The Lost Abbot (31 page)

Sylle’s expression was sly, but the physician could read the truth behind it. ‘Who can say? However, it annoyed him, which was satisfying.’

Bartholomew turned the conversation back to Robert. ‘Did you like the Abbot?’

‘No,’ replied Udela shortly. ‘We do not like any of the monastery’s officers – Welbyrn, Ramseye, Nonton, Yvo, Appletre. We like the common monks though, especially Henry.’

‘My cousin Joan used to tell us such tales about the obedientiaries,’ added Sylle, shaking his head and pursing his lips. ‘Almoners who refuse to feed the poor, cellarers who drink their own wines, treasurers who creep around the town after dark on evil business…’

‘Welbyrn was ill,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the need to protect his old tutor from unfair gossip. ‘He went to St Leonard’s for the healing waters.’

‘Joan never saw him doing
that
,’ said Sylle. ‘But she did see him meet Reginald at the witching hour, so I think we can safely assume that whatever Reginald was doing in his workshop involved the abbey’s loutish treasurer.’

‘Welbyrn is dead as well,’ said Bartholomew, feeling like a harbinger of doom.

‘I am not surprised,’ sighed Udela. ‘He came to me in a terrible state not long ago, and asked if self-murder was in his stars. It was not and I told him so. However, there were signs that he would not die naturally, although I kept that from him – he was suffering enough already.’

‘Suffering from what?’

‘He thought he was going insane because he kept forgetting things. His father took his own life because
he
lost his wits, and Welbyrn was afraid that the affliction had passed to him. Pyk told him his fears were groundless and so did I, but he did not believe us.’

No one had any more to add, so Bartholomew worked in silence for a while, tending two
earaches, one indigestion and a case of gout. His every move was watched minutely by his audience, and the only sounds were the occasional approving murmur and – once
– spontaneous applause. It made a pleasant change from the yawns of bored students.

‘Joan is going to be buried next to Oxforde,’ said Sylle eventually. ‘It was in her will.’

‘I know,’ said Udela disapprovingly. ‘I told her to change it. A good woman like her deserves better than to be near that vile wretch.’

‘But Oxforde is a saint,’ objected Sylle. ‘Miracles have occurred at his grave.’

‘Miracles!’ spat Udela. ‘There were never any miracles. Kirwell lied about that blinding light, just to get a place in the hospital. And he has done well out of it, because it is his life of leisure that has allowed him to live so long, not his purported saintliness.’

‘Abbot Robert always said that Kirwell was holy,’ argued Sylle. ‘So does Prior Yvo.’

‘Because they like the money pilgrims pay to touch him,’ scoffed Udela. ‘But the practice is deceitful, and I hope the new Abbot will put an end to it.’

‘Who will win the post?’ asked Sylle eagerly. ‘Have you consulted the stars?’

Udela inclined her head. ‘Yes, I have, but all I can say is that it will not be Yvo or Ramseye.’ She became thoughtful, then addressed Bartholomew. ‘Your portly friend would be worthy of the post. He has natural dignity, a clever mind and he is honourable.’

‘I am sure he would be the first to agree,’ said Bartholomew.

For the next hour, Bartholomew concentrated on medicine. He was vaguely aware of Cynric sidling in at the back of the room, and when the book-bearer caught his eye and gave a slight shake of the head, it took him a moment to understand what it meant. But the last patient was thanking him for his time, so he began packing away his implements, salves and bandages.

‘And now you may see the paten,’ said Sylle, as though Bartholomew had allowed himself to be besieged by patients just for that end. He handed the physician a large golden plate. It was a magnificent piece, one of the finest Bartholomew had ever seen, and he understood exactly why the goldsmith was reluctant to melt it down.

‘Master Aurifabro made it himself,’ Udela was explaining. ‘He did not delegate to a lesser craftsman, as others might have done. Of course, now he does not know what to do with it, because our gods – the older ones – have no use for this sort of thing.’

‘Why did he take such trouble for a foundation he despises?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Oh, he likes the abbey,’ said Sylle. ‘It is the obedientiaries he loathes. He was terribly disappointed when Yvo cancelled the commission. This paten would have been in the abbey’s treasury long after we are in our graves, and was his path to immortality.’

‘Would
you
like a consultation, Doctor?’ asked Udela suddenly. ‘I will do it for free.’

Bartholomew regarded her blankly. ‘A consultation?’

‘An interview with the spirits,’ elaborated Udela, a little impatiently. ‘What other kind is there? And they will certainly answer today, because they have taken a shine to you.’

‘They have?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘They appreciate your generosity to us. It is not every physician who waives his fees in the name of human kindness.’

Bartholomew stood hastily. ‘It is good of you, but—’

‘Sit,’ commanded Udela, reaching into a pouch at her side and removing a handful of shiny stones. ‘Let us see what they have to say.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, still on his feet. He saw Cynric frantically signalling for him to show her proper respect. ‘It would not be—’

‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ said Udela irritably. ‘And I am trying to help.’

Before he could argue further, she had tossed the stones on the table, and firm hands were pushing him back into the chair. He could have tried to fight his way clear, but he had the sense that he would not get very far. Judging by the awed looks that had been exchanged when Udela had made the offer, free consultations were not granted often, and her flock was determined to ensure that this one was received with appropriate appreciation.

Udela peered at the pebbles and nodded knowingly. ‘There is evil associated with the disappearance of Robert and Pyk. A terrible deed…’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, feeling he could have told her that himself.

‘But Pyk is innocent,’ said Udela, looking hard at him. ‘It is in your mind that
he
might have dispatched Robert, but it would not be true. The stones do not tell me this: my instinct does. Pyk was not a killer.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew sincerely. He liked the sound of Pyk, and it would do his profession scant good for the arch-villain to be a
medicus
.

‘There is nothing more specific, though,’ said Udela, inspecting the pebbles again, then shaking her head apologetically. ‘The spirits are frightened, which tells me that the wickedness is very strong. All I can say is that death and danger lie ahead for you.’

Bartholomew did not doubt it. Death was his daily companion, given that few of his remedies for serious diseases were effective, while he still had to make the return journey to Cambridge, which was likely to be every bit as perilous as the outward one. But despite his natural pragmatism, her words sent a shiver down his spine.

‘And a terrible monster with flailing claws,’ added Udela matter-of-factly. ‘It will stand over you screaming its fury, and its left hand is more lethal than its right.’

Wryly, Bartholomew supposed he would just have to make sure he avoided left-handed fiends for a while. He nodded his thanks to Udela, hoping she would not read in his face that he considered her prophecies a lot of nonsense.

‘There is one more thing.’ She smiled suddenly and sweetly. ‘And on this, the spirits are crystal clear. You
will
find love one day. I cannot say when, but it will come.’

Bartholomew stared at her, while the listening female servants issued a chorus of happy coos and Sylle nudged him in the ribs with a manly wink.

‘And that,’ said Udela, gathering up her stones, ‘is all I can tell you.’

Eventually, there was a rattle of hoofs outside as Aurifabro arrived home, more of his mercenaries at his heels. Watching the cavalcade, Bartholomew asked whether the goldsmith had always felt the need for such an elaborate personal guard.

‘He recruited these men a year ago,’ explained Udela, ‘to prevent the abbey from encroaching on his land by moving fences, diverting streams and that sort of thing.’

‘But they have accompanied him out and about since Robert disappeared,’ added Sylle. ‘I hate to say anything nice about Robert, but he did keep good order. Now he is dead, thieves abound and the roads are not safe for wealthy goldsmiths.’

‘Why do you think Master Aurifabro hopes a reasonable man will be appointed as the next Abbot?’ asked Udela. ‘Because he wants to make peace. It is expensive to keep these foreign soldiers, and
we
do not like them. They are louts.’

‘I have been told that the roads are more dangerous now Spalling spouts incendiary messages,’ said Bartholomew, more to gauge their reactions than because he believed it.

‘Spalling used to be such a nice boy,’ said Udela sadly. ‘Not like his father, who was a tyrant. I cannot imagine what has encouraged him to take so violently against our master. It is wholly undeserved – we are very generous with alms.’

‘Spalling does encourage the poor to strike at Aurifabro in particular,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Indeed, sometimes I wonder whether Peterborough only has one wealthy merchant, because he rarely mentions anyone else by name.’

Bartholomew was about to leave the kitchen and rejoin Michael when the goldsmith appeared at the door. Aurifabro’s expression was simultaneously wary and suspicious.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why is no work being done?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew has been tending our ailments,’ explained Udela, without a trace of servitude. ‘For free. I feel better already.’

‘You do not want him touching you,’ said Aurifabro. ‘He is a Corpse Examiner.’

‘It makes no difference,’ said Udela, cutting short the murmur of unease that began to ripple through the staff. ‘No evil aura hangs around him, or I would have seen it. He is as pure as the driven snow.’

‘Is he?’ asked Aurifabro doubtfully, while Bartholomew also regarded her askance.

‘Yes,’ said Udela, meeting her master’s eyes. ‘You have nothing to fear from him.’

Bartholomew was tempted to take her back to Cambridge with him – he could do with someone who spoke with such conviction on his behalf. Aurifabro nodded what might have been an apology and left. Bartholomew started to follow, but was waylaid by people who wanted to thank him for what he had done, so it was some time before he was able to escape.

‘There was nothing to find,’ Cynric murmured, as he followed the physician towards a smart solar in the main part of the house. ‘I had hoped that Robert and Pyk were being held prisoner, so I could rescue them, but I am fairly sure they were never here.’

‘So am I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Udela and the servants might have agreed to stay silent if Robert was locked up, but not Pyk. They like him too much.’

Cynric clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I will ask her a few more questions when I go for my private consultation. But be careful with Aurifabro. I do not trust him.’

Apparently, Aurifabro did not trust the scholars either, because his henchmen were ranged behind him as he lounged in a chair near the hearth.

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ he was telling Michael, who was sitting opposite. ‘I want you to leave.’

‘Now, now,’ said Michael, stretching out his legs and looking so relaxed that Aurifabro might have been forgiven for thinking that he was settling down for a nap. ‘That is no way to address the man who might be Peterborough’s next Abbot.’

Aurifabro stared at him. ‘You? But how will you defeat Yvo and Ramseye? The monks will be too frightened of the retribution that will follow if they vote for you.’

‘You think it will be decided by election, do you?’ said Michael, smugly condescending. ‘The Bishop will make his own selection, and I am his favourite canon.’

‘I see.’ Aurifabro stared at the floor for a moment, and seemed to reach a decision. He indicated with a snap of his fingers that refreshments were to be served, and tried for a conciliatory smile, an expression that did not quite work on his dour features. ‘As I told your physician last night, I am tired of my dispute with the abbey. I want peace.’

‘I do not see why that cannot be arranged,’ said Michael, accepting a goblet of wine and nodding his appreciation at its quality. ‘Of course, it depends on your cooperation in answering questions about Robert.’

‘Ask then, but please be brief. I am a busy man.’

‘Business is good, then, is it?’ probed Michael. ‘Spalling is right to claim you are one of the wealthiest merchants in the region?’

‘Yes, but I am also generous, and I do not understand why he singles me out for censure. Most merchants never donate a penny to the poor.’

‘How many times did Robert visit you?’ asked Michael, abruptly changing the subject.

‘A lot,’ growled the goldsmith. ‘He was a nuisance, and I was beginning to wish he had commissioned someone else to make his paten. He wanted to inspect it every few days, to see how it was coming along. And now the abbey refuses to buy it. Of course, I imagine a discerning man like you will be keen to have it on his high altar.’

‘I might. Did he come here just to inspect your craftsmanship?’

‘No, he tried to foist his oily friendship on me as well, although I was having none of it and I told him so.’

‘How did Robert take your rejections?’

‘Badly – he told me I would rot in Hell. But I care nothing for his curses or his religion. I am a son of the older faith, which is why I keep a witch in my home.’

‘Do you indeed?’ murmured Michael.

‘Udela is a great seer, and your physician should be grateful that she has my respect, because otherwise I would have trounced him for distracting my entire household from their duties. No one has done a stroke of work in hours.’

‘Tell me what happened the day Robert was due to visit you.’ Michael refused to be intimidated by the man’s bluster.

‘What, again?’ groaned Aurifabro.