The Lost Abbot (32 page)

‘Yes, again,’ snapped Michael. ‘You may not care about Robert, but Pyk was with him, and he seemed a decent soul.’

‘Yes, he was,’ acknowledged Aurifabro. ‘Very well then. Robert approached me that morning and said he was coming to see the paten. I told him I was going to visit my mother, but he threatened to cancel the commission unless I stayed in. He said he planned to leave the abbey after his noonday meal – God forbid that he should miss that – and ride to me in the afternoon.’

‘And Pyk? Why did he come?’

‘To tend my servants. He often travelled with Robert, as he was one of few who could tolerate the fellow’s company.’ Aurifabro’s habitual glower softened. ‘Everyone liked Pyk, and the sight of his great domed head and scarlet cloak lifted the spirits of all who saw them.’

‘Why did Robert come here to inspect the paten? Surely you have a workshop in town?’

‘Of course, but I was making this particular piece at home. However, Robert’s visits were such a trial that I was on the verge of taking it to Peterborough, just to avoid them.’

‘What do you say to the people who lay Robert’s disappearance at your door?’

‘That they are wrong,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘I had reasons to dislike the man – lots of them. But I am not in the habit of dispatching powerful churchmen. Or physicians.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But are you sure you know nothing – even something which may seem unimportant – that might explain what happened?’

Aurifabro closed his eyes and sat still for so long that Michael exchanged a bemused glance with Bartholomew, both wondering whether he had fallen asleep.

‘Just one thing,’ said the goldsmith at last. ‘Robert always took his seals with him when he left the abbey. It suggests he distrusted his obedientiaries – that he was afraid they might use them fraudulently.’

‘Clearly. So what are you suggesting?’

‘That if he thought them capable of forgery, why not other crimes, too – such as killing him and Pyk on a lonely road?’

Unwilling to be blamed for the disappearance of a second important churchman, Aurifabro instructed some of his mercenaries to escort the scholars safely away from Torpe. Michael demurred but the goldsmith was insistent, and six burly warriors kept them close and rather menacing company for a while, then turned without a word and rode back the way they had come. Both scholars and
defensores
were relieved when they had gone.

‘What do you think?’ Michael allowed his horse to settle into a more comfortable pace. ‘Did Aurifabro do away with Robert and Pyk, as half the town, most monks and Spalling believe?’

‘Robert, maybe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not Pyk. Besides, Aurifabro had a point about the seals – it does suggest that Robert distrusted his own house.’

‘Yes, but who in particular? Henry?’

‘No.’ Bartholomew was tired of arguing the point. ‘He is a good man – Udela said so.’

‘You mean the witch?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is meant to impress me, is it?’

‘There is nothing wrong with witches, Brother,’ put in Cynric. ‘But this one was wrong if she said Henry is good, because he is not. Nor are Ramseye and Yvo. They would certainly commit murder to become Abbot, and neither would hesitate to sacrifice Pyk in the process.’

‘Appletre admires Henry,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He—’

‘Appletre is like you in that respect,’ interrupted Michael acidly. ‘Unable to tell the villains from the decent men.’

There was no point arguing with such rigidly held convictions, and Bartholomew did not try. Behind them, the
defensores
began muttering that they would not be in Peterborough until midnight if the men they were guarding insisted on ambling along at such a leisurely pace. Although Bartholomew did not see Michael do anything with reins or knees, the monk’s horse immediately slowed further still.

‘Could Aurifabro’s mercenaries have killed Robert and Pyk without their master’s knowledge?’ asked Cynric. ‘They are ruthless brutes. Moreover, I heard them speaking French, and the outlaws who kept ambushing us on our way here spoke French.’

‘It is possible.’ Michael sighed irritably. ‘Our visit to Torpe was a waste of time, and we must go home tomorrow. You being poisoned did not help, Matt. We lost a whole day over that.’

‘My apologies. However, I am not the only one who has fallen foul of a toxic substance recently. So did a shepherd called Fletone, who died the day after Robert and Pyk disappeared.’

‘What?’ asked Michael in alarm.

‘His friends say he contracted mountain fever, which I think you will agree is unlikely around here. He diagnosed himself, being interested in medical matters, but he was raving by the time he was found, and I doubt he was rational.’

‘Neither are you, if you conclude from this that he was poisoned. There must be all manner of horrible diseases that could have carried him off.’

‘There are, but it is odd that Fletone should have contracted one on this particular road and on that particular day. Moreover, Reginald claimed that
he
had been poisoned—’

‘But you said Reginald died of apoplexy,’ interrupted Michael. ‘On account of his unhealthy diet and the fact that he had suffered previous attacks.’

‘Yes, he probably did. However, it is what he
believed
that is important. He must have had a reason for making such a remark – such as knowing what had happened to Fletone.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure you are fully recovered? Because that is wildly illogical! How could Reginald have “known” that Fletone was poisoned, when Fletone himself – and the people who knew him – thought he had mountain fever?’

‘Reginald would have known the truth if he had been involved in Fletone’s demise. Perhaps that is what made him act so suspiciously whenever we tried to talk to him.’

‘No,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘You are reading too much into the situation.’

The monk continued to pour scorn on the theory, but Bartholomew was not listening because they had reached the lightning-blasted oak where Sylle had found the dying Fletone. He reined in to look at it, understanding exactly why the villagers had named it the Dragon Tree. Its ivy-coated trunk looked like a body, two branches on its ‘back’ had the appearance of wings, and two more at the front formed arms with claws. It had a head, too, with gaping jaws that appeared to be baying at the sky. It had unnerved him when he had travelled to Torpe the first time, he recalled, by groaning so eerily that his horse had bolted.

He dismounted and began to poke around it with a stick, while Cynric and Michael watched in weary resignation, and the
defensores
complained in sullen voices about the delay. It had started to drizzle, and they wanted to be home.

‘There will be nothing to see now,’ said Cynric irritably. ‘Mother Udela told me that Fletone did not die here, anyway. Sylle carried him home and he breathed his last in Torpe. Besides, I have already explored the area around that tree. Twice.’

Bartholomew sniffed the air. ‘I can smell something unpleasant…’

‘There is a dead sheep nearby. One of Fletone’s, probably, which died when he was not around to look after it.’

Bartholomew found the animal and crouched next to it, putting his sleeve over his nose in an effort to filter out the stench. But even taking the mild weather into account, he did not think it had been dead for a month. He said so.

Michael was dismissive. ‘You usually tell me that time of death is impossible to estimate, but now you claim to be able to do it with sheep?’

‘The thing looked fairly fresh when I came across it last Thursday,’ put in Cynric, earning himself a scowl from the monk. ‘He is probably right.’

Bartholomew began to prod again. There was a ditch behind the Dragon Tree, which had widened to form a natural pond. He watched a blackbird hop along the edge, dipping its beak towards it every so often, but it did not drink, and eventually it flew away. He scooped some of the water into his hand and sniffed carefully. There was a faint odour of decay.

‘Something is buried near here,’ he said, standing up and looking around. ‘And putrefaction is leaking into the pond. That is what killed the sheep, and that is why the bird declined to drink.’

‘Sheep know to avoid bad water, boy,’ said Cynric, although he slid to the ground and began to make the kind of inspection at which he was skilled. The
defensores
’ grumbling grew louder, and Michael rolled his eyes.

‘Perhaps this one made a mistake.’ Bartholomew expanded his search to the left of the tree. ‘Or was too thirsty to care. However, there are no obvious injuries on it, and—’

‘Here!’ exclaimed Cynric suddenly. ‘Quick!’

Bartholomew hurried towards him. The book-bearer was kneeling by a particularly deep part of the ditch, which was overgrown with weeds and the roots of trees. Underneath them, a patch of red cloth was visible. It was costly stuff, shot through with gold thread.

‘Pyk had a cloak sewn from material like this,’ said Cynric soberly.

Bartholomew pulled the vegetation away, and it was not long before he had exposed the body hidden beneath. It was almost completely underwater, and might have lain undiscovered for ever if the dead sheep had not alerted him to the fact that something was wrong.

It was not pleasant inspecting what remained, because the water had caused the soft tissues to rot and swell – Pyk would be unrecognisable to anyone who had known him. Bartholomew did what he could, causing Michael to gaze studiously in the opposite direction and Cynric to move away under the pretext of hunting for Robert. The
defensores
huddled inside their cloaks against the rain, and also kept their distance.

‘I am fairly sure it is him,’ said Bartholomew eventually, sitting back on his heels. ‘Henry mentioned his domed head, and so did Aurifabro. Then there is his distinctive cloak…’

‘How did he die?’ asked Michael.

‘Probably bludgeoned, but I will look more closely when we get him back to Peterborough.’

‘Is there any sign of Robert? If so, it is almost an anti-climax. I was sure some terrible plot was brewing, but here we are with two men set upon on a deserted stretch of road, murdered and rolled into a ditch. It is rather banal.’

‘The ditch is clear in both directions,’ reported Cynric, coming back when he saw Bartholomew’s grisly examination was over. ‘Does it mean Robert is still alive?’

‘Pyk’s fate makes that unlikely,’ replied Michael soberly. ‘He is dead, and it is just a case of locating his body. We shall return to Peterborough, and order a thorough search in the morning. It is too late to start now – it will be dark soon.’

Bartholomew started to roll Pyk in his cloak, but then had second thoughts. The body was in such a poor state that they could not toss it over the back of a horse, or they would lose bits of it en route. However, if it was left unattended by the pool while they fetched a bier it would attract scavengers, and he doubted the
defensores
would agree to guard it. Gently, he eased it back into the ditch, supposing it could rest there for a little longer.

He was just climbing back into the saddle when the attack came. Suddenly, the air was full of screaming voices and an arrow narrowly missed his face. He heard Cynric yelling for him to mount up fast, while Michael brandished the stave he had looped into his saddle. The
defensores
were a distant cluster of thundering hoofs as they galloped away from the danger. Terrified, Bartholomew’s horse ripped away from him and joined them.

Bartholomew had no weapons with which to defend himself, so he grabbed a stick from the ground. He managed to score a swipe that sent one ambusher reeling away, but a second man came, and a third, and he was forced to give ground until he was backed up against the bole of the dead oak. He ducked as a cudgel swung at his head, and it smacked into the mat of ivy behind him. Immediately, a wrenching groan made him and his assailants glance upwards in alarm. The wood was rotten, and the weight of the ivy had rendered it unstable. The hefty swipe was enough to make one of the dragon’s ‘arms’ begin to fall.

Udela’s words filled Bartholomew’s mind – of a monster whose left hand was more deadly than its right. Reacting instinctively, he flung himself towards the weaker one. His opponents howled in horror as the branch crashed among them, and one went silent when it caught him on the top of the head.

Then Cynric was among them, wielding his sword like a demon and howling in Welsh. The surviving attackers turned and fled.

It felt like an age before Bartholomew, riding pillion behind Cynric, saw the lights of Peterborough twinkling in the distance. They arrived to find a huge crowd had gathered at the Abbey Gate, where the
defensores
were telling their story. Voices were raised in shock and recrimination, but Prior Yvo was wholly incapable of imposing order. Ramseye stood to one side, arms folded, as he watched his rival struggle for some semblance of control.

The safe arrival of the Bishop’s Commissioners was met with a variety of reactions. Clippesby, William and the common monks surged forward with a delighted cheer; Appletre sang a hymn of thanksgiving; Lullington shrugged; Ramseye’s face wore its usual mask of inscrutability; and Nonton raised a flask and took a gulp from it. Henry and Yvo exchanged a brief glance, then joined those who were clamouring their relief.

‘The
defensores
claimed you were dead,’ said Henry, crossing himself. ‘That they narrowly escaped after their efforts to protect you had failed.’

Bartholomew gave the soldiers a hard stare. They glowered back defiantly, making it clear that they would vigorously deny any accusations of cowardice.

‘I am glad to see you unscathed,’ said Yvo, although he spoke without warmth. ‘I was just arranging for Nonton to collect your corpses. And Pyk’s.’ He turned to the cellarer, who was in the process of draining whatever was in his flask. ‘Are you ready? The sooner you set out, the sooner you can return.’

Nonton frowned his bemusement. ‘You still want me to go?’

‘Of course! It would be improper to leave Pyk in a ditch another night.’