The Lost Abbot (23 page)

‘At last!’ exclaimed Michael in relief. ‘I am glad to have you back, because I shall need your help today. Not to mention the fact that we have been worried. In future, perhaps you would stay away from poison.’

‘Poison,’ murmured Bartholomew, as events filtered slowly back into his mind.

‘We have not caught the culprit yet,’ said William. ‘But last night was eventful, even so. First, we had news that Spalling has made Cynric his official deputy. Then Inges arrived to say that Welbyrn had died in St Leonard’s well. But before either of those, Matilde came and…’

He trailed off, horrified with himself for the inadvertent slip. Michael glowered, Clippesby rolled his eyes, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had misheard.

‘I was going to tell you after breakfast, Matt,’ said the monk wearily. ‘You must be hungry after lying about for so long without so much as a crumb to eat.’

Clippesby took William’s arm. ‘Come, Father. There is a sparrow you should meet, one who might be able to tutor you in the art of discretion.’

‘No, I want to know what—’ But when William saw the dark expression on Michael’s face, he left the room in what could best be described as a scurry.

When the door had closed, Michael turned warily to Bartholomew. ‘Are you well enough for this? I do not think I could stand the strain of a relapse.’

Bartholomew was experiencing an awful churning in his stomach, and could tell from Michael’s face that he was about to be told something he would not like.

‘A drink or some food must have been laced with a soporific,’ he said, aware that his speech was slurred – his tongue could not seem to form the words properly. ‘But now I am awake, the effects will soon dissipate. There will be no relapse.’

‘A soporific?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! I have been going around telling everyone that you were poisoned!’

‘Soporifics can be toxic in the wrong hands.’

‘William and Clippesby deduced that it was in the Lombard slices. I blamed the leeks, but Piel’s pig ate the rest of those with no ill effects…’

‘The leeks came from a communal pot, but the pastries appeared out of nowhere – and you left the tavern without eating any.’ Bartholomew wished his wits were sharper, for he knew that Michael had managed to sidetrack him, but he was not alert enough to stop it.

‘I learned nothing to help our investigation while you were asleep,’ the monk went on. ‘And the situation is now desperate, because we leave the day after tomorrow.’

‘Was Matilde really here?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael ignored the question. ‘Seeing what one cake did to you, I dread to imagine what would have happened had we finished the plate. We both had a very narrow escape.’

‘Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Please.’

‘As William said, a lot happened last night.’ Michael was determined to postpone the inevitable. ‘Spalling held a rally of his supporters and declared Cynric his lieutenant. According to Langelee, the announcement took Cynric by surprise, but it is a cause dear to his heart, and Langelee said he responded with delight. He intends to stay here after we leave.’

‘I am sure he does. But what did Matilde—’

‘Then Lullington accused you of murdering Welbyrn – your ancient feud is common knowledge, and Lullington made much of the fact that you once broke Welbyrn’s nose. Ramseye defended you, though, pointing out that you were insensible at the time.’

‘Ramseye did?’ Bartholomew was struggling to follow the gabbled tale.

‘He said you could not have walked to the door, let alone gone all the way to St Leonard’s, and he argued so convincingly that I did not have to defend you myself. Of course, now everyone is flailing around for another suspect, and the usual names have been aired – Spalling, Aurifabro, Reginald, the bedesfolk…’

‘
Has
Welbyrn been murdered?’

‘I hope you will be able to tell me that when you examine his body. I ordered everything left as it was found, in the hope that there will be clues as to what happened.’

‘Matilde,’ prompted Bartholomew, feeling they had skated around the issue quite long enough. ‘What did William mean when he said she came?’

Michael took a moment to compose himself, then began, starting with how he had met her in Clare the previous year, and the vow she had extracted from him never to mention it. He finished by handing over the letter she had dictated. After he had read it, Bartholomew was silent for a very long time.

‘You did not have to make that promise,’ he said eventually. ‘You could have refused.’

‘She was very insistent.’

‘You have resisted more powerful people than her.’

‘I was not happy about it, believe me. So what will you do? Leave the University and set up a practice of wealthy people, so she will know she means more to you than your paupers? Wait for her to earn her own fortune? Or has she been superseded in your affections by Julitta?’

Bartholomew chose to ignore the last question. ‘The Matilde I remember would not have left a letter when she could have spoken to me directly. She was never a coward.’

‘She said it would have been too painful to meet in person.’

‘Perhaps.’ Bartholomew was silent again, before saying in a low voice, ‘But I did not think
you
would keep such a thing from me.’

Michael winced. ‘I told her it was a mistake, but she persuaded me that it was in your best interests – in the best interests of both of you.’

Bartholomew nodded, but made no reply, and Michael suspected, with a pang, that while Bartholomew might have lost the love of his life for the second time and perhaps permanently, he himself had just lost the trust of a friend.

The effects of whatever Bartholomew had swallowed lingered in the form of a persistent lethargy, even after he had eaten a breakfast that William assured him was safe, followed by copious amounts of his favourite cure-all – boiled barley water. He struggled to think about the news he had been given, but it was not easy when all he wanted to do was sleep, so he went for a walk, hoping fresh air would revive him. He left the abbey and turned south, but did not have the energy to go far. He stopped on the rough wooden bridge that spanned the river.

It was quiet there, with only the occasional cart rumbling past to intrude on his thoughts. A heron strutted and stabbed in the shallows, and two crows cawed in a nearby elm. The fields were full of crops that were turning gold under the summer sun, and the air was rich with the scent of warm earth and scythed grass.

He leaned on the railing and stared down at the sluggish water, wondering when he had last been beset by such a bewildering gamut of emotions. Uppermost was relief that Matilde had not been killed on the King’s highways, as most of his colleagues had believed. The rest were far more complicated, and involved a confusing combination of hope, hurt, exasperation, resentment and unease.

Should he be angry with Michael for keeping a secret of such magnitude from him; a betrayal, in fact, of their friendship? The monk, more than anyone, knew the depth of his feelings for Matilde and the lengths to which he had gone to find her after she had left.

As he pondered, peculiarities in the monk’s past behaviour began to make sense. The first time Michael had been to Clare he had returned sullen and snappish, and had spent the next twelve months informing Bartholomew that the place was not worth seeing. Encouraging Langelee to bring him to Peterborough had been yet another way to prevent him from going there, although it could not have misfired more badly. And finally, there was his recent uncharacteristically whimsical remark that he enjoyed Bartholomew’s company – clearly he had been anticipating the day when the truth would come out.

But Michael had not asked to be placed in such an invidious position, and it would be unfair to blame him for what had happened. Although Bartholomew was exasperated with him – and disappointed that he had allowed himself to be browbeaten by Matilde – he bore him no malice, and supposed he had better say so lest the incident drove a wedge between them. Michaelhouse was too small for two of its Fellows to be at loggerheads, and when all was said and done, Michael had been a good friend in the past.

He watched a leaf undulate under the bridge. Should he abandon his University, patients and students a second time, and try to find Matilde, despite the plea in her letter that begged him not to? Should he resign his Fellowship and start recruiting wealthy patients so that she knew he would produce horoscopes for the rich if it meant her return? Or should he put her from his mind, on the grounds that the woman he had loved would not have been afraid to face him, and that time and experience might have turned her into a different person?

Her letter had outlined a complex plan that involved borrowing money and making certain investments. She seemed confident that it would work – the only question being the time it would take – and she would then return to Cambridge. As money had never been important to him, it seemed inconceivable that it should be the thing that stood between him and happiness, but he was not so naïve as to believe that everyone felt that way. And Matilde was a woman of refined tastes.

But what about Julitta? Her arrival in his life had reminded him that Matilde was not the only woman in the world. Did that mean his love for Matilde had diminished, and he should refuse her if she arrived back with a fortune in her purse? His relationship with Julitta was still fairly new, but he knew he could come to love her just as deeply in time. Of course, she was already married, and so would never be fully available to him, unless something fatal happened to Surgeon Holm. But what if—

‘I thought I might find you here.’

He whipped around to see Cynric standing beside him. He had not heard the book-bearer approach, and the Welshman’s eyes gleamed in the knowledge that he had not lost the ability to creep up behind his master and startle him out of his wits.

‘I came to tell you that she has gone,’ said Cynric. ‘Matilde, I mean. Last night, Father William came to tell me what had happened, so we went to see if we could persuade her to stay. We managed to locate the inn where she had been lodging, but she had already left.’

‘Did the taverner know where she might be going?’

‘She was careful to let nothing slip. I spent the rest of the night searching the roads, but she left no trace of her passing.’ Cynric’s dark face was grudgingly impressed. ‘I can track most people, as you know, but she eluded me. She might have gone in any direction, and I doubt you will catch her. But if you want to try, I will go with you.’

‘I thought you had been made Spalling’s deputy.’

Cynric nodded proudly. ‘But I am willing to leave him for a while, to help you with Matilde.’

‘Perhaps I should accept. It would keep you out of trouble.’

‘You mean with Spalling? But he is right, boy. The poor have been poor long enough, and it is time to put matters right. You will join us eventually – you are not a man to sit by while injustices are done. I would not have stayed with you so long if you were.’

‘There is a difference between wanting justice and insurgency, Cynric. Besides, Spalling does not seem entirely rational to me.’

‘Only because you are poisoned and your wits are awry. But here he is, come to collect me. We are off to Aurifabro’s shop again, to berate him for suppressing his workers.’

‘You mean the workers who say he is a generous employer?’ Bartholomew held up his hands in surrender when he saw Cynric ready to argue; he did not feel equal to debating the morality of England’s social order that morning, and wished he had held his tongue.

Spalling had taken care with his dress that day, and had donned an outfit reminiscent of a ploughboy’s, although his fine calfskin boots had never been anywhere near a field.

‘Want to come, physician?’ he asked amiably. ‘You will enjoy watching that villain Aurifabro denounced for his greed and miserliness.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew coolly.

‘You prefer to let me tackle him on your behalf,’ nodded Spalling, although without rancour. ‘I heard Oxforde was the same. Did you know that he stole from the rich in order to ease the lives of Peterborough’s peasants?’

‘I think you will find he stole from the rich in order to benefit himself,’ countered Bartholomew, disinclined to listen to such fanciful nonsense.

‘That is a tale put about by his detractors,’ argued Spalling. ‘And if he was not a saint, then why have there been miracles at his tomb?’

He flung an arm across Cynric’s shoulders and they strode away together, leaving the physician wondering how Spalling could have drawn such wild conclusions about Oxforde, whose ruthless brutality was a matter of record. With a sigh, he supposed it was a case of a man changing history to suit himself.

Although Michael had promised that Bartholomew would be spared more meals in the refectory, he insisted that they attend the one that was to be held mid-morning, because Yvo was going to make an announcement about Welbyrn, and he wanted all his Michaelhouse colleagues there as observers. It was a sombre affair. Welbyrn’s seat was ominously empty, and everyone kept glancing at it, stunned by what had happened. Appletre wept copiously, but Yvo informed the scholars
sotto voce
that he always cried when someone died, so they should ignore him. Henry sat next to the sobbing precentor, murmuring comforting words.

Bartholomew was reluctant to eat, partly because Matilde had robbed him of his appetite, but mostly because he did not fancy being poisoned a second time. He took some bread and cheese, but only after the obedientiaries had sampled them first. He was aware of Michael, William and Clippesby doing the same, although such restraint was clearly difficult for the portly Senior Proctor.

‘Welbyrn’s accident comes as a great shock to us all,’ Yvo proclaimed at the end of the meal. ‘Yet perhaps it is a blessed release. He has not been himself these last few weeks.’

‘No,’ agreed Ramseye. ‘As exemplified by his insistence that the Abbot is still alive.’

‘And his short temper,’ added Appletre, hand to the front of his habit, where the treasurer had laid hold of it during his explosion in the chapter house.