Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

‘So it was Robert who met Thomas in the vineyard?’ asked Michael.

Roger nodded. ‘One thief paying another with stolen property. No wonder they met in such an isolated venue.’

‘And Thomas was not about to reveal anything about the murders when he had his seizure in the refectory,’ surmised Michael. ‘He was about to confess his nasty little plot with Robert. He knew nothing that would have helped me track down the murderer.’

‘No,’ said Roger. ‘Not a thing. He was too completely immersed in himself and his own world to have deduced anything about the murders. But Henry put an end to such wickedness. We will now have a good and honest sub-prior and an almoner who feels compassion for the poor.’

‘And a librarian who will know how to look after books?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is incompetence on Henry’s list of sins, too? Is that why he killed Symon?’

‘Symon was more than merely incompetent,’ said Roger, unperturbed by their patent disgust. ‘He was responsible for suppressing learning and education among the monks. And he plotted with Leycestre to strip our monastery of all its treasure. Henry heard him confess. I urged him to deal with the man last night, lest the soft-hearted Alan set him free.’

‘And Mackerell?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Was he another man you consider steeped in sin?’

‘He was not what you would call pleasant company,’ said Roger. ‘But he died because he saw Henry standing over Symon’s corpse. Henry had said mass with Symon, then killed him quickly when he drowsed from the hemp in the wine. He had forgotten that Mackerell was hiding there, thinking himself safe from water-spirits. It was unfortunate, but some sacrifices have to be made.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But we need to find Henry, before he does any more mischief.’

‘No,’ said Roger. He rose from his bed on unsteady legs. From the next bed Ynys rose, too. Both held swords that had been hidden under the bedclothes.

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, backing away in alarm. ‘Are all of you involved?’

‘Roger and I are men who want to see justice done in our dying years,’ said Ynys, clutching the bed for support. ‘And we have no grudge against you, so sit down and behave and no one will come to harm. We were soldiers once, so you had better take us seriously.’

‘But this is madness,’ protested Bartholomew, moving away from Roger, whose grip on his sword was dangerous in its unsteadiness. ‘Henry is not a dispenser of justice! It has gone beyond that. He is now a ruthless killer, and you must see that is not right or just.’

‘Sit!’ snapped Roger angrily. ‘We will wait here until Henry comes, and then we will decide what is to be done. Perhaps he will agree to let you go. But then again, perhaps he will not.’

‘The battle of Bannockburn,’ said Michael harshly to Ynys. ‘Were you really there, or are those memories as false as your act of senility?’

Ynys’s eyes flashed. ‘I was there, boy. And I am not senile, either. At least, not unless it suits me to be thought so, just as Roger’s deafness serves him.’ He gestured to his friends, lying restless and confused in their beds. ‘I only wish I could say the same for these poor fellows.’ His expression hardened when his glance returned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Now sit down.’

Bartholomew prepared to argue, but the door opened, and Henry himself entered. The infirmarian surveyed the scene in front of him with open-mouthed horror, and the dish of fruit he was carrying as a treat for the old men clattered to the floor.

‘We have been hearing all about how you have been removing some of the town’s more unpleasant residents for the good of mankind,’ said Michael coolly.

Henry sat heavily on Roger’s bed. ‘I did what I thought was right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There is too much evil in the world, caused by men who have no thought for others and who are concerned only with their own well-being. They do cruel and unjust things, then go about their lives quite happily.’

‘Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord,’ quoted Michael pompously.

Henry rounded on him. ‘But it is not, is it? Evil people do evil deeds, then live to a ripe old age to enjoy the fruits of their wrongdoing. There is no justice in the world. Surely, you know people whom we would all be better without?’

‘Who does not?’ said Michael. ‘But that does not mean I have the right to decide who should die and who should not.’

‘But someone must,’ argued Henry. ‘Unless we take action to destroy wickedness, then the Death will return. And I, for one, do not want to live through that again.’

‘The plague will not return,’ said Michael with a conviction Bartholomew certainly did not feel. ‘And I am becoming tired of people using it as an excuse to do whatever they like. I am hurt that you are the culprit, Henry. I loved you like a father!’

Henry shot Roger an agonised glance. ‘I told you we should have stopped after you killed Thomas! There was no need to take steps against Michael. My life is not worth his!’

Roger disagreed. ‘He will expose you as a killer. He has to die. We need you – we do not want another infirmarian to care for us as we approach our final days. Michael may love you like a father, but we are like fathers to you. You owe us our last little happiness.’

Henry looked from Roger to Michael in an agony of despair. It was clear he did not know what to think. Then, before they could stop him, he had leapt to his feet and darted towards the infirmary chapel.

‘After him!’ howled Michael to Bartholomew, starting to run.

‘No!’ yelled Roger, lunging with his weapon. It missed Michael by the merest fraction of an inch. The monk was still gaping at the gouge it had left in the wooden bed when Roger struck again. Michael ducked backward and snatched up a mop with a long handle to defend himself.

Meanwhile, Ynys advanced on Bartholomew, wielding a short fighting sword in a skilled manner that left the physician in no doubt of his expertise. The knives that were in his medicine bag were useless against such a weapon, and there was little he could do but back away and keep out of the range of the swinging blade. Henry was in the chapel, and they could hear his voice raised in pleading supplication.

‘We cannot let you go,’ said Roger to Michael apologetically. ‘Despite Henry’s affection for you. You would tell Alan what has happened, and he will send Henry away. And then what would happen to us?’

‘Henry’s motive may have been honourable, but you are only interested in your own welfare,’ hissed Michael furiously, ducking away as the old man advanced. ‘You have driven the poor man to despair, and he does not know which way to turn.’

‘You saw his distress when you killed Thomas,’ said Bartholomew, also moving backward. He knew he was in no real danger from Ynys as long as he kept out of range of the sword, which was not difficult given that the old man moved so slowly. ‘You have confused him so much that he may do himself some harm. Put down your weapon and let me go to him.’

Ynys faltered, but Roger remained unconvinced. ‘You are lying. Henry would never leave us.’

‘You have pushed him too far,’ said Michael. ‘He is a good man, but you have corrupted him to the point where he does not know what to believe.’

‘It is all Ralph’s fault,’ said Ynys, his sword shaking dangerously close to Bartholomew’s chest. ‘It was Ralph who came up with the idea – when he killed Glovere.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael, stepping quickly around a chest at the bottom of the bed as Roger edged closer. ‘ Ralph killed Glovere?’

‘De Lisle wanted rid of Glovere,’ explained Ynys. ‘So Ralph obliged. Then Roger here saw the good that stemmed from Glovere’s demise – no more malicious gossip in taverns, poor young Alice avenged and her grieving family relieved of a heavy burden …’