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.’
‘But she has no evidence to prove I did it, and Ralph was very careful,’ de Lisle continued. ‘The case came to the courts, and the King ordered me to pay a fine of ninety shillings. He listened with great care to his kinswoman, but refused to hear my side of the story at all.’
‘He would,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘He is well known for showing partiality to his favourites. Did you pay the money?’
‘I did, even though I can scarce afford such a monstrous fine, but worse was to come. About ten days ago, Lady Blanche’s steward died here, in Ely, and she has accused me of killing him!’
Michael gazed at his Bishop, and Bartholomew held his breath, half expecting the monk to demand to know whether de Lisle had added murder to the crime of arson. But Michael merely regarded the prelate with sombre green eyes, rubbing the bristles on his chin as he did so.
‘And the Bishop had nothing to do with the death, before you ask,’ put in Ralph nastily, apparently believing that Michael hesitated only because he was searching for the right words to phrase the question. ‘In fact, there is no evidence that Glovere met his end by violence at all. It is obvious to me that he was in his cups and he fell in the river.’
‘He drowned, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Did anyone see him drunk or walking near the water?’
‘That is what I want you to find out,’ said de Lisle. ‘And then, at dawn yesterday, another man was found dead, floating near the hythes in the same river.’
‘Haywarde,’ muttered Bartholomew, recalling what the malcontent Leycestre had told them. ‘A suicide.’
‘Quite. But it is only a matter of time before that vile-minded rabble in the city claim that my Bishop killed him, too,’ said Ralph indignantly. ‘That is why he sent word for you to come yesterday.’ His stress indicated that he strongly disapproved of Michael’s tardiness.
‘Your task is to exonerate me from these malicious and wholly untrue charges,’ said de Lisle to Michael. ‘You must begin immediately; there is not a moment to lose.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But is there anything else I should know about this case? Have you and Blanche’s steward argued in public at any time? Did any of your household issue threats against the man?’
‘Glovere was a vile specimen of humanity,’ said de Lisle with distaste. ‘I have never known such a misery. All he did was complain; he was even unpopular among Blanche’s retinue.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Ralph. ‘He was hated intensely by anyone who knew him. Blanche loathed him, too, and she is only showing concern for him because he is dead.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘But neither of you has answered my question. Was Glovere the subject of threats from the Bishop’s household?’
‘I doubt we were any more hostile to him than the unfortunates in Blanche’s employ who were obliged to work closely with the fellow,’ said de Lisle ambiguously.
‘So, you did threaten him,’ surmised Michael thoughtfully. ‘That could prove awkward. What did you say, exactly?’
De Lisle gave a sigh. ‘It all happened two weeks ago – four days before his death. I happened to meet Blanche, here in the priory – she stays here when she visits her Ely estates, because it is more comfortable than the shabby manor house Glovere maintained for her. Naturally, I told her that I was disappointed with the King’s verdict over the burning of her tenants’ houses, and we started to argue.’
‘Glovere took part in the disagreement, even though it was none of his affair,’ elaborated Ralph. ‘He became abusive, and claimed that my Lord Bishop was the kind of man to father children and then abandon the mothers.’