A Summer of Discontent

He did not have time to reach the third house. The dog would not be silenced and, as the occupants of the first hovel were torn from their exhausted slumbers, they became aware that the top of their home was full of thick white smoke and that the crackle of burning was not coming from the logs in the hearth. A child started to scream in terror, while the adults poured out of the house, yelling in alarm. Their shouts woke their neighbours, who tumbled into the icy night air, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

By now, the fire had taken a good hold of the first home, and the roof of the second released tendrils of smoke: already it was too late to save it. Sparks danced through the darkness to land on the roof of the third, and soon that was alight, also. Ralph ducked away from the peasants’ sudden fevered, but futile, attempts to douse the flames, watching from a safe distance. No amount of water would save the houses now, and any pails or pots that might have been used were inside, being consumed by the very flames they might have helped to quench.

The cottagers milled around in helpless confusion. The men poked and jabbed desperately at the burning thatches with hoes and spades, but their efforts only served to make the fire burn more fiercely. The women stood with their children clinging to their skirts and stared in silent dismay. For them, life had been almost unbearably hard. Now it would be harder still.

Ralph watched them for a while longer, savouring the sharp, choking stench of burning wood and the crackling roar of the flames that devoured the last of the thatching. The people were silhouetted against the orange pyre, breath pluming like fog in the bitter winter night. The reeve and his family came running from the manor, woken by the shouts of alarm and the fountain of glittering sparks that flew into the black sky, but there was little they could do to help. Ralph heard the reeve demand to know which household had left a fire burning while they slept, and saw two families regarding the third in silent reproach. He smiled in satisfaction. The cottagers who had warmed themselves with stolen kindling, and had rashly fallen asleep to its comforting heat, would be blamed for the mishap. No one would suspect foul play. Ralph was now free to leave.

The Isle of Ely, early August 1354

Tom Glovere finished his ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He was aware that the atmosphere in the Lamb Inn was icy, despite the warmth of the summer evening, but he did not care. The inhabitants of Ely were too complacent and willing to believe in the good in people. Glovere intended to cure them of such foolery.

‘So,’ said the landlord, turning away from Glovere to address another of his patrons. ‘It is a good summer we are having, Master Leycestre. Long, hot days are excellent for gathering the harvest.’

‘Do not try to change the subject, Barbour,’ snapped Glovere nastily, as he set his cup on the table to be refilled. ‘We were discussing the spate of burglaries that have plagued our city for the last few days: the locksmith was relieved of six groats last night, while the Cordwainers Guild had three silver pieces stolen the day before.’

‘We know all this,’ said Barbour wearily. ‘My customers and I do not need you to tell us the story a second time. And we do not need you to make nasty accusations about our fellow citizens, either.’

Glovere smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. ‘Then you should expect these thefts to continue. Whoever is breaking into our homes and making off with our gold is a local man. He knows which houses are likely to contain the most money, the best way to enter them, and even how to pacify the dogs. The locksmith’s hound is a mean-spirited brute, and yet it did not so much as growl when its home was entered in the depths of the night. That, my friends, is because the dog knew the burglar.’ He sat back, confident that he had made his point.

The landlord regarded Glovere with dislike. It was growing late, so most of his patrons had already gone to their beds, but a dozen or so remained, enjoying the cool, sweet ale that made the Lamb a popular place to be on a sultry summer night. The sun had set in a blaze of orange and gold, and the shadows of dusk were gathering, dark and velvety. The air smelled of mown hay, and of the ripe crops that waited in the fields to be harvested. It was a beautiful evening, and Barbour thought Glovere was wrong to pollute it by creating an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. He turned to Leycestre again, and enquired politely after the health of his nephews in the hope that Glovere would grow bored and leave.