A Summer of Discontent

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.’