A Summer of Discontent

There was a cold gleam in Ralph’s eyes, which intensified when he straightened from his slouch. ‘That is not a pleasant attitude to take, Brother. Do you want me to return to my Bishop and tell him that the infirmarian refused him a refreshing drink after he has spent all afternoon saying masses for the almoner?’

‘Be off with you,’ ordered Michael angrily. ‘You are doing my Bishop a disservice by going about making demands like this.’

‘It is all right, Brother,’ said Henry. ‘The Bishop can have the last of my cordial if that is what he wants.’

Ralph revealed ugly black teeth in a grin of victory, and followed Henry inside. Bartholomew eyed him with distaste, disliking the man’s confident swagger and assumed superiority because he was a bishop’s servant. He was dirty, too, and a sharp, unwashed smell emanated from his greasy clothes. He was not a good ambassador for a fastidiously clean man like de Lisle.

Michael shook his head. ‘That is not de Lisle’s errand, Matt. That is Ralph acting on his own initiative, and I will wager you a jug of bona cervisia that my Bishop will never see that cordial. Ralph has always been a selfish sort of fellow.’

‘Why does de Lisle keep him in his service, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is not good for a bishop to employ such a man?’

‘He needs someone he can trust,’ replied Michael, stepping from the shade of the hospital door into the brightness of the sun beyond. He winced as the heat hit him. ‘Such trust is difficult to come by, and usually results only after years of service. I doubt de Lisle likes Ralph, but Ralph is loyal and that counts for a good deal.’

They walked slowly through the vineyard, each taking one side of the main path as they scanned for signs that a scuffle had taken place. Bartholomew smiled when he saw one area of disturbed soil: it was the spot where he and Michael had dropped to their hands and knees to spy on Thomas. He heartily wished Cynric had been with them, because the Welshman would not have allowed himself to be caught, and he would almost certainly have overheard the conversation without being detected.

‘This is hopeless!’ mumbled Michael, wiping his sweaty face with his sleeve. ‘We do not know that Robert used this path, and these vineyards are enormous. We are wasting our time. We should pay another visit to the Mermaid, and see what else we can find out about Mackerell.’

‘We would learn nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, I suspect they have already told us all they intend to say, and second, they are Fenmen, who are a taciturn lot at the best of times. They will not surrender information to people like us.’

‘And what they are prepared to tell us is nonsense,’ agreed Michael in disgust. ‘Water-spirits, indeed! I will give Mackerell water-spirits if I ever see him again.’

‘I hope you will have the opportunity. I expected to see him dead this morning, washed down the river into the Monks’ Hythe, like the others.’

‘He is alive. Symon said he saw him this morning near the castle.’

‘Symon was uncertain. Why would Mackerell be in the priory grounds, anyway? I think that if he is still alive, then he has done what Thomas said — disappeared into the marshes he knows better than anyone else.’

‘Do you think we can discount Symon’s sighting then?’

‘I think so. It does not make sense — unless Mackerell killed Robert of course.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael tiredly. ‘Mackerell was not a particularly poor man, and so would have no cause to deal with the priory’s almoner. He could not have been resentful about miserly alms.’

‘We do not know that,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As we keep saying, there is a good deal we do not know about this case.’

‘I had not expected Robert to be the next victim,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But we are getting nowhere with this, Matt. We should walk up this damned river, since you are so sure we will find something there.’

‘In a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to look along some of these smaller paths first.’

He ignored Michael’s groan of displeasure, and concentrated on exploring a promising area near some scattered stakes. But the presence of feathers suggested that a fox had killed a bird there, and that the scuffed soil had nothing to do with Robert or his killer. Eventually, they had walked the entire length of the vineyard, and were near the rear gate. Behind them, the tithe barn loomed, casting a cool shadow across the path along which they walked.