The Lost Abbot (3 page)

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, wincing when he recalled the delight with which the Master had greeted the opportunity to hone his martial skills. Bartholomew’s own talents in that direction were modest, as befitted a man whose profession was healing. Bad timing had put him in Poitiers when a small force led by the Prince of Wales had encountered the French army – which had taught him how to hold his own; but he disliked fighting and avoided it when he could.

‘Do you think we will survive the return journey?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Or shall we be doomed to spend the rest of our lives in this infernal place? My wife will not like that.’

‘Neither will my students,’ said Bartholomew.

‘You had better dismount, Matt,’ called Michael, as scattered houses gave way to proper streets. ‘We do not want anyone trampled. The resulting fuss might make us late for dinner.’

With Bartholomew, horses sensed who was master and immediately exercised their ascendancy by bucking, prancing or heading off to enjoy the grass. The docile nag he had taken from College had been shot during an ambush, leaving him with a fierce stallion that had a tendency to bolt. He did as Michael suggested and passed him the reins, feeling that the beast needed to be in responsible hands if there were people about.

It was not long before their precautions paid off. The road, which had been wide, narrowed abruptly, and an elderly man stepped in front of them. The stallion reared in shock, and even Michael’s superior abilities were tested as he struggled to control it. Bartholomew would have stood no chance, and blood would certainly have been spilled.

‘You are not allowed to bring dangerous animals in here,’ screeched the man, cringing away as hoofs flailed. He was an ancient specimen, with bandy legs, no teeth and wispy grey hair; he wore the robes of a Benedictine lay brother. ‘It is forbidden.’

‘I imagine it is forbidden to race out in front of travellers and frighten their mounts, too,’ retorted Michael.

‘Are you the Bishop’s Commissioner?’ asked the old man, peering up at him.

‘Yes, he is,’ said William before the monk could reply for himself. ‘And so are we.’

‘What, all of you?’ asked the old man, startled. He was not the only one to be surprised: it was also news to Michael, Langelee, Clippesby, Bartholomew and Cynric. ‘Why so many?’

‘Because the Bishop thought Brother Michael might need us,’ replied William loftily.

‘I see,’ said the old man with a philosophical shrug, as if the workings of a prelate’s mind were beyond his ken. ‘We expected you ages ago because the Bishop asked you to come at once, but you have taken weeks. Why? Do you not consider our predicament pressing?’

‘And who are you, pray?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘Roger Botilbrig, bedesman of St Leonard’s Hospital. That means I have served the abbey all my life – I was their best brewer – and I now live in retirement at abbey expense.’

‘I know what a bedesman is,’ said Michael, disliking the assumption that he was a fool.

Botilbrig went on as if the monk had not spoken. ‘My duties are mostly praying for the hospital’s founders, but that is a bit tedious, so I offered to wait for you instead, to escort you to the abbey. Of course, I did not expect to be kept hanging around
this
long.’

‘My apologies,’ said Michael dryly. ‘However, our journey has been fraught with—’

‘Apology accepted.’ Botilbrig gave a sudden toothless grin. ‘Bishop Gynewell told us to expect a very large monk, and he was not exaggerating. You are a princely specimen.’

William sniggered, Langelee and Cynric smothered smiles, and Bartholomew waited for an explosion. Clippesby began murmuring to the wasp that had landed on his sleeve.

‘I am not fat,’ declared Michael tightly. ‘I have big bones. Matt here will confirm it, because he is my personal physician.’

Bartholomew blinked, astonished to learn that he had been awarded such a title.

‘A physician?’ asked Botilbrig, brightening. ‘Good! We do not have one of our own any more, not since Master Pyk disappeared at the same time as Abbot Robert. Most of us have ailments that need tending, so it is thoughtful of you to bring us one. I have a sore—’

‘He will be helping
me
,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He will not have time for patients. However, the fact that more than one man is adrift is news to us. Gynewell said it was just the Abbot.’

‘The Abbot and Pyk,’ stated Botilbrig. ‘They disappeared a month ago, on St Swithin’s Day, and have not been seen since. It will not be easy to find them after all this time, but the Bishop says you are good at solving mysteries, so we are all expecting a speedy solution.’

‘So no pressure then,’ murmured Langelee to Michael.

Botilbrig hobbled along the road, gabbling non-stop as he pointed out features of interest. The physician was the only one who listened. William had turned resentful again, claiming that he should be persecuting heretics in Cambridge, not sent to distant outposts just because he had made a few perfectly justifiable remarks about a devious official. Cynric was nodding agreement; Langelee was trying to recall where Spalling had said he lived; Michael was reflecting unhappily on the task he had been set; and Clippesby had been stung by the wasp.

Eventually, they arrived at the town centre, which comprised a marketplace bordered by handsome houses on three sides and abbey buildings on the fourth. The square was alive with activity. Wooden stalls with colourful roofs stood in neat rows, selling goods that ranged from cakes and candles to bread and baskets. Bartholomew braced himself, expecting it to smell like the one in Cambridge – a brutal combination of dung, urine, stagnant water and rotting offal – so he was pleasantly surprised when all he could detect was fresh straw and baking bread.

‘Here is the Abbey Gate,’ said Botilbrig, stopping outside a handsome edifice. With a somewhat proprietary air, he addressed the gaggle of people who had stopped to stare at the newcomers. ‘These are the Bishop’s Commissioners, and
I
am showing them what’s what.’

‘They took their time,’ muttered one woman. ‘We expected them weeks ago.’

‘We came as fast as we could,’ said William indignantly.

‘There is a chapel by the gate; we should go there first, to give thanks for our safe arrival,’ said Clippesby, earning himself a murmur of approval from the onlookers for his piety, although that had not been his intention.

‘Of course,’ said William, unwilling to be seen as less devout than a Dominican. Then he frowned as he peered at it. ‘Are there
shops
in its undercroft? There are! Blasphemy!’

‘That is St Thomas’s Hospital, and there are shops below it because it is run by greedy bedeswomen,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘The workshop on the corner is owned by Reginald the cutler, who is as foul a villain as ever walked the Earth. He is quite rich, though, so Abbot Robert never minded spending time in his company.’

‘Clippesby is right: we should say a prayer,’ said Michael, raising mystified eyebrows at Botilbrig’s peculiar medley of revelations. ‘It has been a difficult journey, after all.’

‘Why?’ asked Botilbrig. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Amongst other calamities, we were attacked five times by robbers,’ replied William. ‘Ones who spoke French – I heard them quite distinctly. They must live in this town, as they only became a serious nuisance during the last few miles.’

‘I see,’ said Botilbrig. ‘Then you should indeed give thanks, but do not do it at St Thomas’s. That place pays homage to executed felons and is full of false relics. Come to the Hospital of St Leonard instead.’

‘Peterborough has
two
hospitals?’ said William, impressed, although Bartholomew had already told him as much. Clearly the friar had not trusted his colleague’s memory.

‘They were founded for lepers,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘Although St Leonard’s is now used to house bedesmen, like me. St Thomas’s still takes lepers, though, which should make you think twice about stepping inside its chapel.’

‘There has not been a case of leprosy in this country for years,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘These unfortunates will have contracted another skin disease, such as—’

‘Where is St Leonard’s?’ asked William, before they could be regaled with a list. The physician was difficult to stop once he started to hold forth about medicine, and not all his discourses made for pleasant listening.

‘A short walk west of the town,’ replied Botilbrig proudly. ‘We have a holy well, too, along with a man who is a hundred and forty-three years old. We will let you touch him if you put a few coins in the oblations box.’

‘Is that possible, Matthew?’ asked William. ‘Do people really live to such a great age? I know they did in the Bible, but those were different times.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, although the doubt was clear in his voice.

Botilbrig regarded him coolly. ‘Of course it is possible. Now come along. It is not far – just straight through the town, out the other side and along a—’

‘We are not leaving now we have arrived at last,’ interrupted Langelee firmly. ‘So my clerics will pray in
this
chapel. They can visit St Leonard’s another time.’

‘They will be sorry,’ warned Botilbrig. ‘It is a dark and gloomy place, not like pretty St Leonard’s. I was saying to Master Spalling only last night that—’

‘Spalling?’ pounced Langelee. ‘Where does he live?’

‘In the large house out by the parish church,’ replied Botilbrig, regarding him curiously. ‘Why? Do you know him? If so, you had better not tell the monks.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

‘Because they hate him.’ Botilbrig spoke as if this were something he should know.

‘And why do they hate him?’ pressed Michael, struggling for patience.

‘Because he says it is wrong for abbeys, nobles and merchants to have lots of money when ordinary folk have none,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘I am loyal to the abbey, of course, but it is difficult to dislike Spalling. He is very popular in the town.’

‘Perhaps I will join you at his home, Master,’ said Cynric to Langelee. The book-bearer had radical views on social justice, and Spalling sounded like his kind of man.

‘And perhaps I will stay in the abbey,’ countered Langelee. ‘I do not recall Spalling harbouring controversial opinions when I met him in York.’

‘You are in luck,’ said Botilbrig with a grin. ‘Because here he comes now. I shall be able to introduce you.’

The scholars turned to see a man striding towards them. He had an impressive mane of long yellow hair, while his beard was full, bushy and gold. His enormous size, along with the fact that he was wearing a simple tunic in the kind of brown homespun favoured by working men, made him an arresting figure. He was trailed by a host of people, and when he stopped walking, so did they, shuffling to a standstill at his heels.

‘Another greedy monk, come to devour the fruits of our labour,’ he spat, blue eyes blazing as he glared at Michael. ‘I thought our troubles had eased when the Death reduced their number from sixty-four to thirty-two, but they have been increasing since, and will soon be back to their former strength.’

‘They lost half their number to plague?’ asked Bartholomew with quiet compassion. The disease that had ravaged the country, eliminating entire communities and striking indiscriminately at old, young, rich and poor had been a terrible experience. He could still recall the helplessness that had gripped him when all his remedies and treatments failed, and he had been forced to watch much-loved patients die one after another.

‘Yes, and it is a pity it was not more,’ declared Spalling uncompromisingly. ‘They deserve to rot in Hell for the crimes they commit against the common man.’

Behind him, there was a murmur of approval, although Botilbrig looked uncomfortable, caught between his admiration for a man with attractive opinions and his loyalty to the place that housed and fed him.

‘And this is your friend, Master?’ asked Michael of Langelee, all frosty hauteur. ‘Your taste in companions has always been dubious, but you have excelled yourself this time.’

Spalling frowned at Langelee. ‘You are an acquaintance of mine? I do not recognise you.’

‘I am Master of Michaelhouse now,’ explained Langelee, also struggling to see something familiar in Spalling, and thus indicating that the evening they had enjoyed together had been wilder than he had led his colleagues to believe. ‘But we met when I was working for the Archbishop of York.’

‘That wily old scoundrel!’ snorted Spalling. ‘You did the right thing by abandoning him and opting for the life of a poor scholar. You are welcome in my house, sir.’

Langelee regarded him coolly; he had admired and respected his Archbishop.
‘Thank you, but I think I must remain with my Fellows. They will only get themselves into trouble without me to supervise them.’

‘I approve of the two friars and the pauper.’ Spalling flapped a hand towards William, Clippesby and Bartholomew, who looked down at his clothes and supposed he could do with some new ones. ‘But not the fat Benedictine. I despise that Order with a passion. Ask anyone in Peterborough.’

‘Brother Michael is our College’s finest theologian,’ said Langelee stiffly. ‘And—’

‘Other than me,’ put in William.

‘And he also runs the University. Do not let his ample girth deceive you. He eats very little, and his weight is entirely due to his unusually heavy bones. Here is his personal physician, who will support what I say.’

‘Very heavy,’ obliged Bartholomew, aware that the only reason Langelee considered Michael’s appetite modest was because he possessed a gargantuan one of his own. Michael was glowering at him, so he added, ‘Lead has nothing on them.’

‘Well, in that case, perhaps I shall make an exception,’ said Spalling graciously. ‘The plump devils in this abbey do nothing but eat, and it is the poor who labour to keep them in bread. Do not glare at me, Botilbrig. You know I am right. They almost worked you into an early grave before I intervened and ordered them to make you a bedesman.’

‘They would have let me retire anyway,’ objected Botilbrig. ‘It was just a question of time. And not all the monks are fat. Brother Henry is skin and bone, while—’