And with those enigmatic words, he strode away.
When Bartholomew arrived at the guest house, he found that Michael, William and Clippesby had been entertaining Langelee.
‘I had better go,’ said the Master, setting his goblet on the table. ‘Spalling is holding another of his revolutionary rallies tonight.’
‘So?’ asked Michael waspishly. ‘Surely you cannot enjoy that sort of nonsense?’
‘No, but it is an opportunity to learn his plans, so I can pass them to the Sheriff. Spalling must be stopped. I will keep Cynric’s name out of my dispatches if I can.’
‘And if you cannot?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He might hang!’
‘Yes, but the alternative is to stand by while England erupts into open rebellion. The situation is bigger than any of us, and I am morally obliged to do whatever is necessary to nip it in the bud before it spreads.’
‘But–’ objected Bartholomew.
‘I have told Cynric what I plan to do,’ Langelee went on. ‘Which shows a good deal of trust on my part, because Spalling would certainly kill me if he thought I was a spy.’
‘Spalling is all wind,’ said William dismissively. ‘The abbey servants tell me that he does not give his own money to his cause, and that he will run away if there are signs that his fiery words are working.’
‘They may be right.’ Langelee turned to Michael. ‘However, the reason I came here tonight was to tell you something I overheard – a discussion between Spalling and some of his rabble. They plan to attack Aurifabro soon, in the hope that he can be driven off his lands. Unfortunately, Aurifabro has enough mercenaries to fight back.’
‘But Aurifabro’s mercenaries are skilled warriors,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘Spalling’s peasants will be cut to pieces. Can you do nothing to stop them?’
Langelee shook his head. ‘Spalling believes that Aurifabro is responsible for the Abbot’s disappearance, and thinks an invasion of his manor will force the matter into the open.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Michael. ‘Is Aurifabro the culprit?’
Langelee considered the question carefully. ‘Well, I am suspicious of the fact that Robert and Pyk were riding to his home when they vanished. Moreover, two days before, Spalling heard Robert yell at Aurifabro over the paten he was making.’
‘Walter the cook also heard a fierce argument,’ agreed William, ‘in which the Abbot accused Aurifabro of using substandard gold. Needless to say Aurifabro was offended, because he takes pride in his craft.’
Langelee stood. ‘I had better go before I am missed. I have offered to distribute fish stew to Spalling’s audience before his speech – which will take a while because a veritable horde is massing outside his house. If they all join his cause, he will command a significant army.’
‘Something the abbey already has, and so does Aurifabro,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘We are the only ones on our own.’
Once Langelee had gone, Clippesby and William began to tell Michael what they had learned during the course of the day.
‘I spent part of it with Prior Yvo,’ said Clippesby. He frowned in consternation. ‘He seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that I am a saint. I kept assuring him that I am not, but he would not listen.’
‘We discussed this,’ said William irritably. ‘We agreed that you would ignore him if he mentioned that particular fantasy. The poor man is sun-touched, and the best way to deal with his sad condition is by going along with everything he says.’
‘He took no notice of my denials anyway. Then he told me to kneel at the prie-dieu in his solar, and petition God to appoint him as Abbot. I told him I would petition God to choose the most worthy candidate.’
‘Thank you, Clippesby,’ said Michael. ‘I shall remember your support.’
Clippesby regarded him in incomprehension, then went on. ‘When I had finished, I met a chaffinch who told me that Robert had enjoyed reading Oxforde’s prayer. Apparently, Kirwell gave it to him in the expectation of immediate death. But Kirwell still lives.’
‘How did the chaffinch know about the prayer?’ asked Bartholomew, who had been under the impression that Kirwell had kept that particular matter close to his chest, and that while Inges and the bedesmen might know the tale, it was not general knowledge.
‘She overheard Robert telling Nonton the cellarer about it.’
‘He means a monk overheard the discussion and confided it to him,’ translated William scathingly. ‘However, what I learned is a lot more important.’
‘What?’ asked Michael impatiently, when the friar paused for dramatic effect.
‘That Welbyrn asked the cook to bake him a batch of Lombard slices the day Matthew became ill,’ replied William triumphantly. ‘Ergo, Welbyrn was the poisoner. I showed Walter the soggy ones that had been in the villain’s purse, and he recognised them at once. He also said there was nothing toxic about them when they left his kitchen.’
‘Then the soporific was added later,’ surmised Michael. ‘Sprinkled on, perhaps, as a coating.’
‘Do you think Welbyrn tried to kill you, then tossed himself in the well when he failed?’ asked William.
‘It is possible,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But leaving the cakes in his scrip was tantamount to an admission of guilt, and I am not sure he would have risked embarrassing his monastery so. Even if he had been losing his mind, I think he still would have known he should dispose of the incriminating evidence before killing himself.’
‘Then perhaps this “admission of guilt” was intended for his brethren’s eyes only,’ suggested William. ‘He was not to know his corpse would be examined by you.’
‘He was not a total fool,’ averred Michael. ‘Even in lunacy, he would have anticipated that his death would interest the Bishop’s Commissioners. And I do not believe it was suicide anyway. He was murdered – I feel it in my bones.’
They were silent for a while, straining for answers that would not come.
‘I also found out that Robert had some sort of hold over Reginald,’ William went on eventually. ‘The servants did not know what, but they said that Reginald did everything Robert asked, not out of friendship, but because he had no choice.’
‘And I have been regaled with tale after tale about Oxforde’s treasure,’ added Clippesby. ‘Some folk say it was never found; others claim he gave it all to the poor, or that it is funding Spalling’s rebellion; and the rest believe that Reginald dug it up and spent it all on himself. Regardless of the truth, the foxes say it is worth a fortune.’
William patted his hand patronisingly. ‘Well, if these foxes ever learn where it is, make sure you come to me first. Michaelhouse’s coffers are always empty.’
While his colleagues debated how much gold would be needed to solve the College’s ongoing financial problems, Bartholomew sat in the window. He tried to review what he had discovered about Robert, Pyk, Joan, Lady Lullington and Welbyrn, but tiredness meant he was less effective at locking Matilde from his thoughts than he had been earlier, and it was not long before he gave up and let her fill his mind.
What would he do if she appeared in Cambridge one day? Had too much time passed for them to be happy together? How much had she changed? And he knew she had, because the old Matilde would not have been afraid to speak to him. Of course, he had changed, too – he was more sober and reflective now, and it was possible that she might not like it.
And what about Julitta? Would he forget about her if Matilde appeared laden down with riches and offered to be his wife? Yet how could he abandon Julitta to a man who did not love her, and who might even do her harm? He thought about her silky brown hair and mischievous smile, and his stomach lurched.