Susanna GREGORY - The Lost Abbot

‘Our people would have defeated Aurifabro had you followed my advice,’ he snapped. ‘ You lost that fight, not them.’ He glared at Nonton. ‘And you did not help by running away.’

‘Those particular defensores are not warriors,’ replied Nonton coolly. ‘However, these are, so annoy them at your peril. But enough chat. Come with me. And remember that any tricks will result in a dead medicus .’

Bartholomew and Cynric were bundled towards the granary, a stalwart structure that stood near the west wall. It had a large door at the front, and a smaller one at the rear. The bulk of its grain had been used the previous winter, although a few mounds of corn remained, along with several heaps of empty sacks and some bales of straw. It had a dry, musty smell, and the dust that was kicked up by the soldiers’ feet made Bartholomew cough. Nonton fastened him to one of the wooden pillars that supported the roof, where the hard, tight little knots began to cut off the circulation in his hands. Spalling tied Cynric to another.

‘There will be a revolution, Cynric,’ said Spalling softly. ‘Anyone with eyes can see that it is coming, not just here, but across the whole country. You will have your dream of social justice eventually, so do not take our defeat here too badly.’

‘But you will not be part of it,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘You encourage others to pour their possessions into the common pot, but you do not do it yourself. You are a hypocrite! You strut around pretending to be one of us, but your clothes are always clean, and you eat like a king.’

‘Clippesby saw through you,’ said Bartholomew, speaking quickly as Spalling took an angry step towards the Welshman. ‘He guessed you would flee at the first sign of trouble.’

‘The saint?’ asked Spalling uneasily, and his advance faltered. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ snarled Cynric. ‘He knows that the highway thieves are men under your control. He is disgusted, and will have plenty to say when he speaks to the Bishop.’

Cynric was bluffing, because Clippesby had drawn no such conclusions, and would not take them to Gynewell if he had, but Spalling was horrified. His guilty face spoke volumes, and more answers flooded into in Bartholomew’s mind.

‘So the attacks on our journey to Peterborough were not attempts to rob us,’ he surmised. ‘They were to prevent the Bishop’s Commissioner from reaching his destination. No other travellers were ambushed five times, but your men kept failing, so had to try again and again.’

‘But we fought them off with ease,’ said Cynric in disdain. ‘Just as we did when they tried to kill us by the Dragon Tree. And I know why. It is because you were in command, and you are a pathetic warrior who should not be allowed anywhere near a sword.’

‘There is nothing wrong with my leadership or my fighting skills,’ snapped Spalling, nettled. He glared at Nonton. ‘We failed because you provided me with inadequate soldiers.’

‘It was you who Brother Michael heard cursing in French outside the Swan, too,’ Cynric went on. ‘You probably intended to stage another ambush, but you lost courage and–’

‘I did not lose courage,’ objected Spalling, shooting an uneasy glance at Nonton, whose face was a mask of disgust. ‘I merely decided that an attack was unnecessary. Michael heard me, which was enough to make him conclude that it was Aurifabro’s mercenaries lurking in the dark with malevolent intentions. My objective was achieved without violence.’

‘Why are you working with the abbey?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to point out that Michael had concluded nothing of the kind. ‘Its monks excommunicated you.’

‘For money, of course,’ said Cynric before the rebel could reply for himself. ‘They paid him to do their bidding. And he is the perfect choice – he has a history of fighting them, so no one suspects they are in cahoots. How could I have been deceived?’

‘You played right into my hands.’ Spalling seized the opportunity to boast, less to gloat over Cynric than to remind Nonton of how clever he had been. ‘You and Langelee are the only ones who can fight, and I neatly deprived Michael of your protection. It should have been easy to dispatch him inside the abbey.’

‘And have everyone know that we killed the Bishop’s Commissioner?’ asked Nonton acidly, in response to Spalling’s challenging look. ‘You are a damned fool if you think that was ever an option! But enough chat. Light the fires, and let us make an end to this business.’

‘What fires?’ asked Cynric, narrowing his eyes.

‘The ones that will dispose of inconvenient bodies,’ replied Nonton shortly.

By craning his neck, Bartholomew could see that the defensores had prepared several piles of kindling, placed so they would ignite the remaining grain. Spalling crouched down and fiddled with a tinderbox. The moment the first heap began to smoulder, he moved to the second. He was kneeling by the third when Nonton hit him over the head with a cudgel. Bartholomew winced at the sound of smashing bone.

‘What did you do that for?’ gasped Cynric, shocked. ‘He was on your side!’

‘He is unpredictable, unreliable and greedy, and I was never comfortable with him as an ally. Do not bother calling for help, by the way. No one will hear you.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘You cannot–’

‘Out, quick,’ Nonton ordered his men. ‘And tell Appletre to sing louder. I doubt anyone will hear screams from the hospital, but one cannot be too careful.’

‘Appletre,’ said Bartholomew, as the door slammed, and there came the sound of a bar being placed across it. ‘I should have guessed that he was involved.’

The granary roof and walls had been well soaked by summer showers, so would take a while to ignite, but the sacks, grain and straw were bone dry. Bartholomew strained desperately against his bonds as smoke billowed towards him, but Nonton had known what he was doing when he had tied the knots, and they held fast. He sagged in defeat.

‘No, do not give up,’ shouted Cynric urgently. ‘Keep trying to fight loose. And while you do, tell me why you suspected Appletre.’

Bartholomew resumed his struggles, although he knew it was hopeless. ‘Because of the way he hared off to fetch Yvo when we were on the Torpe road. He knew the Prior would not help, but he insisted on going anyway. It was to consult with his accomplices.’

‘Is that all?’ Cynric was hurling himself from side to side, frantically trying to tear free.

‘No. He offered to go with the defensores to collect Pyk, which was unnecessary and odd. And when Spalling’s rabble passed him on the road, his invitation to hunt for rotting corpses was meant to ensure they kept going – it was an offer he knew would be refused. Finally, there was his dogged insistence that I join the celebrations in the hospital – to keep me out of the way.’

Henry had insisted, too, he thought but could not bring himself to say. He coughed as a waft of smoke swirled towards him.

‘Do not worry,’ came a quiet voice at his side. It was Clippesby. ‘I am here.’

‘Thank God!’ cried Cynric. ‘Cut us loose, Father. Do you have a knife?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Clippesby, startled. ‘I never carry one, because–’

‘Take the one from my boot. Quickly!’

The Dominican began to do as he was told, at the same time explaining how he came to be there.

‘The defensores took me to pray in the church, but while we were walking there, I saw you being dragged in here. The moment they left – there is an advantage in being considered a saint, as they did not hesitate when I asked them to leave me alone – I came to rescue you. There is a back door … I heard everything Spalling and Nonton said.’