A Summer of Discontent (48 page)

‘Oh, no, you do not!’ he growled. ‘You will remain here and help me. First, I want to talk to Symon. He sleeps in the dormitory
with you novices, so you must know where he is.’

‘But I do not,’ squeaked Welles in alarm. ‘He is a senior monk and does not tell the likes of me his business.’ With a shock,
Bartholomew saw a glint of silver in the novice’s fingers, and stepped forward quickly to knock it from his hand. A long,
thin masonry nail tinkled to the floor.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘Just a nail,’ bleated Welles, his eyes flicking from Bartholomew to Michael and then back again. ‘I found it in the octagon
when the builders were working, and I always carry it with me. Prior Alan said we were not allowed knives as long as Julian
was with us, but you have to have something sharp to use at mealtimes. I already had it in my hand when you grabbed me – I
did not draw it to use as a weapon.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly, making it clear that he did not know what to believe. ‘But I am not here to discuss you. I want
Symon.’

‘But I really do not know where he is,’ protested Welles. ‘I have not seen him since last night.’

‘Last night?’ pounced Michael. ‘What are you telling me? That he did not sleep in his bed, and that you have not seen him
this morning?’

Welles nodded unhappily.

‘And where do you think he might be?’ said Michael. ‘Does he have a woman, or a particular friend in Ely to whom he may have
gone?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Welles, not seeming particularly surprised by the question, despite the fact that Symon was a monk.
‘He does not have any friends.’

‘That I can believe,’ said Michael. ‘Did he say anything to you last night before he left?’

‘No,’ said Welles. ‘Only that he was going to confess his sins before it was too late.’

‘What sins?’ demanded Michael. ‘His disgraceful treatment of books? His lies?’

‘I suppose so. I do not know. Ask his confessor – Prior Alan.’

‘I will,’ said Michael grimly. He released Welles and headed towards the Prior’s House without further ado. Bartholomew considered
stopping him, but could see that the monk’s temper was up and that nothing could prevent him from following the trail that
had opened up before him. Michael strode across the yard, stamped up the stairs that led to the Prior’s solar and burst in
without knocking. He was slightly disconcerted to see that de Lisle was there, too, but not disconcerted enough to abandon
his attack.

‘Symon made a confession last night,’ he snapped, addressing Alan. ‘What did he say?’

‘I cannot tell you that,’ said Alan in surprise. ‘And you know better than to ask.’

‘He is missing,’ said Michael angrily. ‘He was last seen going to confession, and was apparently feeling guilty about his
sins. That does not sound like the Symon I know, who is of the opinion that he does not have any. So, I conclude that something
happened to make him see the error of his ways, and I need to know what he told you.’

‘I am bound by the seal of confession,’ said Alan calmly.
‘As well you know. But, as it happens, there is nothing for me to tell. He may well have intended to come to see me last
night, but he would not have been able to do so. I was out.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael immediately, forgetting himself in his desire for answers.

‘That is none of your affair,’ said Alan, angry at the impertinence of the question. ‘But I can assure you that it is irrelevant
to your investigation. You asked about Symon’s confession, and I am telling you that he did not make one to me.’

‘So who else might he have seen, then?’ pressed Michael.

‘William, Robert and Thomas were also permitted to hear the monks’ confessions, but none of them were available, for obvious
reasons. Symon would have had to wait for me.’

‘Well, if he does come, send for me immediately,’ instructed Michael. ‘It is imperative that I speak to him as soon as possible.’

‘Am I to understand by your frustration and bad temper that this investigation is not proceeding as you would like?’ asked
de Lisle mildly. ‘I hear that you almost had this killer last night, and I am disappointed by your failure.’

‘So am I,’ said Michael tartly.

De Lisle sighed, and then stood, wincing as he did so and pressing both hands to his lower spine. ‘It has been several days
since I charged you to exonerate me from the crimes of which I have been accused. Not only have you failed to do that, but
there are now five corpses fresh in the ground, and at least two people missing – three, if you count Symon. I hope you will
do better today.’

‘Do you have an aching back?’ asked Michael coolly, goaded into incaution by the Bishop’s admonition. ‘Matt has a way with
aching backs. Perhaps you should let him examine it, and see what he can do for you.’

‘No, thank you,’ said de Lisle shortly. ‘I have been plagued by backache for years, and physicians do nothing but make it
worse. I would rather treat it myself with a poultice of ground snails and arsenic. That usually works.’

‘I imagine it numbs the area,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But while it will ease the pain in the short term, you should not use it
for long. It can result in slow poisoning.’

‘That is what Henry said,’ grumbled de Lisle. ‘But it is only an excuse for him to get his hands on me and demand a high fee
for a consultation, a horoscope and expensive medicines that will do me no good at all.’

‘What is wrong with your back, exactly?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am not a physician, so I do not know,’ snapped de Lisle, impatient with the discussion. ‘But I spent a lot of time sitting
yesterday, and I suppose that must have aggravated it. I shall have to walk today, or ride.’

‘Ride,’ recommended Michael sulkily. ‘Walking is for peasants.’

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael tiredly, as he started to walk towards the river with Bartholomew a few moments later,
in the hope of discovering the scene of the murders. ‘Symon is missing, having apparently been about to confess his sins to
Alan. That is suspicious in itself.’

‘Something must have happened to make him want to see a confessor “before it was too late” to quote Welles,’ agreed Bartholomew.
‘Symon is arrogant, and not the kind of man to admit he has faults, unless something happened to make him believe otherwise.’

‘What has he been doing and where is he now? His pains must be fairly serious, if he emerged from his hiding place to seek
Henry’s help.’

‘Meanwhile, we also have de Lisle with a bad back that he declines to allow me to inspect.’

‘And what was Alan doing yesterday that he refuses to tell us about? Playing in the Bone House with blood and soil? Lord,
Matt! We have been here for seven days now, and the only reason my list of suspects has decreased is because some of them
are dead. Give me that wine you have in your bag. I need a drink!’

‘That is for medical emergencies,’ said Bartholomew, moving away as the monk lunged. ‘It is not for you to drink whenever
you feel like it.’

It was a glorious day, with larks flinging themselves up from the grassy fields and flying high into the sky, their twittering
songs sweet and piercing. It was a shame such a day had to be blighted by death and suspicion. Bartholomew and Michael walked
in silence, thinking about the murders, and how they had changed the priory and the town within the course of a few days.

When they reached the river near the Monks’ Hythe, Bartholomew shed his leggings to wade across it, so that they could examine
both banks simultaneously. He enjoyed the sensation of the cool water on his skin, and Michael eyed him enviously before removing
his sandals so that he could dabble his fat, white feet at the water’s edge. He declined to go any deeper, claiming he could
not swim.

The day grew steadily hotter, so that walking became uncomfortable. Bartholomew took to paddling along in the shallows, storing
his shoes among some reeds to be collected on their return journey. Michael’s complaints grew more and more frequent, and
he began to make unsubtle demands for the medicinal wineskin in Bartholomew’s bag. The physician remained unmoved, arguing
that wine would only make the monk more thirsty, and that he would do better to drink some water from one of the many small
brooks they passed. Bartholomew did not recommend the river on the grounds that it had already been through Cambridge, and
he knew exactly what had been dumped in it there.

When they neared Chettisham, some two miles distant, Michael waved to Bartholomew that they had gone far enough. The physician
agreed, knowing that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde would not have been killed too far away: it would not have been easy to
make them walk far as prisoners, and the killer would hardly have carried them, knowing that they would fetch up in Ely anyway.
He followed
Michael into a tavern called the Swan for a glass of cool ale, before beginning the return journey.

The tavern was dark after the glare of the sun, and Bartholomew could barely see where he was walking, even though its door
and windows shutters were thrown open to allow the air to circulate. He stumbled to a table like a blind man, and listened
in growing alarm to the extensive list of food that Michael was ordering from the taverner. When his eyes grew used to the
gloom, he looked around him.

It was a large establishment for a remote location, with thick stone walls and a paved floor. It was virtually empty: the
day was fine and there was work to be done in the fields. Two elderly men sat at a table near the empty hearth, staring at
the ale in their cups with rheumy eyes. At another table, this one tucked in a corner, were Richard de Leycestre and Guido.
Bartholomew gazed at them in surprise, wondering not only what had brought them together, but why they were so far from Ely
when they should have been working. Once Michael had finished ordering his repast, he too watched the muttered conversation
in the shadows, drawing his cowl over his head so that he would not be recognised. Bartholomew took Michael’s wide-brimmed
hat and wore it low, so that it hid his face.

The gypsy and the farmer seemed to be arguing, so intent on their own business that they were unaware of the interest they
had attracted from the tavern’s latest arrivals. Guido’s gold hat bobbed furiously as he made some point or other, while Leycestre
stabbed the table with a forefinger as he spoke. It was not an easy discussion. Eventually, Guido stood, glared at Leycestre
and stalked towards the door, clearly furious. A few moments later, Leycestre also took his leave. Unlike Guido, who had headed
straight to the door without taking the precaution of looking around him, Leycestre was circumspect. He saw two figures hunched
over their ale with cowls and hats hiding their faces, and stared at them for some time, evidently unsure whether it would
be safer just to leave or to approach them and find out who they were.

Apparently, he decided it would be better to know, and he tipped his hat in greeting as he edged closer to their table. Michael
flipped back his cowl and beamed at him, enjoying the expression of horror that crossed the labourer’s face when he recognised
the Bishop’s agent. Leycestre regained control of himself quickly.

‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What brings you all the way out here? We do not usually have monks and priory guests
in this small village.’

‘It is a good place to meet fellow rebels, then, is it?’ asked Michael, drawing his own conclusions about the meeting he had
just witnessed.

Leycestre laughed nervously. ‘Guido and I were just enjoying a drink. We have known each other for many years.’

‘It did not look as though either of you was enjoying it to me,’ said Bartholomew, flinging the hat on to the table. ‘And
I was under the impression that you disliked each other – you have accused his clan of burgling town houses and killing Ely’s
citizens.’

‘That is because they are probably guilty,’ snapped Leycestre, nettled. ‘But it does not mean that I cannot share his table
when we both happen to arrive for a much-needed ale.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes. ‘You met by chance? You did not arrange to do so because you imagined it would
be well away from anyone who might know you?’

‘We met by accident,’ replied Leycestre shortly. ‘Why would I want to rendezvous with a man like Guido, anyway? What could
he possibly have that would interest me?’

‘You tell me,’ said Michael, regarding the man intently. ‘And why are you here, anyway, when there are crops to be harvested?’

‘Every man is permitted to take a few moments away from his labours,’ said Leycestre stiffly. ‘Even the priory realises that
we cannot work all day with nothing in our stomachs.’

‘But ale is not the best thing to put in it,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am not bound to the priory, so I am not obliged to answer your questions,’ snapped Leycestre. ‘I was merely taking a break
from harvesting, and I happened to meet someone I know. There is nothing wrong or sinister in that. But I cannot spend all
day lounging in taverns, like fat monks and wealthy physicians. I have work to do.’

He stalked away angrily, slamming the door behind him so hard that jugs rattled on the shelves and the two elderly men jumped
in alarm. If Leycestre’s intention had been to convince Bartholomew and Michael that his meeting had been innocent, then he
had failed miserably. Both were now sure that the ill-matched pair had been discussing something of great significance.

‘I suppose he was plotting his insurrection,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is all he talks about, and it seems to be the thing
that is most important in his life. Still, he usually does so only when his nephews can act as sentinels. I wonder where they
are.’

‘It is probably difficult for three strong men to leave the fields in the middle of the day,’ said Michael. ‘While Leycestre
might slip away unnoticed, the whole trio certainly could not.’

‘Was he trying to convert Guido to his cause, do you think? Guido is a traveller. He would be an excellent person to spread
the news that discontent is brewing and that other peasants should be ready to act.’