A Summer of Discontent

Michael stepped forward as the Bishop approached, smiling a greeting. Bartholomew stood back, to allow Michael to speak to de Lisle in private, although the great man’s retinue showed no such consideration. They pushed forward to surround him and his agent, some elbowing others so that they might better see and hear what was happening. There were pages, clerks and retainers, all dressed in the sober livery of the Bishop’s household. They changed each time Bartholomew saw them, and there was only one face among the crowd that he recognised — that of de Lisle’s steward, Ralph. De Lisle was not an easy man to work for, and it was to Ralph’s — and Michael’s — credit that they had survived in his service for so long.

De Lisle had aged since Bartholomew had last met him, and the austere, arrogant face that the physician remembered was lined with worry and fatigue. His hair was greyer, too, with no trace of the dark brown of his earlier years. De Lisle was a man in his fifties, with a tall, upright bearing and a confident swagger. His hair was neatly combed around a small tonsure, and his black and white Dominican robes were made of the finest cloth money could buy. Not for de Lisle the sandals worn by most monks and friars; his feet were clad in shoes made from soft calfskin. Several rings — so large they verged on the tasteless — adorned his fingers, and a large cross of solid gold hung around his neck.

‘Michael! At last!’ exclaimed de Lisle, extending one beringed hand to be kissed. He gave Bartholomew a cool nod of recognition, then his attention returned to Michael. ‘Where have you been? I expected you yesterday.’

‘I was detained by pressing business in Cambridge,’ Michael replied vaguely, giving the proffered ring the most perfunctory of kisses, and indicating that while he might be the Bishop’s spy, he was a cut above the sycophantic ranks that clustered around him. Michael was an ambitious man, and it was promises of future promotion and power that induced him to remain in the Bishop’s service, not financial necessity.

‘I needed you here,’ said de Lisle sharply. ‘And when I want my people, I expect them to come to me at once.’

‘Well, I am here now,’ replied Michael, a little tartly. ‘How can I be of service?’

De Lisle took a deep breath and when he spoke his words came out in a rush. ‘I have been accused of the most heinous of crimes!’

‘So I have heard,’ said Michael expressionlessly.

De Lisle nodded a dismissal to the servants who crowded around him. Reluctantly, they moved away until only one man was left: Ralph, the steward, who looked rough and unkempt with his lousy hair and unshaven face. It was said that Ralph would do almost anything for his Bishop, and certainly anything for money. He sported a mouth full of black, broken teeth, and even cast-off clothes from a fashionable dresser like de Lisle failed to render him more attractive.

Bartholomew edged away with the others, having no desire to hear any secrets de Lisle might want to divulge to Michael. He was surprised, and not terribly pleased, to feel Michael’s restraining hand on his sleeve. He fought against it, but the monk’s grip intensified, and Bartholomew saw he would have to stay unless he wanted to tear his shirt. De Lisle hesitated before beginning his story, glancing uneasily at the physician.

‘Do not worry about Matt,’ said Michael. ‘He is as good a man as you will ever hope to meet, and has been my right hand in many a nasty case.’

‘Oh, no!’ muttered Bartholomew in dismay. ‘I came here to read, not to become embroiled in one of your investigations.’

‘Of course, none of these stories about me are true,’ said de Lisle, ignoring him. ‘They are lies, put about by my enemies to discredit me.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘What stories are being told and by whom?’

‘Do you know Lady Blanche de Wake?’ asked de Lisle. ‘She is the widow of the Earl of Lancaster and a close relative of the King. Her estates border mine, and she is constantly trying to steal a field here and a sheep there.’

‘Typical of the Lancasters,’ announced Michael. ‘They are a greedy, grasping brood. But how does she relate to this charge of murder?’

‘She has accused me of burning her tenants’ houses,’ said de Lisle indignantly. ‘At Colne.’

‘And did you?’ asked Michael casually.

Bartholomew glanced uncertainly at his friend, anticipating that de Lisle would not take kindly to such blunt questioning. But the Bishop apparently realised that he needed Michael’s good graces, and he bit back what had doubtless been a crisp response.

‘Yes and no,’ he said, exchanging a guilty glance with his steward. ‘Ralph and I had a slight misunderstanding one evening. He took something I said literally, when I was speaking figuratively.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael flatly. ‘One of those misunderstandings.’