Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Page 9

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Michael gloomily. ‘What do you recommend? Shall I visit de Lisle and ask to see any sharp knives he might own? Shall I enquire whether he knows that a man can be dispatched with a small jab to the neck or that there are ways of killing a man that all but defy detection?’

  ‘Not if you do not want to find yourself with a cut neck in the river,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘I would concentrate on Glovere, if I were you. It seems that de Lisle was not the only person who did not like him. Perhaps the relatives of the woman who committed suicide killed him.’

  ‘True,’ said Michael, cheering up a little. ‘I shall spend a few hours in the taverns tonight, asking questions of the local folk, and we shall see where that leads us. And there are also the gypsies to consider. Richard de Leycestre, who sidled up to us with his malicious tales when we arrived in Ely, seemed to think that they, and not de Lisle, were to blame for Glovere’s death.’

  ‘Only because the travellers are outsiders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is easy to pick on strangers and hold them responsible for inexplicable happenings.’

  Michael studied him with an amused expression. ‘You seem very defensive of these people, Matt. It would not be because you are stricken by the charms of Mistress Eulalia, would it?’

  ‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is because I do not like the way crowds are so willing to turn on people who cannot protect themselves. Leycestre said the gypsies were responsible for the burglaries, too, but he had no evidence.’

  ‘No evidence other than the fact that the burglaries started the moment the gypsies arrived in the city,’ said Michael. ‘It seems that Glovere died a few days later. Perhaps he saw them committing their thefts and was killed to ensure his silence. That trick with the knife in the neck is the kind of thing a gypsy might know.’

  ‘It is the kind of thing anyone might know. Soldiers, butchers, courtiers, medical men, scholars who might have read it – anyone, really.’

  ‘Well, our enquiries will tell us whether your faith in these gypsies is justified,’ said Michael, unruffled by his friend’s annoyance. ‘If they are guilty, I will find out.’

  Suddenly, the serene stillness of the priory was shattered by the sound of running footsteps. Monks emerged from all sorts of nooks and crannies, aiming for the Steeple Gate. Robert the almoner was there, jostling the bob-haired William and the surly Julian to reach it first, the pending office of vespers clearly forgotten. There was an unseemly tussle for the handle, during which Robert used the bulge of his stomach to force his rivals out of the way. Eventually, he had cleared sufficient space to drag open the door and turn an ingratiating smile on the people who waited on the other side.

  Michael chuckled softly as the almoner effected a sweeping bow that was so deep he almost toppled. Hosteller William had managed to elbow his way through the crowd of grovelling monastics to stand next to him; his bow was less deep but far more elegant than Robert’s. Bartholomew and Michael stood well back as a cavalcade entered the priory grounds, content to watch those monks who enjoyed indulging in servile behaviour take reins from ungrateful courtiers and offer haughty maids-in-waiting cool cups of wine. That high-ranking clerics like Robert and William were prepared to submit themselves to such indignities told its own story: here was Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue, arriving in Ely to see the Bishop convicted of the murder of their steward.

  Bartholomew had never seen Lady Blanche before, despite her fame in the area, and he studied the King’s kinswoman with interest. She was a short, dour-faced specimen in her early fifties. Her clothes were made of the finest cloth, but she clearly allowed none of the latest fashions of the court to influence what she wore. Her voluminous skirts were gathered uncomfortably under her large bosom, and were rather too short, so that a pair of stout calves poked from under them. Her wimple was viciously starched, and red lines around her face showed where it had chafed. There was a determined look in her pale blue eyes, and the strength of her character was evident in the way her bristly chin jutted out in front of her.

  Her retinue was almost as impressive as the Bishop’s. She was followed not by clerks and monks, but by grooms and squires and tiring women. However, while their mistress may have abandoned fashion thirty years before, her retinue certainly had not, and Bartholomew had seldom seen such a gaudily dressed crowd. All wore the flowing cote-hardies and kirtles that were currently popular, and sported the shoes with the peculiar pointed toes and thin soles that were so impractical for walking. One woman uttered an unmannerly screech of delight that was directed at Michael, and with a sinking heart, Bartholomew recognised the dark features and expressionless eyes of Tysilia de Apsley.

  Tysilia was a close relative of Bishop de Lisle, and had been lodged at a convent near Cambridge for much of the previous year, but had been removed when the nuns had failed to prevent her from becoming pregnant for the third time. She was one of the least intelligent people Bartholomew had ever met, and certainly one of the most licentious. She was not a person whom he liked, nor one with whom he wished to associate in any way. He gave a groan when she started to come towards them, while Michael diplomatically arranged his fat features into a smile of welcome. Unfortunately, her energetic progress was hampered by the fact that her riding cloak caught in her stirrup as she started running, and for some moments she was a mess of trailing sleeves, long skirts, loose straps and agitated horse. William rushed to her assistance, and was rewarded with a leering smile and some unnecessarily revealing flashes of long white legs that had him blushing furiously

  ‘Lord help us, Matt,’ Michael muttered through clenched teeth, watching the scene with rank disapproval. ‘What is she doing in Blanche’s retinue, when Blanche and de Lisle are such bitter enemies? And anyway, I thought de Lisle had foisted Tysilia on the lepers at Barnwell Hospital, so that they could cure whatever ails her mind.’

  ‘There is no cure for her,’ replied Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘She was born stupid, and no amount of “healing” will ever change that.’

  Michael gave a soft laugh. ‘And this was the woman you thought was a criminal mastermind earlier this year!’

  Bartholomew grimaced. ‘I was wrong. But I was right about one thing: her appalling lack of wits makes her dangerous to know. She should be locked away, but not with lepers.’

  ‘Why? Because she might catch the contagion?’

  ‘Because she puts them at risk. On one occasion, she seized someone in an amorous embrace that relieved him of three fingers and part of his nose, while on another she set the chapel alight by putting the eternal flame under the wooden altar.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’ asked Michael with appalled curiosity.

  ‘To keep it warm during the night, apparently. After that, the lepers decided that they would rather starve than accept the Bishop’s money to care for her. I wondered what he had done with her when they ordered her to leave. But here she is, overcome with delight at meeting her old friend Michael.’

  ‘Brother Martin!’ exclaimed Tysilia joyfully, flinging herself into the monk’s ample arms. ‘And Doctor Butcher the surgeon, too! You both came here to visit me!’

  ‘We did not know you would be here,’ said Michael, hastily disengaging himself before Blanche and her retinue could assume he was one of Tysilia’s many former lovers. Bartholomew ducked behind the monk’s sizeable bulk, before he could be treated to a similar display of affection.

  ‘My uncle, Thomas de Lisle, suggested that I spend time with Blanche,’ said Tysilia, smiling as vacantly as ever. ‘I am now her ward. I did not like being with the lepers, anyway. Their faces kept falling off, so it was difficult for me to remember who was who.’

  As she spoke, Blanche broke away from the obsequious grovelling of Robert and William and approached Michael, curious about the man who was acquainted with her charge.

  ‘De Lisle lied to me,’ said Blanche without preamble, regarding the monk as though he were responsible. ‘He told me that Tysilia was
a sweet and gentle child, who could benefit from a motherly hand. She is not, and he can have her back again.’

  Tysilia’s face fell. ‘But I have had such fun with you and all your charming young courtiers!’

  ‘I assure you I know,’ said Blanche grimly. She turned to Michael. ‘You are the Bishop’s agent. Are you here to help him escape from the charge of murder I have brought against him?’

  ‘I am here to see justice done,’ replied Michael. ‘I do not want to see an innocent man convicted of a crime any more than I want to see a murder go unpunished. We men of God have strong views on such matters.’

  ‘Not in my experience,’ retorted Blanche. ‘Your Bishop is a wicked man. I know he killed poor Glovere, and I am here to ensure that he pays the price. And he can have this little whore back again, too. She has seduced virtually every man on my estates, so she will be looking for new pastures soon, anyway.’

  ‘But I am not ready to leave yet!’ wailed Tysilia in dismay. She was about to add details, but Blanche took her arm and hurried her away, leaving Bartholomew and Michael bemused by the encounter.

  ‘Did you know that de Lisle had managed to foist his “niece” on Blanche?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘No wonder she loathes him! Looking after Tysilia would not be easy.’

  ‘I did not know,’ said Michael, smiling wickedly. ‘Although it was a clever ploy on his part. By giving Blanche a kinswoman to watch over, he is indicating that he trusts her and that he wishes a truce. However, Tysilia is capable of driving anyone insane, and I imagine he derived a good deal of amusement from the fact that she would lead Blanche a merry dance.’

  ‘Prior Alan!’ Blanche’s strident voice echoed across the courtyard and the hum of conversation between her followers and the fussing monks faltered into silence. Alan had emerged from his lodgings, and was hurrying towards her, a slight, wiry man converging on a squat, dumpy woman.

  ‘Lady Blanche,’ Alan replied breathlessly, as he reached her. ‘Welcome to Ely.’

  She inclined her head to acknowledge his greeting. ‘I have come on grave business,’ she announced in tones loud enough to have been heard in the marketplace. ‘I accuse Thomas de Lisle, Bishop of Ely, of the most heinous of crimes: the murder of my steward, Master Glovere.’

  Alan nodded. ‘As a churchman, de Lisle is subject to canon, not secular, law, and this matter will be investigated accordingly. When I heard news of your imminent arrival, I dispatched a messenger to fetch the Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield – Roger de Northburgh – to examine the case. As luck would have it, he is currently visiting Cambridge, and I expect him here in two or three days.’

  ‘Northburgh?’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘Alan has engaged Roger de Northburgh for this?’

  ‘What is wrong with him?’ whispered Bartholomew, puzzled by Michael’s reaction. ‘It would not be right for de Lisle to be examined by someone who is not at least a bishop.’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped Michael testily. ‘But Northburgh is ninety years old, if he is a day, and is only in Cambridge because he has been pestering the canons of St John’s Hospital to give him tonics and remedies to prevent his impending death. Like many churchmen who see their end looming large, he would rather stay in this world than experience what might be in store for him in the next.’

  ‘Then look on the bright side: you will not have a rival investigator breathing down your neck. Northburgh will spend his time with Brother Henry.’

  ‘True. I suppose Alan chose him because he is the only bishop within reach at such short notice. But no one in his right mind would bide by any conclusions drawn by Northburgh.’

  ‘No one in his right mind would bide by any conclusions drawn by Northburgh,’ announced Blanche to Alan, although she was too far away to have heard the muttered conversation between Bartholomew and Michael. ‘I knew this priory would not select a suitable man, so I have appointed my own agent – a man whom the King and the Black Prince recommended to me.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Alan uneasily. ‘I am not sure it is wise to have too many investigations proceeding simultaneously. De Lisle has engaged Brother Michael to look into the matter, too.’

  Blanche shot Michael a disparaging glance. ‘You mean de Lisle has instructed his creature to hide the evidence and allow him to weasel out of the noose he has knotted for himself.’

  ‘He ordered me to uncover the truth,’ said Michael indignantly, although as far as Bartholomew recalled de Lisle had done no such thing. Michael had been charged to prove de Lisle innocent, which was not necessarily the same. ‘I am no one’s creature, madam, and I am only interested in the facts.’

  Blanche turned back to Alan. ‘I have ordered Robert Stretton to come to my aid. He, too, will arrive in a day or two.’

  Michael gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for small mercies!’ he whispered to Bartholomew. ‘Stretton is no more capable of investigating a murder than Northburgh. The royal family like him, but their confidence is misplaced.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, feeling that Blanche was not a fool, and that she would not have appointed Stretton if he were a total incompetent.

  ‘He is virtually illiterate for a start,’ said Michael. ‘He was collated to the canonry of St Cross at Lincoln Cathedral earlier this year, and has ambitions to be a bishop. I doubt he will ever succeed, given his intellectual shortcomings.’

  ‘I should hope not, if he cannot read. The days of prelates who do not know one end of a bible from another are mostly over.’

  ‘I imagine the Black Prince encouraged Blanche to appoint Stretton.’ Michael smiled complacently. ‘But she will soon learn not to take advice from relatives, no matter how well meaning. Stretton will present me with no problems.’

  ‘This investigation promises to be a farce,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘The principal for the Church is an aged malingerer; the principal for Blanche is a man who cannot read; and the principal for the Bishop is you, who has been charged to “find de Lisle innocent”. I can already see the way this will end.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Michael comfortably. ‘Matters are looking up. But now that Blanche’s accusation is official, we have work to do. Come with me to the taverns, and we will see what more we can learn about Glovere that may help to exonerate my Bishop from the charge of murder.’

  Traipsing around every tavern in Ely that evening was not Bartholomew’s idea of fun, although Michael seemed to enjoy it. Scholars were not permitted to enter inns in Cambridge: such places were obvious breeding grounds for fights between students and townsfolk, so any drinking in the town needed to be conducted with a degree of discretion. No such restrictions applied in Ely, however, and Bartholomew and Michael could wander openly into any establishment they chose.

  Ely’s taverns varied enormously. Some were large and prosperous, like the Lamb and the Bell, while others were little more than a bench outside a hovel where the occupants brewed and sold their own beer. Some of it was surprisingly good, although Bartholomew found that the more he drank, the less discriminating he tended to be.

  As evening turned to night, they finished with the respectable inns on the Heyrow and reached the less respectable ones near the quay. While the Heyrow taverns were full of visiting merchants and the occasional cleric, the waterfront hostelries were frequented by townsfolk and the beer was generally cheaper.

  Michael’s Benedictine habit caused one or two raised eyebrows, but most people accepted the fact that monks had a talent for sniffing out the most inexpensive brews and so their presence at the riverside taverns was not uncommon. Michael eased himself into conversations, pretending to be a bumbling brother from one of the priory’s distant outposts, and earning confidences by making the odd disparaging remark about the wealth of the Benedictines. The ploy worked, and he soon had people talking to him about Glovere, Blanche, de Lisle and Alan.

  It seemed that none was especially popular in Ely. The Prior was disliked because he was a landlord; Blanche was arrogant and unsympathetic to the plight o
f the poor; de Lisle was criticised for his love of good clothes and expensive wines; while Glovere was deemed a malicious gossip. The gypsies, who had been in Ely for almost two weeks, were also the object of suspicion, although Bartholomew did not think this was based on more than a natural wariness of outsiders. He sympathised with the travellers: once on his travels he and his Arab master had been on the receiving end of some unfounded accusations, because it was easier to blame misfortune on passing strangers than to believe ill of friends. He and Ibn Ibrahim had barely escaped with their lives, despite the fact that they had had nothing to do with strangling the local priest’s lapdog.

  When Bartholomew and Michael entered an especially insalubrious tavern named the Mermaid, they found the patrons sitting at their tables listening to a rabid diatribe delivered by the disenfranchised farmer Richard de Leycestre. Leycestre stood on a bench, waving a jug of slopping ale, his face sweaty and red from the drink and his passion.

  ‘Anyone who cannot see that there is a connection between the gypsies and the burglaries is blind,’ he raved. ‘The thefts started the day after that crowd of criminals arrived. That is all the evidence I need.’

  ‘I am sure it is,’ muttered Bartholomew, regarding the man with disapproval as he waved to a pot-boy to bring them ale.

  Michael nudged him hard. ‘Watch what you say, Matt. Rightly or wrongly, these travellers are not popular, and it is not wise to be heard speaking in their defence.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew, rather loudly. One or two people turned to look at him. ‘Are you saying that no one should speak up for what he believes, for what is right?’

  ‘Yes. There is no need to court problems. We have more than enough of those at the moment without you going out on a limb to protect the reputation of people you do not know.’

  Michael turned to the man who stood next to him, and began a conversation about Glovere and the woman who had killed herself. The man only reiterated what they already knew – that young Alice had committed suicide when Glovere’s tales had caused her betrothed to marry someone else. Alice had been pretty, sweet-tempered and likeable, and it seemed that Glovere was generally regarded as the Devil incarnate.