The Lost Abbot (30 page)

The ballot was taken, with Nonton scowling at some monks until they raised their hands and Yvo doing likewise. Ramseye did not resort to such tactics, although Bartholomew had noticed him moving among the audience when the wine was being served, smiling at those he considered worth wooing. However, many resisted the obedientiaries’ efforts and voted for Inges, who won by a narrow margin, much to his competitors’ disgust.

‘If this shameful bullying happens at the election on Thursday,’ said Michael, watching in distaste, ‘then Gynewell will appoint me for certain, just to restore peace and unity.’

‘That might be beyond even your abilities, Brother,’ said Bartholomew.

Although dawn the next day was clear and blue, clouds were massing in the south-west, and a stiff wind indicated that it would not be long before rain swept across the countryside. Bartholomew regarded Michael with a distinct lack of enthusiasm when the monk suggested it was time they interviewed Aurifabro’s household in Torpe.

‘We have today and a few hours tomorrow before we must leave,’ said Michael. ‘This villain is
not
going to be the first killer to best me, and it would be a pity for my abbacy to begin with a sinister mystery surrounding the fate of my predecessor. Besides, Aurifabro virtually invited you.’

‘Yes, and he followed it by saying it would be safer and wiser to tell Bishop Gynewell that the case will never be solved. If it was an invitation, it was one cloaked in menace.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Michael. Then he relented. ‘We have no choice, Matt. We have questioned everyone in the abbey, plus a huge number of townsfolk, but answers have been in frustratingly short supply. Aurifabro’s servants are our last hope.’

Bartholomew made no reply, because Michael was right.

‘If you must go, then William and I will escort you,’ offered Clippesby. ‘There is a huge discrepancy in the quality of the
defensores
, and the ones Nonton plans to lend you today are hefty men who look mean, but who barely know one end of a weapon from another.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know?’

‘One of the chaffinches saw them at drill. I doubt these “warriors” will be much use.’

‘I told you the same,’ William reminded him. ‘Only I had it from the abbey’s servants, who are more reliable than birds. But Clippesby is right about one thing, Brother – you will be safer with him and me at your side.’

‘I need you to continue your enquiries here.’ Michael was loath to point out that neither was very useful in a fight. ‘But to deter thieves, I shall borrow an old habit from the abbey, while anyone looking at Matt will know that he is not worth robbing.’

‘You may have mine,’ said William generously, beginning to untie the oily cingulum that cinched it around his waist. ‘No villain would dare attack a Franciscan.’

‘No, thank you.’ Michael was unable to suppress a shudder at the thought of that particular garment next to his skin. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Saddle the horses while I beg a robe from Yvo. It will be far too big, of course, but a belt should help.’

‘Horses?’ gulped Bartholomew, sufficiently alarmed that he did not even smirk at the notion of the bulky Michael fitting into anything owned by the little Prior. ‘If we are pretending to be poor, it would be better to walk.’

‘We shall ride,’ declared Michael. ‘For three reasons. First, it will be faster, and we cannot afford to waste time. Second, it will allow us to escape if outlaws do appear. And third, it is too far to travel on foot.’ He softened. ‘You will not fall off if you grip with your knees and hold the reins as I have taught you.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, but he went to the stable and began the perplexing business of working out which strap went where. Michael appeared long before he had finished, clad in an old brown robe, and promptly began making adjustments to the physician’s handiwork. Then he led his horse outside, sprang into the saddle and started a series of fancy manoeuvres that showed him to be an equestrian
par excellence
.

Bartholomew muttered resentfully as he tried to keep Clippesby’s gentle mare from shifting about while he fastened the last buckle. He had rejected the black stallion the moment the two of them had made eye contact and he had read what was there.

‘Let me do it,’ said Cynric, making Bartholomew jump by appearing silently at his side. ‘And wait while I saddle mine, too.’

‘You are coming with us?’ asked Bartholomew, standing back in relief.

‘I had intended to ride with you on Sunday, but you were ill then, so I shall do it now instead. Spalling is vexed, but it cannot be helped – you will only get into trouble without me to look after you. Besides, there is a witch in Torpe who sells charms against danger and demons.’

‘Do you think you are in need of them, then?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned for him.

‘They are for you. Danger, because someone poisoned you; and demons, because I do not like what is happening with Oxforde.’

‘Oxforde?’

Cynric pursed his lips. ‘He was an evil rogue, who was buried in the chapel cemetery to prevent him rising from the dead and resuming his reign of terror. But Trentham is digging a hole right next to him, so it is only a matter of time before he escapes.’

Bartholomew knew better than to argue with Cynric on matters of superstition, but he could not help himself. ‘Men who have been dead for forty-five years cannot—’

‘Yes, they can,’ interrupted Cynric with absolute conviction. ‘It is Kirwell’s fault – he encouraged people to pray at this so-called shrine, and Oxforde’s wicked soul is awake and waiting. No wonder Kirwell has been cursed with such a long life! God is furious with him.’

‘I do not think—’

‘You do not understand these things, boy,’ said Cynric darkly. ‘But I will protect you, so do not worry.’

He soon had the horses ready, and once Bartholomew was mounted – no mean feat when even Clippesby’s docile nag knew who was in charge and let the physician know it – they set off towards Torpe. They were accompanied by the same four
defensores
who had gone with them the last time, although Cynric’s solid presence was far more reassuring to the scholars.

They soon reached the desolate land that Aurifabro had bought after the plague. Its silence was oppressive, the air was heavy with the threat of rain, and there was not so much as a tweet from a bird or a hiss of wind in the trees. Michael was uncommunicative, using the time to ponder the few clues he had gathered, and Cynric was also disinclined to chat. Reluctant to be alone with his thoughts, all of which revolved around Matilde and Julitta, Bartholomew dismounted, better to inspect the side of the road as he went.

‘I have already done that,’ said Cynric immediately.

‘So have I,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But there is no harm in doing it again.’

‘Just be ready to leap back on if I yell,’ warned Cynric. ‘It means robbers are coming and we need to escape. And do not take as long as you did earlier, or we will all die.’

Michael and Bartholomew arrived at Aurifabro’s house to find mercenaries still on guard, but this time the soldiers stepped aside and indicated that the visitors were to ride into the yard. The captain then informed them, in thickly accented English, that the goldsmith was out.

‘We shall wait for him to come back,’ determined Michael, dismounting. ‘And while we do, you can tell me what
you
know about the Abbot’s disappearance.’

‘Me?’ asked the captain in alarm. ‘Why? The first I heard about it was when Master Aurifabro ordered us to look for Robert and Pyk the following day – when we found nothing.’

Michael smiled wolfishly, more than happy to hone his interrogative skills on the goldsmith’s men. He plumped himself down on a bench, and beckoned the captain towards him. The man advanced warily.

‘I shall have a bit of a scout around, boy,’ whispered Cynric in the physician’s ear. ‘But you will have to distract the servants who are watching us from the kitchen window.’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ asked Bartholomew, turning to see at least twenty faces looking at them with undisguised curiosity.

‘With free medical consultations,’ replied Cynric promptly.

Bartholomew baulked, feeling it was underhand, but Cynric was already striding towards the house and had made the offer before he could be stopped. The physician was about to withdraw it when he noticed that one of the servants had an interesting case of rhagades. Telling himself that the deception was defensible if he learned something about the condition to help others, he allowed himself to be led into a large, pleasant room that was spotlessly clean and smelled of fresh bread. He was a little disconcerted when two dozen retainers crowded in behind him with the clear intention of watching him work.

‘Perhaps I might use the scullery?’ he suggested, not liking the notion of an audience while people described what might be embarrassing ailments. It would be unfortunate if he prescribed the wrong treatment because half the symptoms had been deliberately omitted.

‘Why?’ asked the steward, a thickset man named Sylle, who had already mentioned that he had been cousin to the formidable Joan. He sounded bemused. ‘We will be crushed in there, and those at the back may not be able to see.’

‘He seeks to spare our blushes,’ explained an old woman called Mother Udela. She was small and frail, but the others treated her with a reverence verging on awe, not least because she had once travelled to Suffolk, a journey deep into the unknown as far as they were concerned. Bartholomew supposed she was the witch that Cynric had mentioned, and made a mental note to stay away from any discussions of religion.

‘There is no need for sculleries, Doctor,’ said Sylle. ‘We all know each other’s secrets.’

Bartholomew was not entirely happy, but those who lined up to secure his expertise did not seem to mind, and he was soon lost in his work. Most of the ailments were routine, but he took his time with each, not sure how long Cynric would need.

‘It is a pity Fletone is not here,’ said Udela, watching him lance a boil. ‘He loved this kind of entertainment, and always said he was happiest when Pyk was visiting.’

Bartholomew had never thought of his work as ‘entertainment’ before. ‘Who is Fletone?’

‘A shepherd who died a month ago,’ replied Udela sadly. ‘The day after the Feast of St Swithin.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Abbot Robert disappeared on the Feast of St Swithin.’

‘Yes, coming here to inspect our master’s paten.’ Udela turned to one of the maids. ‘Fetch it, Mary. Doctor Bartholomew will appreciate its fine craftsmanship, and Master Aurifabro is too modest for his own good. His work
should
be touted about for all to admire.’

‘How did Fletone die?’ asked Bartholomew, more interested in that than the paten.

‘Mountain fever.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Here? In the Fens?’

‘It is a serious condition,’ averred Udela, while the rest of the household nodded sagely. ‘I did my best, but he was beyond my skills. He needed a man like you.’

‘I have no experience with mountain fever. It is not very common in Cambridge.’

‘It is not very common here, either,’ said Sylle. ‘But Fletone always thought he would die of something unusual, and he was right. He made the diagnosis himself.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a little knowledge was a dangerous thing in his profession.

‘Of course, he was raving by the time Sylle found him,’ Udela went on. ‘He kept claiming that he had seen Pyk die.’

Bartholomew’s pulse quickened. ‘Did he say where?’

It was Sylle who replied. ‘Near that dead oak – the one we call the Dragon Tree – on the Peterborough road, which is where I found Fletone himself. But Pyk did not die there, of course, so it was his ghost that Fletone saw.’

‘How do you know Pyk did not die there?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that every onlooker was clutching some sort of amulet and murmuring incantations. It was, he thought sourly, like being in an entire room full of Cynrics.

‘For two reasons,’ replied Sylle. ‘First, because there was no Pyk when I found Fletone, dead or otherwise. And second, because Fletone’s sickness struck long after Pyk would have ridden past with Abbot Robert. Thus Fletone could not have seen Pyk die.’

‘Did Fletone tell you when he became ill, then?’

‘No, but that is the nature of mountain fever,’ said Udela with total confidence. ‘It strikes hard and fast. If Fletone had already been ill when Pyk and Robert went missing, he would have been dead long before Sylle discovered him the following day. It is a matter of logic.’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Sylle. ‘He was crawling around on the road when I happened across him, and did not survive long after I brought him home.’

‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ said Udela sadly. ‘He lived for Pyk’s visits, and would have hated being without a physician to consult.’

‘What do you think happened to Pyk and Robert?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to make of their tale.

‘Outlaws, most likely,’ replied Sylle. ‘One thing is sure, though: they are definitely dead. Robert would never have abandoned his abbey, and Pyk would never have abandoned us.’

‘Pyk was a good man.’ Udela smiled fondly. ‘He was even nice to Reginald.’

‘That scoundrel!’ spat Sylle, while Bartholomew glanced sharply at Udela, wondering why she should have singled out the cutler for such a remark. ‘He has been up to no good of late, hammering away in his workshop at peculiar hours. And I warrant he is not making knives, either.’

Udela’s bright gaze was on Bartholomew. ‘You started when I spoke Reginald’s name. Why? Do you know something about him that the rest of us do not?’

‘Only that he is dead.’

‘From apoplexy?’ Udela nodded sagely. ‘We always knew he would succumb to that, because Pyk warned him time and again not to drink melted butter, but he refused to listen.’

‘He was a greedy devil,’ said Sylle. ‘And thought of nothing but money. It served him right that there was a rumour saying that he had found Oxforde’s hoard.’

Bartholomew studied him closely, ‘I do not suppose that tale originated in Torpe, did it?’