Susanna GREGORY - The Lost Abbot

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘We would rather have had dinner.’

Yvo regarded him uncertainly, unsure whether he was making a joke.

‘You have missed it,’ said a tall, burly monk with a crooked nose. ‘What a pity for you.’

The sneering arrogance gave a sudden jolt to Bartholomew’s memory, of his final few weeks at school when two monks, not much older than he, had arrived to teach theology. He had not been interested in the subject, which had caused trouble, the only unpleasantness during an otherwise happy phase of his life. Their names had been Welbyrn and Ramseye, and he had all but forgotten the friction his antipathy had created. Was the bulky monk Welbyrn? If so, the intervening years had not treated him kindly, for he had been a handsome lad with an athletic figure. The monk who stood by the Prior had coarse features, oily hair and a sullenness that was unappealing.

‘This is our treasurer, John de Welbyrn,’ said Yvo. He flapped his hand in a way that was vaguely insulting, causing anger to flare in Welbyrn’s eyes. The flash of temper made Bartholomew wary of stepping forward to introduce himself – for all he knew, Welbyrn would object to being hailed by a rebellious former pupil. Or would Bartholomew even be remembered? Welbyrn must have taught hundreds of boys since then.

‘If there is no food here, we shall find a tavern,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Our journey has been long and difficult, and we need victuals to restore our vigour.’

‘The Swan is reputed to be the best,’ said Welbyrn, obviously pleased to be spared the expense of a meal. ‘It is not far.’

‘Our treasurer is always looking for ways to cut costs,’ said Yvo, treating Welbyrn to a smile that was wholly devoid of affection or approval.

‘Yes, and it is not easy,’ muttered Welbyrn. He turned to glare at a tall, aloof man with perfectly groomed hair and an immaculate habit. ‘Especially when some brethren dispense alms instead of saving for the uncertainties of the future.’

‘Of course I dispense alms,’ retorted the suave monk irritably. ‘I am the almoner.’

‘If people are hungry, they should work,’ said Welbyrn sourly. ‘And that includes those lazy devils who claim to be ill. A little hard labour would make them forget their afflictions. You know I am right, Ramseye.’

Bartholomew regarded the almoner in surprise. He would never have recognised his second teacher, who had been a spotty youth with buck teeth and gangly limbs.

‘Ramseye?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you kin to Robert Ramseye, the Abbot?’

‘My uncle.’ Ramseye assumed an expression of sadness that was patently insincere. ‘We were very close, and I miss him terribly. It is a great pity he is dead.’

‘Dead?’ asked Michael blandly. ‘I understood he was only missing.’

‘Of course he is dead,’ said Yvo. ‘Why else would he fail to come home?’

‘He is alive,’ said Welbyrn between gritted teeth, his weary tone suggesting this was a debate that had been aired before. ‘He will return in his own time.’

‘He has been gone a month,’ Ramseye pointed out. ‘So it seems unlikely that this particular episode will have a happy ending. I wish it were otherwise, but …’ He held out his hands in a gesture of resigned helplessness.

‘We are holding an election to replace him next week,’ Yvo told Michael. ‘And–’

‘I still think that is a bad idea,’ interrupted Welbyrn. ‘He will be livid when he returns to find a usurper on his throne.’

‘Welbyrn is fond of Robert,’ Yvo explained to the visitors, while Ramseye patted the treasurer’s shoulder with artificial sympathy. ‘And he believes there is still room for hope, although those of us who are realists know when it is time to move on. I have put myself forward as a contender for the abbacy, and so has his nephew.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, my understanding of the rules is that you cannot hold an election until the current incumbent has definitely vacated the post. Ergo , you will have to wait for the results of my enquiry before you can legally appoint a successor.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Welbyrn victoriously, while Yvo and Ramseye exchanged a glance that was difficult to interpret. ‘That means there will never be an election, because he is still alive.’

‘We should not be discussing this when Joan’s corpse lies before us,’ said Yvo, abruptly changing the subject, presumably to mask his annoyance. ‘Where is young Trentham? Did no one summon him? As chaplain, he must be the one to investigate her death.’

‘Find him,’ ordered Ramseye, snapping imperious fingers at a hovering novice. ‘But while we wait, perhaps our visitors will tell us what happened.’

‘She was brained by a relic,’ supplied William. ‘But we had nothing to do with it.’

Yvo’s princely eyebrows shot up in surprise at this remark, while startled glances were traded between the other Benedictines.

‘We did not imagine that you had,’ drawled Ramseye. He turned to Michael. ‘I am astonished to find you in company with friars and seculars. Could you not find any Benedictines to act as fellow Commissioners? The death of an abbot is hardly something we should share with other Orders.’

‘They are colleagues from Michaelhouse,’ explained Michael shortly, resenting being told what to do. ‘I trust them implicitly.’

‘Of course he does,’ said William, preening. ‘He often seeks my opinion, especially about theology. There is little I do not know about the King of Sciences.’

‘Except its name, apparently,’ said Ramseye scathingly. ‘It is more usually known as the Queen of Sciences.’

‘A king is higher than a queen,’ retorted William, flushing. ‘So I elevated it.’

‘I see,’ said Ramseye, and Bartholomew’s heart sank. It would not take long for the almoner to expose William’s intellectual shortcomings, after which the Commission was unlikely to be taken seriously. ‘However, it originates from … what is he doing?’

Everyone looked towards the altar, where Clippesby was muttering to a spider. Worse, he was cocking his head, as if he could hear what it was saying in reply. His face was pale, and his eyes wilder than they had been earlier, indicating that bloody murder committed in a holy place had upset him. Bartholomew’s heart sank further still: Clippesby distressed was likely to be odder than usual until the shock wore off.

‘He is a saint in the making,’ whispered Michael, so the Dominican would not hear and deny it. ‘I brought him with me, so that his holiness can touch your foundation, too.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while William looked set to contradict, outraged that beatification should be bestowed on a member of an Order that was not his own.

‘Then we had better make sure he has the best available quarters,’ said Welbyrn, gazing at Clippesby with awe. ‘We do not want saints vexed with us because of their shabby treatment.’

‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘However, you must ensure his guardians are treated well, too. Quite aside from the fact that we are the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

When the abbey officials eventually turned their attention to Joan, the scholars were unimpressed, as none of them did or said anything useful. Michael was on the verge of suggesting that the Sheriff be summoned, on the grounds that someone was needed who would do more than tut and sigh, when Trentham arrived.

‘I was upstairs with Lady Lullington,’ the young priest explained breathlessly. ‘I did not know what had happened until the novice told me. Poor Sister Joan! I can scarcely believe it.’

‘Is Lady Lullington dead yet?’ asked Welbyrn with distasteful eagerness. ‘Do you know what she has left the abbey in her will?’