The Lost Abbot (41 page)

‘Did you know that Appletre hit Joan over the head with a relic?’ asked Michael in a final, desperate attempt to cause trouble. ‘A
relic
, Father Abbot, a holy thing.’

‘Botilbrig did it,’ stated Appletre. ‘He always was jealous that she chose you over him.’

Bartholomew was appalled that the bedesman should bear the brunt of Robert’s inevitable wrath. ‘Where is your conscience, Appletre? How can you sing in a church, knowing that you have committed such terrible crimes?’

‘Leave my singing out of it,’ snapped Appletre. He turned to Robert and gestured out of the window. ‘The townsfolk will see that smoke soon, and come to investigate. We should not be found with prisoners when they do.’

‘Then take these two outside and shoot them,’ said Robert. He scowled at Michael. ‘Call it revenge for you forcing me to buy Aurifabro’s damned paten in front of the whole town.’

‘Will you use that to pay for it?’ asked Appletre, nodding towards the jewels and the gold bar that lay on the table. ‘Given that we still do not have Oxforde’s treasure?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Robert coolly. ‘When this is over, I shall make a pilgrimage to Canterbury, to cleanse my soul. I have endured enough privation for the abbey, and I plan to use these to make the journey as pleasant as possible.’

‘Then your sins will not be expiated,’ warned Michael. ‘You—’

‘Kill them, and put their corpses with Lullington’s,’ said the Abbot briskly. ‘But do not forget to remove their clothes first.’

‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, while Michael began to mutter prayers of contrition, under no illusion about the ruthlessness of the men they were confronting. ‘You will never find the treasure, because it is not on Aurifabro’s land. You have been looking in the wrong place.’

‘Enough,’ said Appletre, indicating that the
defensores
were to take their captives away.

‘I know where it is,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘It is here. In the abbey.’

The solar was silent after Bartholomew made his announcement. Through the window, he saw that the granary roof was alight at last, and that the wind was carrying sparks towards the thatched roof of St Thomas’s Hospital. He could hear singing and cheering, and its drunken quality meant the revellers were unlikely to realise the danger they were in until it was too late.

‘The physician is lying,’ said Appletre. ‘He is a stranger, so how can he know more than those of us who have lived here for years? Besides, the treasure cannot be in the abbey or we would have found it.’

Robert ignored him. ‘Tell me,’ he said to Bartholomew, steel in his voice.

‘Why should I? You will kill me the moment you know.’

Robert smiled unpleasantly. ‘Yes, but there are many ways to die, and I am sure you would not like your fat friend to pay the price for your reticence.’

‘I cannot
tell
you,’ said Bartholomew quickly, when one of the bowmen stepped forward with a knife. ‘I will have to
show
you. But I shall need Michael’s help.’

‘Why?’ asked Robert suspiciously.

Bartholomew met his glare steadily. ‘Because I cannot do it on my own.’

Robert stared at him for a moment, then addressed his precentor. ‘Go with them to see whether he is telling the truth. If he is, kill them quickly. If not, make him sorry he tried to play games.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Appletre.

‘To the hospital, to tell my flock about my abduction. And while I am there, I shall inform my nephew and Yvo – and Henry, because I hate his sickly piety – that they are to have the opportunity to serve God in some of our remoter properties. That will teach them to cross me.’

Robert held the precentor’s gaze for a moment, so it was clear that the threat applied to him as well, then strode away, an impressive figure in his fine habit. At a nod from Appletre, the
defensores
shoved Bartholomew and Michael down the stairs, where they met Nonton coming up to make his report. The cellarer was furious when he saw Bartholomew alive, and raised a fist, but Appletre knocked it down.

‘Not yet. The Abbot wants him to show us where Oxford hid his hoard.’

Nonton regarded the physician uncertainly. ‘Does he know?’

‘He claims he does. If he is telling the truth, we are to kill him cleanly. If not…’

Bartholomew began walking, so he would not have to look at the gloating anticipation in Nonton’s face. Michael came to trot at his side.

‘Do you really know, Matt, or are you bluffing?’

‘It is in Oxforde’s tomb.’

Michael stared at him. ‘How in God’s name did you deduce that?’

‘Because of something Simon the cowherd said – that he had seen Oxforde in his golden grave. I did not understand what he meant at the time—’

‘But Simon is addled!’ hissed Michael in alarm. ‘He was speaking gibberish.’

‘Actually, he made perfect sense. Think about it, Brother. What was Oxforde was doing when he was caught?’

Michael frowned. ‘Digging by the tomb of a silversmith, who was alleged to have interred some of his favourite jewellery in the plot next door.’

‘Exactly. Why would a successful thief bother with a few baubles that necessitated a lot of hard work? The answer is that he would not: Oxforde was actually hiding what he had already stolen. Then it was decided that he would be buried in the hole he himself had made…’

‘Because he was so evil it was thought that only hallowed ground could keep him from returning to terrorise the living.’ Michael stopped to ponder, but started moving again when an archer prodded him in the back. ‘So why did Oxforde write in his “prayer” that it was hidden on land now owned by Aurifabro?’

‘That was a ruse, to keep his real hoard safe.’

‘It was not much of one. Kirwell kept it secret it for forty-five years.’

‘Oxforde reckoned without the sunbeam. Had that not happened, Kirwell would have sold the prayer, and a hunt would have ensued.’

‘But Oxforde had been condemned to death. Why did he bother?’

‘Because he did not believe the sentence would be carried out. Everyone says he expected a reprieve right up until the noose tightened around his neck. He thought he would be alive to enjoy his treasure, and this was his way of keeping people away from it.’

‘I hope to God you are right,’ muttered Michael. ‘Because I dread to think what will happen to us if you are not.’

‘We are dead either way, Brother. So think of a way to escape, because sparks are flying towards the hospital roof. It is not just our lives that are at risk here, but two hundred monks, bedesfolk and abbey servants.’

Appletre’s eyebrows shot up in understanding as they entered the cemetery. ‘Of course! It is obvious now that I think about it. Fetch spades, Nonton. This pair will dig for us.’

There was a lacklustre cheer from the hospital, which Bartholomew interpreted as meaning that Robert had just walked in. The granary was now well and truly alight, and he could see
defensores
at the gate telling concerned townsfolk that the monks did not need help to extinguish it. He considered yelling a warning, but doubted it would be understood. He glanced up at the hospital roof. How long would it be before it ignited?

‘Not there,’ snapped Nonton, when in a feeble attempt to win more time, Bartholomew aimed for the hole that Trentham had made for Joan. ‘Do not try my patience.’

Bartholomew moved the flowers that covered Oxforde’s grave, and at a nod from Nonton he and Michael began to dig. Unfortunately for them, the ground was neither too hard nor too wet, and their progress was alarmingly rapid. One of the guards drew the excavated earth into a pile as they hurled it out, so it could be shovelled back again when they had finished. Clearly the bedeswomen were not to know what had been done to their shrine. Appletre watched, humming under his breath, while Nonton drank from his flask. Then Bartholomew saw smoke curling from the hospital roof.

‘This is madness!’ he cried, flinging down his spade and appealing to his captors. ‘Some of your choir is in there, Appletre. You cannot condemn them to be burned alive.’

‘Robert will not let anything happen to them,’ said Appletre, although Bartholomew thought he really was insane if he thought there was an ounce of pity or compassion in the man he had chosen to serve. Robert would be more than happy to be rid of a lot of monks who did not like him and start afresh with new ones.

‘Work,’ ordered Nonton, prodding the physician with a sword.

Seeing he was wasting his breath, Bartholomew did as he was told, hoping Michael could devise a plan, for his own mind was horribly blank. He dawdled, playing for time, but Nonton guessed what he was doing and lashed out with a kick. Bartholomew staggered, and the knife dropped from his sleeve. Michael pretended to stumble in order to conceal it, and there was a hollow thud as his knees struck the ground. Appletre, Nonton and the
defensores
strained forward eagerly. They had reached Oxforde’s coffin.

‘Out, Bartholomew,’ ordered Nonton. ‘Appletre will take over now.’

‘Me?’ asked the precentor in distaste. ‘Why not you?’

‘Because I am better at controlling mutinous physicians,’ replied Nonton savagely.

Rolling his eyes, Appletre indicated that Bartholomew should be hauled out, and took his place. It did not take him long to clear the remaining soil from the lid, while Michael stood at the far end of the hole, out of the way.

‘Look at the number of nails that were used to seal the casket,’ the precentor murmured. ‘People must have been terrified that Oxforde would escape.’

‘Do not bother prising them out,’ instructed Nonton. ‘Smash the wood.’

‘The kitchen is alight!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly.

Appletre stood. ‘He is right, Nonton. Perhaps we had better raise the alarm and come back to this later, because that is a building I should not like to lose.’

‘We are almost there,’ argued Nonton. ‘A few more moments will make no difference. Break the wood with the edge of the spade. Hurry!’

Avarice and curiosity won out; Appletre turned his attention back to the coffin. He raised the spade and brought it down hard. Nothing happened, so he did it again. Something cracked, and he exchanged an excited grin with Nonton before striking a third time. Bartholomew eased towards Michael and dropped to a crouch, feigning exhaustion. When everyone’s eyes were fixed on Appletre, the monk quickly tossed the knife to Bartholomew.

‘Use it well,’ he murmured. ‘Then run. Do not worry about me.’

‘No! I cannot leave you to—’

‘Run from this place and do not stop until you are safe. Someone must survive to tell the Bishop what really happened, or Robert and his henchmen are going to win. That will be my vengeance. Now go.’

Bartholomew clambered to his feet and braced himself for a sprint, but one of the
defensores
moved to stand between him and the cemetery gate, his eyes sharp and watchful.

‘This is taking too long,’ said Nonton impatiently, as Appletre’s battering became more exasperated and less efficient. He pointed at Michael. ‘You do it.’

Michael made a show of gripping the spade for an almighty swipe, aiming to snag the
defensores
’ attention, but the one guarding Bartholomew was too professional to be distracted. He continued to watch his prisoner, even when the wood shattered. Michael bent to rip away the broken pieces, but still the fellow’s gaze did not waver. Bartholomew ground his teeth in impotent frustration.

‘There is nothing here but bones!’ cried Appletre in dismay. ‘Bartholomew was lying. Kill him, Nonton. He has made fools of us.’

‘The treasure is beneath the coffin,’ said Bartholomew quickly, when Nonton raised his sword. ‘Obviously.’

‘Why obviously?’ demanded the cellarer.

‘Because Oxforde put the treasure down there himself, of course,’ explained Bartholomew acidly. ‘It is not going to be on top of his body, is it?’

‘Look at the hospital roof,’ said one
defensor
anxiously. ‘And the kitchen will be also lost unless we do something soon.’

‘In a moment.’ Nonton was not interested, all his attention on the grave.

‘Robert is deranged from living in the wild for weeks on end,’ said Bartholomew, fabricating wildly. ‘He is no longer rational. You cannot follow his—’

‘Enough!’ snapped Nonton. ‘Shut up, or I will kill you now.’

‘Do it,’ said Appletre. ‘We will have the hoard soon, and he is no longer of use to us.’

Nonton took a step towards Bartholomew, but another cheer from the hospital distracted him. A movement made them both turn – it was Robert leaving the building. Bartholomew frowned in confusion when the Abbot secured the door behind him with a bar. Then his stomach lurched when he recalled Appletre saying that the market-side entrance would also be locked, to exclude gatecrashers from the town.

‘He is going to leave them in there,’ he breathed, appalled. ‘To burn!’

He felt rather than saw Nonton’s sword flash towards him, and only just managed to duck away. The watchful
defensor
grabbed his arms and held him while Nonton took aim a second time, but a clod of earth struck the cellarer in the back and made him stagger.

‘My apologies,’ said Michael. ‘Hah! Come and look. We are almost there.’

Nonton nodded that the
defensor
was to keep hold of Bartholomew, and stepped towards the grave. Bones were flying out, along with pieces of shattered coffin, as Appletre worked with manic excitement.

‘Christ!’ said one soldier uneasily, holding up a piece of lid to show that the inside was scored with scratches. ‘Oxforde tried to claw his way out.’

‘The Devil raised him,’ cried Michael suddenly. ‘And anyone touching his grave will be cursed, so we had better run to the chapel to—’

‘Superstition,’ declared Nonton savagely when the
defensores
looked as though they might do it. ‘Ignore him. He is just trying to frighten you.’

The soldiers continued to edge away, but surged back when Appletre gave a loud whoop and catapulted to his feet, clutching a handful of glittering metal. He tossed it high into the air with a shriek of delight, and it rained down all around them.