‘If Gynewell does descend on us, I am sure we can devise a tale that will satisfy him. And if not … well, I have never liked him. It is time we had a new Bishop.’
There was nothing Bartholomew and Michael could do as they were bundled into a corner and told to stand with their hands on their heads, Bartholomew struggling to keep the knife hidden as he did so. The Abbot became businesslike. He snapped his fingers, and several more defensores appeared. He ordered them to toss Lullington’s body in the granary.
‘Then we can say that he started the fire as a way to end his own life,’ he explained. ‘But first, don these scholars’ clothes and make a show of leaving town. Keep your hoods up, so no one can see your faces. When they fail to arrive home, we shall blame their deaths on robbers.’
‘You will kill me?’ asked Michael reproachfully. ‘A fellow Benedictine?’
Robert shrugged. ‘Why not? I killed Pyk, and he was a better man than you. He would have been a useful asset with his sharp wits and local knowledge, but he said he wanted nothing to do with Oxforde’s treasure. He left me no choice but to tap him on the head.’
Bartholomew stared at him. Pyk had endured a lot more than a ‘tap’. Something else became clear, too.
‘Aurifabro’s shepherd saw you, and raved about it in his “delirium”,’ he said. ‘But Fletone did not die of mountain fever, and I suspect he was ill far longer than the few hours stipulated by his friends on the basis of his own amateur diagnosis. You poisoned him.’
‘I persuaded him to swallow something from Pyk’s medical bag,’ said Robert, full of arrogant disdain. ‘He obliged eagerly, the fool! Of course, it was Reginald’s idea.’
Bartholomew supposed that explained how the cutler had known that Fletone had been poisoned, and why he feared the same fate might have befallen him.
‘Did you know that Appletre hit Joan over the head with a relic?’ asked Michael in a final, desperate attempt to cause trouble. ‘A relic, Father Abbot, a holy thing.’
‘Botilbrig did it,’ stated Appletre. ‘He always was jealous that she chose you over him.’
Bartholomew was appalled that the bedesman should bear the brunt of Robert’s inevitable wrath. ‘Where is your conscience, Appletre? How can you sing in a church, knowing that you have committed such terrible crimes?’
‘Leave my singing out of it,’ snapped Appletre. He turned to Robert and gestured out of the window. ‘The townsfolk will see that smoke soon, and come to investigate. We should not be found with prisoners when they do.’
‘Then take these two outside and shoot them,’ said Robert. He scowled at Michael. ‘Call it revenge for you forcing me to buy Aurifabro’s damned paten in front of the whole town.’
‘Will you use that to pay for it?’ asked Appletre, nodding towards the jewels and the gold bar that lay on the table. ‘Given that we still do not have Oxforde’s treasure?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Robert coolly. ‘When this is over, I shall make a pilgrimage to Canterbury, to cleanse my soul. I have endured enough privation for the abbey, and I plan to use these to make the journey as pleasant as possible.’
‘Then your sins will not be expiated,’ warned Michael. ‘You–’
‘Kill them, and put their corpses with Lullington’s,’ said the Abbot briskly. ‘But do not forget to remove their clothes first.’
‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, while Michael began to mutter prayers of contrition, under no illusion about the ruthlessness of the men they were confronting. ‘You will never find the treasure, because it is not on Aurifabro’s land. You have been looking in the wrong place.’
‘Enough,’ said Appletre, indicating that the defensores were to take their captives away.
‘I know where it is,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘It is here. In the abbey.’
Chapter 15
The solar was silent after Bartholomew made his announcement. Through the window, he saw that the granary roof was alight at last, and that the wind was carrying sparks towards the thatched roof of St Thomas’s Hospital. He could hear singing and cheering, and its drunken quality meant the revellers were unlikely to realise the danger they were in until it was too late.
‘The physician is lying,’ said Appletre. ‘He is a stranger, so how can he know more than those of us who have lived here for years? Besides, the treasure cannot be in the abbey or we would have found it.’
Robert ignored him. ‘Tell me,’ he said to Bartholomew, steel in his voice.
‘Why should I? You will kill me the moment you know.’
Robert smiled unpleasantly. ‘Yes, but there are many ways to die, and I am sure you would not like your fat friend to pay the price for your reticence.’
‘I cannot tell you,’ said Bartholomew quickly, when one of the bowmen stepped forward with a knife. ‘I will have to show you. But I shall need Michael’s help.’
‘Why?’ asked Robert suspiciously.
Bartholomew met his glare steadily. ‘Because I cannot do it on my own.’
Robert stared at him for a moment, then addressed his precentor. ‘Go with them to see whether he is telling the truth. If he is, kill them quickly. If not, make him sorry he tried to play games.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Appletre.
‘To the hospital, to tell my flock about my abduction. And while I am there, I shall inform my nephew and Yvo – and Henry, because I hate his sickly piety – that they are to have the opportunity to serve God in some of our remoter properties. That will teach them to cross me.’
Robert held the precentor’s gaze for a moment, so it was clear that the threat applied to him as well, then strode away, an impressive figure in his fine habit. At a nod from Appletre, the defensores shoved Bartholomew and Michael down the stairs, where they met Nonton coming up to make his report. The cellarer was furious when he saw Bartholomew alive, and raised a fist, but Appletre knocked it down.
‘Not yet. The Abbot wants him to show us where Oxford hid his hoard.’
Nonton regarded the physician uncertainly. ‘Does he know?’
‘He claims he does. If he is telling the truth, we are to kill him cleanly. If not…’
Bartholomew began walking, so he would not have to look at the gloating anticipation in Nonton’s face. Michael came to trot at his side.
‘Do you really know, Matt, or are you bluffing?’
‘It is in Oxforde’s tomb.’
Michael stared at him. ‘How in God’s name did you deduce that?’
‘Because of something Simon the cowherd said – that he had seen Oxforde in his golden grave. I did not understand what he meant at the time–’
‘But Simon is addled!’ hissed Michael in alarm. ‘He was speaking gibberish.’
‘Actually, he made perfect sense. Think about it, Brother. What was Oxforde was doing when he was caught?’
Michael frowned. ‘Digging by the tomb of a silversmith, who was alleged to have interred some of his favourite jewellery in the plot next door.’
‘Exactly. Why would a successful thief bother with a few baubles that necessitated a lot of hard work? The answer is that he would not: Oxforde was actually hiding what he had already stolen. Then it was decided that he would be buried in the hole he himself had made…’
‘Because he was so evil it was thought that only hallowed ground could keep him from returning to terrorise the living.’ Michael stopped to ponder, but started moving again when an archer prodded him in the back. ‘So why did Oxforde write in his “prayer” that it was hidden on land now owned by Aurifabro?’