Cynric nodded proudly. ‘But I am willing to leave him for a while, to help you with Matilde.’
‘Perhaps I should accept. It would keep you out of trouble.’
‘You mean with Spalling? But he is right, boy. The poor have been poor long enough, and it is time to put matters right. You will join us eventually – you are not a man to sit by while injustices are done. I would not have stayed with you so long if you were.’
‘There is a difference between wanting justice and insurgency, Cynric. Besides, Spalling does not seem entirely rational to me.’
‘Only because you are poisoned and your wits are awry. But here he is, come to collect me. We are off to Aurifabro’s shop again, to berate him for suppressing his workers.’
‘You mean the workers who say he is a generous employer?’ Bartholomew held up his hands in surrender when he saw Cynric ready to argue; he did not feel equal to debating the morality of England’s social order that morning, and wished he had held his tongue.
Spalling had taken care with his dress that day, and had donned an outfit reminiscent of a ploughboy’s, although his fine calfskin boots had never been anywhere near a field.
‘Want to come, physician?’ he asked amiably. ‘You will enjoy watching that villain Aurifabro denounced for his greed and miserliness.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew coolly.
‘You prefer to let me tackle him on your behalf,’ nodded Spalling, although without rancour. ‘I heard Oxforde was the same. Did you know that he stole from the rich in order to ease the lives of Peterborough’s peasants?’
‘I think you will find he stole from the rich in order to benefit himself,’ countered Bartholomew, disinclined to listen to such fanciful nonsense.
‘That is a tale put about by his detractors,’ argued Spalling. ‘And if he was not a saint, then why have there been miracles at his tomb?’
He flung an arm across Cynric’s shoulders and they strode away together, leaving the physician wondering how Spalling could have drawn such wild conclusions about Oxforde, whose ruthless brutality was a matter of record. With a sigh, he supposed it was a case of a man changing history to suit himself.
Although Michael had promised that Bartholomew would be spared more meals in the refectory, he insisted that they attend the one that was to be held mid-morning, because Yvo was going to make an announcement about Welbyrn, and he wanted all his Michaelhouse colleagues there as observers. It was a sombre affair. Welbyrn’s seat was ominously empty, and everyone kept glancing at it, stunned by what had happened. Appletre wept copiously, but Yvo informed the scholars sotto voce that he always cried when someone died, so they should ignore him. Henry sat next to the sobbing precentor, murmuring comforting words.
Bartholomew was reluctant to eat, partly because Matilde had robbed him of his appetite, but mostly because he did not fancy being poisoned a second time. He took some bread and cheese, but only after the obedientiaries had sampled them first. He was aware of Michael, William and Clippesby doing the same, although such restraint was clearly difficult for the portly Senior Proctor.
‘Welbyrn’s accident comes as a great shock to us all,’ Yvo proclaimed at the end of the meal. ‘Yet perhaps it is a blessed release. He has not been himself these last few weeks.’
‘No,’ agreed Ramseye. ‘As exemplified by his insistence that the Abbot is still alive.’
‘And his short temper,’ added Appletre, hand to the front of his habit, where the treasurer had laid hold of it during his explosion in the chapter house.
‘How did he die, Father Prior?’ called someone from the body of the hall. ‘Only there have been rumours…’
‘I am sure there have,’ said Yvo curtly. ‘But the truth is this: Welbyrn went to St Leonard’s well in the dark, but the steps are slippery, and he fell. A tragic mishap.’
‘And I would remind you all that idle gossip is a sin and should be beneath you,’ added Nonton sternly, casting a cool but bleary eye around the gathering that had more than one monk blushing in shame.
‘Welbyrn will be missed,’ declared Yvo, scowling at the cellarer for voicing something he wished he had said himself. ‘God rest his soul.’
‘What about his replacement?’ asked Ramseye.
Bartholomew was surprised by the almoner’s dispassionate response to the death of a man he had known all his life – and who had been backing his bid to be Abbot into the bargain. Henry shook his head in silent disapproval at the question, and there were raised eyebrows and grimaces from the other monks, although it was impossible to tell whether they thought like Henry, or felt relief that a more stable man could now be appointed to the post.
‘Appletre will be treasurer,’ announced Yvo. ‘He can start today.’
He glanced at Lullington, who nodded encouragingly. The knight was resplendent in another set of new clothes, and had doused himself so liberally with perfume that he had attracted flies. Meanwhile, Appletre was gazing at the Prior in horror.
‘But I do not know anything about money,’ he objected. ‘There must be a better choice than me. For example, Henry, who is–’
‘I have made my decision,’ interrupted Yvo. ‘You will be our new treasurer, and I shall take over the precentor’s duties myself, concurrently with being Prior.’
‘But you cannot sing!’ cried Appletre, appalled.
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Yvo. ‘I have a beautiful voice, and it is time it was heard.’
‘No!’ Appletre was becoming tearful again. ‘I cannot, not so soon after Welbyrn. It is not right. Please! Let us have time to mourn.’
‘We will mourn,’ said Yvo coolly. ‘However, an abbey’s finances wait for no man, so you will assume your duties with immediate effect.’
‘Do as he says, Appletre,’ advised Ramseye. ‘It will only be for three days, because the new Abbot will rescind this decision.’
Appletre smiled gratefully in response to his meaningful look, and Bartholomew supposed it was one way of securing a vote. Not everyone was impressed, however.
‘You intend the election to go ahead?’ asked Henry, for once forgetting himself and speaking without due deference. ‘Even though two high-ranking officers now lie dead? Surely it is now even more important to wait for the Bishop’s Commissioners to–’
‘Welbyrn’s death is irrelevant to who becomes Abbot,’ interrupted Lullington.
‘But Father Prior,’ objected Henry, standing up and glancing at his fellow monks as he did so. All were nodding their support. ‘I do not feel this is right.’
He had ignored the corrodian, but it was Lullington who replied anyway. ‘These are uncertain times, and we need an abbot to lead us. A prior does not carry the same authority, and we cannot afford to be perceived as weak.’
‘That is right,’ agreed Yvo. ‘Now sit down, Henry, before I make you spend the rest of the year in the vegetable garden.’
Henry sat abruptly.
‘We had better inspect Welbyrn’s body,’ said Michael, in the silence that followed. ‘The Bishop will want to know exactly what happened to him. Did you leave everything as you found it, as I asked, so I may draw upon the expertise of my Corpse Examiner?’
‘We did,’ said Ramseye in distaste. ‘Although I cannot see why such unpleasantness is necessary. Must Bartholomew be given licence to paw Welbyrn’s mortal remains?’
‘He will be able to tell whether there has been foul play,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I cannot begin to count the number of killers we have caught with his skills and my wits. No wicked villain has ever gained the better of us. And none ever will.’
His words echoed around the refectory like a challenge, and Bartholomew closed his eyes. Such hubris was asking for someone to make another assault on their lives.