‘Ask about those gold coins, too,’ suggested Alan. ‘I would like to know how they got from the priory coffers to a sack in the storehouse. They are definitely ours, because I recognise one or two irregularities in their minting.’
‘But it is obvious why they were in the granary and who put them there,’ stated de Lisle uncompromisingly. ‘William demanded payments for various expenses he claimed he had incurred as hosteller, then secreted the coins away for his own use.’
‘Then why did he not take them with him when he fled?’ asked Bartholomew, sure the explanation was not this simple.
De Lisle did not like his opinions challenged. ‘Perhaps he forgot them. Or perhaps he intends to collect them later.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘William will not return to the priory he abandoned in such mysterious circumstances. And I doubt whether a well-organised and efficient man like him would have forgotten the small fortune carefully stashed away.’
‘Then perhaps he did not have room in his saddlebags for all his possessions,’ said de Lisle, becoming exasperated. ‘He seems to have taken virtually everything else he owned.’
‘He does not own much anyway,’ said Alan. ‘Like me, he prefers to live a simple life, and has not accumulated a lot of personal goods.’
Bartholomew glanced at the rings on Alan’s hands, and recalled the rugs and wall-hangings that decorated his chamber, before turning his attention back to de Lisle. ‘I do not think that William would take a spare habit and a clean undershirt, but leave a fortune in gold because there was no room for it. He would dispense with the clothes and take the gold instead.’
De Lisle glowered at him. ‘Well, you tell us what happened, then. You repudiate anything I suggest, so you explain how William’s gold came to be in the storehouse, apparently abandoned.’
‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew. He saw de Lisle’s triumphant expression. ‘But I do not accept any of your reasons, either. Perhaps William packed his possessions, then realised that he did not have time to retrieve the granary gold. Perhaps Thomas was near the barn, receiving or delivering packages from unknown benefactors, and William was unable to enter it without being seen.’
‘He would have waited,’ said de Lisle immediately, determined that Bartholomew’s explanations should not escape criticism either.
‘Perhaps he did not have time,’ suggested Michael. ‘But Matt is right: we are missing an important piece of this puzzle regarding William and his coins. When we know how they came from William’s hands into the granary sack, I suspect we shall be on our way to solving that particular mystery. And Alan is right, too: William really does not own much.’
Bartholomew and de Lisle both regarded him doubtfully.
‘He is a Benedictine,’ said de Lisle eventually.
Michael glared. ‘Not all of us flagrantly dispense with the rule of poverty, you know. And William, for all his faults, is a man who is genuinely uninterested in material wealth.’
‘Robert was very interested in it, though,’ said Alan. ‘It pains me to tell you that since his death I have uncovered more than enough evidence to demonstrate that he was stealing from the priory. But I do not believe that William is dishonest.’
‘How do you explain Thomas’s book being in company with William’s money?’ demanded de Lisle of Bartholomew, ignoring Alan now that he had focused on someone to argue with. ‘And where did that chalice come from? Was it stolen from a church? I hope it was not one in my See.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should ask the other monks, to see whether any of them recognise it. Did you, Father Prior?’
‘I did not,’ said Alan. ‘But, as you know, I was a goldsmith before I took the cowl, and I appreciate fine work. That chalice is exquisite. Whoever owns it should be proud.’
‘What about the book?’ asked Michael.
‘Again, it shows excellent workmanship, but I have never seen it before.’
‘I wonder if it is from the library,’ mused Bartholomew.
Alan smiled apologetically. ‘Unfortunately, our librarian’s records are poor in some areas, and just because something is not listed does not mean we do not possess it. It could well be ours.’
‘Symon de Banneham,’ said de Lisle heavily. ‘Why you put a fellow like that in charge of your precious tomes is beyond my understanding. The man can lay his hands on nothing I ask for, and invariably hides in the latrines when he thinks someone might want to gain access to his territory.’
‘But he takes good care of our texts,’ argued Alan defensively.
‘Actually, he does not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He only likes the ones that sit neatly on shelves.’
‘Can none of your other brethren identify that book Michael found in the granary?’ asked de Lisle of Alan, impatient with the digression. ‘It is a beautiful thing, and surely one of them must have come across it in his studies.’
‘Symon tends to restrict our access to the library, too,’ confessed Alan uneasily. ‘He says there are too many delicate volumes that might be damaged by the casual or careless reader.’
‘What a crime!’ said Michael fervently. ‘Monks should be encouraged to study, not barred from it by the likes of Brother Symon.’
‘I would send them to you in Cambridge, if any of the community revealed an academic bent,’ said Alan mildly. ‘But Thomas told me that no one warranted that sort of treatment.’
‘That is because Thomas was illiterate,’ said de Lisle bluntly. ‘He could barely write his own name, and how he managed the business of sub-prior is totally beyond me. I suppose he had scribes to work for him. But still, some good will come of this. You can now appoint a good man as your deputy.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Alan in alarm, as though fearful that he would not be able to meet such a challenge.
‘We should make a start, before anyone else dies,’ said Michael, raising his large arms in a weary stretch. ‘I will ask the brethren about these treasures.’
‘I am not sure I fully understood everything that passed in there,’ said Bartholomew, walking quickly to catch up with Michael, who was heading for the refectory, where he knew the monks would be massing. It was approaching the time for the midday meal, and black-robed figures were already emerging from every nook and cranny. The deaths of Robert and Thomas, and the mysterious absence of William, were apparently not matters that warranted any loss of appetite for or devotion to the priory’s rich fare for most of the brethren.
Michael chortled at his friend’s confusion. ‘You understood a good deal more than Alan did. What do you think you missed?’
‘Are we to understand that the basis of this feud between de Lisle and Blanche is an ancient love affair that turned sour?’
Michael chuckled a second time. ‘It did more than turn sour, Matt: it produced Tysilia. Apparently, Blanche did all she could to rid herself of the brat before she married the Earl of Lancaster, but nothing worked. She produced a baby girl, despite her best attempts not to do so.’
‘I wonder if those attempts resulted in the impairment of Tysilia’s mind,’ mused Bartholomew, intrigued by the possibility. ‘It would certainly explain why she is not normal.’
‘Blanche foisted the child on de Lisle as soon as she could, then went about her business with the Earl.’
‘And the Earl did not notice that his allegedly virgin wife had recently been delivered of a child?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘I know that most courtiers dwell in worlds of their own, and that their views of reality are somewhat different from those of the rest of us, but it would be astonishing if that little detail slipped past him.’