A Summer of Discontent

Tysilia sat there, facing the wall and rocking back and forth as she wept in a most heart-rending manner. Bartholomew was used to Tysilia arousing a variety of emotions in him, the most common of which were dislike, exasperation and distrust, but he had never before experienced compassion for her. Wondering what could reduce the infuriatingly cheerful and ebullient woman to tears, he touched her gently on the shoulder.

‘What is wrong? Can I help?’

She gazed up at him with eyes red from weeping, her face a streaked mess from the tears that had run down them. ‘I want William,’ she said in a wail. She began to cry again, this time much louder and more piercingly, so that Bartholomew glanced behind him in alarm, afraid that someone would hear them and assume he was doing her some harm.

‘I will fetch him for you,’ he said backing away. ‘He is probably in the refectory, eating his breakfast.’

But he was not, Bartholomew realised. The seat usually occupied by William had been empty. But, the physician reasoned, William’s absence at breakfast was an odd excuse for Tysilia’s display of agitation.

‘He is not in the refectory!’ she howled. ‘I have already been there, and he is not with the rest of the monks. He is taken, like the others.’

‘What others?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Glovere and the two peasants,’ she screeched. ‘We will find William dead in the river, like them.’

This notion brought on a renewed frenzy of grief, and Bartholomew was hard pressed to calm her. Speaking was no use, because she was making too much noise to hear anything that was said, and the only thing he could think to do was to put his arms around her until she quieted herself. He hoped that her anguish had not attracted the attention of gossiping monks who might complain to Blanche or the Prior that one guest was seducing another. If so, he thought, Tysilia’s reputation was such that he doubted whether he would be credited with the seduction.

‘William will not be found in the river,’ he said gently, when he was sure he could make himself heard. ‘Glovere and the others were townsmen, and there is no reason to suggest that the killer would strike at a monk.’

‘There is no reason to assume he would not,’ she shot back, uncharacteristically astute. ‘There is a first time for everything, as my uncle likes to say.’

‘But no monks have been killed,’ Bartholomew pointed out, helping her to stand. For the first time since he had known her, Tysilia was not pretty. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her usually clear skin was blotchy. Her appearance was not improved by twin trails of mucus that ran from her nose. He handed her a piece of linen, which she used to rub at a spot of mud on her sleeve. The mucus looked set to stay for the duration of the conversation. ‘And you must remember that the victims so far have been unpopular people.’

‘William is unpopular,’ sniffed Tysilia miserably. ‘No monks like him because he is harsh, and no townsfolk like him because he is a monk.’

‘That may be so, but he is not hated, as Glovere was. Wipe your nose.’

‘Almoner Robert hates him,’ said Tysilia, snuffling wetly as she fiddled with the linen. ‘They have loathed each other since they were children. I think it is because Robert is jealous of William’s beautiful hair.’

‘Please wipe your nose,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘But if William and Robert’s antagonism is long-standing, there is no reason why one should harm the other now.’

She scrubbed at her face with the linen and then handed it back to him. ‘I wish you were Brother Michael.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is having breakfast.’

‘Will you fetch him? I am sure he will find William for me.’

‘William will appear when he is ready,’ said Bartholomew, determined not to deliver his friend into her hands. ‘There is no need to disturb Michael.’

‘Pity,’ said Tysilia wistfully. ‘A few moments with Michael would take my mind off my other worries. I am sure he knows how to make a woman forget herself.’

‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, not caring to speculate.

She turned towards him, and seemed to be regaining her composure. ‘What shall I do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘William will come to you when he has finished whatever it is he is doing. And why do you care so, anyway? You have not been here long enough to have formed any serious attachment to the man.’

‘He will not come!’ wailed Tysilia with a fresh flood of tears. ‘He was supposed to meet me this morning, during prime, but he did not come. He is dead, I tell you!’

‘He is not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He took her elbow and guided her along the narrow path to the guesthouse, where he hoped he could deposit her with Blanche. She would doubtless know how to deal with the near-hysterical woman. ‘But you have not told me why you are so upset about him. Is he your latest lover?’