A Summer of Discontent

Colne, Huntingdonshire; February 1354

T
HE PEOPLE WHO HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO LIVE IN THE
tiny Fenland village of Colne led miserable lives. Their homes were little more than hovels, with walls of woven hazel twigs
that had been plastered over with mud from the nearby river. The crude thatching on the roofs leaked, allowing water to pool
on the beaten-earth floors and to deposit irregular and unpleasant drips on the huts’ inhabitants. Winter rain and biting
winds had stripped away some of the walls’ mud, so that Ralph could see the orange flicker of a hearth fire through them in
the darkness. He shifted his position, uncomfortable after the long wait in the frigid chill of a February night. In one of
the houses, a dog started to bark. Its yaps were half-hearted, as though it, like its owners, was too dispirited to care much
about someone lurking suspiciously in the shadows outside.

Ralph huddled more deeply into his cloak, grateful that he worked for a man who provided clothes that kept him warm through
the worst of winter and boots that were equal to wading through the thick, sucking muck of the country’s roads. The same could
not be said of the people who lived in the cottages he watched. These were villeins, bound by law for their entire lives to
the estates of Lady Blanche de Wake. If their own crops failed and they had not stored enough food for the winter, then they
would starve. Blanche was not obliged to help them, and they were not permitted to leave their vermin-infested homes to seek
a better life elsewhere. Ralph sniffed softly, thinking that what he was about to do might even help the poor wretches in
their cramped, stinking
huts, shivering near meagre fires lit with stolen wood.

He had been watching them for the best part of a week now, and knew their daily routine: they trudged home from labouring
in Lady Blanche’s stony fields, ate whatever they had managed to poach or steal from her woods – the grain saved from the
last harvest had long since gone – and then fell into an exhausted slumber until the first glimmer of light in the east heralded
the beginning of another dreary day. Ralph’s careful observations had yielded a great deal of information about the people
of Colne and their lives. For example, he knew that the folk in the cottage to his left had feasted on a pigeon that night;
the inhabitants of the other two had made do with a thin stew of nettles, a handful of dried beans and some onion skins that
had been intended for Blanche’s pigs.

Lady Blanche’s manor house stood in a thicket of scrubby trees some distance away, near the swollen stream that bubbled through
the dull winter-brown fields. Ralph had managed to slip inside it earlier that day, when the reeve was out overseeing the
peasants at their work. Although Blanche was not currently in residence, the house was always kept in readiness for her. There
were clean rushes on the floor, sprinkled with fresh herbs to keep them sweet smelling, and the kitchens were well stocked.
Blanche liked her food, and the reeve saw no reason to let standards slip just because his mistress was away. He and his family
had certainly not eaten onion skins and nettles that evening.

Ralph turned his attention back to the cottages. The occupants had been sleeping for a while now and Colne was well off the
beaten track: no one was likely to come along and disturb him. It was time. Stiffly, because he had been waiting for some
hours, Ralph stood and brushed dead leaves and twigs from his cloak. He flexed his limbs, then made his way to the nearest
of the three hovels, treading softly. The dog whined, and Ralph grimaced, sensing that he would have to be quick if he did
not want to be caught red-handed.

He had thought carefully about what he was going to do,
painstakingly planning and making preparations. He had already packed the thatched roofs with dried grass, and had placed
small bundles of twigs at strategic points around the backs of the hovels. He would have used straw, but was afraid one of
the cottagers would notice if he made too many obvious changes.

The dog barked again when he struck the tinder, but he ignored it as he set the tiny flame to the first clump of dry grass.
It caught quickly, then smoked and hissed as the flames licked up the damp thatch. When he was sure it would not blow out,
he moved to the second bundle of kindling, and then the next. The dog barked a third time, more urgently now, unsettled by
the odour of smoke and the snap of gently smouldering roof. Someone swore at it, there was a thud, and its barks became yelps.
Hurrying, Ralph moved to the next cottage, where he set the dancing flame to a bundle of tinder-dry sticks.

He did not have time to reach the third house. The dog would not be silenced and, as the occupants of the first hovel were
torn from their exhausted slumbers, they became aware that the top of their home was full of thick white smoke and that the
crackle of burning was not coming from the logs in the hearth. A child started to scream in terror, while the adults poured
out of the house, yelling in alarm. Their shouts woke their neighbours, who tumbled into the icy night air, rubbing the sleep
from their eyes.

By now, the fire had taken a good hold of the first home, and the roof of the second released tendrils of smoke: already it
was too late to save it. Sparks danced through the darkness to land on the roof of the third, and soon that was alight, also.
Ralph ducked away from the peasants’ sudden fevered, but futile, attempts to douse the flames, watching from a safe distance.
No amount of water would save the houses now, and any pails or pots that might have been used were inside, being consumed
by the very flames they might have helped to quench.

The cottagers milled around in helpless confusion. The
men poked and jabbed desperately at the burning thatches with hoes and spades, but their efforts only served to make the
fire burn more fiercely. The women stood with their children clinging to their skirts and stared in silent dismay. For them,
life had been almost unbearably hard. Now it would be harder still.

Ralph watched them for a while longer, savouring the sharp, choking stench of burning wood and the crackling roar of the flames
that devoured the last of the thatching. The people were silhouetted against the orange pyre, breath pluming like fog in the
bitter winter night. The reeve and his family came running from the manor, woken by the shouts of alarm and the fountain of
glittering sparks that flew into the black sky, but there was little they could do to help. Ralph heard the reeve demand to
know which household had left a fire burning while they slept, and saw two families regarding the third in silent reproach.
He smiled in satisfaction. The cottagers who had warmed themselves with stolen kindling, and had rashly fallen asleep to its
comforting heat, would be blamed for the mishap. No one would suspect foul play. Ralph was now free to leave.

Tom Glovere finished his ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He was aware that the atmosphere in the Lamb Inn
was icy, despite the warmth of the summer evening, but he did not care. The inhabitants of Ely were too complacent and willing
to believe in the good in people. Glovere intended to cure them of such foolery.

‘So,’ said the landlord, turning away from Glovere to address another of his patrons. ‘It is a good summer we are having,
Master Leycestre. Long, hot days are excellent for gathering the harvest.’

‘Do not try to change the subject, Barbour,’ snapped Glovere nastily, as he set his cup on the table to be refilled. ‘We were
discussing the spate of burglaries that have plagued
our city for the last few days: the locksmith was relieved of six groats last night, while the Cordwainers Guild had three
silver pieces stolen the day before.’

‘We know all this,’ said Barbour wearily. ‘My customers and I do not need you to tell us the story a second time. And we do
not need you to make nasty accusations about our fellow citizens, either.’

Glovere smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. ‘Then you should expect these thefts to continue. Whoever is breaking into
our homes and making off with our gold is a
local
man. He knows which houses are likely to contain the most money, the best way to enter them, and even how to pacify the dogs.
The locksmith’s hound is a mean-spirited brute, and yet it did not so much as growl when its home was entered in the depths
of the night. That, my friends, is because the dog
knew
the burglar.’ He sat back, confident that he had made his point.

The landlord regarded Glovere with dislike. It was growing late, so most of his patrons had already gone to their beds, but
a dozen or so remained, enjoying the cool, sweet ale that made the Lamb a popular place to be on a sultry summer night. The
sun had set in a blaze of orange and gold, and the shadows of dusk were gathering, dark and velvety. The air smelled of mown
hay, and of the ripe crops that waited in the fields to be harvested. It was a beautiful evening, and Barbour thought Glovere
was wrong to pollute it by creating an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. He turned to Leycestre again, and enquired politely
after the health of his nephews in the hope that Glovere would grow bored and leave.

‘Why would an Ely citizen suddenly resort to burgling the houses in his own town?’ asked Leycestre, ignoring the landlord’s
attempt to change the subject and addressing the gleefully malicious Glovere. ‘Your accusations make no sense. I keep telling
you that it is
gypsies
who are responsible for these thefts. The burglaries started the day after those folk arrived, and that speaks for itself.’
He folded his arms and looked around him belligerently, sure that no one could fail to agree.

Barbour sighed heartily, wishing that Leycestre would keep his unfounded opinions to himself, too. The gypsies liked their
ale just as much as the next man, and the landlord did not want to lose valuable customers just because Leycestre had taken
against them.

Glovere sneered. ‘The gypsies would not burgle us. They come here every year to help with the harvest, and they have never
stolen anything before. You just do not want to face up to the truth: the culprit is a townsman who will be known to us all.
You mark my words.’ He tapped his goblet on the table. ‘Another ale, Barbour.’

‘No,’ said Barbour, angry with both his customers. ‘You have had enough of my ale.’

Glovere gazed at him, the scornful expression fading from his face. He was not an attractive man – his complexion was florid
and flaky, and the uneven whiskers that sprouted from his cheeks and chin made him appear unwashed and unsavoury, despite
his neat and expensive clothes. ‘I am not drunk. Give me another ale.’

‘I did not say you were drunk,’ said Barbour coolly. ‘I said you have had enough of my ale. You have a vicious tongue and
I do not want you wagging it any longer in my tavern.’

Glovere glowered at the Lamb’s other patrons, his eyes bright with malice. He held the lofty position of steward, after all,
while they were mere labourers, and it galled him to think that they should be served Barbour’s ale while he was refused.
‘I am not the only one who tells what he knows. Leycestre revealed that it was Agnes Fitzpayne who raided the Prior’s peach
tree last year, while Adam Clymme told us that Will Mackerell ate his neighbour’s cat.’