A Summer of Discontent

‘We met by accident,’ replied Leycestre shortly. ‘Why would I want to rendezvous with a man like Guido, anyway? What could he possibly have that would interest me?’

‘You tell me,’ said Michael, regarding the man intently. ‘And why are you here, anyway, when there are crops to be harvested?’

‘Every man is permitted to take a few moments away from his labours,’ said Leycestre stiffly. ‘Even the priory realises that we cannot work all day with nothing in our stomachs.’

‘But ale is not the best thing to put in it,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am not bound to the priory, so I am not obliged to answer your questions,’ snapped Leycestre. ‘I was merely taking a break from harvesting, and I happened to meet someone I know. There is nothing wrong or sinister in that. But I cannot spend all day lounging in taverns, like fat monks and wealthy physicians. I have work to do.’

He stalked away angrily, slamming the door behind him so hard that jugs rattled on the shelves and the two elderly men jumped in alarm. If Leycestre’s intention had been to convince Bartholomew and Michael that his meeting had been innocent, then he had failed miserably. Both were now sure that the ill-matched pair had been discussing something of great significance.

‘I suppose he was plotting his insurrection,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is all he talks about, and it seems to be the thing that is most important in his life. Still, he usually does so only when his nephews can act as sentinels. I wonder where they are.’

‘It is probably difficult for three strong men to leave the fields in the middle of the day,’ said Michael. ‘While Leycestre might slip away unnoticed, the whole trio certainly could not.’

‘Was he trying to convert Guido to his cause, do you think? Guido is a traveller. He would be an excellent person to spread the news that discontent is brewing and that other peasants should be ready to act.’

‘Guido is not the kind of man to engage in that sort of thing. Why should he? He is not tied to a landlord: this is not his fight, and I cannot see why he should become involved.’

‘Then what were they discussing?’ asked Bartholomew irritably. His head was aching, and he felt sick, as though he had had too much to drink the night before. He wondered whether it was the after-effects of Henry’s tonic and assumed that there would have to be a down-side to such a marvellous potion.

‘I do not know,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as the first of the food arrived. ‘But it looked more like an argument than a discussion to me.’

‘Perhaps they were debating who to murder next,’ said Bartholomew, eating a piece of chicken without enthusiasm. He was more interested in the ale, although Michael claimed it was too weak.

‘Did Leycestre look as though he was limping to you?’ asked Michael. ‘Go to the window and watch him. You are a physician, and are good at observing such things.’

Bartholomew obliged, watching the burly farmer walk towards the river. There was a distinct unevenness to his gait. He returned to Michael and reported his observations. ‘I suppose he could always walk like that,’ he concluded. ‘It was not a limp so much as a stiffness. Perhaps working in the fields does not agree with him.’

‘Or perhaps he is suffering from a spade blow to the back.’

‘Our list of suspects for last night’s débâcle includes everyone in the priory and everyone in the town. We cannot go on like this, Brother: we have to narrow it down.’

‘But not by excluding Leycestre,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He was not on innocent business here in Chettisham.’

The landlord continued to bring dishes of meat, bread and pastries until Michael declared himself replete. Then he sat back with a sigh of pleasure, and made himself comfortable on the bench, leaning his back against the wall, and using his hat as a headrest as he prepared to take a nap.

‘Guido and Leycestre,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Men who dislike each other. They had a public fight in the Heyrow when Leycestre ordered Guido expelled from the Lamb, and Leycestre has been accusing the gypsies of all manner of crimes ever since we arrived.’

‘Could they have committed the murders together?’ asked Michael, sounding as if he did not care what Bartholomew thought, as long as it did not interfere with the doze he planned to take.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their dislike of each other is too public. You would need to trust someone absolutely if you were going to use him as an accomplice to murder.’

‘Perhaps their antipathy is a ruse,’ suggested Michael with a shrug. His eyes were closed and his voice was slurred, as if his mind was already elsewhere. ‘Perhaps Leycestre blames the gypsies so that people will not suspect that they are partners in crime.’