Susanna GREGORY - The Lost Abbot

Eventually, they arrived at the town centre, which comprised a marketplace bordered by handsome houses on three sides and abbey buildings on the fourth. The square was alive with activity. Wooden stalls with colourful roofs stood in neat rows, selling goods that ranged from cakes and candles to bread and baskets. Bartholomew braced himself, expecting it to smell like the one in Cambridge – a brutal combination of dung, urine, stagnant water and rotting offal – so he was pleasantly surprised when all he could detect was fresh straw and baking bread.

‘Here is the Abbey Gate,’ said Botilbrig, stopping outside a handsome edifice. With a somewhat proprietary air, he addressed the gaggle of people who had stopped to stare at the newcomers. ‘These are the Bishop’s Commissioners, and I am showing them what’s what.’

‘They took their time,’ muttered one woman. ‘We expected them weeks ago.’

‘We came as fast as we could,’ said William indignantly.

‘There is a chapel by the gate; we should go there first, to give thanks for our safe arrival,’ said Clippesby, earning himself a murmur of approval from the onlookers for his piety, although that had not been his intention.

‘Of course,’ said William, unwilling to be seen as less devout than a Dominican. Then he frowned as he peered at it. ‘Are there shops in its undercroft? There are! Blasphemy!’

‘That is St Thomas’s Hospital, and there are shops below it because it is run by greedy bedeswomen,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘The workshop on the corner is owned by Reginald the cutler, who is as foul a villain as ever walked the Earth. He is quite rich, though, so Abbot Robert never minded spending time in his company.’

‘Clippesby is right: we should say a prayer,’ said Michael, raising mystified eyebrows at Botilbrig’s peculiar medley of revelations. ‘It has been a difficult journey, after all.’

‘Why?’ asked Botilbrig. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Amongst other calamities, we were attacked five times by robbers,’ replied William. ‘Ones who spoke French – I heard them quite distinctly. They must live in this town, as they only became a serious nuisance during the last few miles.’

‘I see,’ said Botilbrig. ‘Then you should indeed give thanks, but do not do it at St Thomas’s. That place pays homage to executed felons and is full of false relics. Come to the Hospital of St Leonard instead.’

‘Peterborough has two hospitals?’ said William, impressed, although Bartholomew had already told him as much. Clearly the friar had not trusted his colleague’s memory.

‘They were founded for lepers,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘Although St Leonard’s is now used to house bedesmen, like me. St Thomas’s still takes lepers, though, which should make you think twice about stepping inside its chapel.’

‘There has not been a case of leprosy in this country for years,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘These unfortunates will have contracted another skin disease, such as–’

‘Where is St Leonard’s?’ asked William, before they could be regaled with a list. The physician was difficult to stop once he started to hold forth about medicine, and not all his discourses made for pleasant listening.

‘A short walk west of the town,’ replied Botilbrig proudly. ‘We have a holy well, too, along with a man who is a hundred and forty-three years old. We will let you touch him if you put a few coins in the oblations box.’

‘Is that possible, Matthew?’ asked William. ‘Do people really live to such a great age? I know they did in the Bible, but those were different times.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, although the doubt was clear in his voice.

Botilbrig regarded him coolly. ‘Of course it is possible. Now come along. It is not far – just straight through the town, out the other side and along a–’

‘We are not leaving now we have arrived at last,’ interrupted Langelee firmly. ‘So my clerics will pray in this chapel. They can visit St Leonard’s another time.’

‘They will be sorry,’ warned Botilbrig. ‘It is a dark and gloomy place, not like pretty St Leonard’s. I was saying to Master Spalling only last night that–’

‘Spalling?’ pounced Langelee. ‘Where does he live?’

‘In the large house out by the parish church,’ replied Botilbrig, regarding him curiously. ‘Why? Do you know him? If so, you had better not tell the monks.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

‘Because they hate him.’ Botilbrig spoke as if this were something he should know.

‘And why do they hate him?’ pressed Michael, struggling for patience.

‘Because he says it is wrong for abbeys, nobles and merchants to have lots of money when ordinary folk have none,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘I am loyal to the abbey, of course, but it is difficult to dislike Spalling. He is very popular in the town.’

‘Perhaps I will join you at his home, Master,’ said Cynric to Langelee. The book-bearer had radical views on social justice, and Spalling sounded like his kind of man.

‘And perhaps I will stay in the abbey,’ countered Langelee. ‘I do not recall Spalling harbouring controversial opinions when I met him in York.’

‘You are in luck,’ said Botilbrig with a grin. ‘Because here he comes now. I shall be able to introduce you.’

The scholars turned to see a man striding towards them. He had an impressive mane of long yellow hair, while his beard was full, bushy and gold. His enormous size, along with the fact that he was wearing a simple tunic in the kind of brown homespun favoured by working men, made him an arresting figure. He was trailed by a host of people, and when he stopped walking, so did they, shuffling to a standstill at his heels.

‘Another greedy monk, come to devour the fruits of our labour,’ he spat, blue eyes blazing as he glared at Michael. ‘I thought our troubles had eased when the Death reduced their number from sixty-four to thirty-two, but they have been increasing since, and will soon be back to their former strength.’

‘They lost half their number to plague?’ asked Bartholomew with quiet compassion. The disease that had ravaged the country, eliminating entire communities and striking indiscriminately at old, young, rich and poor had been a terrible experience. He could still recall the helplessness that had gripped him when all his remedies and treatments failed, and he had been forced to watch much-loved patients die one after another.

‘Yes, and it is a pity it was not more,’ declared Spalling uncompromisingly. ‘They deserve to rot in Hell for the crimes they commit against the common man.’

Behind him, there was a murmur of approval, although Botilbrig looked uncomfortable, caught between his admiration for a man with attractive opinions and his loyalty to the place that housed and fed him.

‘And this is your friend, Master?’ asked Michael of Langelee, all frosty hauteur. ‘Your taste in companions has always been dubious, but you have excelled yourself this time.’

Spalling frowned at Langelee. ‘You are an acquaintance of mine? I do not recognise you.’

‘I am Master of Michaelhouse now,’ explained Langelee, also struggling to see something familiar in Spalling, and thus indicating that the evening they had enjoyed together had been wilder than he had led his colleagues to believe. ‘But we met when I was working for the Archbishop of York.’

‘That wily old scoundrel!’ snorted Spalling. ‘You did the right thing by abandoning him and opting for the life of a poor scholar. You are welcome in my house, sir.’

Langelee regarded him coolly; he had admired and respected his Archbishop. ‘Thank you, but I think I must remain with my Fellows. They will only get themselves into trouble without me to supervise them.’