A Summer of Discontent (10 page)

‘And would he have drowned? Or did this tiny wound end his life?’

‘Probably the latter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Injuries to this part of the neck often result in the loss of the ability to breathe.
I do not think he drowned. If I lean hard on his chest, the water that emerges from his mouth is clear – it contains none
of the bubbles that I would expect if he had breathed water.’

Michael shuddered. ‘You really do know some unpleasant things, Matt. Thank God I am a theologian, and do not have to acquaint
myself with how to squeeze water from dead men and where to stab them so it will not show.’ He gazed at Bartholomew in sudden
alarm. ‘Would de Lisle know about these things?’

‘What do you think? You know him better than I do.’

Michael was silent for a while, but then said slowly, ‘I imagine he might. Cunning ways to commit a murder and then conceal
the evidence are no secret to men in positions of power.’

‘Then you will find it difficult to prove that de Lisle did not kill Glovere. Shall we look at the body of the other fellow
who died? It was his death that resulted in de Lisle sending you a second summons, after all.’

‘As yet, no one has accused de Lisle of killing anyone but Glovere,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not want to put ideas into people’s
heads by going straight from Glovere’s body to Haywarde’s, so we will examine him tomorrow. But this is all very cold-blooded,
is it not? I can imagine de Lisle striking out in anger and perhaps knocking a man into the river, but I do not see him leaning
over his victim and deliberately slicing through his neck.’

‘So, you think the manner of Glovere’s death means that de Lisle is innocent?’

Michael’s eyes were large and round in the dim light from the lamp. ‘I did not say that.’ He gave a huge sigh. ‘Damn it all,
Matt! I was hoping this would be a straightforward case of Glovere taking a tumble into the river, and Blanche using the death
to discredit her enemy. Now we are faced with a cunning killer. I wish we had never left Cambridge!’

‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

There was nothing more they could do in the Bone House, so Bartholomew re-dressed Glovere, and covered him again with the
piece of sacking. Michael watched him, now oblivious to the flies that formed a thick cloud in the air around his head as
he thought about the implications of their findings. Then they walked out into the golden light of a summer evening. The bells
were ringing for vespers, and the sounds of people walking and riding along the Heyrow on the other side of the priory wall
were welcome reminders of normal life.

‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, as he watched the monk lock the Bone House door. He could not imagine why the monks
felt the need for such security, when no one in his right mind would have willingly entered the grim little house of the dead.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Michael gloomily. ‘What do you recommend? Shall I visit de Lisle and ask to see any sharp knives
he might own? Shall I enquire whether he knows that a man can be dispatched with a small jab to the neck or that there are
ways of killing a man that all but defy detection?’

‘Not if you do not want to find yourself with a cut neck in the river,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘I would concentrate on Glovere,
if I were you. It seems that de Lisle was not the only person who did not like him. Perhaps the relatives of the woman who
committed suicide killed him.’

‘True,’ said Michael, cheering up a little. ‘I shall spend a few hours in the taverns tonight, asking questions of the local
folk, and we shall see where that leads us. And there
are also the gypsies to consider. Richard de Leycestre, who sidled up to us with his malicious tales when we arrived in Ely,
seemed to think that they, and not de Lisle, were to blame for Glovere’s death.’

‘Only because the travellers are outsiders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is easy to pick on strangers and hold them responsible
for inexplicable happenings.’

Michael studied him with an amused expression. ‘You seem very defensive of these people, Matt. It would not be because you
are stricken by the charms of Mistress Eulalia, would it?’

‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is because I do not like the way crowds are so willing to turn on people who
cannot protect themselves. Leycestre said the gypsies were responsible for the burglaries, too, but he had no evidence.’

‘No evidence other than the fact that the burglaries started the moment the gypsies arrived in the city,’ said Michael. ‘It
seems that Glovere died a few days later. Perhaps he saw them committing their thefts and was killed to ensure his silence.
That trick with the knife in the neck is the kind of thing a gypsy might know.’

‘It is the kind of thing anyone might know. Soldiers, butchers, courtiers, medical men, scholars who might have read it –
anyone, really.’

‘Well, our enquiries will tell us whether your faith in these gypsies is justified,’ said Michael, unruffled by his friend’s
annoyance. ‘If they are guilty, I will find out.’

Suddenly, the serene stillness of the priory was shattered by the sound of running footsteps. Monks emerged from all sorts
of nooks and crannies, aiming for the Steeple Gate. Robert the almoner was there, jostling the bob-haired William and the
surly Julian to reach it first, the pending office of vespers clearly forgotten. There was an unseemly tussle for the handle,
during which Robert used the bulge of his stomach to force his rivals out of the way. Eventually, he had cleared sufficient
space to drag open the door and
turn an ingratiating smile on the people who waited on the other side.

Michael chuckled softly as the almoner effected a sweeping bow that was so deep he almost toppled. Hosteller William had managed
to elbow his way through the crowd of grovelling monastics to stand next to him; his bow was less deep but far more elegant
than Robert’s. Bartholomew and Michael stood well back as a cavalcade entered the priory grounds, content to watch those monks
who enjoyed indulging in servile behaviour take reins from ungrateful courtiers and offer haughty maids-in-waiting cool cups
of wine. That high-ranking clerics like Robert and William were prepared to submit themselves to such indignities told its
own story: here was Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue, arriving in Ely to see the Bishop convicted of the murder of their
steward.

Bartholomew had never seen Lady Blanche before, despite her fame in the area, and he studied the King’s kinswoman with interest.
She was a short, dour-faced specimen in her early fifties. Her clothes were made of the finest cloth, but she clearly allowed
none of the latest fashions of the court to influence what she wore. Her voluminous skirts were gathered uncomfortably under
her large bosom, and were rather too short, so that a pair of stout calves poked from under them. Her wimple was viciously
starched, and red lines around her face showed where it had chafed. There was a determined look in her pale blue eyes, and
the strength of her character was evident in the way her bristly chin jutted out in front of her.

Her retinue was almost as impressive as the Bishop’s. She was followed not by clerks and monks, but by grooms and squires
and tiring women. However, while their mistress may have abandoned fashion thirty years before, her retinue certainly had
not, and Bartholomew had seldom seen such a gaudily dressed crowd. All wore the flowing cote-hardies and kirtles that were
currently popular, and sported the shoes with the peculiar pointed toes and thin soles that were
so impractical for walking. One woman uttered an unmannerly screech of delight that was directed at Michael, and with a sinking
heart, Bartholomew recognised the dark features and expressionless eyes of Tysilia de Apsley.

Tysilia was a close relative of Bishop de Lisle, and had been lodged at a convent near Cambridge for much of the previous
year, but had been removed when the nuns had failed to prevent her from becoming pregnant for the third time. She was one
of the least intelligent people Bartholomew had ever met, and certainly one of the most licentious. She was not a person whom
he liked, nor one with whom he wished to associate in any way. He gave a groan when she started to come towards them, while
Michael diplomatically arranged his fat features into a smile of welcome. Unfortunately, her energetic progress was hampered
by the fact that her riding cloak caught in her stirrup as she started running, and for some moments she was a mess of trailing
sleeves, long skirts, loose straps and agitated horse. William rushed to her assistance, and was rewarded with a leering smile
and some unnecessarily revealing flashes of long white legs that had him blushing furiously

‘Lord help us, Matt,’ Michael muttered through clenched teeth, watching the scene with rank disapproval. ‘What is
she
doing in Blanche’s retinue, when Blanche and de Lisle are such bitter enemies? And anyway, I thought de Lisle had foisted
Tysilia on the lepers at Barnwell Hospital, so that they could cure whatever ails her mind.’

‘There is no cure for her,’ replied Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘She was born stupid, and no amount of “healing” will ever
change that.’

Michael gave a soft laugh. ‘And this was the woman you thought was a criminal mastermind earlier this year!’

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘I was wrong. But I was right about one thing: her appalling lack of wits makes her dangerous to know.
She should be locked away, but not with lepers.’

‘Why? Because she might catch the contagion?’

‘Because she puts them at risk. On one occasion, she seized someone in an amorous embrace that relieved him of three fingers
and part of his nose, while on another she set the chapel alight by putting the eternal flame under the wooden altar.’

‘Why did she do that?’ asked Michael with appalled curiosity.

‘To keep it warm during the night, apparently. After that, the lepers decided that they would rather starve than accept the
Bishop’s money to care for her. I wondered what he had done with her when they ordered her to leave. But here she is, overcome
with delight at meeting her old friend Michael.’

‘Brother Martin!’ exclaimed Tysilia joyfully, flinging herself into the monk’s ample arms. ‘And Doctor Butcher the surgeon,
too! You both came here to visit me!’

‘We did not know you would be here,’ said Michael, hastily disengaging himself before Blanche and her retinue could assume
he was one of Tysilia’s many former lovers. Bartholomew ducked behind the monk’s sizeable bulk, before he could be treated
to a similar display of affection.

‘My uncle, Thomas de Lisle, suggested that I spend time with Blanche,’ said Tysilia, smiling as vacantly as ever. ‘I am now
her ward. I did not like being with the lepers, anyway. Their faces kept falling off, so it was difficult for me to remember
who was who.’

As she spoke, Blanche broke away from the obsequious grovelling of Robert and William and approached Michael, curious about
the man who was acquainted with her charge.

‘De Lisle lied to me,’ said Blanche without preamble, regarding the monk as though he were responsible. ‘He told me that Tysilia
was a sweet and gentle child, who could benefit from a motherly hand. She is not, and he can have her back again.’

Tysilia’s face fell. ‘But I have had such fun with you and all your charming young courtiers!’

‘I assure you I know,’ said Blanche grimly. She turned to Michael. ‘You are the Bishop’s agent. Are you here to help him escape
from the charge of murder I have brought against him?’

‘I am here to see justice done,’ replied Michael. ‘I do not want to see an innocent man convicted of a crime any more than
I want to see a murder go unpunished. We men of God have strong views on such matters.’

‘Not in my experience,’ retorted Blanche. ‘Your Bishop is a wicked man. I know he killed poor Glovere, and I am here to ensure
that he pays the price. And he can have this little whore back again, too. She has seduced virtually every man on my estates,
so she will be looking for new pastures soon, anyway.’

‘But I am not ready to leave yet!’ wailed Tysilia in dismay. She was about to add details, but Blanche took her arm and hurried
her away, leaving Bartholomew and Michael bemused by the encounter.

‘Did you know that de Lisle had managed to foist his “niece” on Blanche?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘No wonder she loathes him! Looking
after Tysilia would not be easy.’

‘I did not know,’ said Michael, smiling wickedly. ‘Although it was a clever ploy on his part. By giving Blanche a kinswoman
to watch over, he is indicating that he trusts her and that he wishes a truce. However, Tysilia is capable of driving anyone
insane, and I imagine he derived a good deal of amusement from the fact that she would lead Blanche a merry dance.’

‘Prior Alan!’ Blanche’s strident voice echoed across the courtyard and the hum of conversation between her followers and the
fussing monks faltered into silence. Alan had emerged from his lodgings, and was hurrying towards her, a slight, wiry man
converging on a squat, dumpy woman.

‘Lady Blanche,’ Alan replied breathlessly, as he reached her. ‘Welcome to Ely.’

She inclined her head to acknowledge his greeting. ‘I have come on grave business,’ she announced in tones loud
enough to have been heard in the marketplace. ‘I accuse Thomas de Lisle, Bishop of Ely, of the most heinous of crimes: the
murder of my steward, Master Glovere.’

Alan nodded. ‘As a churchman, de Lisle is subject to canon, not secular, law, and this matter will be investigated accordingly.
When I heard news of your imminent arrival, I dispatched a messenger to fetch the Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield – Roger
de Northburgh – to examine the case. As luck would have it, he is currently visiting Cambridge, and I expect him here in two
or three days.’

‘Northburgh?’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘Alan has engaged Roger de
Northburgh
for this?’

‘What is wrong with him?’ whispered Bartholomew, puzzled by Michael’s reaction. ‘It would not be right for de Lisle to be
examined by someone who is not at least a bishop.’