A Summer of Discontent

Meanwhile, Ynys advanced on Bartholomew, wielding a short fighting sword in a skilled manner that left the physician in no doubt of his expertise. The knives that were in his medicine bag were useless against such a weapon, and there was little he could do but back away and keep out of the range of the swinging blade. Henry was in the chapel, and they could hear his voice raised in pleading supplication.

‘We cannot let you go,’ said Roger to Michael apologetically. ‘Despite Henry’s affection for you. You would tell Alan what has happened, and he will send Henry away. And then what would happen to us?’

‘Henry’s motive may have been honourable, but you are only interested in your own welfare,’ hissed Michael furiously, ducking away as the old man advanced. ‘You have driven the poor man to despair, and he does not know which way to turn.’

‘You saw his distress when you killed Thomas,’ said Bartholomew, also moving backward. He knew he was in no real danger from Ynys as long as he kept out of range of the sword, which was not difficult given that the old man moved so slowly. ‘You have confused him so much that he may do himself some harm. Put down your weapon and let me go to him.’

Ynys faltered, but Roger remained unconvinced. ‘You are lying. Henry would never leave us.’

‘You have pushed him too far,’ said Michael. ‘He is a good man, but you have corrupted him to the point where he does not know what to believe.’

‘It is all Ralph’s fault,’ said Ynys, his sword shaking dangerously close to Bartholomew’s chest. ‘It was Ralph who came up with the idea — when he killed Glovere.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael, stepping quickly around a chest at the bottom of the bed as Roger edged closer. ‘Ralph killed Glovere?’

‘De Lisle wanted rid of Glovere,’ explained Ynys. ‘So Ralph obliged. Then Roger here saw the good that stemmed from Glovere’s demise — no more malicious gossip in taverns, poor young Alice avenged and her grieving family relieved of a heavy burden …’

‘Roger saw the good in Glovere’s death?’ echoed Michael, bewildered.

‘I did,’ said Roger in satisfaction. ‘I heard what people told me, and I saw I could spend my last summer helping people who deserved it. Then Ralph came to Henry to confess.’

‘Henry is loved by all,’ said Ynys fondly. ‘Many townsfolk use him as their confessor. He is kinder and more lenient than the parish priests.’

‘Ralph told Henry how he murdered Glovere with a small knife in the back of the neck. He made his confession here, in the infirmary, thinking that we were too deaf or weak-witted to understand.’ Roger looked pleased with himself. ‘But we did understand and it gave us an idea.’

‘Henry was reluctant at first,’ added Ynys. ‘But when he saw the relief afforded to the townsfolk by Glovere’s death, he killed Chaloner and Haywarde, too — two men who caused more misery to their fellow men than was their right.’

‘So that explains why Ralph was so gloatingly smug when he came to demand cordial,’ said Michael, as understanding dawned. ‘He knew that Henry had copied his method of execution. He understood that the culprit had to be Henry, because murder is not something one brays around all one’s acquaintances — only to one’s confessor. Henry was the only other man who knew how Glovere was killed, so Ralph reasoned that Henry killed Chaloner and the others.’

‘Did de Lisle know what Ralph had done?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘No,’ said Roger. ‘And Ralph was delighted when de Lisle summoned Michael to investigate. He knew Michael’s reputation as an investigator, and suspected that he would discover that Henry had killed Chaloner and Haywarde. He imagined that Glovere’s death would be attributed to Henry, too. That would let him off the hook.’

‘Henry,’ called Michael, addressing the chapel. He tried to move forward, but Roger lunged with his sword and he was obliged to duck back again. ‘Ralph is dead. He was murdered by the gypsies, because their king drank the poisoned wine you gave Matt.’

‘No!’ Henry’s voice was anguished.

‘So what?’ demanded the more practical Roger. ‘Ralph was a killer anyway — he murdered Glovere.’

Henry emerged from the chapel on unsteady legs. His eyes were wild and his face was bloodless. Tears flooded down his cheeks and his hands shook. Bartholomew was concerned.

‘Hemp,’ he said. ‘Take some hemp.’

‘He does not have any more,’ said Roger. ‘He gave the last of it to Northburgh yesterday.’