Free The Lost Abbot by Susanna Gregory Page B

a say in its running. The right is called a corrody, and the recipient is a corrodian.’
    ‘I know,’ said Michael, irritated by the assumption that he was a bumpkin with no understanding of how his Order’s grander foundations worked.
    ‘So we are obliged to house Lullington and his wife in considerable splendour.’ Yvo either did not hear or chose to ignore Michael’s response. ‘He is also entitled to dine at my … at the
Abbot’s
table whenever he pleases, and to attend occasions like these.’
    ‘Please use French,’ snapped Lullington. ‘You know my Latin is poor.’
    ‘Then perhaps you should apply yourself a little more rigorously to learning it.’ Yvo gave a smile that might have taken the sting from his words had there been any kindness in it, but it was challenging, and Lullington bristled.
    ‘I shall report you to the King,’ threatened the knight. ‘I thought you wanted my backing when you stand for Abbot. You will not get it with that attitude.’
    Yvo raised his eyebrows. ‘Would you prefer Ramseye to be Abbot, then?’
    Lullington promptly became oily. ‘Let us not quarrel, Father Prior. You know I consider you by far the best choice. I support you without reservation.’
    ‘Of course he does,’ said Yvo in Latin. ‘He knows Ramseye will manoeuvre him out of the comfortable niche he has carved for himself here, whereas I shall let sleeping dogs lie. As did Robert. Ramseye might be bold enough to challenge the King’s right to appoint corrodians, but I am no fool.’
    ‘
French
, Yvo,’ said Lullington crossly. ‘Or English, if you must. I do not understand why you insist on Latin. Bishop Gynewell, who is a personal friend, speaks French to me.’
    ‘Bishop Gynewell is a personal friend of mine, too,’ said Michael. ‘And he will not be impressed when he hears that Peterborough’s officials are constantly at each other’s throats. He will appoint an outsider as Abbot. Indeed, I might put myself forward for the post, and he will certainly choose me, should I express an interest.’
    Yvo gaped at him, and so did Bartholomew, while Lullington looked the monk up and down appraisingly, as if deciding whether to shift his allegiance.
    ‘You cannot,’ said Bartholomew, eventually finding his voice. ‘The University—’
    ‘Will flounder without me,’ finished Michael comfortably. ‘Yes, I know. But I cannot devote myself to it for ever, and I have always said that my next post will be either an abbacy or a bishopric. Peterborough is not Ely, but it has potential.’
    ‘How is your wife, Sir John?’ asked Bartholomew, purely to silence Michael before he went any further. He was not sure Peterborough would be such a plum appointment, given the bitter disputes that were bubbling, and he wanted to tell his friend so before remarks were made that might later be difficult to retract.
    ‘What?’ asked Lullington, blinking. ‘What about her?’
    Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘She is unwell.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Lullington. He waved his hand rather carelessly. ‘But she will be with God soon, which is good, because the abbey resents the extra mouth to feed.’
    ‘Her death will ease our financial burden,’ agreed Welbyrn, overhearing and coming to voice an opinion. Bartholomew regarded them in disbelief, sure the frail figure did not eat much, and probably had not done for weeks. Before he could say so, Yvo clapped his hands.
    ‘Take your seats, please, gentleman. Time is passing.’
    Once everyone was sitting around a large table, Yvo began to make introductions. He began with the Unholy Trinity. ‘You have met our almoner, treasurer and cellarer.’
    Ramseye nodded a polite greeting, but Welbyrn and Nonton did not. Nonton was refilling his goblet again, while Welbyrn, presumably to show the Bishop’s Commissioners that he was an important man with heavy responsibilities, was scanning some documents.
    ‘My God!’ Ramseye exclaimed suddenly, gaping at Bartholomew.