A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew was about to resume his reading when a flicker of movement among the bushes on the opposite side of the cemetery caught his eye. He watched in fascination as the branches parted and the priory’s hosteller emerged, looking around him in a way that Bartholomew could only describe as furtive. William fluffed up his hair and ran nervous hands down his habit, to brush away twigs or grass, before gazing around slowly to ensure that he was alone. Then Bartholomew saw him take a circuitous route through the graves until he reached the tree under which Tysilia had taken refuge. Moments later, there came the hum of a muttered conversation.

Because both Tysilia and William had taken some care not to be seen, Bartholomew concluded that their meeting did not have the blessing of Lady Blanche or the Prior. He predicted that William was in for a good time, while Tysilia would be able to add a Benedictine to her list of conquests — assuming that she had not already notched up some of them already. He was surprised that William had succumbed to Tysilia’s charms; he had imagined the hosteller to have more self control than that. But whatever their intentions, it was none of Bartholomew’s affair. He gave his back a quick rub and turned back to his book, quickly losing himself in its subject matter and forgetting whatever was happening below his window. His work was interrupted by a voice that was raised in irritation.

‘But I am acting normally! It is you who is acting oddly. How could you not, with that hair?’

This was followed by an urgent whisper by William, apparently ordering Tysilia to keep her voice down. Bartholomew leaned forward, and glanced over the sill. He could see the top of Tysilia’s head, although William was concealed by leaves.

‘And I will not be quiet!’ Tysilia’s furious voice went on. ‘Why should I?’

William gave a heavy sigh and spoke in a loud voice himself, exasperation apparently winning over the need for silence. ‘Because you do not want anyone to hear us here together, and neither do I. Think of your reputation.’

‘My reproduction has nothing to do with you!’ replied Tysilia indignantly. ‘I can look after myself.’

‘Then think of mine,’ snapped William. ‘My reputation, that is. What do you think people will say if they see us together like this?’

‘Why should they think anything amiss?’ demanded Tysilia petulantly. ‘It is not as if we are doing anything wrong. We are only talking.’

‘That is beside the point,’ said William, and Bartholomew could hear the frustration in his voice. ‘No one will believe we are here innocently.’

‘Then I will just tell them that we are,’ announced Tysilia, as if that would solve everything. ‘They will believe me. Who are we talking about, anyway? Who knows we are here? I told no one we were meeting. Did you?’

‘No,’ sighed William wearily. ‘Of course not. I was speaking hypothetically.’

‘Speaking hypocritically is not nice,’ said Tysilia firmly. ‘Lady Blanche told me so. And if you intend to speak that way to me, I shall leave.’

‘I was not being hypocritical,’ said William, sounding bewildered. Bartholomew smiled. He had engaged in similar conversations with Tysilia himself, and he knew how frustrating the woman’s slow wits and ignorance could be. He imagined that William was already regretting meeting her. ‘But never mind that. Tell me what you have discovered.’

‘Discovered about what?’ asked Tysilia, sounding baffled in her turn.

‘About what we discussed. About Glovere’s death.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘I remember now. No.’

‘No, what?’ snapped William, sounding agitated. His voice was now louder than Tysilia’s, all pretence at whispering abandoned.

‘No, I have discovered nothing about Glovere’s death,’ said Tysilia slowly, enunciating every word as though she were speaking to a dim-witted child. ‘I even asked Lady Blanche whether she had killed him, but she said she had not.’

‘You did what?’ exploded William. Bartholomew started to laugh, moving backwards so that he would not be heard, although he suspected that they were both far too engrossed in each other to detect any sounds of mirth from above.

It was Tysilia’s turn to sound aggravated. ‘You told me to learn anything I could about Glovere’s death, so I asked people about it. How am I supposed to find things out unless I ask? And, as I have just told you, I demanded of Blanche whether she had killed Glovere herself, just as you told me she might have done, but she said she had not. So, she is innocent after all.’

Bartholomew heard a groan. The physician knew how William felt. Conversations with Tysilia did tend to make one wonder whether one was dreaming.

‘I asked you to be discreet and to listen,’ said William tiredly. ‘I did not mean you to interrogate Blanche. You cannot begin to imagine the harm you have done. Now she will know that I suspect her, and she will be on her guard. She may even decide that I should go the same way as the servant she so despised.’