A Summer of Discontent

‘As I told you, not an hour ago, I want this criminal caught,’ shouted de Lisle furiously. ‘It is bad enough being accused of murder, without the people in my See being dispatched by some monster who feels it incumbent on himself to slaughter monks in broad daylight on holy ground.’

‘We were-’ began Michael.

‘You have always been excellent at solving this kind of mystery,’ snapped de Lisle, pacing back and forth. ‘Yet, when the outcome is important to me personally, you seem to be dragging your heels.’

‘I am doing nothing of the kind,’ said Michael, his eyes dangerously cold. ‘You know very well that I have been working hard. This case is just more complicated than I anticipated, that is all. I told you all this earlier.’

De Lisle sensed that he had overstepped the mark, and that if he wanted Michael’s continued services then he would need to adopt a more conciliatory attitude. Bartholomew supposed the prelate was frustrated because Michael was the only person who could clear his name to everyone’s satisfaction. Bishop Northburgh and Canon Stretton were worse than useless; Michael was his only hope. De Lisle’s face softened, and he laid an apologetic arm across the monk’s shoulders.

‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he said. ‘I am not myself today. That wretched Blanche has been aiming to damage me and my reputation ever since I had the misfortune to cross her path twenty-five years ago. Of course, Tysilia is at the heart of it.’

‘Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew, startled into blurting an interruption.

‘She is my niece,’ said the Bishop, smiling fondly. ‘But, of course, you know her from that business that took you to St Radegund’s Convent earlier this year.’

Bartholomew knew that Tysilia was far more closely related to the prelate than that, although how someone as brazenly dim-witted as Tysilia could be the offspring of the wily Thomas de Lisle was completely beyond Bartholomew’s comprehension.

‘Why would she be at the heart of your quarrel with Blanche?’ he asked curiously.

The Bishop shot him a look that indicated that if he could not use his imagination, then he should not speak. The physician glanced at Michael, who obliged him with an almost imperceptible wink. Bartholomew’s mind whirled. Were they saying that the mother of Tysilia was Lady Blanche, and that the first meeting of churchman and noblewoman had resulted in something more permanent than a nodding acquaintance? Michael saw the understanding dawn in his friend’s eyes, and smiled to show that those suppositions were correct. Bartholomew stared down at his feet, so he would not have to look at de Lisle.

‘I do not understand what you are talking about,’ said the less worldly Alan. ‘Why should your niece be at the root of your problems with Blanche?’

‘Blanche foisted the child on me a long time ago,’ said de Lisle, walking to the window to gaze out across the graveyard. ‘I was an innocent young man then, and when Blanche came to me with an unwanted child and asked me to give it a home, I obliged. I felt sorry for it.’

‘But why should she ask you such a thing?’ pressed Alan, failing to put together the clues that stared him in the face — although Bartholomew was certain the Bishop would be content if the Prior remained blissfully ignorant. ‘You were a churchman, not a landowner with a family of your own. You seem an odd choice of guardian to me.’

‘I imagine she detected my kind heart, and decided to use it to her advantage,’ said de Lisle smoothly. ‘She was about to be married to the Earl of Lancaster, and could hardly present him with a recently born child from an illicit liaison. I helped a woman in distress, and my act of charity has plagued me ever since.’

‘I see,’ said Alan, although his eyes remained puzzled. ‘She feels guilty about abandoning the child, and feels anger because she is in your debt. It is often the way that a kindness eventually produces resentment on the part of the beneficiary. It is one of the reasons why I am reluctant to be overly indulgent to my peasants.’

‘It is hardly the same-’ began Bartholomew, who thought Alan could afford to be a little more generous in that direction. Then men like Leycestre would not be plotting a rebellion.

De Lisle cut him off. ‘Suffice to say that Blanche will do all in her power to harm me. It is most unjust.’

‘It is unjust,’ agreed Alan. ‘A selfless act should never culminate in merciless persecution.’

‘Let us return to these murders,’ said de Lisle, who at least had the grace to be disconcerted by Alan’s misguided sympathy. ‘You must arrest this killer, Michael. And the sooner the better. We shall meet again this time tomorrow, when I want to hear that the wretched man is in a prison cell.’