A Summer of Discontent

‘Who, me?’ asked the burly churchman, looking around him as though there might be another Canon Stretton present.

‘Yes,’ said Blanche impatiently. ‘My kinsmen, the King and the Black Prince, recommended you to me. They say you are tenacious and that you will be a bishop one day.’

‘I will, I expect,’ said Stretton carelessly, as if he were talking about eating dinner or walking to church. ‘But, at the moment, I am here. Ready to service you.’

Michael released a loud and wholly inappropriate snigger that caused Alan and de Lisle to stare curiously in the direction of the buttress.

‘Right,’ said Blanche, regarding Stretton uneasily. ‘Then you had better begin.’

The canon turned to de Lisle, towering over the tall Bishop. Hairy hands protruded from sleeves that were too short, and Bartholomew noted that his knuckles were grazed, as though he had been brawling. His eyes were almost invisible under the thick ridge that spanned his forehead, and he had the kind of nose that had been broken so many times that it was barely nose-shaped at all.

‘So, Ely,’ Stretton said, looking de Lisle up and down in much the same way that Northburgh had done. ‘Did you kill Lady Blanche’s servant?’

‘No,’ replied de Lisle shortly. ‘I have already said that I did not.’

Stretton turned to Blanche and spread his hands. ‘It seems Ely did not-’

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Blanche furiously. ‘This will just not do! You do not merely ask the culprit if he has committed the crime and then accept his answer without demur.’

‘You do not?’ asked Stretton, puzzled. ‘What more do you want me to do?’

‘I thought you would know!’ cried Blanche, becoming exasperated. ‘You are supposed to be an experienced investigator, who always uncovers the truth.’

‘He always uncovers the “truth” his clients want,’ muttered Michael. ‘That is why the Black Prince and King Edward like him so much.’

‘You must examine witnesses and you must look at the body of the victim,’ Blanche explained to the confused cleric. ‘And then you must produce evidence to prove de Lisle’s guilt.’

‘Very well, if that is what you want,’ mumbled Stretton reluctantly. ‘I suppose I can do that. Who are the witnesses, and what will I see if I examine this body?’

Blanche’s sigh of despair must have been audible all over the priory. ‘That is for you to determine. I should have known better than to appoint a cleric to help uncover the truth!’

With a glower at her hapless agent, she hitched up her skirts a final time, then turned to stride back to the Outer Hostry, setting such a cracking pace that her retinue were obliged to run and skip to keep up with her. Bartholomew had expected that de Lisle would be delighted at the outcome of the ‘investigations’, but instead he was frowning anxiously.

‘This is hopeless!’ he said, more to himself than to the circle of monks who had gathered around him. ‘Any evidence uncovered by the likes of Stretton or Northburgh will be questionable to say the least. Nothing they say or do is likely prove my innocence, and this charge may hang over me for the rest of my life. Michael is my only hope.’

‘He is right,’ said Michael soberly, turning to Bartholomew. ‘No one will believe any conclusions reached by that pair, and having an unresolved charge of murder clinging to him will be almost as bad for de Lisle as being found guilty. We had better hurry up and see what we can learn from this fisherman in the Mermaid.’

Because Michael wanted to reach the Mermaid Inn as soon as possible, he and Bartholomew took the shorter route through the priory grounds to reach the wharfs. To one side, the ruins of an ancient castle poked through the long grass of the meadow like broken teeth, while mysterious bumps and humps in the turf told of a building once fine enough for kings to sleep in, but that had been destroyed after some forgotten war two centuries previously and subsequently plundered for stone by townsfolk and priory alike.

Near the castle ruins neat rows marked the monks’ vineyard, where bunches of small, white grapes ripened and baked under the summer sun. The vines were not the healthiest specimens that Bartholomew had ever seen, and he supposed that the stony soil and west-facing slopes were responsible. The wine served with the meal the previous evening had been made from the priory’s grapes, and it had been a sour brew that was dry enough to be unpleasant. He had learned from Hosteller William that the south-facing slopes of the Bishop’s vineyards, a short distance away, produced a much sweeter and more palatable vintage.

They walked past a huge barn, where two lay-brothers were accepting the tithes that were owed by the farmers who rented the surrounding fields. The barn was already bulging at the seams, and Bartholomew wondered how the Prior could justify taking such large tributes when he obviously had plenty to spare. The barn was vast, but even so, the lay-brothers were having difficulty in finding space for the bags of wheat they were accepting from one thin, shabbily dressed man.