A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew had never seen Lady Blanche before, despite her fame in the area, and he studied the King’s kinswoman with interest. She was a short, dour-faced specimen in her early fifties. Her clothes were made of the finest cloth, but she clearly allowed none of the latest fashions of the court to influence what she wore. Her voluminous skirts were gathered uncomfortably under her large bosom, and were rather too short, so that a pair of stout calves poked from under them. Her wimple was viciously starched, and red lines around her face showed where it had chafed. There was a determined look in her pale blue eyes, and the strength of her character was evident in the way her bristly chin jutted out in front of her.

Her retinue was almost as impressive as the Bishop’s. She was followed not by clerks and monks, but by grooms and squires and tiring women. However, while their mistress may have abandoned fashion thirty years before, her retinue certainly had not, and Bartholomew had seldom seen such a gaudily dressed crowd. All wore the flowing cote-hardies and kirtles that were currently popular, and sported the shoes with the peculiar pointed toes and thin soles that were so impractical for walking. One woman uttered an unmannerly screech of delight that was directed at Michael, and with a sinking heart, Bartholomew recognised the dark features and expressionless eyes of Tysilia de Apsley.

Tysilia was a close relative of Bishop de Lisle, and had been lodged at a convent near Cambridge for much of the previous year, but had been removed when the nuns had failed to prevent her from becoming pregnant for the third time. She was one of the least intelligent people Bartholomew had ever met, and certainly one of the most licentious. She was not a person whom he liked, nor one with whom he wished to associate in any way. He gave a groan when she started to come towards them, while Michael diplomatically arranged his fat features into a smile of welcome. Unfortunately, her energetic progress was hampered by the fact that her riding cloak caught in her stirrup as she started running, and for some moments she was a mess of trailing sleeves, long skirts, loose straps and agitated horse. William rushed to her assistance, and was rewarded with a leering smile and some unnecessarily revealing flashes of long white legs that had him blushing furiously

‘Lord help us, Matt,’ Michael muttered through clenched teeth, watching the scene with rank disapproval. ‘What is she doing in Blanche’s retinue, when Blanche and de Lisle are such bitter enemies? And anyway, I thought de Lisle had foisted Tysilia on the lepers at Barnwell Hospital, so that they could cure whatever ails her mind.’

‘There is no cure for her,’ replied Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘She was born stupid, and no amount of “healing” will ever change that.’

Michael gave a soft laugh. ‘And this was the woman you thought was a criminal mastermind earlier this year!’

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘I was wrong. But I was right about one thing: her appalling lack of wits makes her dangerous to know. She should be locked away, but not with lepers.’

‘Why? Because she might catch the contagion?’

‘Because she puts them at risk. On one occasion, she seized someone in an amorous embrace that relieved him of three fingers and part of his nose, while on another she set the chapel alight by putting the eternal flame under the wooden altar.’

‘Why did she do that?’ asked Michael with appalled curiosity.

‘To keep it warm during the night, apparently. After that, the lepers decided that they would rather starve than accept the Bishop’s money to care for her. I wondered what he had done with her when they ordered her to leave. But here she is, overcome with delight at meeting her old friend Michael.’

‘Brother Martin!’ exclaimed Tysilia joyfully, flinging herself into the monk’s ample arms. ‘And Doctor Butcher the surgeon, too! You both came here to visit me!’

‘We did not know you would be here,’ said Michael, hastily disengaging himself before Blanche and her retinue could assume he was one of Tysilia’s many former lovers. Bartholomew ducked behind the monk’s sizeable bulk, before he could be treated to a similar display of affection.

‘My uncle, Thomas de Lisle, suggested that I spend time with Blanche,’ said Tysilia, smiling as vacantly as ever. ‘I am now her ward. I did not like being with the lepers, anyway. Their faces kept falling off, so it was difficult for me to remember who was who.’

As she spoke, Blanche broke away from the obsequious grovelling of Robert and William and approached Michael, curious about the man who was acquainted with her charge.

‘De Lisle lied to me,’ said Blanche without preamble, regarding the monk as though he were responsible. ‘He told me that Tysilia was a sweet and gentle child, who could benefit from a motherly hand. She is not, and he can have her back again.’

Tysilia’s face fell. ‘But I have had such fun with you and all your charming young courtiers!’