The Lost Abbot by Susanna Gregory Page A

could not have controlled us obedientiaries – we are opinionated fellows, as you may have noticed. But I think he meant well, on the whole.’
    ‘Hardly resounding praise,’ murmured Michael, as they followed the precentor to the refectory. ‘But kinder than anything anyone else has said. Unfortunately, I suspect Appletre is one of those who looks for the good in everyone, so I am disinclined to believe him. Abbot Robert was an ugly customer, and that is all there is to it.’
    The refectory was a long building near the cloister. There was a high table on a dais for the obedientiaries, and Prior Yvo took the Abbot’s chair at its head. Welbyrn and Nonton formed a sullen, formidable presence on his left, while Ramseye sat smiling enigmatically on his right with Appletre. The scent of expensive perfume preceded the arrival of Lullington, who informed the precentor in braying French that he would have to move, as Lullington himself intended to sit near Yvo that morning. Appletre joined the lesser officials at the far end of the table, openly relieved to be away from the centre of power and the tense politics that surged around it.
    Like the rest of the abbey, the refectory was well designed and clean, with religious murals placed to inspire the brethren to holy thoughts as they ate. It did not take long for the visitors to see that the artist had wasted his time. The meal was sumptuous, and the monks’ attention was fixed entirely on the platters that were starting to arrive.
    Bartholomew had never been very interested in fine food, mostly because he was unused to it – a life spent in universities had seen to that – and he had never really understood Michael’s devotion to his stomach. He began to appreciate it that day, though, and knew he needed to pace himself, or the rich fare would make him ill. Michael and William showed no such compunction, and fell to with undisguised relish. Bartholomew exchanged a wry smile with Clippesby, who was also inclined to be abstemious.
    ‘Lombard slices!’ whooped Michael in delight, making a grab for the plate that was being carried past by a servant. ‘My favourite. How very civilised to serve them for breakfast.’
    As it was a Lenten day, meat was forbidden, but there were plenty of alternatives in the form of eggs, cheese, and fish. Bartholomew was somewhat startled to note that there were also kidneys, small balls of spiced minced liver and roasted chicken.
    ‘Those are not meat,’ explained Michael, his words almost indecipherable through his bulging cheeks. Meals were usually taken in silence, but an exception had been made that day in deference to the presence of the Bishop’s Commissioners.
    ‘No?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘What are they then? Vegetables?’
    ‘Of course not. What I meant was they are not meat for the purposes of our diet. The Rule of St Benedict prohibits eating the
flesh-meat of quadrupeds
on Lenten days. Well, chickens are not quadrupeds, and liver and kidneys are not flesh-meat.’
    ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking this a rather liberal interpretation. Offal and chicken were meat as far as he was concerned, and the medical authorities he respected would agree. He watched the brethren tuck in. ‘Regardless, it is not healthy to consume so much at breakfast. The Greek physician Galen says—’
    ‘Galen was a miserable old ascetic who probably lived a long but very unhappy life,’ interrupted Michael, snatching up an egg and inserting it whole into his mouth, as an act of defiance. ‘I would rather die young and happy.’
    ‘Then you are going the right way about it. You will never be an abbot or a bishop if—’
    ‘What are you two discussing down there?’ called Prior Yvo affably. The scholars had been allocated places at a table in the body of the hall, but near the dais, a ploy which meant that the obedientiaries loomed over them, symbolically asserting their superiority over mere Bishop’s Commissioners.
    ‘Spalling