The Lost Abbot

Chapter 7

When Bartholomew woke the following day, he found it difficult to rally his thoughts. He was lethargic, and had backache from lying in one position too long. Even so, he did not possess the energy to move, so he stared at the ceiling, watching the first tendrils of light creep across it as dawn broke. Only when he heard his colleagues stir did he sit up.

‘At last!’ exclaimed Michael in relief. ‘I am glad to have you back, because I shall need your help today. Not to mention the fact that we have been worried. In future, perhaps you would stay away from poison.’

‘Poison,’ murmured Bartholomew, as events filtered slowly back into his mind.

‘We have not caught the culprit yet,’ said William. ‘But last night was eventful, even so. First, we had news that Spalling has made Cynric his official deputy. Then Inges arrived to say that Welbyrn had died in St Leonard’s well. But before either of those, Matilde came and…’

He trailed off, horrified with himself for the inadvertent slip. Michael glowered, Clippesby rolled his eyes, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had misheard.

‘I was going to tell you after breakfast, Matt,’ said the monk wearily. ‘You must be hungry after lying about for so long without so much as a crumb to eat.’

Clippesby took William’s arm. ‘Come, Father. There is a sparrow you should meet, one who might be able to tutor you in the art of discretion.’

‘No, I want to know what–’ But when William saw the dark expression on Michael’s face, he left the room in what could best be described as a scurry.

When the door had closed, Michael turned warily to Bartholomew. ‘Are you well enough for this? I do not think I could stand the strain of a relapse.’

Bartholomew was experiencing an awful churning in his stomach, and could tell from Michael’s face that he was about to be told something he would not like.

‘A drink or some food must have been laced with a soporific,’ he said, aware that his speech was slurred – his tongue could not seem to form the words properly. ‘But now I am awake, the effects will soon dissipate. There will be no relapse.’

‘A soporific?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! I have been going around telling everyone that you were poisoned!’

‘Soporifics can be toxic in the wrong hands.’

‘William and Clippesby deduced that it was in the Lombard slices. I blamed the leeks, but Piel’s pig ate the rest of those with no ill effects…’

‘The leeks came from a communal pot, but the pastries appeared out of nowhere – and you left the tavern without eating any.’ Bartholomew wished his wits were sharper, for he knew that Michael had managed to sidetrack him, but he was not alert enough to stop it.

‘I learned nothing to help our investigation while you were asleep,’ the monk went on. ‘And the situation is now desperate, because we leave the day after tomorrow.’

‘Was Matilde really here?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael ignored the question. ‘Seeing what one cake did to you, I dread to imagine what would have happened had we finished the plate. We both had a very narrow escape.’

‘Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Please.’

‘As William said, a lot happened last night.’ Michael was determined to postpone the inevitable. ‘Spalling held a rally of his supporters and declared Cynric his lieutenant. According to Langelee, the announcement took Cynric by surprise, but it is a cause dear to his heart, and Langelee said he responded with delight. He intends to stay here after we leave.’

‘I am sure he does. But what did Matilde–’

‘Then Lullington accused you of murdering Welbyrn – your ancient feud is common knowledge, and Lullington made much of the fact that you once broke Welbyrn’s nose. Ramseye defended you, though, pointing out that you were insensible at the time.’

‘Ramseye did?’ Bartholomew was struggling to follow the gabbled tale.

‘He said you could not have walked to the door, let alone gone all the way to St Leonard’s, and he argued so convincingly that I did not have to defend you myself. Of course, now everyone is flailing around for another suspect, and the usual names have been aired – Spalling, Aurifabro, Reginald, the bedesfolk…’

‘Has Welbyrn been murdered?’

‘I hope you will be able to tell me that when you examine his body. I ordered everything left as it was found, in the hope that there will be clues as to what happened.’

‘Matilde,’ prompted Bartholomew, feeling they had skated around the issue quite long enough. ‘What did William mean when he said she came?’

Michael took a moment to compose himself, then began, starting with how he had met her in Clare the previous year, and the vow she had extracted from him never to mention it. He finished by handing over the letter she had dictated. After he had read it, Bartholomew was silent for a very long time.

‘You did not have to make that promise,’ he said eventually. ‘You could have refused.’

‘She was very insistent.’

‘You have resisted more powerful people than her.’

‘I was not happy about it, believe me. So what will you do? Leave the University and set up a practice of wealthy people, so she will know she means more to you than your paupers? Wait for her to earn her own fortune? Or has she been superseded in your affections by Julitta?’

Bartholomew chose to ignore the last question. ‘The Matilde I remember would not have left a letter when she could have spoken to me directly. She was never a coward.’

‘She said it would have been too painful to meet in person.’

‘Perhaps.’ Bartholomew was silent again, before saying in a low voice, ‘But I did not think you would keep such a thing from me.’

Michael winced. ‘I told her it was a mistake, but she persuaded me that it was in your best interests – in the best interests of both of you.’

Bartholomew nodded, but made no reply, and Michael suspected, with a pang, that while Bartholomew might have lost the love of his life for the second time and perhaps permanently, he himself had just lost the trust of a friend.

The effects of whatever Bartholomew had swallowed lingered in the form of a persistent lethargy, even after he had eaten a breakfast that William assured him was safe, followed by copious amounts of his favourite cure-all – boiled barley water. He struggled to think about the news he had been given, but it was not easy when all he wanted to do was sleep, so he went for a walk, hoping fresh air would revive him. He left the abbey and turned south, but did not have the energy to go far. He stopped on the rough wooden bridge that spanned the river.

It was quiet there, with only the occasional cart rumbling past to intrude on his thoughts. A heron strutted and stabbed in the shallows, and two crows cawed in a nearby elm. The fields were full of crops that were turning gold under the summer sun, and the air was rich with the scent of warm earth and scythed grass.

He leaned on the railing and stared down at the sluggish water, wondering when he had last been beset by such a bewildering gamut of emotions. Uppermost was relief that Matilde had not been killed on the King’s highways, as most of his colleagues had believed. The rest were far more complicated, and involved a confusing combination of hope, hurt, exasperation, resentment and unease.

Should he be angry with Michael for keeping a secret of such magnitude from him; a betrayal, in fact, of their friendship? The monk, more than anyone, knew the depth of his feelings for Matilde and the lengths to which he had gone to find her after she had left.

As he pondered, peculiarities in the monk’s past behaviour began to make sense. The first time Michael had been to Clare he had returned sullen and snappish, and had spent the next twelve months informing Bartholomew that the place was not worth seeing. Encouraging Langelee to bring him to Peterborough had been yet another way to prevent him from going there, although it could not have misfired more badly. And finally, there was his recent uncharacteristically whimsical remark that he enjoyed Bartholomew’s company – clearly he had been anticipating the day when the truth would come out.

But Michael had not asked to be placed in such an invidious position, and it would be unfair to blame him for what had happened. Although Bartholomew was exasperated with him – and disappointed that he had allowed himself to be browbeaten by Matilde – he bore him no malice, and supposed he had better say so lest the incident drove a wedge between them. Michaelhouse was too small for two of its Fellows to be at loggerheads, and when all was said and done, Michael had been a good friend in the past.

He watched a leaf undulate under the bridge. Should he abandon his University, patients and students a second time, and try to find Matilde, despite the plea in her letter that begged him not to? Should he resign his Fellowship and start recruiting wealthy patients so that she knew he would produce horoscopes for the rich if it meant her return? Or should he put her from his mind, on the grounds that the woman he had loved would not have been afraid to face him, and that time and experience might have turned her into a different person?

Her letter had outlined a complex plan that involved borrowing money and making certain investments. She seemed confident that it would work – the only question being the time it would take – and she would then return to Cambridge. As money had never been important to him, it seemed inconceivable that it should be the thing that stood between him and happiness, but he was not so naïve as to believe that everyone felt that way. And Matilde was a woman of refined tastes.

But what about Julitta? Her arrival in his life had reminded him that Matilde was not the only woman in the world. Did that mean his love for Matilde had diminished, and he should refuse her if she arrived back with a fortune in her purse? His relationship with Julitta was still fairly new, but he knew he could come to love her just as deeply in time. Of course, she was already married, and so would never be fully available to him, unless something fatal happened to Surgeon Holm. But what if–

‘I thought I might find you here.’

He whipped around to see Cynric standing beside him. He had not heard the book-bearer approach, and the Welshman’s eyes gleamed in the knowledge that he had not lost the ability to creep up behind his master and startle him out of his wits.

‘I came to tell you that she has gone,’ said Cynric. ‘Matilde, I mean. Last night, Father William came to tell me what had happened, so we went to see if we could persuade her to stay. We managed to locate the inn where she had been lodging, but she had already left.’

‘Did the taverner know where she might be going?’

‘She was careful to let nothing slip. I spent the rest of the night searching the roads, but she left no trace of her passing.’ Cynric’s dark face was grudgingly impressed. ‘I can track most people, as you know, but she eluded me. She might have gone in any direction, and I doubt you will catch her. But if you want to try, I will go with you.’

‘I thought you had been made Spalling’s deputy.’

Cynric nodded proudly. ‘But I am willing to leave him for a while, to help you with Matilde.’

‘Perhaps I should accept. It would keep you out of trouble.’

‘You mean with Spalling? But he is right, boy. The poor have been poor long enough, and it is time to put matters right. You will join us eventually – you are not a man to sit by while injustices are done. I would not have stayed with you so long if you were.’

‘There is a difference between wanting justice and insurgency, Cynric. Besides, Spalling does not seem entirely rational to me.’

‘Only because you are poisoned and your wits are awry. But here he is, come to collect me. We are off to Aurifabro’s shop again, to berate him for suppressing his workers.’

‘You mean the workers who say he is a generous employer?’ Bartholomew held up his hands in surrender when he saw Cynric ready to argue; he did not feel equal to debating the morality of England’s social order that morning, and wished he had held his tongue.

Spalling had taken care with his dress that day, and had donned an outfit reminiscent of a ploughboy’s, although his fine calfskin boots had never been anywhere near a field.

‘Want to come, physician?’ he asked amiably. ‘You will enjoy watching that villain Aurifabro denounced for his greed and miserliness.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew coolly.

‘You prefer to let me tackle him on your behalf,’ nodded Spalling, although without rancour. ‘I heard Oxforde was the same. Did you know that he stole from the rich in order to ease the lives of Peterborough’s peasants?’

‘I think you will find he stole from the rich in order to benefit himself,’ countered Bartholomew, disinclined to listen to such fanciful nonsense.

‘That is a tale put about by his detractors,’ argued Spalling. ‘And if he was not a saint, then why have there been miracles at his tomb?’

He flung an arm across Cynric’s shoulders and they strode away together, leaving the physician wondering how Spalling could have drawn such wild conclusions about Oxforde, whose ruthless brutality was a matter of record. With a sigh, he supposed it was a case of a man changing history to suit himself.

Although Michael had promised that Bartholomew would be spared more meals in the refectory, he insisted that they attend the one that was to be held mid-morning, because Yvo was going to make an announcement about Welbyrn, and he wanted all his Michaelhouse colleagues there as observers. It was a sombre affair. Welbyrn’s seat was ominously empty, and everyone kept glancing at it, stunned by what had happened. Appletre wept copiously, but Yvo informed the scholars sotto voce that he always cried when someone died, so they should ignore him. Henry sat next to the sobbing precentor, murmuring comforting words.

Bartholomew was reluctant to eat, partly because Matilde had robbed him of his appetite, but mostly because he did not fancy being poisoned a second time. He took some bread and cheese, but only after the obedientiaries had sampled them first. He was aware of Michael, William and Clippesby doing the same, although such restraint was clearly difficult for the portly Senior Proctor.

‘Welbyrn’s accident comes as a great shock to us all,’ Yvo proclaimed at the end of the meal. ‘Yet perhaps it is a blessed release. He has not been himself these last few weeks.’

‘No,’ agreed Ramseye. ‘As exemplified by his insistence that the Abbot is still alive.’

‘And his short temper,’ added Appletre, hand to the front of his habit, where the treasurer had laid hold of it during his explosion in the chapter house.

‘How did he die, Father Prior?’ called someone from the body of the hall. ‘Only there have been rumours…’

‘I am sure there have,’ said Yvo curtly. ‘But the truth is this: Welbyrn went to St Leonard’s well in the dark, but the steps are slippery, and he fell. A tragic mishap.’

‘And I would remind you all that idle gossip is a sin and should be beneath you,’ added Nonton sternly, casting a cool but bleary eye around the gathering that had more than one monk blushing in shame.

‘Welbyrn will be missed,’ declared Yvo, scowling at the cellarer for voicing something he wished he had said himself. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘What about his replacement?’ asked Ramseye.

Bartholomew was surprised by the almoner’s dispassionate response to the death of a man he had known all his life – and who had been backing his bid to be Abbot into the bargain. Henry shook his head in silent disapproval at the question, and there were raised eyebrows and grimaces from the other monks, although it was impossible to tell whether they thought like Henry, or felt relief that a more stable man could now be appointed to the post.

‘Appletre will be treasurer,’ announced Yvo. ‘He can start today.’

He glanced at Lullington, who nodded encouragingly. The knight was resplendent in another set of new clothes, and had doused himself so liberally with perfume that he had attracted flies. Meanwhile, Appletre was gazing at the Prior in horror.

‘But I do not know anything about money,’ he objected. ‘There must be a better choice than me. For example, Henry, who is–’

‘I have made my decision,’ interrupted Yvo. ‘You will be our new treasurer, and I shall take over the precentor’s duties myself, concurrently with being Prior.’

‘But you cannot sing!’ cried Appletre, appalled.

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Yvo. ‘I have a beautiful voice, and it is time it was heard.’

‘No!’ Appletre was becoming tearful again. ‘I cannot, not so soon after Welbyrn. It is not right. Please! Let us have time to mourn.’

‘We will mourn,’ said Yvo coolly. ‘However, an abbey’s finances wait for no man, so you will assume your duties with immediate effect.’

‘Do as he says, Appletre,’ advised Ramseye. ‘It will only be for three days, because the new Abbot will rescind this decision.’

Appletre smiled gratefully in response to his meaningful look, and Bartholomew supposed it was one way of securing a vote. Not everyone was impressed, however.

‘You intend the election to go ahead?’ asked Henry, for once forgetting himself and speaking without due deference. ‘Even though two high-ranking officers now lie dead? Surely it is now even more important to wait for the Bishop’s Commissioners to–’

‘Welbyrn’s death is irrelevant to who becomes Abbot,’ interrupted Lullington.

‘But Father Prior,’ objected Henry, standing up and glancing at his fellow monks as he did so. All were nodding their support. ‘I do not feel this is right.’

He had ignored the corrodian, but it was Lullington who replied anyway. ‘These are uncertain times, and we need an abbot to lead us. A prior does not carry the same authority, and we cannot afford to be perceived as weak.’

‘That is right,’ agreed Yvo. ‘Now sit down, Henry, before I make you spend the rest of the year in the vegetable garden.’

Henry sat abruptly.

‘We had better inspect Welbyrn’s body,’ said Michael, in the silence that followed. ‘The Bishop will want to know exactly what happened to him. Did you leave everything as you found it, as I asked, so I may draw upon the expertise of my Corpse Examiner?’

‘We did,’ said Ramseye in distaste. ‘Although I cannot see why such unpleasantness is necessary. Must Bartholomew be given licence to paw Welbyrn’s mortal remains?’

‘He will be able to tell whether there has been foul play,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I cannot begin to count the number of killers we have caught with his skills and my wits. No wicked villain has ever gained the better of us. And none ever will.’

His words echoed around the refectory like a challenge, and Bartholomew closed his eyes. Such hubris was asking for someone to make another assault on their lives.

‘You will find nothing amiss,’ growled Nonton irritably. ‘As Prior Yvo just told you, it was an accident.’

‘If so, then Matt will confirm it,’ said Michael, kicking Bartholomew under the table when the physician started to say that he might be able to do nothing of the kind.

‘Very well,’ said Ramseye. ‘Shall we go now? The bedesmen are eager to open their chapel to pilgrims, but they cannot do it with a corpse bobbing in their healing well.’

‘You left Welbyrn in the water?’ Bartholomew was shocked.

‘Michael said nothing should be moved,’ replied Ramseye blandly. ‘So nothing was. Far be it from us to disobey the Bishop’s Commissioner.’

Michael glared at him. ‘You know I did not mean you to leave Welbyrn soaking! It was the rest of the chapel that I wanted left as it was found.’

‘Then you should have made yourself clear. We did exactly as you ordered.’

‘We did,’ smirked Lullington. ‘After all, we do not want to be accused of murder.’

‘As you accused Matt?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Even though he was insensible at the time, and incapable of doing anything?’

‘He was an obvious suspect, given their past antipathies,’ argued Lullington.

‘Welbyrn was far more likely to have murdered Matthew than the other way around,’ said Ramseye. ‘He was the one who bore the grudge. It is a pity you can no longer ask him whether he acted on it by sending a gift of poison.’

A sizeable deputation accompanied the two scholars to St Leonard’s Hospital. Michael led the way, Yvo and Lullington hard on his heels, both regaling him with theories about how Welbyrn might have come to fall. The monk’s face was expressionless, but he was wondering why they were so determined that Welbyrn’s demise should be deemed an accident.

Bartholomew was next, with Ramseye, Henry and Appletre. Nonton was behind them, stopping occasionally to take a swig from the flask he had hidden in his sleeve. A flock of monks, lay brethren and townsfolk followed, while the bedeswomen brought up the rear, gleeful that they were not the only ones to suffer the inconvenience of a corpse in their holy places.

Bartholomew was now marginally more alert, although his spirits were low – a combination of hurt that Matilde had not waited to speak to him, a residual vexation with Michael that he suspected would take a while to wear off, and sadness that Cynric would no longer play such a large role in his life.

‘Are you sure you are recovered, Matt?’ asked Henry kindly. ‘You are oddly quiet.’

‘Just tired.’ Bartholomew knew Henry would be a sympathetic confidant, but his feelings were too raw to be shared with anyone else just yet.

‘I do not want to be treasurer,’ said Appletre miserably. ‘I am a musician, not a financier. I shall have the abbey in debt within a month.’

‘You only need do it for three days,’ Ramseye reminded him. ‘At which point, the new Abbot will appoint someone else. It is high time we had a treasurer who knew what he was doing, anyway. Welbyrn did his best, but he was out of his depth.’

‘Do not speak ill of the dead,’ said Henry sharply, not seeming to care that he was berating a superior. ‘He was meticulous and honest.’

‘And mean,’ added Ramseye. ‘Which is what he will be remembered for.’

Henry opened his mouth to argue, but apparently could think of nothing to refute the remark, so he closed it again without speaking.

‘He was unquestionably loyal to Robert, though,’ said Appletre.

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Ramseye with a weary sigh. ‘Including his ridiculous assertion that my uncle is still in the land of the living.’

‘Perhaps he is,’ sniffed Appletre. ‘I cannot believe that God would deprive us of treasurer, Abbot and physician within a few weeks. Maybe Robert and Pyk are kidnapped, not dead.’

‘If that were true, a ransom demand would have been received by now,’ said Ramseye. ‘Or perhaps one was, but someone decided not to pay it.’

Appletre regarded him in horror. ‘Then we must search for them at once! I will–’

‘Search the Fens?’ Ramseye’s voice was scathing. ‘How do you propose we do that?’

‘But who would do such a wicked thing?’ asked Henry doubtfully. ‘If the letter is not acknowledged, the kidnappers may harm their victims. Or even kill them.’

‘Quite,’ said Ramseye pointedly. ‘Which brings me back to my original contention – that my uncle is dead. We need another abbot in post as quickly as possible, and the sooner I am elected, the sooner I can begin to put things right.’

‘Do you really think you will win?’ asked Henry wonderingly.

Ramseye regarded him haughtily. ‘When the alternative is Yvo? Of course! He has been Acting Abbot since Robert disappeared, but look at what has happened during his reign: a bedeswoman murdered, our treasurer dead in a sacred well, and the Bishop’s Commissioners probing our affairs. May I count on your support?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Appletre eagerly. ‘So I can be precentor again.’

‘And you shall be my almoner, Henry,’ said Ramseye when the other monk remained silent. ‘Just think of how much you could do for hungry beggars if you held such a post.’

Bartholomew was appalled, sure Ramseye was saying that the poor might suffer if Henry did not do as he was told. Appletre changed the subject, and Henry shot him a grateful glance that he would not be pressed for an answer there and then.

‘Inges has been telling everyone that Welbyrn was murdered.’ The precentor shook his head slowly. ‘But I cannot believe it. Who would want to kill Welbyrn?’

‘A great many people,’ replied Ramseye. ‘He had become something of a bully recently, so there are many who will be pleased that he is no longer with us.’

‘Including you?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.

Ramseye raised his eyebrows. ‘Me? I wanted him alive. He and Nonton were going to help me win the election, and his death is a blow to my cause. I am deeply sorry he is gone.’

But there was something in his voice that set alarm bells ringing in Bartholomew’s mind. He stared at his old tutor, struggling to read his bland expression, but then Appletre started to talk about the music he thought would be suitable for Welbyrn’s requiem mass, and the moment was gone.

There was a delay before the deputation could enter St Leonard’s, because the bedesmen called out that they were praying. Hagar snorted in disbelief, but Yvo declared that such an activity could not possibly be interrupted, grinning his triumph when several monks nodded approval of his pious decision. While they waited for the bedesmen to finish their devotions – although clunks and scrapes from inside suggested rather that a hasty spring-clean was in progress – Yvo began to inform the onlookers that he had always admired the bedesfolk’s dedication to their religious duties. Ramseye did not demean himself with brazen electioneering, though he did not object when Nonton did it for him.

Bartholomew had no wish to listen, so he went to stare along the road that led to Torpe, wondering what had happened to the two men who had ridden along it on St Swithin’s Day. His thoughts were still annoyingly sluggish, and he took several deep breaths in an effort to clear them. He stifled a groan when Ramseye came to stand next to him.

‘If your work as a Corpse Examiner entails dissections, you might be wise to restrain yourself while you are here,’ the almoner warned. ‘The townsfolk are unlikely to be very understanding of such practices, and you may find yourself decried as a warlock.’

Bartholomew’s immediate assumption was that an uneasy conscience had prompted the advice – that Ramseye was worried about what clues might have been left on Welbyrn’s body.

‘I am not an anatomist,’ he said, then smiled, aiming to disconcert. ‘But such techniques are rarely necessary, because the evidence is usually obvious.’

‘Is it?’ Ramseye’s expression was closed, and Bartholomew could read nothing in it. ‘The things you know, Matthew! It has certainly been an experience meeting you again.’

‘And you,’ said Bartholomew, a little deflated that his ploy had not worked.

‘You sound tired.’ Ramseye studied him closely. ‘Not fully recovered from your brush with death. I never touch cakes, personally. I have always held them to be dangerous.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. Had he poisoned the Lombard slices? Ramseye regarded him with a hurt expression, guessing exactly what he was thinking.

‘I have nothing to fear from the Bishop’s Commissioners, and nor do I have any desire to see them dead. However, if you will accept perilous missions, like investigating missing abbots, then you must expect attempts on your life.’

Bartholomew frowned. Had he and his colleagues just been threatened? This time, if Ramseye knew what he was thinking, he did not acknowledge it.

‘You owe me your thanks, by the way,’ the almoner said with a smile. ‘When fingers started pointing in your direction blaming you for Welbyrn’s demise, it was I who defended you.’

‘Yes, I heard.’ Bartholomew forced himself to sound grateful, although in reality the discussion was reminding him of why he had so detested Ramseye’s classes and had done his best to disrupt them. ‘Thank you.’

Ramseye shrugged. ‘It was the truth. None of you left the guest house last night.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Were you watching us? Why?’

‘Honestly? Because I was worried that your fat friend might accuse me if you succumbed to that toxin – I imagine you told him that I was a less than kindly tutor. Of course, it was a long time ago, and I am a different man now.’

Not so different, thought Bartholomew, taking in the sly eyes and silkily cajoling voice. ‘And Welbyrn? Had he changed as well?’

Ramseye shrugged. ‘I really cannot say. We had very little to do with each other outside the routine course of our duties, and rarely spoke socially.’

‘You just told me that he supported you in your aim to be Abbot,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Along with Nonton.’

‘The Unholy Trinity, as everyone likes to call us,’ sighed Ramseye. ‘I do not associate with them from choice, but because it is expedient. Yvo would be a disastrous ruler, whereas I will be just, generous and enlightened.’

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say to such a claim, and they stood in silence for a while. A gentle breeze ruffled the crops in the fields, and distant rain scented the air.

‘Poor Welbyrn,’ said Ramseye eventually. ‘Even with the limited contact we shared, I could see he was an unhappy man. I imagine it was because he knew he fell short as a monk – as sanctimonious men like Henry were always ready to remind him.’

‘Henry would never do that,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps not in words, but glances can say a great deal. Henry was very vocal in his silence, and Welbyrn knew exactly what he thought of him.’

‘Then why did Welbyrn not try to rectify the matter? Become a better man?’

‘That is easier said than done. Could you change your nature so easily? Give up what you are, in order to become something others want you to be?’

Bartholomew supposed he might find out if Matilde returned to Cambridge with a fortune at her disposal.