Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Read online

  Susanna Gregory is a pseudonym. Before she earned her Ph.D. at the University of Cambridge and became a research Fellow at one of the colleges, she was a police officer in Yorkshire. She has written a number of non-fiction books, including ones on castles, catherdrals, historic houses and world travel.

  She and her husband live in a village near Cambridge.

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES

  AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE

  A BONE OF CONTENTION

  A DEADLY BREW

  A WICKED DEED

  A MASTERLY MURDER

  AN ORDER FOR DEATH

  A KILLER IN WINTER

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-12444-2

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Susanna Gregory 2002

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  For the Pritchard boys –

  Pete, Ed and Alan

  Prologue

  Colne, Huntingdonshire; February 1354

  THE PEOPLE WHO HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO LIVE IN THE tiny Fenland village of Colne led miserable lives. Their homes were little more than hovels, with walls of woven hazel twigs that had been plastered over with mud from the nearby river. The crude thatching on the roofs leaked, allowing water to pool on the beaten-earth floors and to deposit irregular and unpleasant drips on the huts’ inhabitants. Winter rain and biting winds had stripped away some of the walls’ mud, so that Ralph could see the orange flicker of a hearth fire through them in the darkness. He shifted his position, uncomfortable after the long wait in the frigid chill of a February night. In one of the houses, a dog started to bark. Its yaps were half-hearted, as though it, like its owners, was too dispirited to care much about someone lurking suspiciously in the shadows outside.

  Ralph huddled more deeply into his cloak, grateful that he worked for a man who provided clothes that kept him warm through the worst of winter and boots that were equal to wading through the thick, sucking muck of the country’s roads. The same could not be said of the people who lived in the cottages he watched. These were villeins, bound by law for their entire lives to the estates of Lady Blanche de Wake. If their own crops failed and they had not stored enough food for the winter, then they would starve. Blanche was not obliged to help them, and they were not permitted to leave their vermin-infested homes to seek a better life elsewhere. Ralph sniffed softly, thinking that what he was about to do might even help the poor wretches in their cramped, stinking huts, shivering near meagre fires lit with stolen wood.

  He had been watching them for the best part of a week now, and knew their daily routine: they trudged home from labouring in Lady Blanche’s stony fields, ate whatever they had managed to poach or steal from her woods – the grain saved from the last harvest had long since gone – and then fell into an exhausted slumber until the first glimmer of light in the east heralded the beginning of another dreary day. Ralph’s careful observations had yielded a great deal of information about the people of Colne and their lives. For example, he knew that the folk in the cottage to his left had feasted on a pigeon that night; the inhabitants of the other two had made do with a thin stew of nettles, a handful of dried beans and some onion skins that had been intended for Blanche’s pigs.

  Lady Blanche’s manor house stood in a thicket of scrubby trees some distance away, near the swollen stream that bubbled through the dull winter-brown fields. Ralph had managed to slip inside it earlier that day, when the reeve was out overseeing the peasants at their work. Although Blanche was not currently in residence, the house was always kept in readiness for her. There were clean rushes on the floor, sprinkled with fresh herbs to keep them sweet smelling, and the kitchens were well stocked. Blanche liked her food, and the reeve saw no reason to let standards slip just because his mistress was away. He and his family had certainly not eaten onion skins and nettles that evening.

  Ralph turned his attention back to the cottages. The occupants had been sleeping for a while now and Colne was well off the beaten track: no one was likely to come along and disturb him. It was time. Stiffly, because he had been waiting for some hours, Ralph stood and brushed dead leaves and twigs from his cloak. He flexed his limbs, then made his way to the nearest of the three hovels, treading softly. The dog whined, and Ralph grimaced, sensing that he would have to be quick if he did not want to be caught red-handed.

  He had thought carefully about what he was going to do, painstakingly planning and making preparations. He had already packed the thatched roofs with dried grass, and had placed small bundles of twigs at strategic points around the backs of the hovels. He would have used straw, but was afraid one of the cottagers would notice if he made too many obvious changes.

  The dog barked again when he struck the tinder, but he ignored it as he set the tiny flame to the first clump of dry grass. It caught quickly, then smoked and hissed as the flames licked up the damp thatch. When he was sure it would not blow out, he moved to the second bundle of kindling, and then the next. The dog barked a third time, more urgently now, unsettled by the odour of smoke and the snap of gently smouldering roof. Someone swore at it, there was a thud, and its barks became yelps. Hurrying, Ralph moved to the next cottage, where he set the dancing flame to a bundle of tinder-dry sticks.

  He did not have time to reach the third house. The dog would not be silenced and, as the occupants of the first hovel were torn from their exhausted slumbers, they became aware that the top of their home was full of thick white smoke and that the crackle of burning was not coming from the logs in the hearth. A child started to scream in terror, while the adults poured out of the house, yelling in alarm. Their shouts woke their neighbours, who tumbled into the icy night air, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

  By now, the fire had taken a good hold of the first home, and the roof of the second released tendrils of smoke: already it was too late to save it. Sparks danced through the darkness to land on the roof of the third, and soon that was alight, also. Ralph ducked away from the peasants’ sudden fevered, but futile, attempts to douse the flames, watching from a safe distance. No amount of water would save the houses now, and any pails or pots that might have been used were inside, being consumed by the very flames they might have helped to quench.

  The cottagers milled around in helpless confusion. The men poked and jabbed desperately at the burning thatches with hoes and spades, but their efforts only served to make the fire burn more fiercely. The women stood with their children clinging to their skirts and stared in silent dismay. For them, life had been almost unbearably hard. Now it would be harder still.

  Ralph watched them for a while longer, savouring the sharp, choking ste
nch of burning wood and the crackling roar of the flames that devoured the last of the thatching. The people were silhouetted against the orange pyre, breath pluming like fog in the bitter winter night. The reeve and his family came running from the manor, woken by the shouts of alarm and the fountain of glittering sparks that flew into the black sky, but there was little they could do to help. Ralph heard the reeve demand to know which household had left a fire burning while they slept, and saw two families regarding the third in silent reproach. He smiled in satisfaction. The cottagers who had warmed themselves with stolen kindling, and had rashly fallen asleep to its comforting heat, would be blamed for the mishap. No one would suspect foul play. Ralph was now free to leave.

  The Isle of Ely, early August 1354

  Tom Glovere finished his ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He was aware that the atmosphere in the Lamb Inn was icy, despite the warmth of the summer evening, but he did not care. The inhabitants of Ely were too complacent and willing to believe in the good in people. Glovere intended to cure them of such foolery.

  ‘So,’ said the landlord, turning away from Glovere to address another of his patrons. ‘It is a good summer we are having, Master Leycestre. Long, hot days are excellent for gathering the harvest.’

  ‘Do not try to change the subject, Barbour,’ snapped Glovere nastily, as he set his cup on the table to be refilled. ‘We were discussing the spate of burglaries that have plagued our city for the last few days: the locksmith was relieved of six groats last night, while the Cordwainers Guild had three silver pieces stolen the day before.’

  ‘We know all this,’ said Barbour wearily. ‘My customers and I do not need you to tell us the story a second time. And we do not need you to make nasty accusations about our fellow citizens, either.’

  Glovere smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. ‘Then you should expect these thefts to continue. Whoever is breaking into our homes and making off with our gold is a local man. He knows which houses are likely to contain the most money, the best way to enter them, and even how to pacify the dogs. The locksmith’s hound is a mean-spirited brute, and yet it did not so much as growl when its home was entered in the depths of the night. That, my friends, is because the dog knew the burglar.’ He sat back, confident that he had made his point.

  The landlord regarded Glovere with dislike. It was growing late, so most of his patrons had already gone to their beds, but a dozen or so remained, enjoying the cool, sweet ale that made the Lamb a popular place to be on a sultry summer night. The sun had set in a blaze of orange and gold, and the shadows of dusk were gathering, dark and velvety. The air smelled of mown hay, and of the ripe crops that waited in the fields to be harvested. It was a beautiful evening, and Barbour thought Glovere was wrong to pollute it by creating an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. He turned to Leycestre again, and enquired politely after the health of his nephews in the hope that Glovere would grow bored and leave.

  ‘Why would an Ely citizen suddenly resort to burgling the houses in his own town?’ asked Leycestre, ignoring the landlord’s attempt to change the subject and addressing the gleefully malicious Glovere. ‘Your accusations make no sense. I keep telling you that it is gypsies who are responsible for these thefts. The burglaries started the day after those folk arrived, and that speaks for itself.’ He folded his arms and looked around him belligerently, sure that no one could fail to agree.

  Barbour sighed heartily, wishing that Leycestre would keep his unfounded opinions to himself, too. The gypsies liked their ale just as much as the next man, and the landlord did not want to lose valuable customers just because Leycestre had taken against them.

  Glovere sneered. ‘The gypsies would not burgle us. They come here every year to help with the harvest, and they have never stolen anything before. You just do not want to face up to the truth: the culprit is a townsman who will be known to us all. You mark my words.’ He tapped his goblet on the table. ‘Another ale, Barbour.’

  ‘No,’ said Barbour, angry with both his customers. ‘You have had enough of my ale.’

  Glovere gazed at him, the scornful expression fading from his face. He was not an attractive man – his complexion was florid and flaky, and the uneven whiskers that sprouted from his cheeks and chin made him appear unwashed and unsavoury, despite his neat and expensive clothes. ‘I am not drunk. Give me another ale.’

  ‘I did not say you were drunk,’ said Barbour coolly. ‘I said you have had enough of my ale. You have a vicious tongue and I do not want you wagging it any longer in my tavern.’

  Glovere glowered at the Lamb’s other patrons, his eyes bright with malice. He held the lofty position of steward, after all, while they were mere labourers, and it galled him to think that they should be served Barbour’s ale while he was refused. ‘I am not the only one who tells what he knows. Leycestre revealed that it was Agnes Fitzpayne who raided the Prior’s peach tree last year, while Adam Clymme told us that Will Mackerell ate his neighbour’s cat.’

  ‘That is not the same,’ said Barbour firmly. ‘Your gossip is dangerous. You have already caused one young woman to drown herself because her life was blighted by your lies.’

  There was a growl of agreement from the other drinkers, and Glovere at least had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘It was not my fault that she killed herself before it could be proven that she was not with child,’ he objected sullenly. ‘I only told people what I thought. And it was not my fault that her betrothed went off and married someone else, either. Was it, Chaloner?’

  He stared archly at a burly man who sat alone in one corner of the inn. Others looked at Chaloner, too, and none of the expressions were friendly. Chaloner was a rough, belligerent fellow who cared little for what people thought. But he knew the good citizens of Ely had neither forgotten nor forgiven the fact that he had too readily abandoned poor Alice to marry another woman when Glovere made his accusations – accusations that turned out to be wholly false. People had liked Alice; they did not like Chaloner and he often found himself at the receiving end of hostile glances or comments. Usually, he ignored it all, and certainly did not permit his neighbours’ priggish disapprobation to influence the way he lived his life. But it was late and Chaloner was too tired for a confrontation that night. He drained his cup, slammed it on the table and slouched from the tavern without a word.

  ‘Why Alice killed herself over him is beyond me,’ said Glovere sanctimoniously, after Chaloner had gone. He was well aware that a conversation about the detested Chaloner might induce Barbour to forget his irritation with Glovere himself. ‘I did her a favour by saving her from marriage with him.’

  ‘A favour that killed the poor lass,’ muttered Leycestre under his breath.

  ‘It would not surprise me to learn that Chaloner is the thief,’ Glovere went on. ‘We all know he has a penchant for the property of others. Perhaps he has become greedy.’

  ‘And the reason we all know about his weakness for other people’s goods is because he keeps getting caught,’ Barbour pointed out. ‘Chaloner does not have the skill or the daring to burgle the homes of the wealthiest men in Ely.’

  ‘The gypsies do, though,’ said Leycestre immediately.

  ‘I do not know why we tolerate men like Chaloner in our town,’ said Glovere, cutting across what would have been a tart reprimand from Barbour. ‘None of us like him, and Alice is better dead than wed to him. More ale, landlord!’

  Barbour’s expression was unfriendly. ‘You can have more when you can keep a decent tongue in your head. And it is late anyway.’ He glanced around at his other patrons. ‘You all need to be up early tomorrow to gather the harvest, and so should be heading off to your own homes now.’ He began to collect empty jugs and to blow out the candles that cast an amber light on the whitewashed walls.

  Glovere glared at the landlord, then stood reluctantly and made his way outside. There was a sigh of relief from several customers when the door closed behind him.

  ‘He is an evil fellow,’
said Leycestre fervently. ‘And Chaloner is not much better.’

  ‘There are a number of folk in this city we would be better without,’ agreed Barbour. He gestured to a lanky, greasy-haired man who lurched to his feet and clutched at a door frame to prevent himself from falling. ‘Haywarde is drunk again, which means his wife will feel his fists tonight. If there was any justice in the world, someone would take a knife to all three of them.’

  Leycestre frowned, watching the other patrons give Haywarde a wide berth as they left. Haywarde was scowling angrily, and no one wanted to be on the receiving end of his quick temper. ‘What do you think of Glovere’s claims, Barbour? Do you believe that a townsman – like Chaloner – is responsible for these burglaries?’

  The landlord shrugged as he set a tray of goblets on a table and began to dunk them in a bucket of cold water; he was relieved when Haywarde finally released the door frame and staggered away into the night. ‘Possibly. These are desperate times.’

  ‘But it is the gypsies, I tell you,’ insisted Leycestre. ‘The thefts started the day after they arrived in Ely. It is obvious that they are to blame.’

  ‘It is late,’ said Barbour flatly. He was tired, and had not silenced Glovere’s malicious diatribe in order to hear one from Leycestre. ‘And if you see Glovere on your way home, you can tell him that I meant what I said. You know I like a bit of gossip myself – what taverner does not like news to entertain his guests with? – but Glovere’s chatter is spiteful and dangerous, and I want none of it in my inn.’

  He ushered Leycestre unceremoniously out of the door and barred it from the inside, walking back through his inn to exit through the rear door. He stood for a few moments, savouring the silence of the night before deciding he was too unsettled for sleep, and that he needed to stretch his legs. When he reached the main street, he saw that Leycestre and several of his fellow drinkers had also declined to return home when the night was too humid and hot for comfortable sleeping.