The Lost Abbot (25 page)

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.

When the Bishop’s Commissioners and their unofficial entourage of monastics and townsfolk were eventually admitted to the hospital, it was to find it spotlessly clean. Freshly cut rushes had been scattered on the floor, the furniture had been dusted and little pots of fragrant summer flowers sat on the windowsills. The residents had also benefited from an overhaul. Hair had been brushed, beards trimmed and robes sponged. Even Simon the cowherd had been groomed; he sat in a corner whispering to himself.

‘Welcome to our domain,’ said Inges, haughty and proud in his finery. ‘We have done as you asked: the chapel has been shut ever since we made our terrible discovery.’

‘Good,’ said Lullington, sailing inside on a wave of expensive perfume that made the older man sneeze. ‘Will you show us the body?’

‘I thought he had an aversion to corpses,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew.

‘Just his wife’s, it would seem,’ Bartholomew muttered back.

‘You had better tell us what happened, Inges,’ said Michael, stepping into the hall and closing the door before anyone other than Bartholomew, Yvo and Ramseye could follow. There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the excluded spectators.

‘It was me who found him,’ said Botilbrig excitedly. ‘I came to fetch a flask of holy water for Kirwell just after compline last night, and there was Welbyrn floating in the well. I raised the alarm, and Prior Inges sent word to the abbey—’

‘And I locked the chapel when a messenger arrived to say that we should leave everything as it was discovered,’ finished Inges. ‘However, I want that corpse out of our spring, Father Prior, and then I want St Leonard’s resanctified, like you did for the bedeswomen.’

‘Today, if possible,’ added Botilbrig. ‘Kirwell is still waiting for his drink, and we have had to turn three pilgrims away already this morning – folk who would have left donations.’

‘That depends on Brother Michael,’ replied Yvo. ‘But he is a practical man who understands the importance of revenue. He will not waste time.’

‘You consider investigating Welbyrn’s death wasting time?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘Of course not,’ sighed Yvo irritably. ‘But running a large abbey is expensive, and we cannot afford to lose money, as Welbyrn himself would have said had he not been … Besides, you have less than two days before you must leave, so you are not in a position to dawdle.’

Michael turned his back on him, not bothering to mask his distaste. ‘I have been told that Welbyrn was in the habit of coming here late at night. Is it true?’

‘I suppose I can be honest with you now that he is not in a position to punch my teeth out,’ replied the bedesman. ‘Which he threatened to do if I ever mentioned his visits to anyone else. You see, he had an affliction, and claimed our healing waters eased his discomfort.’

‘What kind of affliction?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘I think it had something to do with his intellectuals.’ Inges sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Maybe he feared he was losing them – and he did not have many to start with, no matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise.’

There was a chorus of wry agreement from the other bedesmen.

‘You may be right, Inges,’ said Ramseye thoughtfully. ‘About a month ago, he mentioned that he was struggling to remember certain things. Perhaps his mind
was
beginning to fail.’

‘Matt will identify the problem when he examines him,’ stated Michael.

Bartholomew blinked. ‘How am I supposed to deduce such a thing from a corpse? Even the dissectors at Salerno and Padua failed to—’

‘Dissectors?’ pounced Ramseye. ‘I thought you said you were not an anatomist.’

‘I am not,’ said Bartholomew, wishing his wits were sharper, because he would never have made such a slip had he been himself. ‘However, I have seen them at work, and there are no obvious changes in the brain that can be associated with—’

‘You
watched
a coven of ghouls chop up someone’s head?’ asked Ramseye in horror. ‘But that is the Devil’s work!’

There was a murmur of consternation from the bedesmen and monks, who promptly began to ease away. So did Lullington, his face pale. Bartholomew looked at Ramseye and saw malice behind the façade of disquiet.

‘We did not come here to listen to your views on dissection,’ snapped Michael, intervening quickly before the situation became any worse. ‘We came to investigate what happened to Welbyrn, which, as I am sure you will agree, is a far more pressing matter. Now, who let him in last night?’

‘No one – he had his own key,’ replied Inges, although his wary glance was fixed on Bartholomew. ‘He liked to visit at night, you see, when the place was empty. I refused to let him have one at first, but he threatened to raise our taxes, so I gave in. That was about two months ago. Since then, he has come several times a week.’

‘I saw him once, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He left the door ajar, and Simon escaped. He was oddly furtive the whole time, and threatened to thrash me if I suggested to anyone that he might be ill.’

‘So he arrived unannounced and began … doing what?’ asked Michael of the bedesmen. ‘Bathing in the well? Drinking the water? Praying?’

‘He usually got down on his knees and scooped a few handfuls of water over his head,’ supplied Botilbrig. He shrugged when Inges regarded him in surprise. ‘I was interested, and decided to find out what was wrong, but I never did manage to overhear his prayers.’ He sounded indignant, as if he thought Welbyrn had made spying difficult on purpose.

‘Did any of you hear him arrive last night?’ asked Michael.

There were a lot of shaken heads.

‘He only came when he was sure he would have the place to himself,’ said Inges. ‘He might have gone undiscovered until this morning had Kirwell not asked for some water.’

‘Poor Welbyrn,’ said Ramseye flatly. ‘Whatever did he think he was doing?’

Michael was keen for Bartholomew to examine the body so that they could leave, but the young priest Trentham appeared from upstairs and said that Kirwell needed a physician. With an irritable sigh, Michael indicated that Bartholomew should see what the old man wanted. Bartholomew obliged, disconcerted when everyone followed him up the stairs and crowded into the old man’s bedchamber on his heels, jostling him and each other as they vied for a place inside.

‘He may dispense a blessing, you see,’ explained Inges. ‘And he has been rather niggardly with those since Abbot Robert went missing. We cannot afford to miss out – it is his saintly benedictions that keep us all hale and hearty, after all.’

‘Be careful, Kirwell,’ called Ramseye from the back of the room. ‘This physician has watched anatomists chop off other people’s heads.’

‘We will not let him have yours, Kirwell, do not worry,’ said Inges comfortingly. Then he lowered his voice and gripped Bartholomew’s arm with surprising strength. ‘If you harm him, I will see you burned alive in the marketplace.’

Bartholomew could see he was serious, and was half tempted to leave, just in case Kirwell chose that particular day to give up the ghost. But he had sworn oaths to help those in need, and was unwilling to break them. He stepped forward, and so did everyone else.

‘I am not blessing anyone, so you can all go away,’ snapped Kirwell. ‘Trentham may stay, but the rest can clear out. Go on! You, too, Inges.’

There were resentful mutters, but the onlookers did as they were told, and it was not long before Bartholomew, Trentham and Kirwell were alone. At a gesture from the old man, Trentham closed the door, which was followed by the distinct sound of Botilbrig hissing his annoyance that he was to be deprived of an opportunity to eavesdrop.

‘How much longer?’ whispered Kirwell, when Bartholomew went to stand next to his bed. ‘How much longer must I live?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘You could prescribe a remedy for his knee,’ suggested Trentham. ‘It pains him badly.’

Bartholomew inspected the inflamed joint, then began to rub a cooling salve into it. Trentham held Kirwell’s hand while he worked, a liberty Bartholomew would never have taken with such a curmudgeonly fellow. It was clear that the priest possessed a rare way with his elderly charges, and had won their irascible hearts with his gentle compassion.

‘I wish I had never seen that light over Oxforde’s grave,’ said Kirwell bitterly, his expression distant as he reflected on events from long ago.

‘Hush,’ said Trentham softly. ‘You were honoured to witness such a miracle, and—’

‘It was not a miracle,’ interrupted Kirwell harshly. ‘Although I have let everyone think it was. It was just sunlight, as Doctor Bartholomew said when he first came to see me. And now I am being punished for my deception with this terrible, lingering life.’

‘No,’ said Trentham kindly. ‘I do not believe you would—’

‘Even then, I was almost blind,’ Kirwell went on. ‘And I was frightened for my future. I lied about what had happened because I wanted a place in this hospital.’

‘But there were other miracles afterwards,’ argued Trentham. ‘It was not just the shaft of brilliance on an otherwise gloomy day. It was the first wondrous event of many.’

‘All of which can be explained by wishful thinking or happenstance,’ countered Kirwell. ‘Headaches cured, a lost purse found, a long-absent soldier returned, a promotion granted. There is nothing holy about Oxforde, and there never was.’

‘Then tell the Bishop,’ suggested Bartholomew. He had encountered other shrines that had grown out of lies or misunderstandings, and so was not surprised to learn that Oxforde’s was no different, although he was aware of Trentham’s growing dismay at the revelations. ‘He does not want the cult to thrive, and if you denounce it, his task will be made easier.’

‘Yes,’ said Kirwell softly. ‘I think I must. Oxforde was the most evil man who ever lived, and it is a travesty that he should be venerated.’

‘But this happened forty-five years ago,’ Trentham pointed out, stunned. ‘Why wait until now to tell the truth?’

Kirwell scowled. ‘I did not wait until now – I have been saying it for the last decade, but no one has listened. Bring your writing equipment the next time you come, lad, and I shall dictate a letter to Gynewell – it would be a burden lifted. However, you cannot send it until I die. I cannot afford to be thrown out of St Leonard’s at this stage of my life.’

Trentham nodded, although Bartholomew thought the old man could not be very sorry for his years of deceit if he was unwilling to accept the consequences. But Bartholomew was not a priest, and it was Trentham’s duty to lecture him about contrition. Trentham, however, was more interested in hearing about Oxforde, pressing the old man for details with a guileless curiosity that reminded them both that he was still very young.

‘You accompanied him right to the scaffold?’ he asked, eyes alight with interest.

Kirwell nodded. ‘Yes, and he showed not a whit of remorse. He thought he would be reprieved right up until the noose tightened around his neck. I have never known such arrogance before or since. Did you hear how he came to be caught?’

‘No.’ Trentham was spellbound.

‘A wealthy silversmith had died a few weeks earlier, and there were rumours that the fellow had bought the plot next to his grave for some of his favourite jewels. Oxforde was in the process of digging for them when the Sheriff himself happened across him.’

‘Was there a fight?’

‘Not really. Oxforde was so convinced that the King would pardon him, that he saw no need to risk himself with the Sheriff’s blade. Anyway, I decided that he should be buried in the hole he himself had dug, because there was a fear that the Devil would raise him up if he was put in unconsecrated soil like other executed felons.’

‘I had forgotten that,’ said Bartholomew. The threat that Oxforde would come for them if they misbehaved was one that had been used to keep the abbey schoolboys in check.

‘He would have been furious if he could have seen how the abbey has benefited from his death,’ Kirwell went on with a distinctly impious smirk. ‘Making money hand over fist from donations to his shrine. He hated the Church.’

‘Are any of his victims still alive?’ Trentham’s eyes were like saucers.

‘He usually killed witnesses to his crimes, which is why he remained free for so long. God alone knows how many lives he took. I have long been amazed that those who lived through his reign of terror should have forgotten his true character.’

‘You mean bedeswomen like Hagar, who tell pilgrims that he was holy?’ asked Trentham. ‘The bedes
men
say he was wicked, though, and I have always wondered who was right.’

Kirwell waved a dismissive hand. ‘The men denounce Oxforde solely to annoy the women, and if his tomb was moved to St Leonard’s they would be delighted to exploit him there. But never mind this. I am so tired, Doctor. Surely there is something you can do for me? It is not right that a man should live for so long.’

‘It is beyond my control,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And you are not in serious discomfort. Not like poor Lady Lullington.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Kirwell. ‘She used to visit me, and tell me stories about her clever sons. She was a good woman, and I was sorry when I heard she was ill. Pyk never did discover what was wrong with her. She was struck down very suddenly.’