A Summer of Discontent

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.’