A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 6

Thursdays were market day in Ely, and work started early. The hum of voices, the rattle of carts along the streets and the whinnying of horses could be heard long before it was light, and Bartholomew had the sense that the city had barely slept the night before. He certainly felt as though he had not: old Roger in the infirmary had had a difficult night, and Bartholomew and Brother Henry had managed to sleep only in fits and starts. By the time the first glimmerings of dawn appeared, the infirmarian looked as heavy-eyed and weary as Bartholomew felt. With dawn came peaceful sleep for Roger, and the two physicians left Julian watching over him while they went for some fresh air. They strolled around the marketplace, watching the frenetic activity taking place in the half-light as stall owners struggled to raise bright awnings over their shops and arrange their offerings in a way that they hoped would prove irresistible to buyers.

Bartholomew looked around him. There were butchers’ stalls with colourfully plumaged waterfowl hanging by their feet, and bloody hunks of meat already beginning to attract flies as well as paying customers. Hares were common at the Cambridge market, but they were rare in the Fens, and there was not one to be seen. There was plenty of fish, though, displayed in neat, glistening rows: the shiny black-skinned eels that were so famous in the area, trout and a grotesquely large pike hanging across one counter, its ugly head dangling just above the mud of the street.

Bakers and pie-sellers provided more sweetly fragrant wares, and baskets of loaves of all qualities and shapes were carefully stacked, along with cakes and pastries for those able to afford more than the basic necessities of life.

Food was not all that was for sale. Ely was a thriving city, and boasted its own pottery and a lucrative rope-making industry. Pots with a beautiful blue glaze were displayed by one proud craftsman, while others sold the unglazed, functional utensils that were present in every kitchen – large jugs for milk, great cauldrons for stews, and dishes for serving meat and fish. The rope-makers’ stalls were piled with huge coils of cord in every thickness imaginable; some of extra strength were used by builders for their pulleys, while others were silky and delicate and were used to lace shirts and bodices.

There was livestock, too. Squealing pigs, frightened calves and milling sheep were locked in pens at one end of the marketplace, while flocks of geese, ducks and squawking chickens weaved in and out of the legs of the busy stall holders. Loud human voices added to the general noise and confusion. In one corner, spices from distant and little-known lands were on sale, and the exotic aroma of cinnamon and cloves almost, but not quite, dispelled the overpowering smell of warm manure from the animals. Dogs sniffed the soft mat of rotting straw and dung underfoot, occasionally excavating something they deemed edible.

Bartholomew bought some ink from a parchment seller in anticipation of the work he planned to do on his treatise on fevers, and then Brother Henry purchased some of the weak breakfast beer that was being sold by the priory’s brewer. It was exactly how Bartholomew liked his morning ale: cool, sweet, pleasantly nutty and so clear that he could see the bottom of the jug. The ale served at Michaelhouse tended to be a brew that had been bought cheaply; it was already past its best, and invariably cloudy.

The physicians finished their ale and went to the cathedral to celebrate prime. A thin column of black-robed monastics was already winding its way into the chancel, each man pushing back his hood as he crossed from the cloister to the church proper. They walked in silence, their sandalled feet tapping softly on the flagstones. Henry nodded a farewell to Bartholomew and joined the end of the procession. The physician’s heart sank when he saw a door open in the west end of the cathedral and Father John bustle in. Prime would not be a peaceful, contemplative occasion after all.

The monks began to chant their prayers, and Bartholomew closed his eyes to listen as the rich rumble of the basses acted as a drone for the higher notes of the tenors. Then Michael’s pleasant baritone began to echo through the chancel, singing alternate lines with the rest of the monks acting as a chorus. Just when the physician began to lose himself in the beauty of the music, Father John’s mass started.

Bartholomew opened his eyes to see Michael glowering in the direction of the nave, displeased that his singing was being spoiled by the priest’s continuing battle with the priory. Bartholomew tried to concentrate on the words of the psalm, but found instead that he listened with horrified fascination to John’s bastard Latin. Most of it was entirely nonsensical, but some bore enough resemblance to the original to be amusing. John’s parishioners did not know, and probably did not care, that their priest’s mass was incomprehensible, and were present in their usual numbers.

Bartholomew spotted Leycestre standing near the back with his two nephews. Feeling that it was unreasonable for anyone to expect him to pray under such conditions, he slipped out of the chancel and made his way to the nave, intending to ask Leycestre what had happened in the Lamb Inn that had resulted in the gypsies’ undignified expulsion. Not surprisingly, given his state the night before, Leycestre looked fragile and his face was pale and unshaven.

‘I trust you arrived home safely last night?’ Bartholomew whispered.

Leycestre blinked stupidly for a moment, then rubbed his head as he understood what the physician was saying. ‘It was you who prevented that fight. I am sorry. I was the worse for ale, and should have been better mannered.’

‘Even to gypsies?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

Leycestre smiled ruefully. ‘Even to gypsies. They are thieves, and it is possible that they killed our three much-lamented townsmen, but we need their labour at this time of year, and we cannot afford to have them leave just yet.’

‘That is not the position you held last night,’ Bartholomew remarked. ‘Eulalia told me that you accused them of stealing the wages from honest local folk.’

Leycestre edged around one of the great, thick columns, so that the priest would not see him talking during the mass. ‘I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I do believe that we should have the money the landowners are willing to pay the gypsies, but it is not the gypsies’ fault that the situation is as it is.’

‘Will you apologise to them?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘It cannot have been pleasant to be accused of stealing in such a public place.’

‘I will mention to Eulalia that I may have spoken out of turn,’ said Leycestre, resentment thick in his voice. ‘But I will not apologise to her loutish brothers – especially that Guido.’

‘Was there a reason for all that drinking last night?’ Bartholomew asked curiously. ‘A large number of people were in the taverns, and they were all buying a lot more ale than usual.’

Leycestre gave him a puzzled glance, as though he could not believe the question had been asked. ‘It was a Wednesday.’

It was Bartholomew’s turn to look bemused. ‘What of it?’

Leycestre gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘We are paid on Wednesdays. It is the day before the weekly market, you see, and the landlords want us to spend all our hard-earned wages on the goods of other rich men. It is a cunning ploy.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether that was truly the reason for the choice of day, or whether it was to allow the women to make their purchases in the marketplace before the men had time to squander all their earnings in taverns. If the previous night was anything to go by, such a policy might be well justified.

‘Market days are always interesting occasions,’ Leycestre went on. ‘They are excellent opportunities to discuss the heavy yoke of labourers with men who feel empathy with us.’

‘I am sure they are,’ said Bartholomew. He changed the subject, before Leycestre could start preaching. Like many men who burned with the fire of his convictions, Leycestre was tedious company once he had started holding forth. ‘Do you know a man called Mackerell? He was supposed to meet Michael last night, but he never arrived.’

‘He drinks in the Mermaid,’ said Leycestre helpfully. ‘You should ask there for him.’

‘We tried, but no one seemed to know his whereabouts.’

Leycestre rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘He is Ely’s best fisherman, but the monks insist on buying all his eels for an absurdly low price. He is finding it increasingly difficult to manage on the wages they pay him, but they refuse to give him more.’

‘He found the bodies in the river,’ said Bartholomew, refusing to be side-tracked by Leycestre’s biased assessment of fish economics – Mackerell was not that poor. He had been reasonably well dressed and had declined Michael’s offer of free wine. ‘We wanted to know whether he noticed anything that might lead us to the killer.’

‘He might have done I suppose,’ said Leycestre. ‘He has certainly been acting a little oddly since he found them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Naturally, he was unsettled at being obliged to haul corpses from the river, but he makes his living by water and such men are used to drownings. However, I was surprised they bothered him as much as they seem to have done. He is a surly fellow at the best of times, but the discovery of these bodies has done nothing to improve his temper.’

‘Other than the gypsies, who you believe are responsible for everything bad, is there anyone else who might have committed those murders?’ Since Leycestre was a man who liked holding forth in taverns, Bartholomew wondered whether he had heard any rumours that he might be prepared to share.

‘None of us know who else it could be,’ came the disappointing answer. Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised: Leycestre was rigid in his belief that the gypsies were the source of all evil.

‘And none of the three dead men had any particular enemies?’ he tried again.

Leycestre shrugged. ‘They all had a great number of enemies. You must have heard by now that they were not popular. Haywarde drank heavily and was inclined to fight; Glovere was a miserable pig who wronged people with his vicious tongue; and Chaloner had an annoying liking for the property of other people.’

‘A thief?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘No one has mentioned this before.’

‘Well, I suppose no one likes to speak ill of the dead. We do not want them returning from Purgatory to wander among us because we have unsettled their souls.’

Bartholomew smothered a smile. While that might usually be true, few Ely citizens seemed to have any qualms about saying exactly what they thought of Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde. ‘And Mackerell?’ he asked. ‘Is he liked in the town?’

‘Not especially,’ replied Leycestre. ‘He is an excellent fisherman, but he occasionally tops up his basket with the catches of others.’

‘You mean he is a thief, too? When he does not catch enough eels for himself, he steals?’

‘We all do it occasionally when we are desperate, but he does it frequently. I blame the priory, personally, for placing him in a position where he is forced into dishonesty on a regular basis.’

‘Father John has warned you about discussing such matters during mass,’ came a sharp voice behind them. Bartholomew turned to find he was facing the formidable Agnes Fitzpayne. Her words had been addressed to Leycestre, but it was Bartholomew she had in her beady gaze. Leycestre backed away a little, and some of his confident bluster evaporated.

‘Leycestre was telling me about Mackerell,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to placate her by revealing what they had discussed. ‘He was supposed to meet Michael last night, but failed to appear.’

‘Unreliable,’ declared Agnes immediately. ‘Do not read anything sinister into it. That man pleases himself whom he sees and when.’

‘The landlord of the Lamb tells me that you recently had quite a conversation with the brother-in-law you told me you despised,’ said Bartholomew, watching her closely for any reaction that might betray what she had been doing in the tavern with Haywarde the night he died. ‘You, Leycestre and his two nephews.’

Agnes’s eyes narrowed. ‘What of it? Barbour is a shameless gossip, and had no right to tell you my personal business.’

‘Perhaps not, but he did. What did you discuss? I was under the impression that you disliked him, but you still spent the last night of his life in eager conversation with him.’

‘What we discussed is none of your affair,’ snapped Agnes angrily. ‘But I can see that if I leave it at that, you will tell your fat friend, and then he will spread lies that it was us who threw Haywarde in the river. If you must know, we were talking about money.’

‘Money he owed you?’ pressed Bartholomew.

‘Money I gave to my sister and that he took for his own purposes,’ said Agnes. ‘Now, there is a mass in progress. If you are a heathen, who cannot bring himself to listen to Father John’s pious words, then you should leave. If you are a Christian, you will stay and listen in reverent silence.’

The competition between chanting monks and yelling priest was reaching its customary crescendo and Bartholomew was finding it difficult to concentrate on his conversation with the seditious Leycestre and the aggressive Agnes anyway. He opted for the first choice, to the shock of Agnes, and nodded a brief farewell before walking outside. But the discordant racket followed him so he walked more quickly, trying to escape the noise, and ended up racing past the cemetery and towards the infirmary. There, he ran headlong into Michael, who was making his way to the refectory.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are supposed to be celebrating prime. In fact, you were a major part of it, the last I heard.’

‘I could stand it no longer.’ Michael glanced at the physician, breathless from his dash and with wind-blown hair, and smiled. ‘You know exactly what I mean. But I left in a dignified manner, whereas you fled like a cat from water, with ears flattened and terror in your eyes.’

‘It was nasty,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Breakfast,’ declared Michael, knowing that the tables would already be laden with the morning fare, and that an early arrival would allow him to select the best of it.

‘And then what?’

Michael sighed. ‘I really have no idea. Everyone tells me that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were hated. That means that anyone from the city could have killed them. Meanwhile, certain factions in the town tell me that the deaths – and various burglaries – only started when the gypsies arrived in Ely.’

‘Only Leycestre really seems to believe that,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Others listen to his raving, but do not act on it.’

‘They acted last night,’ Michael pointed out, referring to the incident outside the Lamb that Bartholomew had described while the monk had devoured his final meal of the day the previous evening. ‘You told me they were ready for a lynching.’

‘They were drunk, and drunks are not noted for their powers of reason and common sense.’

‘I do not know what to do next, actually,’ confessed Michael gloomily, his thoughts returning to his floundering investigation. ‘I could bribe a riverman to take me to Mackerell’s Fenland lair. I am even considering asking whether Stretton or Northburgh have learned anything of value – and I am certain they could not have done, so you can see how desperate I am.’

‘Northburgh spent all yesterday pestering poor Henry about “cures” for old age. He is not interested in solving this case, only in cheating death. And Canon Stretton was far too drunk to have learned anything at all, other than that bona cervisia is a powerful brew.’

‘Perhaps I should engage Tysilia to help me, as William has done,’ grumbled Michael bitterly. ‘I have never been quite so much at a loss in a case before.’

After breakfast, Bartholomew wandered outside, leaving Michael to the dubious delights of conversation with his fellow monks. It was unprepossessing company as far as the physician was concerned. Prior Alan was distracted and uncommunicative, because his clever mind was wrestling with some technical problem relating to his beloved octagon; Sub-prior Thomas was incensed that Michael had selected the best of the breakfast items before he had arrived, and was busily feeding in sullen silence with his vast jowls quivering in agitation; and Almoner Robert, who usually passed the time at meals by fighting with Hosteller William, was grim-faced and silent because William was not there. The only person who offered a potentially enjoyable discussion was Henry, but he was taking breakfast in the infirmary. Judging from his own experiences, Bartholomew did not blame Henry for preferring the company of deaf or senile monks to the bickering in the refectory.

Bartholomew hovered by the refectory’s back door, then stretched out an arm to halt the urgent progress of Brother Symon as he shot out a few moments later. Displeased that his attempt to disappear had been thwarted, the librarian only agreed to open the door to his domain with very bad grace. While he waited for the monk to fetch the key from wherever he hid it each night, Bartholomew stared out across the graves in the cemetery and thought about the work he planned to do that day.

As he gazed, he saw a spot of colour among the leaves of the tree that William and Tysilia had used for their tryst the previous day. It was moving this way and that in an agitated manner; then he became aware of a peculiar noise, too. It sounded like sobbing. Curious, he walked through the dew-soaked grass and approached the tree.

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?’

She looked at him as though he had just committed the most frightful indiscretion. ‘He is my brother! Do I look like the kind of woman who would sleep with my brother? Anyway, it is Michael who has my heart, not William.’

Bartholomew thought she looked like the kind of woman who would take anyone to her bed, but decided now was not the time to mention it. ‘William is not your brother,’ he said instead, puzzled as to how she had managed to come up with such a ludicrous notion.

She pulled away from him. ‘He is,’ she declared with finality. ‘And what would you know, anyway? You are only someone who mixes herbs – an apoplexy.’

‘Apothecary,’ he corrected, before deciding there was little point in trying to educate Tysilia. She would not remember what he had said by the next time she met him.

The door to the Outer Hostry opened and the burly Blanche bustled out, hoisting her skirts under her bosom and gazing around as if the world had done her a serious injustice.

‘There is Lady Blanche,’ he said. ‘Wipe your nose again, before you go to her.’

‘I do not feel like going to her,’ said Tysilia sulkily, rubbing a sleeve across her face. ‘She is worse than the nuns at St Radegund’s Convent, and is always trying to keep me inside when I want to go out.’

‘I am sure she is,’ muttered Bartholomew, trying to attract Blanche’s attention.

‘It is very annoying, actually,’ Tysilia went on with another sloppy sniff. Her acute distress was forgotten, and she was already sounding like her normal self. Bartholomew envied her ability to recover from inconvenient emotions. ‘How can I make friends with charming men when she is watching me all the time?’

‘What were you going to discuss with William?’ asked Bartholomew. Blanche had her back to him, and did not see his energetic waving. ‘Do you know anything more about these murders? Does he?’

‘No,’ Tysilia said aggressively, pulling her arm away from him. She thought for a moment. ‘What murders?’

‘Do not lie, Tysilia,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘I overheard you and William talking yesterday. I know he has charged you to discover whether Blanche killed Glovere.’

She beamed proudly and took his arm again. ‘William said it was a secret. But since you know, it is no longer a secret, so I can tell whoever I like. William trusts me. For some reason, some people think I lack wits, but he saw that I have quite a few of them.’

‘And he set you to put them to use,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the hosteller was insane to have entrusted Tysilia with anything. At best, she had told Blanche that a member of the monastery thought her guilty of murdering her own steward to discredit de Lisle, and at worst, she might inadvertently reveal to the killer that William was on his trail.

‘He said I am an intellec … inteller … clever woman, and could be of great use to him. He is right, of course. I may not have paid attention to my studies, and I have no patience with staring at silly marks on smelly pieces of parchment, but I have spent time at a University, you know.’

‘You have?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully, still trying to catch Blanche’s eye. As far as he knew, no universities accepted female scholars, and women who wanted a life of learning tended to do so in convents that had a reputation for their libraries. However, the notion that Tysilia had spent time in one of these was so improbable that it was humorous.

Tysilia nodded sagely. ‘I have been to the University of Life.’ She beamed her vacant grin, and Bartholomew wondered how, a few months earlier, he ever could have imagined that her slow-witted exterior hid a cunning mind. ‘That is a clever phrase, is it not? I invented it myself. It means that while you have had learning from books, I have been living a life.’

‘But you have spent most of your life in convents – or trying to escape from them – so how does that make you so worldly?’ asked Bartholomew, amused.

‘It just does,’ pouted Tysilia. ‘And do not wave your arm like that, or Blanche will think you are trying to attract her attention.’

‘You have not answered my question. Have you or William learned anything about the death of Glovere? Why did he think Blanche might know about it?’

Tysilia looked around her quickly, and then leaned close to him, so that her breath was unpleasantly hot against his ear. ‘William told me to keep my voice low when I talk about this, so that no one will overhear what I have to say.’

‘But that is not necessary here,’ Bartholomew said. ‘There is no one close by.’

‘Blanche is over there,’ Tysilia pointed out, reverting to her normal bellow, so that the King’s kinswoman turned around even though she was still some distance away. Blanche’s eyes narrowed when she saw Tysilia clinging to Bartholomew’s arm. She hoisted her skirts and powered towards them, her mouth set in a narrow, grim line. The physician was not sure whether the disapproval was directed at him or at Tysilia, and determined to extricate himself as soon as possible.

‘Blanche has long, sharp ears, like a horse,’ Tysilia went on. ‘She hears all sorts of things.’

‘A horse?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself. He needed to ask about William before Blanche reached them, not allow Tysilia to side-track him with what would doubtless prove to be some asinine observation.

‘Horses have long, sharp ears,’ said Tysilia authoritatively. ‘Although I suppose they are more pointed than sharp, really. In fact, I am not sure what is meant by a “sharp ear”. But whatever it is, Blanche has them. William told me so, and he is my brother, so he must be right.’

‘Why did he say that about Blanche? Has she overheard you and William talking?’

‘She may have done. He told me that Ely is a dangerous place at the moment, and he thought it would be more dangerous with her in it.’

‘Why did he think that?’

‘He did not tell me,’ Tysilia whispered, her voice confidential now that she knew she was speaking about William’s secret matter. ‘But he thinks there is a killer here, in the monastery! He said this killer will be watching me all the time, and that he has the power to look at my most secret thoughts.’ She glanced around her fearfully. ‘That means he is watching me now.’

‘William was trying to frighten you into keeping quiet about what you discussed together,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer is a vicious man who owns a knife, but he has no supernatural powers or ability to read minds.’

‘You do not know that for certain,’ she shot back.

‘Then tell me what William told you, and we may be able to expose this fiend and put an end to all the fear and suspicion,’ Bartholomew reasoned.

She smiled her vacant smile again, her dark eyes empty of intelligent thought. ‘He said the killer is in the monastery.’

‘What did he mean? That the culprit is a monk?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tysilia uncertainly. ‘Monks do live in monasteries, after all. But then, so do other people. I have seen them myself – servants and tradesmen and visitors.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘Blanche is a visitor at the monastery. And there are all manner of lay-brothers working in the grounds and the kitchens.’

‘Oh, yes!’ agreed Tysilia happily. ‘I remember now. William did say that the killer could be just about anyone here. And he said that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were not likeable men, and so someone relieved the world of them. That is why they died: because no one liked them.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘William believes that someone is killing people just because they are unpopular?’

‘Yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘And because William is unpopular, someone will want to kill him, too. Everyone who is nasty is at risk. That means that I am safe, of course.’

Blanche stormed up to Tysilia and Bartholomew and regarded them both with rank suspicion. ‘What have you been doing?’ she demanded. ‘I hope you have not been romping in the cemetery again, Tysilia. I have already caught you doing that once, and have explained that a graveyard is no place for that sort of thing.’

‘It was Julian’s idea,’ objected Tysilia indignantly. ‘He assured me that all the monks used the cemetery for their–’

‘Thank you, Tysilia,’ interrupted Blanche. ‘We do not need to know the details. Go and wait for me in the solar. And leave my tapestry alone, if you please. You will ruin it again if you take a needle to it.’

‘I can sew,’ said Tysilia proudly, giving Bartholomew a bright grin before skipping away in the direction of the Outer Hostry.

‘I cannot leave her for long,’ said Blanche, looking after her. ‘Wretched woman! She is a dreadful liability, and I never should have agreed to take her on. I was most shamefully tricked on that score – de Lisle again.’

‘I heard he gave her to you as a symbol of your last truce – by placing a member of his own household in your care, he is demonstrating trust.’

Blanche gave a bitter laugh. ‘And when she becomes pregnant again – which is only a matter of time, given her uncontrollable behaviour and undiscriminating tastes – de Lisle will claim that I have abused that trust. I should have known better than to accept such terms from him. He pretended to be reluctant to part with her, but I suspect he was only too glad to be rid of her.’

‘Probably.’ Bartholomew chewed his bottom lip, realising it was not wise to be agreeing with de Lisle’s enemies that he was a devious schemer who might well use Tysilia as a weapon to inflict on his opponents. ‘But the truce you had is surely broken, now that you have accused him of murder. Why does he not demand her back?’

Blanche gave a humourless smile. ‘Declining to accept his niece is his way of wreaking revenge upon my household. You may have noticed that she is not pleasant to have around. But what was she doing with you? Did you catch her lying in wait for that William again? I cannot imagine why she has taken a liking to him – he is old enough to be her father.’

‘Or her brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is who she claims he is.’

Blanche regarded him in astonishment. ‘They are not related! William is my cousin, actually.’

Bartholomew was certain that the claim of kinship was merely William’s clever way of ensuring that he gained Tysilia’s willing services. Poor Tysilia was gullible and a little pathetic, and might well believe such a tale, no matter how improbable. However, Tysilia was actually the Bishop’s illegitimate daughter, although few people, including Tysilia herself, were aware of the fact. William’s claim might mean that he imagined he was de Lisle’s kinsman, too. And if that were true, it could explain why he had gone to some trouble to investigate whether Blanche might have played a role in the murder for which his relative stood accused.

‘Tysilia has an unbreakable habit of securing a man at any place we visit,’ Blanche was saying, cutting across his thoughts. ‘She is like an eel, slipping out of windows and past guards to reach the objects of her lust. Keeping her childless is one of the greatest challenges I have ever faced.’

‘How do you like Ely?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping to steer the conversation around to the fact that he had seen Blanche in the Mermaid Inn with the gypsies two days before.

Blanche looked around her disdainfully. ‘Ely is a far cry from Huntingdon, which is as fine a town as ever graced the face of the Earth. But it has its good points, I suppose.’

‘Such as the taverns?’ asked Bartholomew probingly.

Blanche regarded him as though he were insane. ‘How would I know about the taverns? I was thinking of the cathedral. Huntingdon does not have a cathedral.’

‘Have you actually been in any of the taverns? Some of them are comfortable places, and offer decent accommodation for travellers.’

‘I am sure they do,’ said Blanche with distaste. ‘And I can well imagine the kind of traveller who stays in them, too. I am sure the bedclothes are crawling with vermin, while one would share the straw mattresses with rats. It may suit Tysilia, but it would not do for me.’

‘The Mermaid has that reputation,’ said Bartholomew, watching her closely for any reaction. ‘Although the Lamb is better.’

‘Well, I would not be caught in either,’ said Blanche firmly. ‘Staying here is bad enough, but it is better than sharing an inn with the common folk. Glovere was fond of the Lamb before the Bishop murdered him. It just goes to show that my wariness of such places is justified.’

‘Tysilia seems uneasy in the priory,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to turn his attention to whether Blanche had heard any rumours regarding the murders, since his clumsy questioning regarding her appearance at the Mermaid seemed unlikely to lead anywhere. He considered asking her directly what she had been doing with the gypsies, but sensed that she would merely deny the incident and end the conversation. And then, if she had been up to no good in dubious company, his revelation of the fact that he suspected her might put him in line for a knife in the neck and a dip in the river.

‘She should be,’ said Blanche. ‘The Bishop is busily killing folk he does not like. He killed my servant first and then – when he found he had a taste for murder – he dispatched the two peasants. And, since I am sure there cannot be any love lost between him and his shameless niece, she should watch herself.’

‘I thought you only accused de Lisle of murdering your steward.’

‘I did, but then I heard that whoever killed Glovere had also dispatched Chaloner and Haywarde. You were paid by Father John to determine the cause of death, so you should not need me to tell you that whoever killed Glovere killed the others, too.’

‘But de Lisle has no reason to kill these men,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘Does he not?’ asked Blanche smugly. She folded her arms and looked at him closely. ‘Tell me, have you ever looked at a person you despise and wished there was something you could do to rid the world of him? Louts who steal? Men who beat their wives? Women who claim they attended the University of Life? Others with spiteful tongues?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the times when greedy and selfish acts had damaged or destroyed the lives and happiness of people he had liked.

‘Well, so has de Lisle. Only whereas the rest of us pray to God to punish the wicked, he imagines he is God and that he has the right to punish offenders himself.’

‘I do not think–’ began Bartholomew.

Blanche stopped him. ‘You and that Brother Michael can do all you like to prove de Lisle innocent, but you will fail. And you should consider your next move very carefully, because you do not want to be associated with the likes of him when the good folk of Ely avenge themselves for the unjust and wicked murders of its citizens.’

Bartholomew was unsettled by his conversation with Blanche. He did not know what to think of William’s suppositions as revealed by Tysilia: that there was a killer in the priory; that Blanche was involved in something untoward; and that he was Tysilia’s brother. But there was nothing Bartholomew could do about it for a while, because Michael had already arranged to spend the morning reviewing various scraps of evidence in the reluctant company of the other two men charged with uncovering the truth behind the deaths: the hypochondriacal Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield and the oafish Canon of Lincoln.

Bartholomew worked in the library for a while, but the questions about the killings that rattled around in his mind would not be ignored, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the collection of writings on marsh fever. He left the library, and wandered the grounds near the Steeple Gate, until Michael emerged from his meeting exasperated by Stretton’s stupidity and disheartened by Northburgh’s lack of interest in anything except his health. As Bartholomew told the monk about his encounter with Tysilia, a bell started to ring, announcing that a meal was about to be served. Michael immediately headed for the refectory.

‘But breakfast was not long ago,’ Bartholomew complained, staring after him. ‘And it is only two hours until the midday meal.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael, turning to haul him along. ‘Which is why we need a little something now, to sustain us for the rest of the morning. And when we have done that we will walk up the river, to see whether we can find the place where those three men were murdered.’

He pushed open the door to the spacious decadence of the monks’ refectory, with its polished wooden floors and beautiful oak tables, each one laden with freshly baked bread, dishes of fruit and slabs of creamy cheese.

‘Has anyone seen William yet?’ asked Michael, as the priory’s high-ranking monks took their seats and began grabbing the food that was laid out in front of them. No one bothered to waste energy in speaking when there was eating to be done, and shaken heads were the only response. As earlier, William’s seat was empty, but Henry mentioned that the hosteller often ate alone, and that he did not always want a meal halfway through the morning anyway. His voice held a note of censure that was directed towards the obese Thomas, but the sub-prior did not even glance up from his trough-sized trencher as he gorged himself on bread and honey, his massive flanks spilling over the sides of his specially constructed chair.

In the main body of the refectory the other monks followed the gluttonous example set by their seniors, and Bartholomew could see that many of them were well on their way to matching the paunches, bulges and double chins that abounded on the high table. However, the back of the hall contained the novices – Julian sat with Welles and the lad Bartholomew recalled was named Bukton – who seemed less inclined towards unbridled greed. In fact, Bartholomew thought they seemed depressed and listless, and they picked at their food in a way that he did not think was healthy in lads who should have had good appetites. From the uneasy glances they shot at the high table, the physician supposed that one of the priory officers had upset them in some way.

Julian ignored his meal, and instead fiddled lovingly with a long, sharp knife, which seemed far too ornate and dangerous for use at the dinner table. Bartholomew wondered why Prior Alan allowed him to possess such an object. Welles, however, was using a lengthy masonry nail to spear the food he wanted, so Bartholomew concluded that the Prior was not too fussy about his novices’ choice of dining equipment.

‘I suppose William may be buying eels,’ suggested Robert, rather plaintively. Although he and William openly detested each other, it seemed that when his protagonist was away, the almoner missed him. ‘He always buys eels on a Thursday – it is market day.’

‘But Mackerell also seems to be missing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I understand the priory obtains most of its eels from him.’

‘Henry purchases fish from Mackerell, too,’ said Robert, shooting an unpleasant glance at the infirmarian. ‘He chooses nasty, evil-looking specimens that no normal man would eat.’

‘I do not eat them either,’ said Henry indignantly, ruffled by the almoner’s comments. ‘Some I dry and grind to a powder, while others contain valuable oils that are excellent for certain skin conditions. And I will need more of them than ever in the next few days: Bishop Northburgh has charged me with finding a cure for his wrinkled skin. He wants to look young again.’

‘You will not succeed,’ warned Bartholomew, supposing he should not be surprised that a man like Henry – supremely confident in his own skill and abilities – should consider himself equal to such a task. ‘It is natural for a man to look like a walnut at ninety years of age.’

Henry shot Alan a resentful glance that made the Prior shuffle uncomfortably.

‘You must try, Henry,’ said Alan. ‘Northburgh said he would pay for a new chapel if you were successful.’

‘I see I shall be joining you in the library, Matt,’ said Henry ruefully. ‘My knowledge of remedies is unparalleled in the Fens, but even I know of no treatment for an ageing skin. Agnes Fitzpayne told me she uses a paste made from raw sparrows’ livers and the grease of boiled frogs, but she does not look especially youthful to me.’

‘You could try–’ began Bartholomew, feeling he had misjudged Henry by assuming the man was confident of success. The quest was an impossible one, and Bartholomew saw that Henry would need all the advice he could get.

‘No!’ said Michael firmly. ‘No medicine while I am eating, please. You can discuss pastes and powders in the infirmary when you are alone. Meanwhile, we were talking about Mackerell.’

‘That is not much of an improvement,’ said Robert laconically.

‘Mackerell is always wandering off alone,’ offered Sub-prior Thomas. ‘He knows the Fens better than he does the city streets, and he often takes himself away. I doubt his disappearance is significant – and it will certainly have nothing to do with William’s absence.’

‘I thought I saw Mackerell this morning,’ said Symon, frowning thoughtfully, as he speared a lump of bread with military precision. ‘I am certain it was his cod-like features and scaly clothes that I spotted near the castle.’

‘What were you doing all the way down there?’ demanded Robert immediately. ‘Hiding from someone who wanted to use the library?’

‘Checking the locks on the tithe barn,’ snapped Symon huffily. ‘I want wheat for bread this winter, even if you do not care whether the peasants steal it all because we are lax with our security.’

‘I care,’ said Thomas vehemently, helping himself to a loaf.

‘Are you sure it was Mackerell you saw?’ asked Michael of Symon. ‘It would be good to know he is alive.’

Symon shook his head apologetically. ‘Not really. In fact, I am almost certainly mistaken. Why would an eel fisherman be inside our grounds at all? He would have no business here.’

‘Mackerell is a miserable soul,’ said Thomas irrelevantly, stabbing half a cheese and hauling it across the table towards him. ‘I am always under the impression that he finds the presence of his fellow men as taxing as we find his.’

‘I do not like him, either,’ agreed Robert, ever ready to say something unpleasant. ‘He charges too much for his eels, when most of them are all bone and no meat.’

‘Like me,’ said Michael, piling his trencher high with nuts. ‘I have become little more than skin and bone since I have been in Cambridge.’

‘True,’ agreed Thomas, assessing Michael’s girth with an experienced eye. Next to his massive form, Michael appeared almost sylph-like. ‘I pray to God that I will never be dispatched to such a place, if it means near-starvation.’

‘You can rest assured that will never happen,’ said Robert maliciously. ‘I hear that the University likes its scholars able to read, and since you are all but illiterate, it would have no cause to extend any invitations to you.’

‘I am not illiterate,’ sighed Thomas, in a weary tone that indicated this argument was not a new one. ‘I just find small words difficult to make out. It is a fault with the eyes, not the mind. Is that not so, Father Prior?’

‘Have you discovered who killed these men yet, Michael?’ asked Alan, apparently preferring to change the subject than to lie. ‘You have had four days now, and I would prefer this murderer to be under lock and key, not free in our city.’

‘Me too,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘But everyone I approach for information lies to me. I cannot catch a killer when I cannot sort out what is fact and what is fiction.’

‘Who has been lying to you?’ asked Alan in surprise. ‘No one should have cause to tell you untruths. We all want this killer caught.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael, eyeing his brethren meaningfully. ‘Three detested men have been slain, and virtually everyone in Ely seems to have a motive for wanting them dead. Thus, there is little incentive for people to want to help me: they are all hoping that this killer will strike again, and rid them of someone else they do not like.’

‘That is not a nice thing to say,’ admonished Henry. ‘You make it sound as though the whole city is looking forward to the next person’s death.’

‘I imagine a few of them will be fearing for their own safety,’ said Robert gleefully. ‘There are a number of people who are good candidates, if the killer is selecting his victims on the basis of their unpopularity. There is that seditious Leycestre and his two lazy nephews; there is that rude Agnes Fitzpayne; and there is that nasty Father John, whose Latin alone is good cause for his murder.’

‘There will be another death,’ warned Michael. ‘And since no one seems prepared to help me, there is little I can do to prevent it, or to save my poor Bishop from these slanderous accusations.’

‘We have helped you all we can, Brother,’ began Henry, offended.

‘Yes,’ said Michael, turning to smile at him. ‘You have been both helpful and encouraging. But not everyone is as public spirited. Sub-prior Thomas is one such example.’

‘Me?’ asked Thomas, surprised to be singled out for such an accusation. ‘I have not been obstructive. Indeed, I have taken some pains not to come anywhere near you.’

‘I can well imagine why,’ said Michael. ‘There is clearly a great deal that you do not want me to know.’

‘Such as what?’ demanded Thomas, peevishness creeping into his voice. Michael’s accusations were not disturbing enough to put him off his food, however; his jaws did not stop working for an instant.

‘Such as what that person in the orchard gave you last night,’ snapped Michael. ‘And do not tell me false stories about alms for the poor. You carried no bread with you, and you were the recipient – not the giver – of a small white package.’

Thomas cast an agitated glance at the Prior. ‘I do not see that it is Brother Michael’s business to interrogate me,’ he began.

‘No, it is not,’ agreed Alan, regarding his sub-prior uneasily. ‘But these are unusual times, and something peculiar is happening. The Bishop is obliged to remain in Ely until this murder charge is resolved, and I would just as soon he resumed his travels. Therefore, you will answer Michael’s questions, so that we can be done with this business and be back to normal.’

‘But my actions have nothing to do with the Bishop’s affairs,’ protested Thomas. His face was now white, and his breakfast forgotten. ‘You should ask others, not me.’

‘Such as whom?’ demanded Michael.

Thomas licked nervous lips, aware that the refectory was silent and that everyone was listening to what he had to say. ‘I did not mean … I did not–’

‘No lies,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘What did you mean when you said we should ask others? What others? What do you know that you have not told me?’

Thomas was growing increasingly flummoxed, and his jowls were trembling and twitching in agitation. He ran a thick finger around the neckline of his habit, as if it were suddenly too tight. Bartholomew exchanged a quick glance of concern with Henry, aware that a grossly fat man like Thomas was the kind of person who might have a seizure if stressed too severely. ‘It was a slip of the tongue. I will make no accusations against my fellow brethren–’

‘They would doubtless make accusations against you,’ warned Michael, giving the dark-faced Robert a sour glance. ‘And I will learn what I want to know sooner or later anyway – with or without your help. But it will be quicker and easier if you are honest with me now.’

‘I have instructed you to be of assistance to Michael,’ said Alan, fixing his stern gaze on the hapless sub-prior. ‘You will answer his questions. Who should he ask for information about this matter?’

‘I do not know for certain,’ said Thomas in a voice that was suddenly frail and breathless. He pulled at his habit again and swallowed hard, as though his throat was bothering him. ‘I am basing what I say on speculation and rumour, but William has been regularly missing his offices for the past two weeks or so.’

‘Two weeks ago,’ mused Michael. ‘That is about the time when the first murder took place.’

Thomas gave a sickly, ingratiating smile. ‘That is the connection I made, too. He has also been drawing heavily on priory funds. In fact, he has taken more in the last eighteen days than he has spent in the rest of the year put together.’

‘Has he really?’ asked Robert with unconcealed glee. ‘He has been dogging my every move recently, trying to assemble “proof” that I have not been distributing our alms to the poor. Now we learn that the hypocrite has been stealing priory money for himself!’

‘We have learned no such thing,’ said Henry sternly, unimpressed by the way the almoner was so ready to believe the worst in people. ‘We have been told that he has drawn on the hosteller’s fund recently, but that is easily explained. Blanche is here: it is expensive to house her and her retinue, so of course he drew moneys to meet the costs.’

‘William is not a thief,’ said Alan. ‘Self-righteous and irritating, yes; but dishonest, no.’

‘The evidence speaks for itself,’ said Robert smugly, sitting back and resting his swarthy hands across his paunch.

‘How much has he had?’ asked Henry reasonably. ‘The amount will tell us whether he wanted this gold for funding Blanche’s stay, or for other purposes.’

‘About ten marks,’ said Thomas unsteadily.

‘Ten marks?’ squeaked Alan in alarm. ‘But that is a fortune! What has he been doing with it? And why did you not tell me this before?’

‘Because, as hosteller, he is entitled to draw twelve marks a year,’ said Thomas hoarsely. ‘He has not actually done anything wrong – at least, as far as I know.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Alan, looking around the table, as if he expected William to be sitting in someone else’s place. ‘Why is he not here?’

‘I thought we had already been through this,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Everyone claims they do not know where he is.’

‘Brother Henry said it was not unusual for William to miss these additional meals,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not surprising: breakfast and the midday feast are amply sufficient for the needs of most normal men.’

‘True,’ agreed Henry immediately. ‘I do not believe that eating so much is healthy. It is why so many of us are large.’ His gaze fell on Thomas.

‘We will discuss the medical shortcomings of our dining system another time,’ snapped Alan. ‘What I want to know now is where my hosteller is. Robert! You and he seem to watch each other like hawks, waiting for the other to make a mistake that you can report it to me, so you must know of his whereabouts. Where is he?’

‘He is probably in the Outer Hostry,’ said Robert sullenly, no more happy with this public criticism than Thomas had been. ‘He dines with the guests on occasion.’

‘Go and find him,’ Alan ordered. ‘Tell him that I want to see him immediately, and I do not care what he is doing. Bring him here at once.’

‘Me?’ asked Robert in surprise. ‘But I am eating. Send a servant.’

‘You go,’ said Alan, the ice in his voice making it clear that Robert would be wise to do what he was told. Wordlessly, the spiteful almoner left.

Thomas heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief, apparently believing that the search for William meant that he was safe from further interrogation. He was mistaken: Michael rounded on him again, just as the sub-prior was in the act of raising a honey-drenched slice of bread to his large lips.

‘Who else?’ Michael demanded of him. ‘You implied that there was more than one person who might know more than he is telling.’

‘Robert,’ said Thomas, as soon as the door had closed and he was certain the almoner would not be able to hear. Bartholomew did not know whether Thomas was telling the truth, or merely picking on someone he did not like and who was no longer in the room to defend himself. ‘He and William are the only ones whose habits and behaviour have been a little suspect of late.’

Alan sighed, and looked into the main body of the refectory for a suitable messenger. His gaze lit on Julian, who was watching the scene with unabashed delight, his spotty jaw dangling open to reveal a pink tongue. ‘Go after Robert and bring him back. And then you can search for William.’

‘Me?’ asked Julian in surprise, echoing Robert’s sentiments. ‘But I have work to do in the infirmary. Ask Brother Henry.’

‘He must clean the shelves and wash all the bottles in my storeroom today,’ explained Henry to Alan. ‘It is his punishment for hiding Brother Ynys’s crutches last night.’

‘I wanted to see if he could walk without them,’ pouted Julian. ‘It was a medical experiment.’

‘It was malicious teasing,’ said Henry coolly. ‘And your additional duties today will warn you not to do it again. It is a tedious task and will take you many hours.’

‘I do not care whether he is obliged to labour all night,’ said Alan testily. ‘Do as I tell you, boy. Fetch Robert back to answer the charge Sub-prior Thomas has laid against him.’

Reluctantly, because he knew he would miss what promised to be the most interesting meal for a very long time, Julian left, while Michael turned his angry glare on Thomas yet again. The sub-prior was sweating heavily, and his twitching jowls were beaded with perspiration. He pushed his trencher away from him, his appetite clearly ruined. Bartholomew thought a little abstinence would do him good, although he did not like the increasing pallor of the sub-prior’s face.

‘While we are waiting for Robert and William to appear, we will talk about you, Thomas,’ said Michael unrelentingly. ‘What were you doing in the orchard last night?’

Thomas swallowed, then glanced at the door. Bartholomew wondered whether the man imagined he could reach it and escape the uncomfortable interrogation, although he was deluding himself if he thought he could move his bulk faster than Michael, or even than some of the other monks who sat quietly eating but with their ears firmly trained on the happenings at high table. The novices made no pretence at disinterest, however. They sat in open-mouthed fascination, riveted to the drama unfolding before them, and Bartholomew saw they relished the opportunity to watch bullying seniors publicly castigated.

‘I was meeting a friend,’ Thomas offered in a strangled voice. Bartholomew exchanged another look of concern with Henry, and then laid a warning hand on Michael’s arm.

‘I know that,’ said Michael, pushing Bartholomew’s hand away impatiently. ‘I am not a fool. I saw you meet someone, and I saw him pass you a package. Who were you meeting? What was in the package? And where is that package now?’

‘I–’ began Thomas, swallowing again, then pressing a hand to his head. His face was now drained of colour. ‘It is hot in here. Can we open a window?’

Bartholomew stood quickly, intending to put an end to the inquisition before Thomas had a seizure. He recognised the signs that preceded a serious attack – the pallor, sweating and trouble in breathing – and he did not want Thomas to be ill because Michael was being aggressive in his questioning.

Unfortunately, Thomas misinterpreted Bartholomew’s abrupt move as a hostile gesture. He rose to his own feet quickly, but then grasped at his throat and fell backwards, where he began to writhe and gasp for breath.

‘Poison!’ yelled young Bukton immediately, also leaping up. ‘Someone put poison in his food because he was on the verge of betrayal.’

This caused great consternation. There was a rattle of pewter on wood as plates were shoved hastily away from diners. The deathly silence that had prevailed when Michael was conducting his inquisition was broken, and an alarmed chattering broke out.

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ snapped Bartholomew, struggling to keep the flailing Thomas from injuring himself. Henry knelt next to him, holding the sub-prior’s head and trying to insert a rag into his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue. ‘He has been eating the same food as all of us, and no one else is showing these symptoms.’

‘It is the wine, not the bread,’ squealed Bukton in horror. There was another clatter as goblets were hastily set back on the table, and the murmur of frightened, confused voices suddenly turned into a roar, combined with the scraping of benches on the floor as some monks came to their feet. Alan silenced it by rapping hard on the table with a horn spoon. The monks sat again and the alarmed babble began to subside.

‘What is happening, Matt?’ asked Michael nervously, hovering over the physician. His face was almost as pale as Thomas’s. ‘Has he been poisoned?’

‘He is a fat man who became overwrought with your questions,’ said Bartholomew, waiting for Henry to prise their patient’s teeth apart, so that he could drop a soothing syrup between them. ‘There is nothing sinister in this – unless you count the fact that the man was so clearly involved in something unpleasant that he had a seizure at the prospect of admitting it.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I did not know this would happen. I dislike Thomas, but I did not mean to kill him with my questions. Why must everyone insist on being dishonest with me?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, as Thomas’s frenzied jerks and convulsions gradually died down and he became flaccid. He leaned down and put his ear against the fat man’s chest. He half expected that there would be so much flesh that he would hear nothing, even though Thomas was still alive, but the heart could be heard loud and clear, beating fast and hard from its exertions. ‘But he will not be telling you anything for a while yet – if ever.’

‘Is he dead, then?’ asked Michael in a whisper, crossing himself vigorously. ‘Lord help me! I have killed him!’

‘He is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he has lost his senses. He may regain them again, but he may not. It is impossible to tell at the moment.’

Michael rubbed a hand over his face and slumped on Thomas’s oversized chair. The other monks were silent as Bartholomew, Henry and three hefty novices struggled to lift the unconscious sub-prior on to a stretcher. Then the grim procession filed out of the refectory, and headed towards the building that overlooked the graveyard.

It was some time before Bartholomew and Henry finished working on Thomas. They removed several layers of very tight undervests, appalled when they realised that some of the garments had probably not seen the laundry for several years. Then the rolls of flesh spilled out, white and loose across the bed. Bartholomew felt queasy when his probing produced the stone of a peach that had probably lain hidden in one fold since at least the previous summer.

Once Thomas’s clothes were removed, they sponged his burning limbs with cool water, then gave him drops of laudanum until his laboured breathing eased. Because the presence of a seriously sick man in their midst was distressing the infirmary’s elderly inmates, Henry instructed that Thomas should be moved to Henry’s own chamber. It was a good idea: the old men would be left in peace, while the physicians could do what needed to be done to Thomas without a horrified audience.

‘Well?’ asked Michael in a low voice, looking down at the pale, damp features of the stricken sub-prior. ‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing more we can do. He will awake – or not – when the time is right.’

‘But when might that be?’ asked Prior Alan, appalled. ‘Today? Tomorrow?’

‘It is impossible to say,’ said Henry. ‘I had a patient once who lay like this for a week, and it was a lack of water that carried him off in the end – he could not swallow and we were afraid we would drown him if we forced him to drink. Doubtless Matthew has encountered similar cases.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But my Arab master showed me how a pipe might be passed down the throat, passing the entrance to the lungs, to allow water to be put directly into the stomach.’

‘Really?’ asked Henry, fascinated. ‘Did you see this device in action? How long were you able to keep the patient alive?’

‘Some weeks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw two patients recover, although most do not.’

‘This is horrible,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘Medicine really is a ghoulish trade. I am surprised that vile Julian does not enjoy it thoroughly.’

‘He enjoys inflicting pain, but he does not gain the same pleasure from easing it,’ said Henry tiredly.

‘You are exhausted,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘You were awake with Roger much of last night, and you will be busy now that Thomas is ill. Sleep, and I will sit with Thomas until you wake.’

‘I could not sleep,’ said Henry. ‘But I would be grateful for an opportunity to visit the library, so that I can read about this illness that has stricken Thomas. I would hate to think that he died because there is a remedy about which I have never learned. Even my knowledge is occasionally lacking.’

‘There is no remedy for this, other than time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But searching the library for ways to keep him comfortable might prove helpful. However, you will be lucky if you can find Symon to let you in.’

‘Symon is there,’ said Michael, pointing out of the window to several monks who were milling around, pretending to be walking in the gardens or pulling weeds from the graves in the cemetery. They cast frequent and furtive glances towards the windows of the hospital, clearly intent on satiating their curiosity regarding the sub-prior’s fate. Symon was among them.

Henry sighed and turned to Alan. ‘Normally, it would be the sub-prior’s responsibility to send these ghouls back to their duties. But since he is indisposed …’

‘Of course,’ said Alan, making for the door. ‘How remiss of me. It shows how I have grown to rely on Thomas for this sort of thing. I shall order them back to work, and Symon shall open the library door for you immediately. If I send him away, the Lord only knows where he might disappear and for how long.’

Henry left with him, and moments later there were footsteps on the wooden floor in the library above. Bartholomew could hear Henry demanding specific books that he needed to consult, and Symon declaring that the priory did not possess them – although Bartholomew knew for a fact that it did. The conversation ended with Henry’s exasperated voice asking whether Symon wanted to kill one of his own brethren by declining to produce the medical texts that might save his life.

Michael went into the infirmary’s main room, where he flopped on to one of the spare beds and lay with his arms pillowing his head, staring at the ceiling. Having charged his nosy monks to be about their business, Alan retired to the table at the other end of the hall, where he sat with one hand cupping his chin as he gazed through the window to the cathedral beyond. Bartholomew drew a stool to the side of Thomas’s bed and prepared himself for a long wait.

The five old men were unsettled, and Bartholomew could hear them muttering and whispering to themselves. Roger and Ynys seemed to understand what was happening, although Bartholomew could not be sure about the other three. They were all awake and sitting up in their beds, although at least two had the dull-eyed look of senility about them. Ynys barked querulous statements in an unsteady voice, and Michael went to sit next to him, holding a thin, blue-veined hand until the old man began to relax. The others also seemed comforted by Michael’s burly presence, and peace was restored as they drifted into restless slumbers.

‘Where is that wretched Julian?’ Bartholomew heard Alan demand of Michael. ‘I told him to bring Robert to me immediately, and then to look for William. The boy is totally untrustworthy – even the most simple of tasks seems too much for him.’

It was well past noon when Julian finally appeared. The old men had been fed their dinners, and had been settled to sleep away the afternoon. Young Bukton was washing the floor with a mop, and the only sound in the room was the faint hiss of its bristles on the flagstones. Julian burst into the hall, yelling for Henry at the top of his voice, careless that the elderly monks were dozing. Henry’s other assistant, Welles, was with Julian, but his frantic attempts to silence his unpleasant classmate were ignored. Michael leapt in alarm at the sudden racket, and, anticipating more bad news, Alan rushed towards them, while Bartholomew heard the tap of Henry’s footsteps on the wooden floorboards in the library above. Moments later, the infirmarian appeared, white-faced and anxious at the sudden commotion in his usually serene realm.

‘What is it?’ he demanded, darting to Thomas’s bed. ‘Has he taken a turn for the worse?’

Julian was breathless, and his face was flushed with excitement. He faltered when he saw the vast form of Thomas motionless on the bed, and took a sharp intake of breath when he realised why Henry had asked such a question.

‘What happened to him?’ he asked with fiendish fascination. ‘He was fit and hearty the last time I saw him – before I was dispatched like a servant to fetch Robert and William.’

‘The sub-prior was taken ill,’ replied Henry shortly.

‘Oh,’ said Julian, sounding disappointed at such a mundane answer. ‘Is that all? No one tried to kill him? He was not stabbed or struck with some heavy object.’

Henry gazed at him, and Bartholomew saw dislike creep across the infirmarian’s usually placid expression. Julian’s unsavoury interest in the macabre had gone too far.

‘Why should you be interested in such things?’ Henry asked, distaste clear in his voice. ‘Here is a man ill and in need of help that you might be able to provide – I taught you about seizures last week – but you ask about sharp knives and blunt instruments.’

‘Your obsession with weapons and their application is unseemly, Julian,’ reprimanded Alan. ‘I have warned you about your unnatural love of violence before, and if you persist, I shall have no choice but to ask you to leave this priory and make your own way in the world outside.’

‘Then I will join the Knights Hospitallers,’ declared Julian defiantly. With barely concealed loathing he stared at his Prior. ‘They will find a place for a man like me, who is prepared to fight and kill for what he believes.’

‘No!’ cried Henry in alarm, appealing to Alan. ‘Do not let him go to an Order of soldier-monks. He would be uncontrollable, and would commit all manner of atrocities in the name of God. Give me a few more weeks to work with him.’

Alan regarded Julian coldly. ‘You are lucky to have a friend like Henry, although I can see from your sneering that you do not appreciate him. But I sent you to fetch Robert and William some time ago. Where are they? Why have you not carried out my orders?’

‘William has gone!’ said Julian, his voice ringing through the infirmary. Roger and Ynys twisted uneasily in their beds as Julian’s shout penetrated their confused dreams. Meanwhile, Julian’s gloating gaze passed from Alan to Henry, and then to Michael. ‘He is not here.’

‘Do not yell,’ snapped Alan sharply. ‘This is not a tavern. It is a cathedral-priory and a place sacred to God. And what do you mean by “gone”?’

‘He is not in the guest halls, the chapter house or any of the outbuildings,’ said Julian, enunciating each word slowly, as though Alan were a half-wit who needed to be addressed like a child. Bartholomew felt a strong urge to box the lad’s ears, and thought Henry was a saint that he had so far kept his hands to himself. ‘So, I went to see if he was in his cell, but some of his belongings are missing.’

‘You mean someone has stolen them?’ asked Alan in confusion.

‘No, I mean that someone has carefully removed items from his cell – his spare habit and his cloak have gone.’

‘So he has left the priory?’ asked Alan aghast. ‘But how? When?’

Bukton stepped forward and cleared his throat nervously, still holding the mop. ‘I saw Brother William leave the priory near dusk last night, but I assumed he was just taking some short trip on the priory’s behalf. He rode Odin, the black gelding.’

‘He may well have taken a short trip,’ Alan pointed out hopefully. ‘He probably returned later. I want to know where he is now.’

Bukton shook his head. ‘Odin was not in his stall this morning when I fed the other horses. I assumed William had left him somewhere else, or perhaps he had thrown a shoe and was with the blacksmith. But now it seems that Odin’s absence and William’s disappearance are connected.’

‘Did William have any baggage with him when he left?’ asked Michael.

Bukton nodded. ‘Two saddlebags. I thought nothing of it then, but now I see they must have been crammed with his possessions. He has probably taken that ten marks from the hosteller’s fund, too.’

‘He probably has,’ said Alan wearily. ‘It would not be the first time a greedy monk has made off with his priory’s treasure.’

‘But I find it curious that he should choose now to do so,’ said Michael, puzzled. He was about to add something more, when the door opened a second time, and Symon the librarian stood there, his chest heaving from a brisk run and his eyes wild with fright.

‘I have just seen him,’ he babbled. ‘It can only just have happened – we all saw him not long ago.’

‘Who?’ snapped Alan, becoming tired of his monks’ eccentric ways of breaking news. ‘What are you talking about? Take a deep breath and tell us what has happened in a coherent manner. We have had more than enough hysteria for one day: look at what it has done to poor Thomas.’

‘Robert,’ gasped Symon. ‘You sent him to search for William, if you recall. When I was in the library helping Henry, I glanced out of the window and saw him making off towards the vineyards, presumably as part of his hunt.’

‘Presumably,’ said Alan dryly. ‘He had orders to do so. But then I learned that he, too, had questions to answer, and so I sent Julian to fetch him back.’

‘I know,’ said Symon, agitation making him verge on the insubordinate. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself and tell his story slowly. ‘I was present when you issued that order. And it occurred to me, as I stood in the library and watched Robert striking out towards the vineyard, that Julian might have missed him, and that he had no idea he was wanted–’

‘I did miss him,’ declared Julian resentfully. ‘I looked everywhere for him and William both. In the heat of the day, too!’

‘Do not interrupt!’ snapped Symon. He turned back to Alan and adopted a less cantankerous tone. ‘When I finished providing Henry with the books he requested, I left the library and went straight away to the vineyard, intending to tell Robert to attend you in your solar with all due haste. Well, almost straight away.’

‘You “provided” me with no books!’ said Henry indignantly. ‘We were obliged to sift through random piles in search for them.’

‘What do you mean by “almost straight away”?’ asked Alan, ignoring Henry.

Symon looked sheepish. ‘Well, I made a detour first. In all the excitement at the refectory that morning, I did not drink sufficient breakfast ale, and it was a hot day. So, I stopped at the kitchens to slake my thirst.’

‘How long?’ demanded Alan, making it clear that he disapproved of this dereliction of duty.

Symon shrugged. ‘I was obliged to pass the time of day with the brewer – it is not polite to down your ale and leave without exchanging pleasantries. Then his assistant arrived …’

‘So you were there for some time,’ surmised Alan heavily. ‘Very well. You eventually prised yourself from the congenial company of the brewer, and you went to the vineyard. Then what happened?’

Symon coughed to hide his embarrassment. ‘Unfortunately, Robert was no longer there.’ He ignored the exasperated sound Alan made and went on. ‘So, I decided I had better expand my search to the Quay.’ He paused, whether for dramatic effect or because he did not know how to continue, Bartholomew could not say.

‘And?’ demanded Alan testily, when the delay stretched to an unreasonable length of time.

‘And I am sickened to say that I found him, but he will not be answering any questions from you or Michael or anyone else – except perhaps God as he knocks on the Gates of Heaven.’

‘What in God’s name are you saying?’ demanded Alan. ‘Where is Robert?’

‘Dead,’ replied Symon. ‘He is floating in the river near the Monks’ Hythe.’