A Summer of Discontent (31 page)

‘Did William have any baggage with him when he left?’ asked Michael.

Bukton nodded. ‘Two saddlebags. I thought nothing of it then, but now I see they must have been crammed with his possessions.
He has probably taken that ten marks from the hosteller’s fund, too.’

‘He probably has,’ said Alan wearily. ‘It would not be the first time a greedy monk has made off with his priory’s treasure.’

‘But I find it curious that he should choose now to do so,’ said Michael, puzzled. He was about to add something more, when
the door opened a second time, and Symon the librarian stood there, his chest heaving from a brisk run and his eyes wild with
fright.

‘I have just seen him,’ he babbled. ‘It can only just have happened – we all saw him not long ago.’

‘Who?’ snapped Alan, becoming tired of his monks’ eccentric ways of breaking news. ‘What are you talking about? Take a deep
breath and tell us what has happened in a coherent manner. We have had more than enough hysteria for one day: look at what
it has done to poor Thomas.’

‘Robert,’ gasped Symon. ‘You sent him to search for William, if you recall. When I was in the library helping Henry, I glanced
out of the window and saw him making off towards the vineyards, presumably as part of his hunt.’

‘Presumably,’ said Alan dryly. ‘He had orders to do so. But then I learned that he, too, had questions to answer, and so I
sent Julian to fetch him back.’

‘I know,’ said Symon, agitation making him verge on the insubordinate. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself
and tell his story slowly. ‘I was present when you issued that order. And it occurred to me, as I stood in the library and
watched Robert striking out towards the vineyard, that Julian might have missed him, and that he had no idea he was wanted—’

‘I
did
miss him,’ declared Julian resentfully. ‘I looked everywhere for him and William both. In the heat of the day, too!’

‘Do not interrupt!’ snapped Symon. He turned back to Alan and adopted a less cantankerous tone. ‘When I finished providing
Henry with the books he requested, I left the library and went straight away to the vineyard, intending to tell Robert to
attend you in your solar with all due haste. Well, almost straight away.’

‘You “provided” me with no books!’ said Henry indignantly. ‘We were obliged to sift through random piles in search for them.’

‘What do you mean by “almost straight away”?’ asked Alan, ignoring Henry.

Symon looked sheepish. ‘Well, I made a detour first. In
all the excitement at the refectory that morning, I did not drink sufficient breakfast ale, and it was a hot day. So, I stopped
at the kitchens to slake my thirst.’

‘How long?’ demanded Alan, making it clear that he disapproved of this dereliction of duty.

Symon shrugged. ‘I was obliged to pass the time of day with the brewer – it is not polite to down your ale and leave without
exchanging pleasantries. Then his assistant arrived …’

‘So you were there for some time,’ surmised Alan heavily. ‘Very well. You eventually prised yourself from the congenial company
of the brewer, and you went to the vineyard. Then what happened?’

Symon coughed to hide his embarrassment. ‘Unfortunately, Robert was no longer there.’ He ignored the exasperated sound Alan
made and went on. ‘So, I decided I had better expand my search to the Quay.’ He paused, whether for dramatic effect or because
he did not know how to continue, Bartholomew could not say.

‘And?’ demanded Alan testily, when the delay stretched to an unreasonable length of time.

‘And I am sickened to say that I found him, but he will not be answering any questions from you or Michael or anyone else
– except perhaps God as he knocks on the Gates of Heaven.’

‘What in God’s name are you saying?’ demanded Alan. ‘Where is Robert?’

‘Dead,’ replied Symon. ‘He is floating in the river near the Monks’ Hythe.’

O
NCE
S
YMON HAD ANNOUNCED THE NEWS THAT
R
OBERT
was dead, there was a concerted dash to the hythes. Alan was first, running in a lithe, sprightly manner that did not seem
appropriate in a high-ranking cleric. Julian and Symon bounded after him with Henry hurrying at their side, although the older
monk soon lagged behind. Michael huffed along with him, sweating and panting in the searing heat of the midday sun. Bartholomew
was easily able to keep up with Alan, but was surprised when someone caught up with them and started to pass. It was de Lisle.

‘I heard what happened,’ the Bishop gasped to the Prior, as they sprinted past the castle ruins and Alan grappled with the
gate that led through the wall and out on to Broad Lane. ‘Your librarian told me.’

‘He had no right,’ muttered Alan, casting a venomous glance at Symon, who was bending over to try to catch his breath. ‘It
is priory business, and not for outsiders to meddle in.’

‘I will not meddle,’ said de Lisle breathlessly. ‘I came to offer support and spiritual guidance, should you need it.’

‘I will not,’ said Alan firmly. ‘And it is better that you are not seen with us. I do not want it said that my priory consorts
with killers.’

‘I am not a killer,’ said de Lisle angrily, following him through the gate. ‘I am your Bishop. And anyway, the man
you
appointed to investigate Glovere’s murder has declared me innocent. You heard him yourself.’

‘Northburgh!’ spat Alan in disgust. ‘I had not realised he had grown so eccentric, or I would never have asked him to come.’

‘Then what about the venerable Canon of Lincoln?’ demanded de Lisle archly. ‘He has also failed to find any evidence of my
guilt – and he represents my most bitter enemy.’

‘Stretton is worse than Northburgh,’ snapped Alan. ‘The man could not even name the four gospels last night, yet he hopes
to be a prelate one day.’ He pushed past de Lisle and dashed out into Broad Lane. Bartholomew and the Bishop were at his heels,
while Michael, Henry and the others followed more sedately.

Alan led the way down one of the narrow alleys that led to the river. On the Quay, a group of people had already gathered
to view the unusual spectacle of a dead monk being dragged from the water. Leycestre and his nephews were there, manoeuvring
a small boat towards the head and shoulders that broke the water near the opposite shore. Robert’s dark robes floated out
around him, so that his sodden hair reminded Bartholomew of the centre of a great, black flower. Leycestre tried to pull Robert
into the boat, but it threatened to capsize, so he took a firm hold of the monk’s cowl and towed him back to the Quay, where
willing hands reached out to help. The landlord of the Lamb, who owned two of them, remarked critically that Mackerell was
far better at removing corpses from the water.

Alan asked Bartholomew to inspect the body there and then, but the physician had done little more than identify one muddy
ear, a slightly grazed cheek and a puncture mark in the neck before he sensed that it would not be right to conduct a thorough
examination with half the town looking on. He glanced up at Michael, but the monk was busily scanning the crowd, obviously
studying them for reactions that might reveal one of them as the guilty party. He had plenty of choice, for virtually all
their suspects were there, with the notable exception of William.

First, there was Leycestre with his nephews, pleased to be the centre of attention and claiming in a loud, important voice
that
he
had been the one to have spotted the body.
He was unflustered when Michael demanded to know what he had been doing near the river when he should have been in the fields,
and claimed that he had supplemented his midday meal with a jug of ale in the Mermaid. Agnes Fitzpayne was there, too, leaning
her mighty forearms on a peat spade and looking very much as though killing a man would be well within her capabilities.

The gypsies were hovering near the back of the crowd, and watching with intense interest. The slack-jawed Rosel was being
held back by his brothers, or it seemed he would have elbowed his way to the front. Eulalia was with them, although the expression
on her face was more troubled than curious. Bartholomew wondered why. Guido’s face was unreadable, half shadowed by his curious
gold cap.

Lady Blanche stood to one side. Her retainers clustered around her, as though they were forming a wall to protect her from
the common folk who jostled and prodded at each other as they vied for the best vantage points. Tysilia was with her, and
Bartholomew heard Blanche informing her that the body was Robert’s, not William’s. Tysilia began to hum happily, and Bartholomew
wondered if she had already forgotten the fear she had expressed for William, or whether she imagined that the death of one
monk rendered all the others safe. The strange logic in her mind was almost impossible for Bartholomew to penetrate, and he
decided not to try.

And then there were the monks: Symon, Henry, Julian, Bukton, Welles and a number of others, gathered at their Prior’s back
like black carrion crows. De Lisle stood between them and the landlord of the Lamb.

‘Michael,’ said Tysilia softly, edging closer to the monk and gazing at him with doe-eyed adoration. ‘How nice to see you.’

‘Not now,’ said Michael sharply, moving away from her. ‘I am busy.’

‘Later, then,’ said Tysilia. ‘I shall be waiting.’

‘That body belongs to the almoner,’ declared Agnes Fitzpayne with satisfaction, when the monk’s robes had been
pulled away to reveal his face. ‘He was a sly devil.’

‘He pocketed the alms that were supposed to go to the poor,’ agreed Leycestre, looking around at his fellow citizens in sanctimonious
indignation. There was a growl of agreement from the onlookers and Alan looked decidedly nervous.

‘That is untrue,’ he said, although his expression indicated the opposite. ‘Robert always executed his duties with the utmost
care and honesty.’

‘No, he did not,’ announced Tysilia, beaming at the crowd as though she were about to impart some good news. ‘William told
me that Robert stole from the poor
all the time
!’

‘Tysilia, please,’ said de Lisle with uncharacteristic gentleness. ‘It is not kind to speak ill of the dead. Keep your thoughts
and accusations to yourself, my dear.’

‘I shall tell you later, then,’ she said happily, evidently not noticing that she had been chastised. ‘You always listen to
what I have to say with great interest.’

‘Yes,’ said de Lisle, patting her arm, then moving away when he realised that proximity to his “niece” also brought him far
too close to his arch-enemy Lady Blanche de Wake. He was not quick enough, however, and Bartholomew saw that one of Blanche’s
powerful hands had latched on to his arm. She gave a vigorous tug that yanked him out of Tysilia’s hearing.

‘Your niece is driving me to distraction,’ she hissed furiously. ‘Remove her from my presence before I throttle her.’

De Lisle gazed at her coldly with his heavily lidded eyes. ‘That would be a terrible sin, madam. I shall send Ralph to collect
her today, if that is how you feel. However, I must remind you that it was not
my
idea that you took her from me. I wanted to keep her, if you recall.’

‘I made a mistake,’ admitted Blanche reluctantly. ‘I thought that having her would seal our alliance and prevent further aggravation,
but it has made no difference. That woman is a vile harlot who has no place in the house of any respectable lady.’

‘Madam!’ exclaimed de Lisle, sounding shocked. ‘Watch what you say. There is something wrong with her mind, and
she requires patience and understanding, not censure.’

‘There certainly is something wrong with her mind,’ growled Blanche. ‘Her behaviour is like that of an animal on heat.’

‘Yes,’ agreed de Lisle, casting a glance at Tysilia that was full of compassion. Bartholomew was startled to see the depth
of emotion there, astonished that such love from the arrogant Bishop should be reserved for a person like Tysilia. ‘But she
cannot help it. I have sent her to the best physicians in the country, and have sought the opinions of medical men from as
far away as Avignon and Rome, but no one has been able to help her.’

‘You have?’ asked Blanche doubtfully.

De Lisle nodded. ‘I have been obliged to place her in convents for most of her life, although I would sooner have her with
me. Unfortunately, her illness makes that impossible. When you offered to become her guardian, I had hopes that she would
come to love you as a daughter might, and that such affection would go some way towards effecting a cure. I am deeply sorry
that it did not.’

‘Well?’ demanded Agnes, breaking into the muttered conversation between Blanche and de Lisle. ‘Did someone do away with the
almoner or is his death natural?’

Bartholomew had been so engrossed by the Bishop’s open admission of affection for Tysilia, that he had all but forgotten the
soggy form of Robert that lay at his feet. He glanced at Michael, doubtful how he should reply. He did not want to tell an
outright lie – there would be no point when he was so bad at telling untruths, especially in front of such a large gathering
of people – but he was not sure it would be wise to announce that a fourth victim had been claimed. Fortunately for Bartholomew,
de Lisle came to his rescue.

The Bishop looked imperiously down his long nose at the crowd, and then addressed them as though he was giving one of his
famous sermons. ‘You have all seen this sad sight now. Poor Almoner Robert has drowned, and there is nothing more to keep
you from your business. Go back to
your work, and let the monks bury their brother in peace.’

‘There will not be much peace for the likes of Robert,’ stated Agnes, folding her arms and making no move to obey the Bishop.
‘He will be on his way directly to Hell.’

‘Then we must pray for his soul,’ said de Lisle firmly.

‘Will we be praying for the soul of a
murdered
man?’ asked Leycestre of Bartholomew with keen interest. Once again, the physician was conscious that the crowd was listening
intently for any reply he might make.

‘Yes,’ replied Michael bluntly, deciding upon a policy of honesty after a brief exchange of glances with Bartholomew told
him what he wanted to know. ‘It seems that Robert has suffered a similar fate to Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘And Robert is a monk!’ breathed Barbour, the landlord of the Lamb. ‘It is not just us any more; it is
them
, too.’

‘What is being done to catch this killer?’ asked Agnes conversationally to Alan, not in the least awed by his rank.

‘A lot, now that a monk is a victim,’ said Leycestre bitterly. He stood on tiptoe and glanced at Eulalia and her brothers.
‘And there are these burglaries, too. The monastery is safe, inside its walls, but there was another attack on a town house
last night.’

‘Another burglary?’ asked Michael. ‘Who was it this time?’

‘Me,’ said Barbour ruefully. ‘Wednesday nights are always good for the taverns – especially ones that sell good ale, like
the Lamb – because it is the day men are paid. Whoever stole from me must have known that.’

There was a horrified murmur and many heads were shaken in disgust. Leycestre’s eyes remained fixed on the gypsies and, slowly,
others turned to look at them too.

‘However,’ Barbour went on, ‘I am not the kind of man to leave my takings lying around for all to see. I had them well hidden.’
He leaned forward confidentially and lowered his voice, so that only half the surrounding spectators could hear. ‘I keep the
money under a floorboard in the attic.’

‘A good place to secure it from passing thieves,’ said Leycestre, his gaze still fixed on the hapless gypsies. Eulalia
was looking decidedly uncomfortable, although whether it was because she and her brothers knew more about the theft than
they should have done, or because it was not pleasant to be the object of the hostile scrutiny of so many people, Bartholomew
could not say. Several men began to mutter among themselves.

‘Not this again,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. He was tiring of having to defend the gypsies. ‘You have no evidence to identify
the culprits for certain, Leycestre, or you would have acted already. Do not accuse the travellers simply because they are
strangers and have a style of life that is different from your own.’

‘There
is
evidence,’ hissed Leycestre, still glaring in the gypsies’ direction. Eulalia was more uneasy than ever, although Guido stared
back defiantly. The dim-witted Rosel saw Leycestre gazing at him, and interpreted it as a sign of friendship. He gave an empty
grin, full of misshapen teeth, and waved.

‘Bartholomew is right,’ said de Lisle firmly. ‘There will be no hounding of innocent people in my See. There has been more
than enough of that already.’ Here he gave Blanche a meaningful look. ‘Meanwhile, I shall go to the cathedral to pray for
the soul of the unfortunate Robert, and any of you who can spare a few moments are welcome to join me.’

‘
I
will not join you!’ spat Blanche, unable to keep her loathing for the Bishop under control any longer. ‘You probably put
Robert in his coffin in the first place! Murderer!’

There was an expectant hush as the spectators anticipated with relish what promised to be a fascinating spectacle of Bishop
and noblewoman hurling insults at each other in the street. Blanche’s retainers gathered more closely around her, while de
Lisle’s steward Ralph came to stand behind his master with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Bartholomew saw Michael take
up a position on the prelate’s other side.

De Lisle remained unmoved. ‘I know you believe me capable of all manner of crimes, madam,’ he said in firm,
measured tones, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘You are mistaken, and I swear before God that I have killed no one. But
we will not debate this issue here, while a man’s soul is crying out for our masses. You may visit me at my home later, should
you wish, and there I will listen to anything you have to say.’