‘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.’