The Lost Abbot (37 page)

‘Lord!’ gulped Cynric at Bartholomew’s side. ‘I cannot fight a witch!’

‘Stop this madness,’ ordered Michael, striding forward and interposing himself between the two sides. ‘It is not—’

‘Prepare to advance!’ shouted Aurifabro to his men. ‘On my mark.’

There were a number of metallic clangs as the townsfolk in the vanguard dropped their tools and turned to flee. They collided with those who clustered behind them, causing chaos and panic. Unable to escape, some fell to their knees and began to beg for mercy. The savage expressions on the mercenaries’ faces suggested it was unlikely to be given.

Appalled, Bartholomew shouldered his way through Spalling’s rabble to stand at Michael’s side. Langelee followed, and so did Cynric. Bartholomew knew their frail barrier of four men was unlikely to survive Aurifabro’s charge, although Langelee’s white-fisted grip on his sword suggested that
he
would not go down easily.

‘We are the Bishop’s Commissioners,’ declared Michael, drawing himself up to his full, considerable height and using the voice that had quelled riots in Cambridge. ‘And we order you all, in Gynewell’s name, to turn around and go home. There will be no battle today.’

Aurifabro laughed, a shrill, mocking sound that made Cynric clutch anxiously at one of his amulets. At that moment, a rogue gust of wind blew and the grass at the side of the road gave a sharp hiss, as if in anger. More of Spalling’s people downed weapons and ran.

‘Did you hear that?’ cried Spalling. He sounded desperate. ‘It is the Devil talking to Aurifabro. Fight, my valiant people. Prove that Peterborough men do not bow to Satan.’

Far from inspiring his troops, Spalling’s words served to eliminate any residual resolve they might have possessed, as taking on the Prince of Darkness was not what they had had in mind when they set out to put the world to rights. More slunk away or fell to their knees.

‘Steady!’ howled Aurifabro to his soldiers. He raised his sword, although it was heavy and not designed to be waved with one hand, so it wobbled precariously. ‘Cha—’

‘Wait!’ came a high, wavering voice from behind Spalling. It was feeble, but still piercing enough to make the goldsmith falter. ‘Stop! In the name of all that is holy.’

For a moment, nothing happened, but then Spalling’s rabble parted to allow some people through. It was the bedesfolk – men and women – clad in their ceremonial finery. They might have been an imposing sight if they had not been panting, hobbling and wheezing after what had obviously been a rapid dash.

Some carried a litter bearing Kirwell, who was scowling his displeasure at being hauled from his comfortable bed and spirited around the countryside. Behind them, Botilbrig and Inges staggered under the weight of a flagstone, while Hagar and Marion held the vases containing St Thomas Becket’s blood. Appletre was with them, and Bartholomew could only suppose that he had met them on the road and had urged them to hurry.

‘Retreat,’ ordered Aurifabro angrily, obviously disconcerted by the fact that he would have to plough through a lot of old folk in order to reach his quarry. ‘Or you will die, too.’

‘We have brought our relics,’ announced Hagar, although no one needed to be told. ‘We command you, in the name of St Thomas Becket and St Leonard, to go home. All of you.’

‘You cannot kill defenceless elders, Aurifabro,’ said Michael quickly. ‘Neither the King nor the Bishop will condone that. You must stand down.’

Aurifabro stared at him, eyes glittering. ‘I will take my chances.’

‘Then if you will not listen to us,’ said Appletre, ‘listen to
him
.’

From the bedesfolk’s midst, someone was ushered forward. His substantial girth and haughty bearing showed he was a man of some importance, although his silver hair was unkempt and his robes were stained with mud. He was scowling furiously, and jerked away from the propelling hands as if their touch was an outrage.

‘It is Abbot Robert,’ declared Hagar in a ringing voice. ‘Come home at last.’

For a moment, no one spoke, then Spalling’s followers surged towards the angry Abbot, begging him to order Aurifabro and his mercenaries home. Robert regarded them with an arrogant disdain, which suggested that there was a good reason why he had been unpopular.

‘I was sure he was dead,’ murmured Michael, staring in astonishment as Robert began to dispense blessings, which he did sparingly, as though he did not want to expend what was a limited supply. ‘I wonder where he has been.’

‘Nowhere pleasant,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Look at the state of him.’

‘God be praised!’ bawled Spalling, silencing the hubbub and reclaiming the attention at the same time. ‘Aurifabro has released the poor Abbot at last. It is a sign that God is on our side, so let us trounce his mercenaries and—’

‘I never had him,’ objected Aurifabro indignantly. ‘And anyone who says otherwise is a liar.’

‘I was seized by brigands,’ declared Robert in a strong, steady voice. ‘I do not know yet on whose orders. But I escaped. However, I did not expect to find my domain in a state of war. What is going on? And where are my
defensores
? Surely they should be on hand to prevent this sort of thing?’

‘They slunk away when they saw me,’ said Aurifabro, not bothering to hide his contempt for the abbey’s unreliable troops. ‘As did Nonton.’

‘We found Robert walking down the road,’ explained Hagar, obviously proud to be part of the company who had arrived to save the day. ‘He wanted to return to his abbey, to let his monks know he is safe, but we persuaded him to turn around and deal with this situation first.’

‘It is a pity we did not meet him sooner,’ muttered Inges, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Because then we would not have had to tote these heavy relics and Kirwell all the way out here.’

‘A pity indeed,’ came Kirwell’s querulous voice. ‘Will I never be left in peace?’

Appletre stepped forward, beaming. ‘We are delighted to see you safe, Father Abbot. But where have you been?’

‘Imprisoned in a hut somewhere to the north of here,’ replied Robert frostily. He gave a fastidious shudder. ‘But I refuse to discuss it until I have bathed and changed.’

‘You had better call a truce first,’ said Langelee, nodding towards the onlookers.

‘Why should I?’ demanded Robert, eyeing the goldsmith coldly. ‘I have no love for Aurifabro, and I do not care what happens to him today.’

‘What will happen is that he will win a victory which will make him impossible to govern in the future,’ hissed Langelee. ‘So unless you want trouble with him for the rest of your reign, you would be wise to do as we say. After all, we
are
the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

Robert regarded him icily, and it seemed he would refuse, but then he turned to Aurifabro and spoke, albeit with obvious reluctance.

‘I apologise if the abbey or the town has caused you offence in my absence, but there will be no fighting today. We shall all go home and thank our respective gods that we live to see another day.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ muttered Kirwell.

‘I agree,’ said Spalling, determined to keep his status as leader. He turned to his people. ‘We could have bested these louts if the
defensores
had stood firm, but their cowardly retreat has weakened us, so we shall do as the Abbot suggests for now.’

‘But you claimed we could take Aurifabro on our own,’ said a baker accusingly. ‘You told us we were so strong that the mercenaries would run when they saw us coming.’

‘And what about the money that you promised would be ours?’ called someone else. ‘Our rightful part of Aurifabro’s wealth?’

The goldsmith released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘I am disinclined to share it with you – you are not poor, just greedy. And I shall accept Robert’s apology on one condition: that he buys my paten. If not, we shall do battle here and now, because I am tired of Spalling and his ridiculous lies. I am not intimidated by him, his army or these “holy” relics.’

‘Maybe not, but your mercenaries are,’ said Michael quietly, nodding to where several of them were eyeing the blood, stones and Kirwell uncomfortably. ‘And the abbey
will
buy the paten. Do not argue, Abbot Robert. I speak with the Bishop’s voice. The abbey will honour the arrangement it made with Aurifabro.’

‘Very well,’ said Robert, although the furious flash in his eyes suggested he resented the interference, and that the matter was far from over.

‘Good,’ said Langelee in relief. He glared at Spalling. ‘I told you this was a bad idea, and you should have listened. Half these people might have been dead by now if the ancients had not intervened.’

‘Here, who are you calling ancient?’ demanded Botilbrig. He jabbed a gnarled finger at Kirwell. ‘
He
is ancient. We are in our prime.’

There was no more to be said, so the townsfolk began to shuffle back towards the town, rather less defiantly than when they had left it. Inges and Hagar, arm in arm in a rare display of unity, led the way. Robert was next, slapping angrily at the grateful hands that reached out to touch him, but Spalling was nowhere to be seen.

‘Slithered away with his tail between his legs,’ said Langelee in disgust. ‘He should be here, assuring his troops that there is no shame in refusing an encounter they could not have won. The man is no kind of leader.’

Aurifabro watched in silence, and Bartholomew took the opportunity to put a question to him. The goldsmith regarded him suspiciously at first, but Udela indicated with a nod that he should reply. He obliged, then turned away to snap orders for the road to be guarded day and night until it was certain that the trouble was over.

‘What did you say to him?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew took a corner of Kirwell’s litter. The bedesmen were incapable of lugging it home, and the townsfolk were too shamefaced to approach a man they considered holy, so the task had fallen to the scholars. Kirwell muttered venomously at the inadvertent jostling.

‘I asked if he had been charged to melt gold into a bar recently – like the one we found in Lullington’s quarters. He told me that Robert had paid him to consolidate a number of rings and bracelets last spring – gifts made to the shrines by pilgrims. It is common practice, apparently.’

‘It is,’ nodded Langelee. ‘My Archbishop often did it, as ingots are portable and more easily stored than handfuls of lumpy jewellery.’

‘Be careful!’ snapped Kirwell, when the Master shifted his grip, and the whole litter tilted.

‘I am eager for Robert to tell us about Lullington’s role in his abduction,’ said Michael. ‘I would ask him now, but an open road is no place for such a discussion, so we shall have it in his solar, where we can enjoy a restorative cup of wine.’

‘He will need it,’ smirked Langelee. ‘Spalling’s throng and the bedesfolk are pawing him relentlessly, and I doubt he is used to such liberties.’

‘He should try being me,’ muttered Kirwell bitterly. ‘Then he would know.’

Ahead, the Abbot was indeed the subject of intense attention. People grabbed his clothes, patted his hair, and poked his limbs to see whether he had been injured. He assured them that he was not, but they were indignant on his behalf and muttered all manner of revenge against the culprits.

‘I thought no one liked him,’ remarked Cynric. ‘Yet here he is, being fawned over.’

‘Because he is dishevelled,’ explained Michael. ‘They feel sorry for him. They would have been less sympathetic if he had appeared sleek and groomed.’

‘I wonder how many of his monks will be pleased to see him,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I know two who will not: Ramseye and Yvo.’

‘What about you, Brother?’ asked Cynric. ‘Are you horribly disappointed?’

‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘On reflection, I think I would rather be a bishop than an abbot.’

‘Gynewell had better watch himself, then,’ grinned Langelee.

Bartholomew was still thinking about Robert. ‘So who kidnapped him, given that neither Spalling nor Aurifabro claim responsibility? Unless the
defensores
did it – which I think you will agree is unlikely – it means there is yet another band on the loose.’

‘Can we walk a little faster?’ Michael picked up the pace. ‘There are a lot of questions still to be answered, and time is short. We leave Peterborough today – now Robert is home, my duty to Gynewell is discharged. I am sorry we have not exposed the rogue who killed Joan and Welbyrn, but we can stay no longer.’

They walked in silence the rest of the way, concentrating on the balance between speed and not joggling the litter. When they reached St Leonard’s, Botilbrig was waiting to say there had been a change of plan: Kirwell was to be taken to St Thomas’s instead.

‘I am not a pack animal,’ grumbled Michael. ‘And besides, I thought you were at war with St Thomas’s. Why would you want him carted there?’

‘Because the women are going to hold a feast to celebrate our victory,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘Us bedesmen are invited, including him.’

‘A feast?’ asked Kirwell with eager greed. ‘Very well, then, but tell these Commissioners to be careful with me. Being carried by them is akin to lying on a bucking stallion.’

‘We do not have time for this,’ Michael fretted. ‘We still have Lullington to confront and the Abbot to question – and I had hoped to be riding home by now.’

The town was oddly deserted as they approached, and the few market stalls that were open drew scant trade. Bartholomew could only suppose that people were either sleeping off their night of rebellion, or were telling the tale to those who had not taken part.

While the others waited, Michael none too patiently, Bartholomew carried Kirwell into St Thomas’s. Once inside, he saw that Botilbrig had not been exaggerating when he had said that the women intended to celebrate: the hall adjoining the chapel was packed, not only with bedesfolk, but with Benedictines and abbey servants. The place reeked of ale, and despite the early hour, more than one face was already flushed with over-indulgence.

‘Inges has gone to fetch the rest of the monks,’ said Hagar, revelling in her role as one of those who had averted a crisis.

‘I doubt they will come,’ cautioned Bartholomew. ‘They will be too busy with Robert.’