A Summer of Discontent

‘That is hard to do, when harsh landlords drive men to take their own lives because they cannot feed their families,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘And do not give me your sympathy, Brother, because I am certain you cannot recall the last time you were faced with an empty table at mealtimes.’

‘Not this morning, certainly,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that Michael had fortified himself for the twenty-mile journey from Cambridge with a substantial breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, bread and some cold pheasant that had been left from the previous evening.

‘Who has taken his own life?’ demanded Michael. ‘Are you talking about this steward — Glovere — whom those rascally guards told me the Bishop is accused of killing? However, they also happened to mention that de Lisle maintains Glovere’s death was a suicide — which I am sure we will discover is the case.’

‘Not Glovere, although they died similar deaths,’ said Leycestre obliquely.

Michael sighed. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ The way he kicked his sandalled feet into the sides of his horse indicated that he had no wish to find out, either.

‘I am talking about Will Haywarde, who killed himself yesterday,’ said Leycestre, keeping pace with Michael’s horse. ‘Like Glovere, Haywarde died in the river.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the murky River Ouse, which meandered its way around the eastern edge of the town.

‘I see,’ said Michael, uncomprehending, but not inclined to learn more.

‘You should not listen to tales spun by the likes of those guards, though,’ Leycestre advised. ‘I do not believe that Bishop de Lisle has killed anyone. I think Glovere was a suicide, just like the Bishop says.’

‘I am sure he will be relieved to know he can count on your support,’ said Michael, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks a second time to hurry it along. It was no use — Leycestre merely walked faster.

‘The gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Leycestre. He cast a contemptuous glance to a group of people wearing embroidered tunics similar to Eulalia’s, who were watching the musicians on the green. ‘They say they came to help with the harvest, but since they arrived houses have been burgled almost every night.’

‘Do you have evidence to prove that these travellers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that it would be very stupid of the gypsies to indulge themselves in a crime spree as soon as they had arrived. It would be obvious who were the culprits, and his brief encounter with Eulalia told him that she had more sense.

Leycestre rounded on him. ‘The fact is that the day after these folk arrived, a house was broken into. And then another and another. Is this evidence enough for you?’

Bartholomew did not reply. He suspected he would be unable to convince the man that the spate of burglaries need not necessarily be related to the arrival of the gypsies, and knew it was simpler to blame strangers in a small town than to seek a culprit among long-term acquaintances.

‘And while these vagabonds strut openly along our streets, honest men like me are forced to labour like slaves in the Prior’s fields,’ continued Leycestre bitterly.

‘Go back to work, Master Leycestre,’ said Michael, making another attempt to leave the malcontent behind. ‘And I advise you again: take care whom you approach with your seditious thoughts, or your land might not be all you lose. The King is weary of demands by labourers for more pay.’

‘And labourers are weary of making them,’ Bartholomew heard Cynric mutter as Leycestre finally abandoned his quarry and went in search of more malleable minds. ‘And soon they will not bother to ask, when the answer is always no. So they will take what they want, permission or not.’

‘You be careful, too, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew, looking around him uneasily. ‘This is a strange city for us, and we do not know who might be a spy. I do not want to spend my time arranging your release from prison because you have voiced your opinions to the wrong people.’

‘I am always careful,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘But you should heed your own advice, because you are not a man to ignore the injustices we see around us either. I will keep my own counsel, but you must keep yours, too.’

He gave the physician a grin, which broke the mood of unease, and they rode on. Eventually, they reached the Heyrow, where the largest and most magnificent of the merchants’ houses were located. It was a wide street, with timber-framed buildings standing in a proud row along the north side and the stalwart wall of the cathedral-priory lining the south side. Two inns stood on the Heyrow — the Lamb was a huge, but shabby, institution with a reputation for excellent ale, while the White Hart was a fashionable establishment with two guest wings and a central hall.