A Summer of Discontent

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, still not certain that the monk would make public the facts of the case if he felt it was inappropriate to do so. While he generally trusted Michael to do what was right, he felt the monk was somewhat under the power of his Bishop, who might not do the same.

‘And on top of all our suspects, we have a clan of gypsies who appear at peculiar moments; we have a missing fisherman who promised to tell us what we wanted to know but then fled; and we have talk of water-spirits and other such nonsense.’

Bartholomew stood. Henry was stirring in the hall. The infirmarian rubbed sleep from his eyes and went to kneel next to Thomas, indicating with a tired nod to Bartholomew that he was ready to begin his vigil and that the physician was free to go.

‘There is only so much we can do by speculating,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘We need some facts, and we will not find them here. We must go out.’

‘Out?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Now? In the full heat of day? It was bad enough when we had to chase to the Quay. I am not sure I am up to another foray under the blaze of the sun.’

‘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.