A Summer of Discontent (22 page)

Michael had not been alone in wanting to speak to those who had known the murdered men. Stretton had been ordered by Blanche
to begin his enquiries. Reluctantly, the beefy canon abandoned the haven of the priory and ventured into the town to talk
to anyone who admitted to knowing Glovere. It was not long before he found his way to a tavern, and was escorted back to the
priory shortly after nones in no state to investigate anything for the rest of the day. Northburgh felt no such compunction
to pursue his inquisitorial duties. Instead, he summoned Henry to his bedside, and quizzed him relentlessly on various symptoms
and ailments, which Henry tolerated with a patience Bartholomew could never have emulated.

As Bartholomew flexed his cramped fingers and gazed
across the pleasant green sward of the cemetery, he saw a familiar figure hurry along one of the paths to stand under the
shade of a particularly large tree, almost directly under the window through which he was looking. It was Tysilia de Apsley,
the Bishop’s wanton ‘niece’.

Knowing Tysilia’s reputation for securing lovers, Bartholomew supposed there was only one reason why she should make her way
through the long grass to stand under shrubs when she could be somewhere a good deal more comfortable. The place she had chosen
was a superb location for a tryst, because unless someone had spotted her making her way there, or happened to be leaning
out of one of the library windows, she would never have been seen. Bartholomew smiled to himself, amused that she was already
up to her old tricks. He supposed that the stern Lady Blanche was no more able to control the wilful young woman than the
nuns at St Radegund’s Convent in Cambridge or the lepers of Stourbridge had been.

Bartholomew was about to resume his reading when a flicker of movement among the bushes on the opposite side of the cemetery
caught his eye. He watched in fascination as the branches parted and the priory’s hosteller emerged, looking around him in
a way that Bartholomew could only describe as furtive. William fluffed up his hair and ran nervous hands down his habit, to
brush away twigs or grass, before gazing around slowly to ensure that he was alone. Then Bartholomew saw him take a circuitous
route through the graves until he reached the tree under which Tysilia had taken refuge. Moments later, there came the hum
of a muttered conversation.

Because both Tysilia and William had taken some care not to be seen, Bartholomew concluded that their meeting did not have
the blessing of Lady Blanche or the Prior. He predicted that William was in for a good time, while Tysilia would be able to
add a Benedictine to her list of conquests – assuming that she had not already notched up some of them already. He was surprised
that William had succumbed
to Tysilia’s charms; he had imagined the hosteller to have more self control than that. But whatever their intentions, it
was none of Bartholomew’s affair. He gave his back a quick rub and turned back to his book, quickly losing himself in its
subject matter and forgetting whatever was happening below his window. His work was interrupted by a voice that was raised
in irritation.

‘But I
am
acting normally! It is
you
who is acting oddly. How could you not, with that hair?’

This was followed by an urgent whisper by William, apparently ordering Tysilia to keep her voice down. Bartholomew leaned
forward, and glanced over the sill. He could see the top of Tysilia’s head, although William was concealed by leaves.

‘And I will
not
be quiet!’ Tysilia’s furious voice went on. ‘Why should I?’

William gave a heavy sigh and spoke in a loud voice himself, exasperation apparently winning over the need for silence. ‘Because
you do not want anyone to hear us here together, and neither do I. Think of your reputation.’

‘My reproduction has nothing to do with you!’ replied Tysilia indignantly. ‘I can look after myself.’

‘Then think of mine,’ snapped William. ‘My reputation, that is. What do you think people will say if they see us together
like this?’

‘Why should they think anything amiss?’ demanded Tysilia petulantly. ‘It is not as if we are doing anything wrong. We are
only talking.’

‘That is beside the point,’ said William, and Bartholomew could hear the frustration in his voice. ‘No one will believe we
are here innocently.’

‘Then I will just tell them that we are,’ announced Tysilia, as if that would solve everything. ‘They will believe me. Who
are we talking about, anyway? Who knows we are here? I told no one we were meeting. Did you?’

‘No,’ sighed William wearily. ‘Of course not. I was speaking hypothetically.’

‘Speaking hypocritically is not nice,’ said Tysilia firmly. ‘Lady Blanche told me so. And if you intend to speak that way
to me, I shall leave.’

‘I was not being hypocritical,’ said William, sounding bewildered. Bartholomew smiled. He had engaged in similar conversations
with Tysilia himself, and he knew how frustrating the woman’s slow wits and ignorance could be. He imagined that William was
already regretting meeting her. ‘But never mind that. Tell me what you have discovered.’

‘Discovered about what?’ asked Tysilia, sounding baffled in her turn.

‘About what we discussed. About Glovere’s death.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘I remember now. No.’

‘No,
what
?’ snapped William, sounding agitated. His voice was now louder than Tysilia’s, all pretence at whispering abandoned.

‘No, I have discovered nothing about Glovere’s death,’ said Tysilia slowly, enunciating every word as though she were speaking
to a dim-witted child. ‘I even asked Lady Blanche whether she had killed him, but she said she had not.’

‘You did
what
?’ exploded William. Bartholomew started to laugh, moving backwards so that he would not be heard, although he suspected
that they were both far too engrossed in each other to detect any sounds of mirth from above.

It was Tysilia’s turn to sound aggravated. ‘You told me to learn anything I could about Glovere’s death, so I asked people
about it. How am I supposed to find things out unless I ask? And, as I have just told you, I demanded of Blanche whether she
had killed Glovere herself, just as you told me she might have done, but she said she had not. So, she is innocent after all.’

Bartholomew heard a groan. The physician knew how William felt. Conversations with Tysilia did tend to make one wonder whether
one was dreaming.

‘I asked you to be discreet and to
listen
,’ said William tiredly. ‘I did not mean you to interrogate Blanche. You
cannot begin to imagine the harm you have done. Now she will know that I suspect her, and she will be on her guard. She may
even decide that I should go the same way as the servant she so despised.’

‘But I did not tell her it was
you
who told me to ask,’ protested Tysilia, with a pout in her voice. ‘And I
was
discreet. I took care to lower my voice when I put my question.’

‘Well, that is a relief,’ said William heavily. ‘And how did she respond to your clever probing?’

‘Oh, she was a little annoyed,’ said Tysilia cheerfully. ‘She asked me who had put such an idea into my head, and I told her
it had occurred to me all by myself, with no prompting from anyone. Then she told me I should never ask such a question again,
and that I should leave the matter of Glovere well alone unless I wanted to end up in Abraham’s bosom.’

‘She said that?’ asked William in alarm.

‘Yes. I told her I knew no one called Abraham, but that if I met him I would take care that he did not embrace me. What did
she mean, do you think?’

‘She meant that your clumsy enquiries could result in your death,’ said William flatly.

‘Oh,’ said Tysilia. There was silence as she mulled over this piece of information. When she spoke again, it sounded as though
Blanche’s words and William’s translation had finally shaken her thick-skinned resilience. ‘She was threatening to kill me?’

‘I do not know,’ said William. ‘If she killed Glovere, then yes, she may well have been threatening to throw you in the river,
too. If she did not, then she may simply have been warning you not to meddle in matters that might prove dangerous.’

‘Well, that is all right then,’ said Tysilia, sounding relieved. ‘Blanche told me she did not kill Glovere, and so she cannot
have been threatening to kill me.’ Bartholomew could hear that she was pleased with her logic.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. What had possessed William to use the doubtful and dangerous talents of a woman like Tysilia
as his spy in Blanche’s household? And what had possessed Tysilia to agree to such an arrangement? Did William have evidence
that Blanche had murdered Glovere and arranged for the Bishop to be accused of the crime, or was the hosteller merely speculating?
Blanche had been at her estates in Huntingdon when Glovere had died. Was her absence deliberate, so that no one would think
she
was responsible for the death of her own steward? Glovere had not been one of her most prized servants by all accounts, and
it was possible that she was delighted to be rid of him and strike a blow against her enemy the Bishop at the same time.

And what about the presence of Blanche with the gypsies in the Mermaid Inn the day before? Was the King’s kinswoman more deeply
embroiled in Glovere’s murder than they had thought, and had she engaged the travellers to help her? Were William’s suspicions
justified? Bartholomew knew Michael did not believe that it had been Blanche wrapped in Goran’s cloak, but Bartholomew knew
what he had seen.

There was something distasteful in listening to others’ conversation, even though it involved a discussion about the murder
Michael had been charged to solve. So, when Tysilia started to regale William with ghoulishly intimate details of Blanche’s
private life, Bartholomew turned his attention back to his book, trying to ignore the embarrassing revelations that were being
made below. Suddenly, there was an angry yelp from Tysilia, a sharp rustling of leaves and then silence. Bartholomew surmised
that William had slapped one hand over her mouth and had dragged her deeper into the undergrowth. Puzzled, he peered across
the cemetery to see what had alarmed them.

Michael, looking inordinately large in his flowing black robe, was ambling among the tombstones. His casual stance suggested
that he was merely taking the air, although
Bartholomew knew the monk was not the kind of man to indulge in exercise without good reason. Occasionally he went for a
walk when the weather was fine, but he complained bitterly if any distance was covered. Left to his own devices, Michael was
far more likely to remain in his room, to work on University business or to enjoy the food and drink he invariably had stashed
there.

So, what was he doing in the cemetery, looking as though he were taking a stroll? Fascinated, Bartholomew watched him saunter
right past the tree where William and Tysilia were hiding, then cut across the grass to a box-like monument against the south
wall of the cathedral. Carefully selecting the side that was hidden from casual observers – unless they happened to be hiding
in the trees opposite or watching from the library window – he settled himself on a convenient ledge and turned his face towards
the sun.

‘Oh, look!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia sigh. ‘It is that handsome Brother Michael!’

William’s reaction to this description was much the same as Bartholomew’s. ‘Where? I can only see the Michael who lives in
Cambridge.’

‘That is the one,’ Tysilia said wistfully. ‘He is the most attractive man I have seen in this city. I wonder why I did not
notice his charms before. I have only recently become aware of the fact that he is worthy of my affections.’

‘Michael?’ asked William, sounding as incredulous as Bartholomew felt. ‘Are you jesting with me?’

‘Why would I jest about such a thing,’ said Tysilia, sounding genuinely puzzled. ‘Michael is all a woman could ask for in
a man, and I intend to have him.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ whispered William in alarm. ‘He will hear you.’

‘I do not mind,’ said Tysilia dreamily. ‘I would like him to know that I am fond of him.’

‘Then you can reveal your unlikely infatuation at your peril, but not now. We do not want him to know we are here, having
this secret meeting, do we?’

‘No,’ admitted Tysilia. ‘Because then it would no longer be a secret, and that would be a pity. But I wonder why he is here.
I hope he is not meeting another lover. I would not like that at all.’

Bartholomew also had no idea why the monk should choose to bask in the rays of the late afternoon sun while hiding behind
a mortuary monument, until he spotted yet another figure walking among the graves. The physician grinned, wondering whether
he would see half the priory and its guests emerging to engage in ‘secret’ assignations in the cemetery, if he watched long
enough. This time, it was de Lisle.

The Bishop was a man imbued with plenty of energy, and he walked briskly and purposefully to the place where Michael waited.
At the last moment, he stopped and spun around, gazing back the way he had come, looking for signs that he had been followed.
Apparently satisfied that he had not, he quickly stepped behind Michael’s mausoleum; pushing himself close to the monk, he
leaned out around the wall and looked back a second time. Cynric, Bartholomew thought, would have been horrified at such a
poor display of stealth. His book now completely forgotten, Bartholomew watched with interest.

‘That is my uncle!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia whisper loudly. ‘He is the Bishop of Ely, you know.’

‘What was that?’ demanded de Lisle immediately, gazing intently in her direction. ‘Did you hear a voice, Brother?’

‘A bird,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘Do not worry, my lord. No one else will be in the cemetery at this hour. My brethren are
already massing outside the refectory to wait for the dinner bell, while Lady Blanche and her household are down by the river,
where it is cooler.’

‘Well?’ demanded the Bishop. He made no attempt to keep his voice down as he addressed Michael. Bartholomew wondered whether
de Lisle was as devious a plotter as he would have everyone believe, if he did not know that it was
safer to speak quietly when meeting agents in graveyards – just because he thought he had not been followed did not mean
that he could not be heard. ‘What have you learned so far about Glovere?’