A Summer of Discontent

‘Michael?’ asked William, sounding as incredulous as Bartholomew felt. ‘Are you jesting with me?’

‘Why would I jest about such a thing,’ said Tysilia, sounding genuinely puzzled. ‘Michael is all a woman could ask for in a man, and I intend to have him.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ whispered William in alarm. ‘He will hear you.’

‘I do not mind,’ said Tysilia dreamily. ‘I would like him to know that I am fond of him.’

‘Then you can reveal your unlikely infatuation at your peril, but not now. We do not want him to know we are here, having this secret meeting, do we?’

‘No,’ admitted Tysilia. ‘Because then it would no longer be a secret, and that would be a pity. But I wonder why he is here. I hope he is not meeting another lover. I would not like that at all.’

Bartholomew also had no idea why the monk should choose to bask in the rays of the late afternoon sun while hiding behind a mortuary monument, until he spotted yet another figure walking among the graves. The physician grinned, wondering whether he would see half the priory and its guests emerging to engage in ‘secret’ assignations in the cemetery, if he watched long enough. This time, it was de Lisle.

The Bishop was a man imbued with plenty of energy, and he walked briskly and purposefully to the place where Michael waited. At the last moment, he stopped and spun around, gazing back the way he had come, looking for signs that he had been followed. Apparently satisfied that he had not, he quickly stepped behind Michael’s mausoleum; pushing himself close to the monk, he leaned out around the wall and looked back a second time. Cynric, Bartholomew thought, would have been horrified at such a poor display of stealth. His book now completely forgotten, Bartholomew watched with interest.

‘That is my uncle!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia whisper loudly. ‘He is the Bishop of Ely, you know.’

‘What was that?’ demanded de Lisle immediately, gazing intently in her direction. ‘Did you hear a voice, Brother?’

‘A bird,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘Do not worry, my lord. No one else will be in the cemetery at this hour. My brethren are already massing outside the refectory to wait for the dinner bell, while Lady Blanche and her household are down by the river, where it is cooler.’

‘Well?’ demanded the Bishop. He made no attempt to keep his voice down as he addressed Michael. Bartholomew wondered whether de Lisle was as devious a plotter as he would have everyone believe, if he did not know that it was safer to speak quietly when meeting agents in graveyards — just because he thought he had not been followed did not mean that he could not be heard. ‘What have you learned so far about Glovere?’

Bartholomew wondered what he should do, aware that anything Michael said would also be heard by the hosteller and Tysilia. If Michael felt the need to meet de Lisle in the cemetery, rather than openly at his house or in the cathedral, then the monk clearly wanted privacy. While he felt no particular allegiance to de Lisle, and cared little whether the Bishop revealed his innermost secrets while William and Tysilia listened, Bartholomew did not want the discussion to incriminate Michael. He picked up a small inkpot, and fingered it thoughtfully, seriously considering hurling it at Michael to warn the monk that he and de Lisle were not alone.

‘I have learned very little, I am afraid,’ replied Michael. ‘A fellow named Mackerell spun some story about water-spirits snatching the souls of the three dead men.’

The Bishop nodded. ‘Superstition is rife in the Fens, despite my attempts to try to teach otherwise. I am not surprised that ghosts have been blamed — but better them than me, I say!’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘Mackerell has agreed to meet me by the back door of the priory tonight, where he has promised to reveal all.’

‘What could a man like Mackerell know?’ demanded de Lisle disparagingly. ‘He is a mere fisherman.’

‘He is a mere fisherman who gave the impression he knew something that frightened him,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We should not dismiss him without hearing his story.’

Bartholomew’s grip on the inkpot loosened. The Bishop and his agent were not discussing anything incriminating or dangerous. He wondered why they had decided to meet in secret. Perhaps it was force of habit that encouraged them to be circumspect, even when there was no need.

‘Very well,’ said de Lisle, although he did not sound convinced. ‘You have more experience in these matters than I do, and I shall bow to your superior knowledge. What else have you learned?’

‘I spoke to Haywarde’s family today,’ said Michael. ‘And I also ascertained that Chaloner and Glovere had no kin — at least, no kin that would acknowledge them.’

‘No family would ever admit to owning Glovere,’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia whisper to William. ‘He always smelled of horse dung, you see.’

‘What?’ William whispered back, evidently more interested in the conversation between Michael and de Lisle than in listening to Tysilia’s deranged ramblings.