A Summer of Discontent

‘Was he threatening us?’ mused Michael, replacing the ring as he stared thoughtfully after the sub-prior’s wobbling progress. ‘It sounded like a threat.’

‘It was ambiguous,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I have no idea what he meant.’

‘Wolves indeed!’ muttered Michael. ‘There have been no wolves here since the Conqueror’s days. What did you make of his reason for being here?’

‘I did not see the person he met properly,’ replied Bartholomew, watching the sub-prior gradually lose speed. He was all but crawling when he crested the brow of the hill and disappeared down the other side. ‘But it was no boy — unless it was a very big one.’

‘A man, then?’ asked Michael.

‘It could have been a woman. And there is another thing, too.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, nodding slowly as he anticipated what the physician was going to say. ‘Thomas carried no bread with him, to give to a child or anyone else.’

‘But this “boy” gave him something,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it was certainly not bread.’

The daylight had all but gone by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached the gate where they had agreed to meet Mackerell. It was a pleasant evening, with a breeze that carried the scent of the sea that lay to the north. They propped open the gate, so that Mackerell would be able to enter, and then found a comfortable spot in which to wait. They leaned their backs against the wall of the great tithe barn, stretched their legs in front of them, and relaxed. They could see the gate from where they sat, and knew they would spot Mackerell when he came.

‘Prior Alan agreed to my request for Mackerell to spend a few days in his prison,’ said Michael. ‘The man must be desperate, if he considers that foul place preferable to home.’

‘He considers it safer,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He said nothing about it being more comfortable. I wonder whether he really does have something to tell us or whether he is playing games.’

‘I have been wondering that, too,’ said Michael. ‘The appearance of that dog — just when Mackerell’s tongue seemed to be loosening — was rather too opportune for my liking.’

‘I agree. In fact, I wonder whether he really left a message for us at all: that pot-boy may have been lying. I find it strange that Mackerell should be wary of us one moment, and then agree to meet us in dark and lonely places the next. And not only did he tell us exactly where to meet him, but he gave the message to that slack-tongued pot-boy, who, by his own admission, will tell anyone anything for a few pennies.’

Michael gazed into the twilight gloom. ‘I have been thinking about your claim that Blanche was with the gypsies yesterday.’

‘Yes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you accept that I could be right?’

‘No, but I have been reconsidering the fact that the fourth gypsy declined to lower his hood the whole time he was in the tavern. It was hot in there, and wearing a thick hood like that cannot have been comfortable. So, the question is: who was he hiding from?’

Bartholomew blew out his cheeks. ‘We seem to be making this unnecessarily complex, Brother. Why would Goran — if indeed it was Goran — go into a public place like the Mermaid, if he were trying to hide from someone? However, I am sure it was Blanche I saw. But it probably has no relevance to our case, anyway, so we should not waste our time by speculating about it.’

‘If you are right, then it is relevant,’ argued Michael. ‘Blanche is here purely and simply to bring about the downfall of the man she hates. If she was dressed in rough clothes and lurking in seedy taverns with low company, then you can be sure that she was doing so to damage de Lisle in some way. But you are not right, and so all we can conclude is that Goran was probably up to no good.’

Bartholomew changed the subject, seeing they would not reach agreement on the matter. ‘Where is Mackerell? It is dark already, and the dew is coming through.’

Michael shifted uncomfortably. ‘True. I do not want to return to the priory with a wet seat. Then my brethren would really wonder what I had been doing!’

‘We should look for him,’ said Bartholomew, standing and offering Michael his hand. The monk grasped it, and Bartholomew only just remembered in time that Michael was very heavy, and that he needed to brace himself if he did not want to be pulled off his feet.

‘I hope he is all right,’ said Michael, growing anxious.

‘He is probably in a tavern,’ said Bartholomew, unconcerned because he had suspected the fisherman would not appear anyway. ‘I will check the Mermaid. You stay here, in case he comes.’

But Mackerell was not in the Mermaid, and the pot-boy assured Bartholomew that he had not been seen since the previous day. Because he was out and felt like walking, Bartholomew glanced into the Lamb, the Bell and the White Hart, too, but there was no Mackerell enjoying his ale. Puzzled, but not yet worried, Bartholomew started to walk back to the priory, half expecting the man to have rendezvoused with Michael in his absence.