The Lost Abbot by Susanna Gregory Page A

de Welbyrn,’ said Yvo. He flapped his hand in a way that was vaguely insulting, causing anger to flare in Welbyrn’s eyes. The flash of temper made Bartholomew wary of stepping forward to introduce himself – for all he knew, Welbyrn would object to being hailed by a rebellious former pupil. Or would Bartholomew even be remembered? Welbyrn must have taught hundreds of boys since then.
    ‘If there is no food here, we shall find a tavern,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Our journey has been long and difficult, and we need victuals to restore our vigour.’
    ‘The Swan is reputed to be the best,’ said Welbyrn, obviously pleased to be spared the expense of a meal. ‘It is not far.’
    ‘Our treasurer is always looking for ways to cut costs,’ said Yvo, treating Welbyrn to a smile that was wholly devoid of affection or approval.
    ‘Yes, and it is not easy,’ muttered Welbyrn. He turned to glare at a tall, aloof man with perfectly groomed hair and an immaculate habit. ‘Especially when
some
brethren dispense alms instead of saving for the uncertainties of the future.’
    ‘Of course I dispense alms,’ retorted the suave monk irritably. ‘I am the almoner.’
    ‘If people are hungry, they should work,’ said Welbyrn sourly. ‘And that includes those lazy devils who claim to be ill. A little hard labour would make them forget their afflictions. You know I am right, Ramseye.’
    Bartholomew regarded the almoner in surprise. He would never have recognised his second teacher, who had been a spotty youth with buck teeth and gangly limbs.
    ‘Ramseye?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you kin to Robert Ramseye, the Abbot?’
    ‘My uncle.’ Ramseye assumed an expression of sadness that was patently insincere. ‘We were very close, and I miss him terribly. It is a great pity he is dead.’
    ‘Dead?’ asked Michael blandly. ‘I understood he was only missing.’
    ‘Of course he is dead,’ said Yvo. ‘Why else would he fail to come home?’
    ‘He is alive,’ said Welbyrn between gritted teeth, his weary tone suggesting this was a debate that had been aired before. ‘He will return in his own time.’
    ‘He has been gone a month,’ Ramseye pointed out. ‘So it seems unlikely that this particular episode will have a happy ending. I wish it were otherwise, but …’ He held out his hands in a gesture of resigned helplessness.
    ‘We are holding an election to replace him next week,’ Yvo told Michael. ‘And—’
    ‘I still think that is a bad idea,’ interrupted Welbyrn. ‘He will be livid when he returns to find a usurper on his throne.’
    ‘Welbyrn is fond of Robert,’ Yvo explained to the visitors, while Ramseye patted the treasurer’s shoulder with artificial sympathy. ‘And he believes there is still room for hope, although those of us who are realists know when it is time to move on. I have put myself forward as a contender for the abbacy, and so has his nephew.’
    ‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, my understanding of the rules is that you cannot hold an election until the current incumbent has definitely vacated the post.
Ergo
, you will have to wait for the results of my enquiry before you can legally appoint a successor.’
    ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Welbyrn victoriously, while Yvo and Ramseye exchanged a glance that was difficult to interpret. ‘That means there will never be an election, because he is still alive.’
    ‘We should not be discussing this when Joan’s corpse lies before us,’ said Yvo, abruptly changing the subject, presumably to mask his annoyance. ‘Where is young Trentham? Did no one summon him? As chaplain, he must be the one to investigate her death.’
    ‘Find him,’ ordered Ramseye, snapping imperious fingers at a hovering novice. ‘But while we wait, perhaps our visitors will tell us what happened.’
    ‘She was brained by a relic,’ supplied William. ‘But we had nothing to do with it.’
    Yvo’s princely eyebrows shot up in surprise at this remark, while startled