.’

‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ Bartholomew spoke stiffly, angry with Michael for vilifying someone he liked.

‘I would certainly keep Appletre as precentor. He is an excellent musician.’

‘He is the only obedientiary the monks seem to like.’

Michael nodded. ‘Robert made some bad choices, with Welbyrn and Ramseye being the worst. Incidentally, I had a letter from Gynewell today. Most of it was a rant about these counterfeit coins that hail from his Mint. Do you remember me telling you that they are the reason why he could not come to look into what happened to Robert himself?’

‘You said forged pennies are a serious matter, more serious than missing churchmen.’

‘The King is furious – no monarch wants his realm flooded with debased coins. I would not like the King angry with me over money, and poor Gynewell is frantic with worry.’

‘Why did he write, other than to rail about his fiscal crisis?’

‘To say that if we find out that Robert has been murdered, he wants a culprit. Moreover, the aide who brought the letter heard about Joan’s death, and ordered me to investigate that, too. I shall do my best, but we are leaving on Wednesday regardless. I cannot put my University at risk just to solve Peterborough’s troubles.’

Bartholomew and Michael were almost at the guest house when they became aware of a rumpus near St Thomas’s Hospital. Someone was attempting to force his way inside, and Prioress Hagar was trying to stop him. The troublemaker was Reginald.

‘I demand access to Oxforde’s tomb!’ the scruffy cutler was bellowing. ‘I want to pray.’

‘Well, you cannot,’ said Hagar, giving him a vigorous shove. ‘So go away.’

‘You cannot exclude me,’ yelled Reginald. ‘I have every right to be here.’

‘No, you do not,’ snapped Hagar. ‘The chapel needs to be made holy again after Joan’s murder, and we are not letting anyone in at the moment.’

‘What is happening?’ It was Appletre, his rosy face anxious. Henry was at his heels with a number of singers. Apparently, the fuss had interrupted choir practice.

‘This woman is keeping me from my devotions,’ snarled Reginald. ‘Tell her to desist, so that decent folk can go about their prayers.’

‘Decent?’ spat Hagar. ‘You are not decent! You are the most hated man in Peterborough, and you are a pagan into the bargain!’

‘And you are the most hated woman,’ Reginald flashed back. ‘Even Spalling will not give you the time of day, and he talks to any low villain.’

‘Stop!’ cried Appletre, as Hagar drew breath to respond. ‘Remember where you are.’

‘The Brother Precentor is right,’ said Henry quietly. ‘And you cannot pray here tonight, Reginald, because the chapel needs to be reconsecrated. Come back tomorrow afternoon when it is holy again, and I shall accompany you.’ He turned to Hagar. ‘You will not object to his presence if I stand surety to his good behaviour, Sister?’

‘Prioress,’ corrected Hagar. She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose that would be acceptable, although it will cost him. I want threepence, or he cannot come in.’

Reginald looked set to argue, but Henry raised his hand warningly and the cutler nodded reluctant agreement. Then Henry regaled Hagar with calming platitudes, while Appletre led Reginald towards the Abbey Gate. The skill with which they separated the combatants suggested it was not the first time they had intervened in spats.

‘We need to speak to Reginald,’ said Michael, setting off after the cutler and dragging Bartholomew with him. ‘I want to know what he and Robert discussed the day Robert vanished. Henry seemed to think it might be significant, so we had better see where it takes us. We shall tackle him in his home – where I will distract him while you have a discreet prowl.’

It sounded distinctly unappealing, but the monk’s grip was powerful and Bartholomew did not have the energy to fight free. They watched Appletre usher the cutler through the gate and then return to his waiting choristers. Once outside, Reginald scuttled towards his shop, and by the time the two scholars reached it, a rhythmic tapping could be heard from within.

‘What?’ Reginald shouted in reply to Michael’s knock.

‘We want to talk to you,’ called Michael. ‘About Abbot Robert.’

‘Well, I do not want to talk to you,’ Reginald hollered back, and there was another thud as a hammer came into contact with something. ‘Now go away. I am busy.’

‘You can spare a few moments for the Bishop’s Commissioners. Or do you have something to hide?’

‘Of course not, but it is late and I have work to do. Come back another time.’

There came the sound of a heavy bar being placed across the door, which gave the discussion a distinct note of finality. Irritated, Michael rapped again, but all he did was skin his knuckles and eventually Bartholomew pulled him away.

‘He is unlikely to be helpful if you force your way in. It is better to wait until he is in a more cooperative frame of mind.’

Michael nodded reluctantly, and they walked back to the abbey. As they approached the gate, Trentham stumbled out, sobbing almost uncontrollably.

‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew, catching him as he reeled. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

‘Lady Lullington is dead,’ wept the young priest. ‘I know it is a blessed release after all her suffering, but she was my friend. Abbot Robert rebuked me for growing too fond of my charges, but I cannot help it. I liked her.’

Bartholomew knew how he felt, as he had a tendency to form attachments to patients himself. ‘When did she die?’ he asked gently.

‘I left her when I went to soothe Prioress Hagar after the set-to with Reginald, and she was dead by the time I returned.’ Suddenly the young priest pulled away from him, and his face turned dark with bitter anger. ‘You could have cured her, but you let her die. You physicians are all the same – useless!’

Trentham’s hot words had struck Bartholomew where he had always been vulnerable, and it took him an age to fall asleep that night. He awoke the following morning feeling tired and out of sorts, and was unimpressed when he found himself between Ramseye and Welbyrn again for breakfast. The occasion was no more pleasant than it had been the previous day, although the victuals were still impressively plentiful.

‘There is an inn nearby,’ he said, when he and his colleagues were back in the guest house. ‘I think I shall stay there until you have finished your enquiries.’

‘Do not worry – we will not dine in the refectory again,’ said Michael. ‘We shall be too busy from now on. This is our third day here – our fourth if we count the one we arrived – and we have little to show for our efforts, mostly because you have been too busy to help me. Well, that changes today.’

‘Clippesby and I have worked very hard on your behalf,’ objected William indignantly. ‘We are not more interested in medicine than in learning who murdered Robert and Joan.’

‘No,’ conceded Michael. ‘And I appreciate your efforts. You have saved me hours of work by speaking to the servants.’

‘And the animals,’ added Clippesby. ‘I only wish they had more to report. But we shall soldier on again today, as I have not interviewed the sheep yet.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Matt and I will visit St Thomas’s Chapel again, to see whether we can glean any new evidence pertaining to Joan’s murder.’

‘And then we had better go to Torpe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Aurifabro claims that Robert never arrived, but we should make an effort to see whether he is telling the truth by speaking to his household. We will have to find a way past the mercenaries, of course.’

‘Not today,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric has offered to go with us tomorrow, and he is a better spy than you or me. His sharp eyes will be useful.’

‘Why can he not go this afternoon?’

‘Because there is an important meeting he wants to attend with Spalling.’ Michael frowned worriedly. ‘He has always entertained seditious opinions, but until now it has been nothing but talk. Yet here is Spalling, prepared to act on these beliefs, and Cynric sees a kindred spirit. I hope Spalling does not lead him into trouble.’

Bartholomew hoped so, too. ‘Langelee will keep his feet on the ground.’

‘Langelee has his hands full with Spalling, especially now I have asked him to assess whether the man might be involved in Robert and Pyk’s disappearance.’

‘It is a good idea to concentrate on the Abbot.’ William nodded approvingly. ‘He is more urgent than Joan, given that we cannot leave until we discover what happened to him.’

‘Unfortunately, I think his fate and hers are connected.’ Michael hastened to explain when William opened his mouth to disagree. ‘Yesterday, several monks told me that they were lovers – so her death may well have a bearing on his.’

‘Joan and Robert?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously, trying to imagine what could have drawn the formidable bedeswoman to the unlovable Abbot, and vice versa.

Michael shrugged. ‘It seems they were close for years, which is why we must go to St Thomas’s Chapel today, where you will examine her body.’

‘But we have no jurisdiction here,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I will be arrested. Or worse.’

‘Nonsense. We are the Bishop’s Commissioners, with authority to do whatever we deem necessary. Do not worry. Gynewell will support you if anyone makes trouble.’

Bartholomew was about to point out that Gynewell was in Lincoln and thus too far away to help if matters turned ugly, but a messenger arrived with a letter before he could speak. Michael’s jaw dropped in horror as he read it.

‘It is from my Junior Proctor. He says I shall not be needed when Winwick Hall’s charter is drawn up, because he plans to do it himself. Is he insane to think that he can oversee such a complex matter? Lord! I must be home by Saturday, or the results will be disastrous.’

‘Perhaps we should leave now,’ said William worriedly.

‘I wish we could,’ gulped Michael. ‘But the Bishop’s orders are quite clear: he wants the riddle of Robert’s disappearance solved, and we are to stay here until we have answers.’

‘Then we had better get on with it,’ said William grimly.

The scholars parted outside the guest house. William headed for the kitchens to interview more servants, Clippesby went off towards the water meadows, and Bartholomew followed Michael across the precinct to the Abbey Gate. The area had once been grassed, but hundreds of wheels, feet, claws, hoofs and paws had trampled it bald. They met Henry on the way.

‘How are your enquiries coming along?’ the monk asked amiably.

‘Why?’ demanded Michael, making Bartholomew wince at his curt tone.

Henry seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Because I should like to know what has befallen poor Abbot Robert. And Physician Pyk, of course.’

‘Pyk,’ said Michael. ‘I am glad you mentioned him. What did you think of the fellow?’

‘That he was a saint,’ replied Henry sincerely. ‘He was kind, patient, gentle and understanding. You would have liked him, Matt.’

‘What did he look like?’ asked Michael.

Henry smiled fondly. ‘He had a great domed head that was too big for his body, and it was bereft of hair except for a curious fringe at the back. He always wore a scarlet cloak, so that people would recognise him. Why?’

‘For no reason other than that we might have walked past him and Robert a dozen times and not known it,’ replied Michael.

‘You would know if you had walked past Robert,’ said Henry wryly. ‘He was enormous. And unlike you, I do not think he could claim heavy bones.’

Michael scowled as Henry walked away. ‘Did he just insult me?’

Bartholomew was disinclined to say, and they resumed their journey to the chapel. When they arrived, Michael opened the door and stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Nothing happened to him, but two bedeswomen materialised out of nowhere and laid hold of Bartholomew. He could have broken their grip with ease, but he was not in the habit of doing battle with elderly ladies, so he stood still, waiting for an explanation.

‘This place is more secure than I thought,’ murmured Michael, amused. ‘My habit protected me from a mauling, but you did not get far.’

‘No one slips past us.’ The speaker was Marion, who had raised the alarm when Joan had been killed. She was tall, spindly and possessed unusually long teeth. ‘Although we leave the monks alone, because they dislike being manhandled. However, everyone else can expect to be stopped and questioned most vigorously.’

‘Most people who enter are blinded for a moment,’ added the other, a small, dumpy woman. ‘Which gives us time to act. Marion and I take our duties seriously, and we never let anyone in who should not be here.’

Marion peered at Bartholomew before giving a strangled cry and releasing him abruptly, hastening to smooth down his rumpled clothes. ‘It is the physician, Elene! Let him go, or he may refuse to tend your veins.’

And then there were two sets of hands brushing Bartholomew down. He tried to escape, objecting to the liberty, but they were insistent.

‘When will you see us?’ asked Elene, tutting at a frayed hem on his tunic. ‘You have physicked the old rascals at St Leonard’s and the monks, so it must be our turn now.’

‘What is wrong with your veins, Sister Marion?’ asked Bartholomew, still trying to evade their fussing fingers.

‘Elene is the veins,’ said Marion. ‘I am the impostumes.’

‘Her impostumes are famous,’ added Elene with pride. ‘Master Pyk said he had never seen anything like them, and he often bemoaned the fact that he had no medical colleague here, to share the excitement.’

‘No, Matt,’ warned Michael, seeing his friend’s curiosity piqued. ‘There is no time.’

But Bartholomew was not a man to deprive people of his services. ‘I will see you after we have …’ He faltered, aware that ‘examined Joan’s corpse’ was not the best thing to say.

‘Paid our respects to your dear departed sister,’ supplied Michael. ‘Alone, if possible. We have prayers to recite for her soul.’

‘That is kind, Brother,’ said Marion. ‘But you had better wait until the chapel is reconsecrated. Her murder has soiled it, you see, so it must be cleansed. Hagar has asked Prior Yvo to conduct the ceremony, but I do not trust him. I would rather have the Bishop.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael.

‘Because Gynewell is a lovely man,’ replied Marion fondly. ‘The best prelate in the country.’

‘I meant why do you distrust Yvo?’

‘Because he is only thinking about himself,’ explained Marion. ‘Our chapel is a source of revenue for the abbey, but we have refused to let pilgrims in until it is holy again. It means folk cannot leave donations, and Yvo dislikes losing money.’

‘So does Welbyrn,’ added Elene. ‘Even more than the Prior.’

‘Anyway, suffice to say that we think Yvo is rushing the reconsecration out of selfishness,’ confided Marion. ‘So that the shrines can start earning for him again.’

‘But as soon as we are cleansed, we shall take you to Joan,’ promised Elene. ‘It will not be long, because Yvo promised to do it straight after sext.’

‘Come to the ceremony, Brother,’ begged Marion. ‘Yvo would not dare do a half-baked job with the Bishop’s Commissioner watching.’

‘Very well – if you answer a question,’ said Michael. ‘Were Joan and the Abbot close?’

‘Yes, they were a lovely couple,’ smiled Marion fondly. ‘And were happy together for years. She always said that she was glad she accepted him as a lover, rather than Botilbrig.’

‘Of course, it meant trouble,’ confided Elene. ‘Botilbrig was insanely jealous, and we have been at war with the bedesmen ever since.’

There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew and Michael left the chapel, declining both the offer of wine while they waited for Yvo and a sneak preview of the impostumes.

‘Perhaps Botilbrig is the killer after all,’ mused Michael. ‘Unrequited love is a good motive for murder, and both Robert and Joan are now dead.’

‘It sounded to me as though Joan had made her selection a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see a crime of passion simmering for quite so many years.’

‘I beg to differ. Affairs of the heart can remain painful for a very long time, as you will know from your experiences with Matilde. Even now, three years on, you see her in places where she cannot possibly be – Clippesby told me what happened in the marketplace on Thursday evening.’

‘How do you know it was not her?’ As it happened, Bartholomew thought Michael was right, but there was something in the monk’s remark that was oddly suspicious.

‘Because I do,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Matilde would not be in Peterborough.’

As soon as they left the chapel, Michael aimed for a nearby tavern named the Swan. The place had changed since Bartholomew had last been in it. Then, it had been insalubrious, with a reputation for catering to drunks and criminals. Now it was smart, with gleaming white walls and pristine woodwork.

‘I hope you are not intending to eat again, Brother,’ he said, noting the energetic way the monk was signalling to the landlord. ‘Not after that gargantuan breakfast.’

‘Of course not,’ replied Michael blandly. ‘I just thought it would be a good place to sit and discuss our investigation until it is time to monitor Yvo’s reconsecrating skills.’

The tavern was alive with the buzz of genteel conversation. There were ladies present, which underlined the fact that it had grown respectable – decent women did not venture into rough inns. A group of master masons sat at one table, identifiable by their thick leather aprons and dusty leggings, and Aurifabro was at another, talking animatedly to several men who were almost as richly clad as he.

‘Peterborough is a nice town,’ said Michael, looking around approvingly. ‘It is a pity our ancestors did not found a university here. I could come to like it very much.’

‘Are you seriously considering putting yourself forward as Abbot?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And if so, is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Do you want to be rid of me then? So you can be Senior Proctor and run the University in my stead?’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘I doubt it would thrive with me in charge. But you have often expressed a desire for high office, and this may be your chance. I should like to see you happy, even if it does mean being deprived of your company.’

‘You would?’ An oddly guilty expression flashed across Michael’s face. ‘I may remind you of that sentiment one day.’

It was a curious thing to say, and Bartholomew was about to demand an explanation when the landlord arrived. Michael told him to bring a sample of his wares, but when food as well as wine began to arrive, Bartholomew regarded him disapprovingly.

Michael shrugged. ‘It would be rude to decline, and I do not want him remembering the insult when I am Abbot.’ He raised his voice suddenly, silencing the drone of conversation around them. ‘Landlord! This is a splendid repast, but do you have any Lombard slices? I like them best of all pastries.’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied the landlord apologetically. ‘My wife used to bake them, but she died in the Death, and I have never attempted them myself.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew was not sure whether the monk was sorrier to hear about the landlord’s loss or the absence of his favourite food. ‘My condolences. But the rest looks splendid, and Matt will help me do it justice.’

‘Here come Langelee and Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, nodding towards the door. ‘They can spare me a bout of indigestion.’

Cynric’s face was flushed with excitement as he sat at their table. ‘That Spalling is a tremendous man,’ he enthused. ‘He has such hopes for the future!’

‘Hopes for a rebellion, more like,’ said Langelee sourly. ‘I do not understand it at all – he was not like this in York. There, he was rather quiet.’

‘He is not quiet now,’ said Cynric approvingly. ‘He had forty men in his house last night, all listening to a very stirring speech. It was even better than the one made by the Prince of Wales at Poitiers, just before we went into battle. Do you remember that, boy?’

‘Vividly,’ replied Bartholomew bleakly.

‘Here he is,’ said Cynric, eyes lighting as his hero strode confidently through the door.

Spalling was wearing a new set of workman’s clothes, this time the kind donned by stonemasons, although without the dust. The real craftsmen nodded approvingly, although Bartholomew was no more convinced by the attire than he had been the first time they had met Spalling. He thought the man was a fraud, and hoped Cynric would not be too disillusioned when he eventually came to realise it, too.

‘Aurifabro!’ Spalling roared in a voice designed to carry. ‘So this is where you are skulking. Did you not hear that I have been looking for you?’

Aurifabro regarded him with dislike. ‘Yes, but I am not at your beck and call. Piss off.’

‘Now watch.’ Cynric was full of admiration. ‘You are about to see an obscenely wealthy merchant berated for keeping all his money to himself and starving his artisans.’

‘Are his artisans the men sitting with him?’ asked Bartholomew. Cynric nodded. ‘Then they are hardly starving – their clothes suggest they are affluent in their own right. Just because Aurifabro employs them does not mean–’

‘He has more money than them,’ interrupted Cynric shortly. ‘And it is not fair.’

‘He is bedazzled by the man,’ whispered Langelee in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Like a lover. You will not persuade him to see reason. I have tried, but I was wasting my breath.’

‘You will listen to me, Aurifabro,’ Spalling was bellowing. ‘When will you stop making yourself rich at others’ expense, and share your ill-gotten gains with the poor?’

The landlord stormed up to him. ‘You can take that sort of talk outside. This is a respectable establishment, and we do not want your raving–’

‘And you are just as bad, Nicholas Piel,’ raged Spalling, turning on him. ‘I know why your tavern is so opulent – because you fleece your customers!’

‘My wares are expensive,’ acknowledged Piel haughtily. ‘But quality costs, and those who want cheap rubbish can go elsewhere. I do not force people to come – they do it because they like what I offer.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Aurifabro. ‘Now sod off, Spalling.’

‘I am going nowhere,’ declared Spalling. ‘Not until I have had my say. I ask you again, Aurifabro: when will you share your money with the downtrodden masses?’

His voice was so loud that people stopped in the street outside to listen. There was an appreciative growl from the paupers, although those who were better off exchanged exasperated glances. Immediately, several rough men in boiled leather jerkins shouldered their way into the tavern: they were Aurifabro’s mercenaries.

‘When you give up yours, you damned hypocrite,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘You inherited a fortune when your father died, and you own a fancy house. Give your money to the poor if you feel so strongly about it.’

‘I shall,’ averred Spalling. ‘In time.’

‘In time!’ jeered the goldsmith. ‘You mean never. And how are you feeding all the peasants who flock to hear you rant? I know for a fact that you have not touched your own funds, so where does the money come from?’

‘He does keep a lavish table,’ murmured Langelee. ‘We were entertained royally last night, and so were his forty friends. Indeed, I warrant we fared better than you.’

‘I would not bet on it,’ Bartholomew muttered back.

‘If you cannot silence this braggart, I am leaving,’ said Aurifabro to the landlord. ‘I came here for a quiet drink, not to be harangued by fools.’

‘Out,’ ordered Piel, turning angrily to Spalling. ‘Before I pick you up and…’

Cynric was one of several men who came to stand at Spalling’s side, and the landlord faltered. Aurifabro stood and walked towards the door instead, his mercenaries in tow. Piel’s face was a mask of dismay when the artisans rose to follow their employer out.

‘Leave Aurifabro alone, Spalling,’ hissed one as he passed. ‘He pays us extremely well, and we have no complaints.’

There was a growl of agreement from the others.

‘A word, please, Master Aurifabro,’ said Michael, running after the goldsmith, and grabbing his arm just as he reached the street. ‘I have been asked–’

One of the mercenaries shot forward and shoved the monk away, fingering his dagger as he did so. His fellows immediately moved to form a protective barrier around Aurifabro, their faces bright with the prospect of violence. Bartholomew hurried to Michael’s side, although he was not sure what he would be able to do in the event of trouble. He could hold his own in a brawl with students, but these were experienced warriors.

‘It is all right,’ Aurifabro told his men. ‘This monk is not one of the villains from the abbey. He is the Bishop’s man, and I have nothing against Gynewell.’

‘Other than the fact that he pardoned Spalling after Robert had excommunicated him,’ countered the soldier with the dagger. ‘You thought he should have stayed excommunicated.’

‘I did,’ said Aurifabro, his eyes fixed on Michael. ‘It was hard to know who to support in that particular quarrel – the stupid firebrand Spalling, whose so-called principles have only driven him to action recently; or the greedy, unscrupulous Robert, who should not have been placed in charge of a brothel, let alone an abbey.’

‘As you know, Gynewell has commissioned us to find out what happened to Robert,’ said Michael pleasantly. ‘So will you answer some questions?’

‘That depends on what you ask.’

‘Fair enough. Will you tell me what you thought of him?’

‘He was a villain, and I cannot imagine why Pyk put up with him. But Pyk always was an amiable fool, incapable of distinguishing between good men and bad.’

‘Can you be more specific? How was Robert a villain?’

‘He was sly over the paten he asked me to make, for a start. Once I had invested weeks of my time in it, he reduced the price, knowing I had no choice but to agree – it is not something I can offer to another buyer: no one else around here is in the market for expensive religious regalia.’

‘Why did you agree to make it in the first place?’

‘I should have refused, but it was a big order, and I liked the notion of my work being on display in such a grand setting. Of course, now he is dead, the abbey has refused to honour the agreement I struck with him, so I am landed with the thing after all.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Michael.

‘At home. I wrote to ask if Gynewell would buy it for Lincoln Cathedral, but he said he would prefer to have it donated. And I am not giving the Church anything. I like Gynewell, but my religion is the older one.’

‘You mean you are a heathen?’ asked Michael in distaste.

Aurifabro nodded. ‘Ever since the plague. It makes more sense to me than your aloof saints and martyrs, who failed to answer my prayers as my children lay dying. And as for Lawrence of Oxforde … I cannot condone any organisation that pays homage to a criminal.’

‘Robert,’ prompted Michael. ‘Tell us what happened the day he went missing.’

‘He told me in the morning that he was coming to see the paten. I asked him not to.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael.

‘Because I wanted to visit my mother in Barnack. He threatened to cancel the commission unless I made myself available, so I was forced to change my plans. I waited, but he never arrived. I assumed he was delayed by other business and had not bothered to let me know.’

‘What then?’ asked Michael.

‘A group of monks arrived the next day, and told me that he and Pyk were missing. I admired Pyk, so I sent my men to scour the area for them both, but they found nothing. The abbey, on the other hand, conducted a search that was cursory at best.’

‘You think they could have done more?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I would, had one of my people gone missing. But, as I said, Robert was a villain, and the abbey is obviously glad to be rid of him.’

‘What do you think happened to Robert?’ asked Michael.

‘There are three possibilities. First, he was murdered, and there is no shortage of suspects, given that he was hated by all. Second, he is in hiding, although that seems unlikely, because he liked his creature comforts. And third, he was killed by robbers.’

‘The same robbers who have been causing trouble on the King’s highways?’

‘Yes. The abbey and Spalling will tell you that my mercenaries are responsible, but you should not believe them. They are liars.’

At that moment, young Trentham shuffled past, his face a mask of misery. He shot Bartholomew a baleful glance, to tell him he was still not forgiven for being unable to save Lady Lullington. The scowl sparked an idea in Bartholomew’s mind.

‘We have assumed the target was Robert,’ he said. ‘And Pyk just happened to be with him. But what if it was the other way around? I know from personal experience that people are often angry when physicians cannot cure their loved ones.’

‘No one would have taken against Pyk,’ said Aurifabro firmly. ‘He was not like other medici – he was a good man. Even his wife will have to concede that.’

‘Pyk was married?’ asked Michael.

Aurifabro nodded. ‘To a woman named Pernel, although not happily, unfortunately. Of course, there is a fourth possibility: that Robert and Pyk have been kidnapped.’

‘Then the culprits would have sent word to the abbey,’ said Bartholomew, ‘demanding payment and giving details of how to make it.’

‘Perhaps they did,’ said Aurifabro, ‘and the abbey refused to pay. However, if that happened, you will never find out, because it is not the sort of thing they will admit.’

‘May we visit you in Torpe tomorrow?’ asked Michael. ‘I want to retrace their journey.’ He did not say that he was also keen to confirm the goldsmith’s story with his servants.

‘No,’ said Aurifabro shortly. ‘No Benedictine is welcome on my land, not even one who has been hired by the Bishop.’