The Lost Abbot (16 page)

‘Because he is only thinking about himself,’ explained Marion. ‘Our chapel is a source of revenue for the abbey, but we have refused to let pilgrims in until it is holy again. It means folk cannot leave donations, and Yvo dislikes losing money.’

‘So does Welbyrn,’ added Elene. ‘Even more than the Prior.’

‘Anyway, suffice to say that we think Yvo is rushing the reconsecration out of selfishness,’ confided Marion. ‘So that the shrines can start earning for him again.’

‘But as soon as we are cleansed, we shall take you to Joan,’ promised Elene. ‘It will not be long, because Yvo promised to do it straight after sext.’

‘Come to the ceremony, Brother,’ begged Marion. ‘Yvo would not dare do a half-baked job with the Bishop’s Commissioner watching.’

‘Very well – if you answer a question,’ said Michael. ‘Were Joan and the Abbot close?’

‘Yes, they were a lovely couple,’ smiled Marion fondly. ‘And were happy together for years. She always said that she was glad she accepted him as a lover, rather than Botilbrig.’

‘Of course, it meant trouble,’ confided Elene. ‘Botilbrig was insanely jealous, and we have been at war with the bedesmen ever since.’

There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew and Michael left the chapel, declining both the offer of wine while they waited for Yvo and a sneak preview of the impostumes.

‘Perhaps Botilbrig is the killer after all,’ mused Michael. ‘Unrequited love is a good motive for murder, and both Robert and Joan are now dead.’

‘It sounded to me as though Joan had made her selection a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see a crime of passion simmering for quite so many years.’

‘I beg to differ. Affairs of the heart can remain painful for a very long time, as you will know from your experiences with Matilde. Even now, three years on, you see her in places where she cannot possibly be – Clippesby told me what happened in the marketplace on Thursday evening.’

‘How do you know it was not her?’ As it happened, Bartholomew thought Michael was right, but there was something in the monk’s remark that was oddly suspicious.

‘Because I do,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Matilde would not be in Peterborough.’

As soon as they left the chapel, Michael aimed for a nearby tavern named the Swan. The place had changed since Bartholomew had last been in it. Then, it had been insalubrious, with a reputation for catering to drunks and criminals. Now it was smart, with gleaming white walls and pristine woodwork.

‘I hope you are not intending to eat again, Brother,’ he said, noting the energetic way the monk was signalling to the landlord. ‘Not after that gargantuan breakfast.’

‘Of course not,’ replied Michael blandly. ‘I just thought it would be a good place to sit and discuss our investigation until it is time to monitor Yvo’s reconsecrating skills.’

The tavern was alive with the buzz of genteel conversation. There were ladies present, which underlined the fact that it had grown respectable – decent women did not venture into rough inns. A group of master masons sat at one table, identifiable by their thick leather aprons and dusty leggings, and Aurifabro was at another, talking animatedly to several men who were almost as richly clad as he.

‘Peterborough is a nice town,’ said Michael, looking around approvingly. ‘It is a pity our ancestors did not found a university here. I could come to like it very much.’

‘Are you seriously considering putting yourself forward as Abbot?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And if so, is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Do you want to be rid of me then? So you can be Senior Proctor and run the University in my stead?’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘I doubt it would thrive with me in charge. But you have often expressed a desire for high office, and this may be your chance. I should like to see you happy, even if it does mean being deprived of your company.’

‘You would?’ An oddly guilty expression flashed across Michael’s face. ‘I may remind you of that sentiment one day.’

It was a curious thing to say, and Bartholomew was about to demand an explanation when the landlord arrived. Michael told him to bring a sample of his wares, but when food as well as wine began to arrive, Bartholomew regarded him disapprovingly.

Michael shrugged. ‘It would be rude to decline, and I do not want him remembering the insult when I am Abbot.’ He raised his voice suddenly, silencing the drone of conversation around them. ‘Landlord! This is a splendid repast, but do you have any Lombard slices? I like them best of all pastries.’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied the landlord apologetically. ‘My wife used to bake them, but she died in the Death, and I have never attempted them myself.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew was not sure whether the monk was sorrier to hear about the landlord’s loss or the absence of his favourite food. ‘My condolences. But the rest looks splendid, and Matt will help me do it justice.’

‘Here come Langelee and Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, nodding towards the door. ‘They can spare me a bout of indigestion.’

Cynric’s face was flushed with excitement as he sat at their table. ‘That Spalling is a tremendous man,’ he enthused. ‘He has such hopes for the future!’

‘Hopes for a rebellion, more like,’ said Langelee sourly. ‘I do not understand it at all – he was not like this in York. There, he was rather quiet.’

‘He is not quiet now,’ said Cynric approvingly. ‘He had forty men in his house last night, all listening to a very stirring speech. It was even better than the one made by the Prince of Wales at Poitiers, just before we went into battle. Do you remember that, boy?’

‘Vividly,’ replied Bartholomew bleakly.

‘Here he is,’ said Cynric, eyes lighting as his hero strode confidently through the door.

Spalling was wearing a new set of workman’s clothes, this time the kind donned by stonemasons, although without the dust. The real craftsmen nodded approvingly, although Bartholomew was no more convinced by the attire than he had been the first time they had met Spalling. He thought the man was a fraud, and hoped Cynric would not be too disillusioned when he eventually came to realise it, too.

‘Aurifabro!’ Spalling roared in a voice designed to carry. ‘So this is where you are skulking. Did you not hear that I have been looking for you?’

Aurifabro regarded him with dislike. ‘Yes, but I am not at your beck and call. Piss off.’

‘Now watch.’ Cynric was full of admiration. ‘You are about to see an obscenely wealthy merchant berated for keeping all his money to himself and starving his artisans.’

‘Are his artisans the men sitting with him?’ asked Bartholomew. Cynric nodded. ‘Then they are hardly starving – their clothes suggest they are affluent in their own right. Just because Aurifabro employs them does not mean—’

‘He has more money than them,’ interrupted Cynric shortly. ‘And it is not fair.’

‘He is bedazzled by the man,’ whispered Langelee in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Like a lover. You will not persuade him to see reason. I have tried, but I was wasting my breath.’

‘You will listen to me, Aurifabro,’ Spalling was bellowing. ‘When will you stop making yourself rich at others’ expense, and share your ill-gotten gains with the poor?’

The landlord stormed up to him. ‘You can take that sort of talk outside. This is a respectable establishment, and we do not want your raving—’

‘And you are just as bad, Nicholas Piel,’ raged Spalling, turning on him. ‘I know why your tavern is so opulent – because you fleece your customers!’

‘My wares are expensive,’ acknowledged Piel haughtily. ‘But quality costs, and those who want cheap rubbish can go elsewhere. I do not force people to come – they do it because they like what I offer.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Aurifabro. ‘Now sod off, Spalling.’

‘I am going nowhere,’ declared Spalling. ‘Not until I have had my say. I ask you again, Aurifabro: when will you share your money with the downtrodden masses?’

His voice was so loud that people stopped in the street outside to listen. There was an appreciative growl from the paupers, although those who were better off exchanged exasperated glances. Immediately, several rough men in boiled leather jerkins shouldered their way into the tavern: they were Aurifabro’s mercenaries.

‘When you give up yours, you damned hypocrite,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘You inherited a fortune when your father died, and you own a fancy house. Give
your
money to the poor if you feel so strongly about it.’

‘I shall,’ averred Spalling. ‘In time.’

‘In time!’ jeered the goldsmith. ‘You mean never. And how are you feeding all the peasants who flock to hear you rant? I know for a fact that you have not touched your own funds, so where does the money come from?’

‘He does keep a lavish table,’ murmured Langelee. ‘We were entertained royally last night, and so were his forty friends. Indeed, I warrant we fared better than you.’

‘I would not bet on it,’ Bartholomew muttered back.

‘If you cannot silence this braggart, I am leaving,’ said Aurifabro to the landlord. ‘I came here for a quiet drink, not to be harangued by fools.’

‘Out,’ ordered Piel, turning angrily to Spalling. ‘Before I pick you up and…’

Cynric was one of several men who came to stand at Spalling’s side, and the landlord faltered. Aurifabro stood and walked towards the door instead, his mercenaries in tow. Piel’s face was a mask of dismay when the artisans rose to follow their employer out.

‘Leave Aurifabro alone, Spalling,’ hissed one as he passed. ‘He pays us extremely well, and we have no complaints.’

There was a growl of agreement from the others.

‘A word, please, Master Aurifabro,’ said Michael, running after the goldsmith, and grabbing his arm just as he reached the street. ‘I have been asked—’

One of the mercenaries shot forward and shoved the monk away, fingering his dagger as he did so. His fellows immediately moved to form a protective barrier around Aurifabro, their faces bright with the prospect of violence. Bartholomew hurried to Michael’s side, although he was not sure what he would be able to do in the event of trouble. He could hold his own in a brawl with students, but these were experienced warriors.

‘It is all right,’ Aurifabro told his men. ‘This monk is not one of the villains from the abbey. He is the Bishop’s man, and I have nothing against Gynewell.’

‘Other than the fact that he pardoned Spalling after Robert had excommunicated him,’ countered the soldier with the dagger. ‘You thought he should have stayed excommunicated.’

‘I did,’ said Aurifabro, his eyes fixed on Michael. ‘It was hard to know who to support in that particular quarrel – the stupid firebrand Spalling, whose so-called principles have only driven him to action recently; or the greedy, unscrupulous Robert, who should not have been placed in charge of a brothel, let alone an abbey.’

‘As you know, Gynewell has commissioned us to find out what happened to Robert,’ said Michael pleasantly. ‘So will you answer some questions?’

‘That depends on what you ask.’

‘Fair enough. Will you tell me what you thought of him?’

‘He was a villain, and I cannot imagine why Pyk put up with him. But Pyk always was an amiable fool, incapable of distinguishing between good men and bad.’

‘Can you be more specific?
How
was Robert a villain?’

‘He was sly over the paten he asked me to make, for a start. Once I had invested weeks of my time in it, he reduced the price, knowing I had no choice but to agree – it is not something I can offer to another buyer: no one else around here is in the market for expensive religious regalia.’

‘Why did you agree to make it in the first place?’

‘I should have refused, but it was a big order, and I liked the notion of my work being on display in such a grand setting. Of course, now he is dead, the abbey has refused to honour the agreement I struck with him, so I am landed with the thing after all.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Michael.

‘At home. I wrote to ask if Gynewell would buy it for Lincoln Cathedral, but he said he would prefer to have it donated. And I am not
giving
the Church anything. I like Gynewell, but my religion is the older one.’

‘You mean you are a heathen?’ asked Michael in distaste.

Aurifabro nodded. ‘Ever since the plague. It makes more sense to me than your aloof saints and martyrs, who failed to answer my prayers as my children lay dying. And as for Lawrence of Oxforde … I cannot condone any organisation that pays homage to a criminal.’

‘Robert,’ prompted Michael. ‘Tell us what happened the day he went missing.’

‘He told me in the morning that he was coming to see the paten. I asked him not to.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael.

‘Because I wanted to visit my mother in Barnack. He threatened to cancel the commission unless I made myself available, so I was forced to change my plans. I waited, but he never arrived. I assumed he was delayed by other business and had not bothered to let me know.’

‘What then?’ asked Michael.

‘A group of monks arrived the next day, and told me that he and Pyk were missing. I admired Pyk, so I sent my men to scour the area for them both, but they found nothing. The abbey, on the other hand, conducted a search that was cursory at best.’

‘You think they could have done more?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I would, had one of my people gone missing. But, as I said, Robert was a villain, and the abbey is obviously glad to be rid of him.’

‘What do you think happened to Robert?’ asked Michael.

‘There are three possibilities. First, he was murdered, and there is no shortage of suspects, given that he was hated by all. Second, he is in hiding, although that seems unlikely, because he liked his creature comforts. And third, he was killed by robbers.’

‘The same robbers who have been causing trouble on the King’s highways?’

‘Yes. The abbey and Spalling will tell you that my mercenaries are responsible, but you should not believe them. They are liars.’

At that moment, young Trentham shuffled past, his face a mask of misery. He shot Bartholomew a baleful glance, to tell him he was still not forgiven for being unable to save Lady Lullington. The scowl sparked an idea in Bartholomew’s mind.