The Lost Abbot (13 page)

‘Oh, yes.’ Bartholomew gestured towards the door, where the line of people seemed to be longer than ever. ‘I should make a start if you want me to see everyone today.’

‘Not before you inspect our well,’ said Inges. ‘We cannot have it said that we provided a Bishop’s Commissioner with an inadequate tour. Especially as Joan went to some trouble to show you everything at St Thomas’s.’

He grabbed Bartholomew’s sleeve and tugged him into the chapel. There were steps in one corner, leading down to a deep, stone-lined pool. The water was green and its surface rippled. Bartholomew put his hand in it, but withdrew it sharply. The spring was icy cold.

‘Now to business,’ said Inges. ‘As this is my hospital, you will give me half the fees you earn today. You will, of course, not charge my bedesmen: they will be seen for nothing. Do not worry about collecting the money – we shall do that before anyone is allowed in.’

‘What about those who cannot pay?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.

‘They will not be admitted,’ replied Inges. ‘I cannot abide beggars.’

Bartholomew moved towards the door. ‘Then I shall hold court in St Thomas’s—’

‘All right, all right. But they can only be seen when you have dealt with everyone else.’

‘They will be seen in the order in which they arrived.’

Inges considered for a moment, then thrust out his hand. ‘Agreed. The hospital will still make plenty of money, which will show those witches at St Thomas’s that they are not the only ones who can generate a decent income for the abbey.’

The terms having been negotiated, Bartholomew indicated that the first customer was to be shown in. It was a woman with a rash, and he lost count of how many people came after her, so when the last patient had been seen and sent on his way, he was surprised to see it was nearing dusk. He had been pleasantly impressed by Clippesby, who had proved himself invaluable, both by writing out instructions for the apothecary and by stopping Inges from cheating them.

‘Unfortunately, even after giving the apothecary everything we earned today, we still owe him eightpence for those who cannot afford their own remedies,’ the Dominican said as they walked through the marketplace, both grateful to stretch their legs after so long indoors. ‘Perhaps the abbey will pay. They are supposed to dispense alms, after all.’

‘I doubt it,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Welbyrn is tight-fisted with—’

‘That woman,’ interrupted Clippesby. ‘She looks uncannily like Matilde.’

Bartholomew followed the direction of the friar’s finger, and felt his stomach lurch. The lady in question was walking away from them, but her natural grace and the cut of her kirtle told him that she
was
Matilde! He stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then ran like fury. He dashed in front of a cart, causing the horse to rear in alarm, and collided with Spalling on the other side.

‘Have a care,’ the rebel cried, grabbing his arm. ‘It is not—’

Bartholomew tore free, but the woman was gone. He raced as fast as he could to the end of the market, looking wildly up the alleys to the sides, but there was no sign of her. He set off up the main road, peering desperately into the open doors of the houses he passed, but was at last forced to concede defeat. He returned to Clippesby.

‘We must have been mistaken,’ said the Dominican. ‘Why would Matilde be here? If she were still … in the country, she would have contacted you.’

The hesitation told Bartholomew that Clippesby was one of those who thought she was dead, killed by robbers on England’s dangerous highways, because no one could have vanished so completely and still be alive. The physician stubbornly refused to believe it, and liked to think that she had reached wherever she had been going and was living happily there.

‘It looked like her,’ he said, feeling foolish for haring off so abruptly.

Clippesby smiled. ‘It did. But no harm is done, other than frightening that poor horse. I shall have a word with him tomorrow, to ensure that he knows it was not malicious.’

Bartholomew was deeply unsettled. It was not the first time he thought he had seen Matilde since she had disappeared from his life, but it had not happened since he had met Julitta. His mind seething with emotions he could not begin to understand, he followed Clippesby back to the abbey.

It took Bartholomew a long time to fall asleep that night, and when he did, his dreams teemed with confusing visions. He had loved Matilde for so many years that it had been unthinkable that anyone else should take her place, but then he had met Julitta. At first, the attraction had been that she reminded him of Matilde, but he had quickly come to love her for herself. Yet he had desperately wanted the woman he had spotted to be Matilde, so what did that say about the strength of his feelings for Julitta?

He woke long before it was light the following morning and went outside, loath to disturb the others by lighting a candle to read. Although it was still dark, there were signs that it would be a pretty day – the sky was clear, the stars fading to softer pinpricks with the promise of dawn. He inhaled deeply of the scent of damp earth and summer flowers, aware that his agitation was, if anything, even greater than it had been the previous night. He began to wonder whether he would ever recover from the wound Matilde had inflicted.

To take his mind off it, he walked to St Thomas’s Hospital, where he found Lady Lullington awake and grey with pain. She smiled gratefully when he prepared more medicine, and he knew she hoped it would stop her from waking again. When she slept, he returned to the guest house, but his colleagues were still asleep, and he did not feel like being inside anyway.

As he leaned against the doorpost, trying not to think about Matilde and Julitta, he saw a shadow edging along the dormitory wall. It was moving in a way that could only be described as furtive, stopping every so often to ensure it was not being followed. When it emerged to cross the open space between the cloisters and the Abbey Gate, its silhouette was clearly visible, and Bartholomew was surprised to recognise Welbyrn’s hulking form.

It was none of his business, but Bartholomew followed anyway, curious as to why his old tutor should feel the need to skulk around his own abbey. Welbyrn unbarred the gate and threaded through the silent streets until he reached Westgate, and it did not take Bartholomew long to surmise that he was aiming for St Leonard’s Hospital. Once there, the treasurer glanced around carefully before unlocking the door and slinking over the threshold.

As he could hardly pursue Welbyrn inside, Bartholomew continued walking, but he did not go far before retracing his steps – it was hardly sensible to wander along the Torpe road alone, given what had happened to the Abbot and Pyk. He had just drawn level with the hospital again when a shape appeared with an unholy screech that made him leap in fright.

‘I am a tiger!’ It was Simon the cowherd, hands splayed to look like claws. ‘I shall tear you limb from limb.’

‘God’s teeth!’ swore Bartholomew, taking a deep breath to control his thudding heart. He forced a smile. ‘It is cold out here, Simon. Let me take you back inside.’

‘I will eat your bones,’ raved Simon, although he was unresisting as Bartholomew guided him towards the door. ‘And suck out your brains. Oxforde knew me as a tiger. I saw him in his golden grave when I was a youth. So did Kirwell.’

‘That was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew, speaking softly to calm him. Simon would wake the other bedesmen if he continued to holler.

‘It was yesterday,’ declared Simon. ‘Ask my cattle. Do you know my cattle? They have all gone now, but I still know their names. Daisy, Clover, Nettle … I am a
tiger
!’

Bartholomew put his finger to his lips as he guided the cowherd upstairs to an empty bed, where he carefully tucked him in. The old man closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Inges, making Bartholomew start a second time by speaking at his shoulder. ‘Welbyrn must have forgotten to lock the door again.’

‘How long has Simon been a resident here?’ asked Bartholomew, following Inges out of the dormitory and out on to a landing, where they could talk without disturbing the others.

‘About ten years, when his madness reached the point where he was no longer able to work. There are those who blame Oxforde for his lunacy, but the truth is that Simon was fey-witted long before he witnessed the blinding light in St Thomas’s cemetery.’

‘Kirwell was knocked from his feet – or so he said.’

‘He was, and a number of folk saw it happen. It was the morning after Oxforde’s execution. Can you can cure Simon, by the way? Pyk said it was impossible.’

‘Pyk was right. You are doing all that can be done already – treating Simon with kindness, and ensuring that his needs are met.’

‘He is no trouble.’ Inges led the way down the stairs to the chapel. ‘I like a tiger in the house, anyway – it keeps those damned bedeswomen out. Hey, you!’

The last words were delivered in a stentorian bellow that had the slumbering residents upstairs whimpering in alarm. Welbyrn, who had been in the process of sneaking through the chapel door, stopped dead in his tracks, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more furtive expression. Inges stalked towards him.

‘You damned fool!’ the Prior snapped. ‘You have done it again.’

‘Do not address me in that insolent manner,’ snarled Welbyrn, masking his discomfiture with aggression. ‘I am Brother Treasurer to you.’

‘You left the door unlocked and Simon escaped,
Brother Treasurer
.’ Inges’s tone was acidic. ‘For the
third
time this month.’

‘Not me,’ claimed Welbyrn, although the guilty flash in his eyes suggested otherwise. ‘I saw the door ajar as I was passing and came to investigate. Someone else must have done it.’

‘Passing on the way to where?’ demanded Inges. ‘There is nothing else on this road except Torpe, and I am sure you were not going
there
at this time of day. Simon might have reached the town if Doctor Bartholomew had not stopped him. And the last time that happened, he came home covered in honey and
we
had to pay the bill.’

‘How is he?’ enquired Welbyrn, transparently changing the subject. ‘Any better?’

‘No,’ said Inges shortly. ‘Why do you keep asking? He is incurably insane. Pyk declared him so, and Doctor Bartholomew agrees.’

Welbyrn scowled at the physician. ‘What are you doing here? The hospital is closed from dusk until dawn.’

Bartholomew could hardly tell him the truth. ‘Just taking the air. And you?’

‘That is none of your business,’ snarled Welbyrn, clenching his fists angrily.

‘You seem unwell,’ said Bartholomew gently, noting the dark rings under the treasurer’s eyes and the unhealthy blotchiness of his skin. ‘Would you like me to—’

‘No, I am not,’ yelled Welbyrn with explosive fury. ‘How dare you!’

Bartholomew stepped back in surprise as spittle flew from Welbyrn’s mouth and the treasurer’s face turned from pale to mottled red. ‘I was only trying to—’

‘I am not ill,’ Welbyrn screamed. ‘And if you ever mention it again – to me or to anyone else – I will thrash you to within an inch of your life. Do you understand?’

Bartholomew watched him stamp away, astonished that his well-meaning concern should have sparked such an outburst. Next to him, Inges was glowering.

‘His unholy racket will have woken my bedesmen,’ he said, overlooking the fact that it had been his own bellow that had sparked the row. ‘And the elderly need their rest.’

‘Is Welbyrn often like that?’ asked Bartholomew, still bemused.

‘He has been of late. Moreover, he never used to be concerned about Simon, but now he asks after him constantly. I have no idea why. However, as you are here, would you see to my bunions again? The potion you smeared on them yesterday afforded me such relief.’

When Bartholomew returned to the guest house, it was to learn that he had been invited to another sumptuous breakfast with the monks. He declined, having no desire to encounter Welbyrn again, but Michael muttered that he needed him there to make observations on the behaviour of potential suspects. Reluctantly, the physician trailed after him to the refectory.

As it was a meat day, the repast included an obscene number of cold cuts from, it seemed, any creature that had had the misfortune to stray into the Benedictines’ range – ox, rabbit, hare, duck, venison, quail, capon, lamb, goat and goose. Michael and William chomped through them all, although Clippesby regarded the carnage in dismay.

That morning, the scholars found themselves elevated to the exalted company on the dais, and Bartholomew’s heart sank when he was placed between Welbyrn and Ramseye. He glanced into the body of the hall, where Henry shot him a sympathetic smile.

‘If you say one word about this morning,’ Welbyrn breathed in the physician’s ear, under the pretence of passing him the eggs, ‘you will be sorry. You may have escaped justice when you broke my nose, but it will not happen a second time.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. Surely Welbyrn was not still vexed over the outcome of their childhood fisticuffs, especially as the mishap had been largely his own fault? If he had not been trying to land such a hard punch, he would not have lost his balance and fallen over.

‘It is delightful to see you again after so many years, Matt,’ Ramseye was saying on his other side. ‘And you have done better than your shabby appearance would have us believe. William tells me that you are now the University’s Corpse Examiner. Such a lofty achievement!’

‘The University’s
what
?’ asked Welbyrn, regarding Bartholomew as though he had just sprouted horns. ‘What in God’s name is a Corpse Examiner?’

‘Nothing in
God’s
name,’ drawled Ramseye. ‘I suspect it involves dissection, although William assures me that it is no more than inspired poking and prodding.’

‘Well, you had better not try it here or you will spend the rest of your stay in prison,’ growled Welbyrn. ‘I am not having that sort of thing going on. This is a respectable place.’

‘A respectable place that does nothing to find its missing Abbot,’ retorted Bartholomew, irritated enough to indulge in a rejoinder. ‘Or the town’s only physician.’