Susanna GREGORY: The Lost Abbot

‘Is that so?’ asked Brother Michael coldly. He was a Benedictine himself, tall, generous of girth and whose ‘rough travelling habit’ was cut from the finest cloth. He had lank brown hair that was trimmed carefully around a perfectly round tonsure, and expressive green eyes. Besides teaching theology, he was also the University’s Senior Proctor, and through the years he had manoeuvred himself into a position of considerable authority. He had not found it easy to surrender his hard-won power to his deputy.

Worse yet, one of the King’s favourite ministers was in the process of founding a new College, and Michael was uneasy with the entire venture – the unseemly speed with which matters were being pushed along, the fact that only lawyers would be permitted to enrol there, and the resentment that was brewing in the rest of the University, which felt it was being bulldozed. Michael had promised to write Winwick Hall’s charter himself, to prevent the founder from slipping anything sly into it, but if the return journey took as long as the outward one, he would be too late. The resulting strain did not render him an amiable travelling companion.

‘Yes,’ William flashed back. ‘Benedictines are venal and greedy, and everyone knows it. And if you do not believe me, then look at the size and grandeur of this abbey.’

The Franciscan had a point. It had been four hundred years since the Black Monks had arrived in Peterborough, which had given them ample time to build themselves one of the finest monasteries in the country. Michael was disinclined to admit it, though.

‘You should not have brought him,’ he said testily to Langelee. ‘He has been nothing but trouble the entire way.’

‘How dare you–’ began William hotly.

‘I have already explained why he had to come,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘He upset a lot of people by accusing the Deputy Sheriff of corruption last month, and this jaunt will allow time for tempers to cool.’

‘But I was right,’ objected William, stung. ‘He is corrupt.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But you should not have made the point in a public sermon. Your remarks almost caused a riot.’

‘And me?’ asked Clippesby, the last of the four Fellows to be travelling. He was a Dominican, who spoke to animals and claimed they answered back. Most people considered him insane, although Bartholomew often thought that the gentle, compassionate friar was more rational than the rest of the Fellows put together. ‘Why did you drag me all the way out here? I made no slurs against deputy sheriffs.’

‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But Thelnetham will be Acting Master while I am away, and he does not like you – it seemed prudent to eliminate a source of discord. Besides, just think of all the new creatures you will meet. It is an opportunity to expand your social life.’

Clippesby shot him a baleful look. He did not usually let his colleagues’ opinions of his eccentricities perturb him, but even his serene tolerance had been put to the test on the journey. ‘It was inconvenient, Master. I had hoped to complete my theological treatise on rabbits this summer. Now it will remain unfinished until Christmas.’

‘A lunatic discourse, full of the heresy that your Order loves,’ scoffed William. He harboured a passionate aversion to Dominicans, and it was fortunate that Clippesby usually ignored his bigoted eccentricities or blood would have been spilled.

‘Do not waste your time on essays, Clippesby,’ advised Langelee. ‘I never read anything my fellow philosophers write. Their ramblings are either boring or nonsensical. Or both.’

His Fellows exchanged wry glances.

‘And Matt?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Surely it was unnecessary to force him to come? He is needed at home, where he has huge numbers of patients relying on him.’

‘There are two reasons why he could not be left,’ replied Langelee crisply. ‘Julitta Holm and Gonville Hall.’

Bartholomew felt himself blush. He had believed his affection for Julitta was secret, and had been mortified to learn that half the town knew how he felt. He would have to be more discreet in future, because her friendship meant a lot to him, and he was unwilling to give it up. She was wife to Surgeon Holm, a selfish, arrogant man with a negligible grasp of medicine who was unworthy of her in every way.

‘Julitta,’ mused William. ‘Her husband might prefer the company of men, but he still objects to being cuckolded. And matrimony is a sacred–’

‘Gonville Hall is the greater crime,’ Langelee cut in disapprovingly. He scowled at Bartholomew. ‘You did not have to fail all its medical students at their final disputations last month.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘They could not answer any of my questions. Would you want to be treated by them, if you were ill or injured?’

‘I am rarely ill, and only poor warriors are injured,’ countered Langelee, missing the point.

‘Besides, if you had wanted me out of Cambridge, why could I not have gone to Clare instead?’ Bartholomew went on. ‘I have heard many good things about the place, and I had intended to visit it this summer.’

‘It is overrated,’ declared Michael briskly. ‘You will enjoy yourself far more in Peterborough, and I was right to encourage the Master to bring you.’ He kicked his horse into a canter before Bartholomew could inform him that he had disliked his plans being hijacked. ‘If we hurry, we shall be in time for dinner, and I am famished.’

‘He is always famished,’ muttered Cynric. The Welsh book-bearer was the sixth and last member of the party. ‘And it is hardly natural.’

Cynric was more friend than servant to Bartholomew, but although he was usually eager for adventure, he had not wanted to go to Peterborough either. He had carved a pleasant life for himself in Cambridge, with an agreeable wife, a job that entailed little real work, and like-minded cronies with whom to set the world to rights over jugs of ale of an evening. It was only loyalty to the Fellows that had induced him to make the journey, afraid that unless he was there, they might come to harm. And given the number of attacks they had fended off, his concern had been justified.

Bartholomew was glad to talk about something other than Julitta and his conflict with Gonville Hall. ‘There will be scant time for feasting once we arrive in Peterborough. Michael will have to carry out his orders.’

These ‘orders’ were the real reason they were there: to find out what happened to Abbot Robert, who left his monastery a month before, and had not been seen or heard of since.

The little town of Peterborough was dominated by its abbey. Within its precincts, the church, chapter house and cloisters were the largest structures, but it also boasted a number of other buildings that turned it into a self-contained village – refectory, dormitory, almonry, sacristy, kitchens, bakery, brewery, pantries, stables and lodgings for guests and servants.

Bartholomew had attended the monastery school, and as they rode through the town’s outskirts he found some parts reassuringly familiar. Others, he was sure he had never seen before, but that was to be expected; he had been twelve when he had left, which had been more years ago than he cared to remember.

‘If Brother Michael had not accepted the honour of being made a canon of Lincoln Cathedral two years ago,’ Cynric muttered resentfully in Bartholomew’s ear, ‘we would not be in this position now. And I do not like Peterborough.’

Bartholomew laughed. Despite his reluctance to leave, the journey had been good for him. The nagging fatigue that had dogged him all term had gone, and while he missed Julitta and worried about his patients, he was fitter and more relaxed than he had been in months.