The Lost Abbot (4 page)

‘You will stay with me,’ said Spalling to Langelee, although it was more order than invitation, and judging from the Master’s face, not one he was keen to follow. ‘I want to hear more about this University of yours. The physician can come, too, because his clothes reveal him to be impoverished, and the needy are always welcome in my home.’

‘The physician will stay with me in the abbey,’ stated Michael. ‘You can take the Franciscan, though. He is poor, as you can see from his habit.’

‘His habit denotes filth, not destitution,’ countered Spalling with commendable astuteness. ‘But I cannot stand here arguing all day. I am a busy man – I have a wealthy merchant to berate for his miserliness before dinner, and I aim to shame him into donating enough money for a handsome meal for my faithful followers. So come along, those who wish to see me in action.’

Langelee considered for a moment, then turned to his Fellows. ‘I think I will go with him. Michaelhouse’s coffers are always empty, and if he really can persuade rich men to part with their gold I should like to learn his secret. Come with me, Cynric. Your sword will not be needed in the monastery, but it may be useful at Spalling’s house.’

Cynric looked pleased with the opportunity to spend more time with a man who harboured radical opinions, and he and Langelee joined the straggling line of disciples who followed their golden-headed leader. Michael watched them go.

‘I wonder the abbey lets him roam about, spouting that sort of nonsense to visitors.’

‘The monks are not happy, and even excommunicated him at one point,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘But Bishop Gynewell overturned their verdict, on the grounds that it was too harsh.’

‘We had better make ourselves known to whoever is in charge before we miss dinner,’ said Michael, pushing Spalling from his mind as he turned towards the Abbey Gate. ‘Langelee is right: I eat very little, but I feel the need for a morsel now. That man upset me.’

‘Ignore him, Brother,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘He may dress like a peasant, but he does not work like one. His hands were as soft as a lady’s, and he had spilled egg custard down his tunic – hardly paupers’ fare. I sense a good deal of the hypocrite in Spalling.’

‘We shall visit the abbey as soon as we have said our prayers,’ said Clippesby, indicating the hospital. ‘And if we miss dinner, then so be it.’

Michael looked set to argue, but William and Clippesby were striding towards the door, so he had no choice but to do likewise, unless he wanted to be seen as the cleric who put victuals before his devotions. And after Spalling’s remarks he was disinclined to do that.

The hospital chapel was a small, neat building, with a frieze in a panel above the gate depicting the murder of St Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral. It had narrow windows with pointed tops and a thatched roof. Inside, it was dark, especially after the brilliance of the sunlight, and its walls were painted in sombre greens and blues, rendering it gloomy. Bedesman Botilbrig pointedly declined to follow, and confined himself to standing in the porch, muttering disparaging comments about the women who ran it.

For a modestly sized place, it was amply provided with doors – the large one that opened on to the market square, a smaller one that gave access to the abbey, and two tiny ones in the north wall. The first of these led to the adjoining hospital, while the other led to a graveyard – a necessity when inmates were likely to be ailing or elderly.

Bartholomew said a few quick prayers and then prowled, leaving his colleagues to manage the serious devotions. He could not recall being in St Thomas’s before, and supposed it had not featured in his youthful explorations. It was surprisingly busy, with one clot of pilgrims at the altar, where Michael, William and Clippesby were obliged to jostle for a place, and a second cluster bustling in and out of the cemetery door.

Curious as to why a graveyard should be so popular, Bartholomew eased his way through the penitents until he emerged in a pretty walled garden with gravelled paths. There were perhaps forty mounds, some recent, but most marked with wooden crosses that were grey and cracked with age. People were congregating around one near the wall, which was all but invisible under a heap of flowers. Supervising the operation was a vast lady in the robes of a lay sister. She saw him hovering and came to greet him.

‘This is where Lawrence de Oxforde is buried,’ she announced. ‘Have you come to see if he will work a miracle for you? He has performed many since his death forty-five years ago.’

Bartholomew was bemused as memories flooded back. ‘I remember some folk claiming that wishes had been granted at his grave, but I thought his cult had been suppressed, on the grounds that the Church dislikes executed felons being venerated.’

‘It was suppressed, but Abbot Robert turns a blind eye,’ confided the woman. ‘Of course, I understand why the Church disapproves – Oxforde was a violent thief. Yet miracles do occur here, and it is not for the likes of you and me to question the mysterious workings of God.’

‘I suppose not,’ conceded Bartholomew cautiously, recalling what he had been told about the infamous Oxforde when he had been a schoolboy. The man had been a ruthless criminal with an inflated sense of his own worth, who had died astonished that the King had not granted him a pardon. He had murdered at least twenty people, including children, and had burgled himself a fortune, although none of it had ever been recovered.

‘Kneel at his grave and ask for anything you like,’ invited the woman. ‘Being a felon himself, he is very broad-minded. And when you have finished, you may leave your donation with me – Joan Sylle.’

‘I have nothing to ask, Sister,’ said Bartholomew, backing away.

‘Oh, come,’ coaxed Joan. ‘Surely you yearn for something? Perhaps there is a woman you would like to fall into your arms? That is exactly the kind of favour Oxforde grants.’

Bartholomew’s retreat stopped abruptly when two faces flashed into his mind. One was Julitta’s and the other belonged to Matilde. It had been more than three years since Matilde had left Cambridge, disappearing so completely that not even months of determined searching had tracked her down. He would not mind either of
them
falling into his arms.

‘I have just learned that this chapel owns some genuine relics, Matthew,’ came William’s excited voice from behind him. Bartholomew supposed he should be grateful for the timely interruption, sure his colleagues would not approve of him petitioning an executed criminal to help with his unsatisfactory love life.

‘Of course we do,’ said Joan, flashing large teeth in a grin that verged on the predatory. ‘Would you like a private viewing? I know you are the Bishop’s Commissioners, so I am more than happy to clear the chapel to accommodate you.’

‘That would be kind,’ said William eagerly. ‘What do you have?’

Joan swelled with pride. ‘The flagstone where St Thomas Becket was standing when he was murdered, the green tunic he was wearing, and two enormous flasks of his blood.’

Bartholomew was sceptical, knowing that if every drop of ‘Becket Blood’ was genuine, the man would have had enough to fill a lake. Moreover, he was sure the saint would not have been wearing a green tunic when he was cut down.

‘Impressive,’ murmured William, pressing a coin into her hand.

‘You shall see them at once. Nothing is too much fuss for the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

‘Good,’ said William. ‘Because I am very interested in lucrative … I mean saintly relics. So is Matthew. He is a physician, who knows the healing value of such objects.’

‘A physician?’ asked Joan keenly. ‘Good! My poor knees have not been the same since Master Pyk disappeared, so you can treat them now he is gone.’

Before Bartholomew could inform her that he would not be in Peterborough long enough to see patients, she began to shoo the pilgrims out of the chapel and the graveyard, driving them before her like sheep. They were dismayed, but she ignored their objections, and it was not long until they were ousted. She was careful to leave Michael and Clippesby alone, though; they continued to kneel quietly, side by side.

‘There is the blood,’ said Joan, nodding proudly at two ornate vases that stood on the altar. Then she pointed to the reliquary that had been placed in an alcove beneath them. ‘And his tunic is in that nice box.’

‘Where is the flagstone?’ asked William keenly.

‘In front of the altar. The lump you see next to the candle is a bit that broke off when we dropped it. If you look carefully, you can see blood on it. It is the martyr’s.’

Bartholomew doubted that blood would still be in evidence after almost two hundred years. Fortunately, Joan did not notice his scepticism, because William enthused enough over her treasures for both of them.

‘May I touch the tunic?’ the friar begged. ‘Please?’

Joan gazed pointedly at his grimy hands, but her disapproval dissipated with the appearance of another coin. ‘On one condition: that your physician tends one of our inmates. She is in terrible pain, and I do not like to see such suffering.’

‘He will oblige you at once,’ said William, grabbing the tunic, and lifting it to his lips.

Bartholomew was not happy with William for volunteering his services in so cavalier a manner, but he could not refuse help to someone in need, so he followed Joan through one of the
small doors in the north wall. William trailed at his heels, still gushing his delight at being allowed to touch the sainted Becket’s clothing. Beyond the door was a short passage, which emerged into a large, bright room that was flooded with sunlight. All three blinked: it was dazzling after the shadowy chapel.

‘This is our hall,’ explained Joan. ‘Where we eat and hold meetings. We keep the sick and elderly bedeswomen in the adjoining chamber.’

There were six beds in the second room. The residents brightened when Joan told them that she had found a physician, and clamoured their ailments at Bartholomew as he passed. Joan grabbed his arm and hauled him on, declaring that Lady Lullington must come first.

‘Yes, tend her, poor soul,’ called one crone. ‘It is unfair that she should endure such torments while her pig of a husband struts around enjoying himself with Abbot Robert. Or he did, before Robert vanished.’

‘Lullington does not even visit her,’ added another. ‘Despite her giving him six children.’

‘Shame on him,’ declared William, who rarely waited to hear the whole story before passing judgement. ‘Where is this hapless woman?’

‘Upstairs,’ replied Joan. ‘In a separate room, on account of her being a lady.’

William and Bartholomew followed her up a spiral staircase and were shown into another pleasant chamber, this one with pale green walls. It was a soothing, quiet place, although the woman who lay on the bed was grey and shrunken with pain. A priest knelt at her side, his face wet with tears. He was a young man with a mop of unruly brown curls, and his priestly robe was frayed and thin.

‘Gentle Trentham,’ the sick woman was whispering, forcing a smile as she touched his hand. ‘Do not grieve so. You know I am not afraid to die.’

The priest nodded without much conviction. He scrambled to his feet as Joan ushered in the visitors, and gripped Bartholomew’s arm roughly when informed that here was a
medicus
.

‘Please help her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It is not fair …’ He turned and stumbled from the room, choking back another sob.

‘He is too soft for his own good, blubbering every time one of us prepares to meet her Maker,’ said Joan with a sigh. ‘Yet he is a kindly soul, who takes his duties as chaplain seriously. I would not change him for one with a harder heart.’

‘Nor would I,’ whispered Lady Lullington softly.

The patient had probably not been large when she had been healthy, but illness had turned her skeletal. The hands that lay on the covers were almost translucent, and when she raised one to beckon Bartholomew towards her, he could see it was an effort.

‘Master Pyk told me that I would recover, but I am not inclined to believe him. What do you say? Am I dying?’

Bartholomew was all too familiar with the appearance of approaching death, and he could see it in Lady Lullington. ‘Yes. I am sorry.’

She smiled, although Joan inhaled sharply at his bluntness. ‘Thank you for your honesty. But I have been in agony for weeks now, and I am weary of it. Can you give me something to help, even if only for a little while?’

‘I will try. Tell me where it hurts.’

‘Everywhere. Please do not ask for details – I do not have the strength to tell you. Just give me the most powerful remedy you own.’

Bartholomew’s professional curiosity was piqued but he did not press her. Instead, he measured out a potent pain-dulling potion, using a dose he would never have given a patient who was likely to live. As it was, he wondered whether it might ease her into a sleep from which she would never wake. She took a sip, and evidently knew it too, for she looked at him with eyes that were full of silent gratitude.

‘Shall we fetch your husband, Lady Lullington?’ asked Joan, when the cup was empty.

The dying woman shook her head. ‘He has no place here,’ she said rather enigmatically. ‘But I would like young Trentham to come back. His presence soothes me.’

When she fell asleep, Bartholomew left, sorry that the lines of suffering in her face had not lessened. William followed him down the stairs, where the other inmates watched them pass in silence. Joan stopped to give a falsely cheerful report of the lady’s condition, but it was obvious that none of them believed her.

‘Did you have to be so free with the truth?’ admonished William, once they were in the chapel again. ‘She was a dignified soul, and you should have been kinder.’

Bartholomew had never been very good at misleading patients. ‘I doubt she would have thanked me for lying.’

‘I disagree, and your bleak prognosis might send her into a fatal decline.’

‘I am not sure what is wrong with her, but I do know she will not recover. It is clear that her vital organs have started to fail and—’

‘Have you never heard of miracles?’ demanded William archly. ‘She lies above a chapel that contains holy relics. You should not have been so heartless with her.’