‘Are you happy here?’ interrupted Bartholomew. He recalled that Henry could be scathing about monks who ignored the vows they had taken regarding poverty.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Henry serenely. ‘I serve God, and that is all I ask of life.’
Michael snorted cynical disbelief at this claim, while an odd sound emerged from the bed containing William, too. Clippesby nodded his understanding, though.
‘I was surprised to see Welbyrn and Ramseye,’ Bartholomew forged on, before any of them could speak. ‘I thought they would have found greener pastures by now.’
‘They like it here. And they both improved once they were assigned duties that better suited their abilities. Ramseye is a highly skilled administrator, while Welbyrn grew more gentle. Neither is the tyrant you remember, Matthew.’
‘Welbyrn does not seem very gentle to me,’ said Michael, startled. ‘Indeed, his remarks and behaviour have revealed him to be spiteful, petty and miserly.’
Henry’s face clouded. ‘He has changed recently. Robert’s disappearance has upset him.’
‘He is certainly reluctant to acknowledge the possibility that the Abbot may be dead,’ agreed Michael. ‘To the point of belligerence.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Henry. ‘He has always been … vehement in his opinions, yet there is no real harm in him.’
Bartholomew recalled his childhood spats with Welbyrn. Most had been verbal, and they had only come to blows once – an encounter that had ended before more than a few cautious punches had been traded, when Welbyrn had tripped and hurt himself on a table.
‘Perhaps you will tell us what happened when Abbot Robert disappeared,’ said Michael.
‘Poor Robert,’ sighed Henry. ‘He and Pyk went to visit Aurifabro, but I did not know they had failed to return until Prior Yvo made the announcement the following morning.’
‘The following morning?’ echoed Michael. ‘Robert was not missed before then?’
‘The obedientiaries became alarmed that night, but as it was dark, they decided to wait for daylight before sending out a search party. The defensores set out at dawn, but came back empty-handed. I was with a group of monks who visited Aurifabro that afternoon, but he said Robert never arrived. He was worried about Pyk, though.’
‘He was not worried about Robert?’
‘No, he did not like Robert, but he admired Pyk, and sent his own mercenaries to hunt for them both. They had no more luck than our defensores.’
‘What else was done to find them?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The defensores searched other roads, and we still waylay travellers in the hope of news.’
‘I find this odd,’ mused Michael. ‘If a high-ranking scholar went missing, I would organise a hunt immediately. And I would continue that hunt until we found him.’
‘It is not for me to question the obedientiaries’ decisions, Brother.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But there is a difference between questioning decisions and making your concerns known.’
‘Appletre the precentor tried,’ said Henry, rather defensively. ‘He offered to take the defensores out again, but Ramseye said he would be wasting his time and that his uncle would come home when he was ready. But he never has.’
‘Do you think Robert is dead?’
‘Yes, I do. Ramseye and Yvo itch to take his place, and I doubt he would have left his throne unattended for so long, knowing that they circle like vultures.’
‘Then who might have killed him? Ramseye or Yvo? One of the monks?’
‘No,’ said Henry firmly. ‘We have all been praying for his safe return. You must look to the town for a culprit.’
‘Why? What did he do to Peterborough’s citizens to warrant being murdered?’
Henry hesitated, but then replied, although it clearly pained him to do so. ‘He set high rents for those who live in our houses and farms, and he was miserly with alms. But that is all I can tell you, Brother. You will have to interrogate someone else if you want to know more.’
The moment Henry had gone, William joined Michael in an assassination of his character. Michael had disliked him on sight, while William had detected an innate slyness that he said would make Henry a prime candidate for murderous behaviour. Bartholomew gaped at them.
‘Henry would never harm anyone,’ he objected. ‘He is a gentle, kindly–’
‘You have not met him in years,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He might have changed.’
‘The kitchen mouse does not like him, either,’ added Clippesby. ‘She said last night that she is unsure of his sincerity.’
‘There!’ pounced William, who only ever listened to Clippesby when the Dominican said something with which he agreed. ‘We all know that mice are never wrong.’
Bartholomew regarded them unhappily. Clippesby was astute, and his assessments were often shrewder than those of his saner colleagues. But then he cast his mind back to when he and Henry had been young, and he was sure they were wrong. Henry had never shown the slightest inclination to hurt anyone, verbally or physically. His lame leg had made him a natural target for bullies, but he had accepted the abuse with a quiet dignity that had eventually won their respect. Welbyrn’s hounding had persisted longer than the others’, and it had been that which had prompted Bartholomew to fight him.
‘Welbyrn is a villain, too,’ said Michael. ‘You will have to watch yourself around him, Matt, because he bears you a grudge. I could see it in his face last night.’
‘Because I broke his nose.’ Bartholomew shrugged at his companions’ astonishment. ‘At least, that is what he will tell you. The truth is that he was trying to hit me, but he lost his balance and fell over.’
‘You fought your schoolmasters, as well as exposing their intellectual shortcomings?’ asked Michael, wide eyed. ‘Lord! I am glad you were never a student of mine.’
The bells were ringing for prime, so the scholars walked to the church. Michael joined his Benedictine brethren in the chancel, while Bartholomew, William and Clippesby stood in the nave. As when he had been young, the physician’s eyes were drawn upwards, to the splendour of the painted ceiling, which was a riot of geometrical designs in gold, red and green. It soared above three tiers of sturdy Norman arches, all alive with carvings, statues and murals.
‘Things usually seem smaller as an adult than a child,’ he remarked. ‘But this church is even bigger than I remember it.’
‘The mouse said much the same thing,’ said Clippesby, nodding.
‘We had better keep him away from the Benedictines,’ muttered William. ‘They might relegate us to meaner quarters if they discover that our “saint” is just a plain old lunatic.’
‘Be kind to him, Father,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He was upset by Joan’s death.’
‘So was I,’ declared William. ‘Therefore, I have decided to catch her killer myself. I shall do it when I am not deciding who murdered Abbot Robert.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what would happen if the grubby Franciscan started throwing his weight around in the abbey. ‘Leave it to Michael.’
William looked angry. ‘He wants my help. Why do you think he made me a deputy Commissioner yesterday?’
Bartholomew suspected the ‘appointment’ would be withdrawn if the monk knew that William intended to act on it. He flailed around for a way to deter him, feeling Michael’s task was going to be difficult enough without William meddling.
‘It might be dangerous,’ was all he could manage on the spur of the moment.
William waved a dismissive hand. ‘I shall question the abbey’s servants – ask what they thought of Joan and Robert. And about some of our suspects, too – Aurifabro, Spalling and the obedientiaries. There can be no danger in that, and I imagine they will be more willing to confide in me – a lowly mendicant – than a lofty and ambitious Benedictine like Michael.’