Susanna GREGORY - The Lost Abbot

‘I have just learned that this chapel owns some genuine relics, Matthew,’ came William’s excited voice from behind him. Bartholomew supposed he should be grateful for the timely interruption, sure his colleagues would not approve of him petitioning an executed criminal to help with his unsatisfactory love life.

‘Of course we do,’ said Joan, flashing large teeth in a grin that verged on the predatory. ‘Would you like a private viewing? I know you are the Bishop’s Commissioners, so I am more than happy to clear the chapel to accommodate you.’

‘That would be kind,’ said William eagerly. ‘What do you have?’

Joan swelled with pride. ‘The flagstone where St Thomas Becket was standing when he was murdered, the green tunic he was wearing, and two enormous flasks of his blood.’

Bartholomew was sceptical, knowing that if every drop of ‘Becket Blood’ was genuine, the man would have had enough to fill a lake. Moreover, he was sure the saint would not have been wearing a green tunic when he was cut down.

‘Impressive,’ murmured William, pressing a coin into her hand.

‘You shall see them at once. Nothing is too much fuss for the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

‘Good,’ said William. ‘Because I am very interested in lucrative … I mean saintly relics. So is Matthew. He is a physician, who knows the healing value of such objects.’

‘A physician?’ asked Joan keenly. ‘Good! My poor knees have not been the same since Master Pyk disappeared, so you can treat them now he is gone.’

Before Bartholomew could inform her that he would not be in Peterborough long enough to see patients, she began to shoo the pilgrims out of the chapel and the graveyard, driving them before her like sheep. They were dismayed, but she ignored their objections, and it was not long until they were ousted. She was careful to leave Michael and Clippesby alone, though; they continued to kneel quietly, side by side.

‘There is the blood,’ said Joan, nodding proudly at two ornate vases that stood on the altar. Then she pointed to the reliquary that had been placed in an alcove beneath them. ‘And his tunic is in that nice box.’

‘Where is the flagstone?’ asked William keenly.

‘In front of the altar. The lump you see next to the candle is a bit that broke off when we dropped it. If you look carefully, you can see blood on it. It is the martyr’s.’

Bartholomew doubted that blood would still be in evidence after almost two hundred years. Fortunately, Joan did not notice his scepticism, because William enthused enough over her treasures for both of them.

‘May I touch the tunic?’ the friar begged. ‘Please?’

Joan gazed pointedly at his grimy hands, but her disapproval dissipated with the appearance of another coin. ‘On one condition: that your physician tends one of our inmates. She is in terrible pain, and I do not like to see such suffering.’

‘He will oblige you at once,’ said William, grabbing the tunic, and lifting it to his lips.

Bartholomew was not happy with William for volunteering his services in so cavalier a manner, but he could not refuse help to someone in need, so he followed Joan through one of the small doors in the north wall. William trailed at his heels, still gushing his delight at being allowed to touch the sainted Becket’s clothing. Beyond the door was a short passage, which emerged into a large, bright room that was flooded with sunlight. All three blinked: it was dazzling after the shadowy chapel.

‘This is our hall,’ explained Joan. ‘Where we eat and hold meetings. We keep the sick and elderly bedeswomen in the adjoining chamber.’

There were six beds in the second room. The residents brightened when Joan told them that she had found a physician, and clamoured their ailments at Bartholomew as he passed. Joan grabbed his arm and hauled him on, declaring that Lady Lullington must come first.

‘Yes, tend her, poor soul,’ called one crone. ‘It is unfair that she should endure such torments while her pig of a husband struts around enjoying himself with Abbot Robert. Or he did, before Robert vanished.’

‘Lullington does not even visit her,’ added another. ‘Despite her giving him six children.’

‘Shame on him,’ declared William, who rarely waited to hear the whole story before passing judgement. ‘Where is this hapless woman?’

‘Upstairs,’ replied Joan. ‘In a separate room, on account of her being a lady.’

William and Bartholomew followed her up a spiral staircase and were shown into another pleasant chamber, this one with pale green walls. It was a soothing, quiet place, although the woman who lay on the bed was grey and shrunken with pain. A priest knelt at her side, his face wet with tears. He was a young man with a mop of unruly brown curls, and his priestly robe was frayed and thin.

‘Gentle Trentham,’ the sick woman was whispering, forcing a smile as she touched his hand. ‘Do not grieve so. You know I am not afraid to die.’

The priest nodded without much conviction. He scrambled to his feet as Joan ushered in the visitors, and gripped Bartholomew’s arm roughly when informed that here was a medicus .

‘Please help her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It is not fair …’ He turned and stumbled from the room, choking back another sob.

‘He is too soft for his own good, blubbering every time one of us prepares to meet her Maker,’ said Joan with a sigh. ‘Yet he is a kindly soul, who takes his duties as chaplain seriously. I would not change him for one with a harder heart.’

‘Nor would I,’ whispered Lady Lullington softly.

The patient had probably not been large when she had been healthy, but illness had turned her skeletal. The hands that lay on the covers were almost translucent, and when she raised one to beckon Bartholomew towards her, he could see it was an effort.

‘Master Pyk told me that I would recover, but I am not inclined to believe him. What do you say? Am I dying?’

Bartholomew was all too familiar with the appearance of approaching death, and he could see it in Lady Lullington. ‘Yes. I am sorry.’

She smiled, although Joan inhaled sharply at his bluntness. ‘Thank you for your honesty. But I have been in agony for weeks now, and I am weary of it. Can you give me something to help, even if only for a little while?’

‘I will try. Tell me where it hurts.’

‘Everywhere. Please do not ask for details – I do not have the strength to tell you. Just give me the most powerful remedy you own.’

Bartholomew’s professional curiosity was piqued but he did not press her. Instead, he measured out a potent pain-dulling potion, using a dose he would never have given a patient who was likely to live. As it was, he wondered whether it might ease her into a sleep from which she would never wake. She took a sip, and evidently knew it too, for she looked at him with eyes that were full of silent gratitude.

‘Shall we fetch your husband, Lady Lullington?’ asked Joan, when the cup was empty.

The dying woman shook her head. ‘He has no place here,’ she said rather enigmatically. ‘But I would like young Trentham to come back. His presence soothes me.’

When she fell asleep, Bartholomew left, sorry that the lines of suffering in her face had not lessened. William followed him down the stairs, where the other inmates watched them pass in silence. Joan stopped to give a falsely cheerful report of the lady’s condition, but it was obvious that none of them believed her.

‘Did you have to be so free with the truth?’ admonished William, once they were in the chapel again. ‘She was a dignified soul, and you should have been kinder.’

Bartholomew had never been very good at misleading patients. ‘I doubt she would have thanked me for lying.’