The Lost Abbot (11 page)

‘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.