A Summer of Discontent (34 page)

‘Oh, I am sure we will survive,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we need full daylight for what we are going to do.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Michael warily.

‘We are going to walk upstream along the banks of the river, to see whether we can find the place where Glovere, Chaloner
and Haywarde were murdered. But first, we will look in the vineyard, to see whether we can determine where Robert met his
end.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, reluctantly heaving his bulk to its feet. ‘The sooner we can uncover this murdering fiend, the
sooner we can return to the safety of Cambridge. And believe me, that little town has never seemed so appealing.’

It was very hot in the late afternoon sunlight. Michael fetched a wide-brimmed black hat to keep the sun out of his eyes,
while Bartholomew changed in the infirmary. He dispensed with hose and jerkin in favour of a loose tunic and some baggy leggings.
Michael declared that the physician looked like a peasant, but at least he was comfortable. Michael was sweating into his
voluminous habit, and complained that it prickled his skin and caused rashes.

Since he was there, Bartholomew asked Henry about the keys to the back gate, but the infirmarian merely confirmed what Michael
had already summarised: that there was a number of spare keys, and that the brethren tended to help themselves as and when
they needed them. No one took any notice of who took what and the chapter house was deserted for most of the day; anyone could
enter and take a key without being observed.

Henry walked with them to the infirmary door, looking for Julian, so that he could dispatch the lad to fetch wine from the
kitchens. He wanted to make a soothing syrup from cloves and honey for Ynys’s chest, and he needed the wine as a base. Julian,
however, had made the most of his mentor’s uncharacteristic afternoon nap, and had disappeared on business of his own. Henry
made an exasperated sound at the back of his throat.

‘That boy is his own worst enemy! I am doing all I can to give him a trade that will earn him respect – and a living if he
ever finds himself expelled – but he flouts me at every turn.’

‘You should let Alan dismiss him,’ advised Michael. ‘You have done all you can, but there is clearly no good in him. You cannot
make a beef pie from a weasel and a pile of sand.’

Henry smiled bleakly. ‘I confess I am beginning to wonder whether all my efforts have been in vain. Still, I am not ready
to concede defeat yet.’

‘What kind of wine do you use for your syrup?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s bored sigh as the monk anticipated the
start of a lengthy medical discussion.

Henry raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Whatever the cooks give me. Why? Do you find one type makes for a better result than another?’

‘Without a doubt,’ said Bartholomew. ‘For example, the vile vintage from the monks’ vineyards will not be very soothing for
Ynys. I use a rich red from southern France.’ He rummaged in his bag and produced the small skin he always carried there for
emergencies. ‘Try this, and let me know what you think.’

Henry took it from him. ‘That is very kind. I will replenish it with something of equal quality later. Do not forget to ask
for it back. But here is Bishop de Lisle’s steward, Ralph. What can he want? I hope no one was taken ill during the mass for
Robert.’

‘I have come for some cordial,’ said Ralph, approaching and leaning against the door. He treated the three men to a confident
grin. ‘It is too hot for beer – even bona cervisia – and my Bishop wants some of that nice raspberry syrup you make.’

‘But I do not have much left,’ objected Henry indignantly.

There was a cold gleam in Ralph’s eyes, which intensified when he straightened from his slouch. ‘That is not a pleasant attitude
to take, Brother. Do you want me to return to my Bishop and tell him that the infirmarian refused him
a refreshing drink after he has spent all afternoon saying masses for the almoner?’

‘Be off with you,’ ordered Michael angrily. ‘You are doing my Bishop a disservice by going about making demands like this.’

‘It is all right, Brother,’ said Henry. ‘The Bishop can have the last of my cordial if that is what he wants.’

Ralph revealed ugly black teeth in a grin of victory, and followed Henry inside. Bartholomew eyed him with distaste, disliking
the man’s confident swagger and assumed superiority because he was a bishop’s servant. He was dirty, too, and a sharp, unwashed
smell emanated from his greasy clothes. He was not a good ambassador for a fastidiously clean man like de Lisle.

Michael shook his head. ‘That is not de Lisle’s errand, Matt. That is Ralph acting on his own initiative, and I will wager
you a jug of bona cervisia that my Bishop will never see that cordial. Ralph has always been a selfish sort of fellow.’

‘Why does de Lisle keep him in his service, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is not good for a bishop to employ such a
man?’

‘He needs someone he can trust,’ replied Michael, stepping from the shade of the hospital door into the brightness of the
sun beyond. He winced as the heat hit him. ‘Such trust is difficult to come by, and usually results only after years of service.
I doubt de Lisle likes Ralph, but Ralph is loyal and that counts for a good deal.’

They walked slowly through the vineyard, each taking one side of the main path as they scanned for signs that a scuffle had
taken place. Bartholomew smiled when he saw one area of disturbed soil: it was the spot where he and Michael had dropped to
their hands and knees to spy on Thomas. He heartily wished Cynric had been with them, because the Welshman would not have
allowed himself to be caught, and he would almost certainly have overheard the conversation without being detected.

‘This is hopeless!’ mumbled Michael, wiping his sweaty
face with his sleeve. ‘We do not know that Robert used
this
path, and these vineyards are enormous. We are wasting our time. We should pay another visit to the Mermaid, and see what
else we can find out about Mackerell.’

‘We would learn nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, I suspect they have already told us all they intend to say, and second,
they are Fenmen, who are a taciturn lot at the best of times. They will not surrender information to people like us.’

‘And what they are prepared to tell us is nonsense,’ agreed Michael in disgust. ‘Water-spirits, indeed! I will give Mackerell
water-spirits if I ever see him again.’

‘I hope you will have the opportunity. I expected to see him dead this morning, washed down the river into the Monks’ Hythe,
like the others.’

‘He is alive. Symon said he saw him this morning near the castle.’

‘Symon was uncertain. Why would Mackerell be in the priory grounds, anyway? I think that if he is still alive, then he has
done what Thomas said – disappeared into the marshes he knows better than anyone else.’

‘Do you think we can discount Symon’s sighting then?’

‘I think so. It does not make sense – unless Mackerell killed Robert of course.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael tiredly. ‘Mackerell was not a particularly poor man, and so would have no cause to deal
with the priory’s almoner. He could not have been resentful about miserly alms.’

‘We do not know that,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As we keep saying, there is a good deal we do not know about this case.’

‘I had not expected Robert to be the next victim,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But we are getting nowhere with this, Matt.
We should walk up this damned river, since you are so sure we will find something there.’

‘In a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to look along some of these smaller paths first.’

He ignored Michael’s groan of displeasure, and concentrated on exploring a promising area near some scattered stakes. But
the presence of feathers suggested that a fox had killed a bird there, and that the scuffed soil had nothing to do with Robert
or his killer. Eventually, they had walked the entire length of the vineyard, and were near the rear gate. Behind them, the
tithe barn loomed, casting a cool shadow across the path along which they walked.

Michael shuffled across to the barn and flopped against it, wiping the sweat from his eyes with a piece of linen. Bartholomew
picked up a stick and began to prod around in the grass near the path, looking for he knew not what. It did not take him long
to see that Michael was right, and that they were unlikely to discover anything that could help them by searching at random.
And even if they did manage to pinpoint the place where Robert had died, it would probably tell them little that they could
use in the tracking of his killer. Dispirited, he went to join Michael. He was hot and thirsty, and wished they had some ale
with them.

As if he read his friend’s thoughts, Michael rummaged in his scrip and produced a wineskin, showing that Bartholomew was not
the only one who carried supplies for just such situations. It contained a rather robust white, which tended to increase Bartholomew’s
thirst rather than relieve it, but he took a hearty swallow anyway, grateful for the fact that it washed the dust from his
throat. He looked up at the barn that towered above them.

It was a huge structure, designed to take grain from the people who worked the priory’s land. There were two giant doors at
the front, with smaller entrances piercing the sides about halfway down. Several substantial locks sealed them, and the whole
thing was robust and rigid, intended to protect its contents from marauding flocks of rats as well as those people who might
decide to repatriate some of the wheat within.

‘Who has the keys to the barn?’ Bartholomew asked, taking another swallow of the wine, then passing the skin back to Michael.

‘A number of people, I imagine. The Prior will have his own set, as will sub-prior, hosteller, almoner and cellarer. I heard
at the evening meal last night that this barn is already full, and that any tithes presented from now on will go to the sextry
barn near St Mary’s.’

‘Another vast edifice,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘Your priory certainly knows how to squeeze its money’s worth from
its tenants.’

‘It owns a lot of land,’ said Michael defensively. ‘Of course it needs large barns. But I knew this one was full anyway, because
I recall watching some lay-brothers trying to cram the last few sacks inside it a couple of days ago.’

‘I remember, too.’ Bartholomew looked thoughtfully at Michael. ‘So, everyone knows it is full, and that it has been locked
until the grain is needed at the end of autumn. There is no need to disturb it and risk rats getting inside until then, is
there?’

‘I imagine not,’ said Michael, bored. ‘I really have no idea about agriculture, Matt. You must ask a farmer if you are interested
in that sort of thing.’ He took another swallow of wine, tipping his hat back from his face as he did so, to run his sleeve
across his wet forehead.

‘You do not need to be a farmer to know that a full barn will not be disturbed for some weeks. It would make a perfect hiding
place. And you just said that the hosteller has a key.’

Michael’s eyed gleamed, and he scrambled to his feet, his lethargy vanished. ‘You are right, Matt! We should have thought
of this sooner.’ He stepped back, and squinted up at the barn, scanning it for weaknesses. ‘There is a window on the upper
floor. You can climb up those beams and undo the latch.’

‘I most certainly cannot,’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the near-impossible feat Michael expected him to perform. ‘I am not
an acrobat. We should try the doors first.’

‘They will be locked,’ objected Michael. ‘There is no point.’

‘Locks can be forced,’ said Bartholomew, producing a
hefty pair of childbirth forceps he had used in this way before. At one time, he would have been appalled to think of his
handsome forceps being used for such a purpose – they had been a gift from a very dear friend, quite aside from the fact that
he used them to grab a baby’s head while it was still inside the mother – but no expense had been spared on the forceps, and
they were the most resilient thing he owned. It was almost impossible to bend or dent them, and they had proved useful for
all sorts of purposes.

Michael watched as Bartholomew inserted the arms of his forceps into the gap between door and frame. It was an easy matter
to ease it open, and the physician wondered whether they should mention the fact to Leycestre, so that the would-be rebel
could arrange for some of the wheat to be returned to the folk who probably had a better right to it.

With a creak, the door swung open, and Bartholomew and Michael peered into the dusty gloom. It was almost completely black,
because all the windows were closed to keep out pests and any gaps in the timber sides had been sealed for the same reason.
But, after a while, their eyes grew used to the darkness, and they could detect the vague outlines of heaped sacks within.
They pushed open the door as far as it would go for light, and made their way inside.

At first, Bartholomew thought they had wasted their time. It was unpleasantly hot inside the granary, and dust from the wheat
made his eyes scratchy and his throat tickle. Michael began to sneeze uncontrollably, and it was not long before he abandoned
the search to Bartholomew, while he waited outside. There was a sudden eerie rustle, and the physician froze, half expecting
a furious William to come leaping out of the shadows, incensed that his hiding place had been so easily discovered. But whatever
had made the noise was still when Bartholomew inched his way over to investigate, and he could see nothing other than endless
rows of wheat sacks. He decided the granary was not as rat-resistant as it appeared.

He was about to give up, when it occurred to him that he should try to climb as high as possible, and then inspect the entire
barn from above, to ensure that no one was hiding on top of the piled bags. He peered around, and located the rough wooden
ladder that led to the upper floor. He called to Michael, to tell him what he planned to do.

‘Do not bother,’ the monk shouted back. ‘William is not in there. No one is. How could a normal person survive in it? It is
as hot as a baker’s oven and the air is thick with dust.’