A Summer of Discontent (4 page)

‘What could be so urgent that the Bishop could not wait a day to see his favourite spy?’

‘Agent,’ corrected Michael. ‘And I cannot imagine what has distressed de Lisle. His second note was almost rude in its summons,
and contained none of the fatherly affection he usually pens in missives to me.’ He prodded his horse gently with his sandalled
heels to urge it forward. ‘But he will despair of me ever arriving if we delay much longer.’

With some reluctance, Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the spectacle of the cathedral and followed Michael to where a group
of soldiers were dicing in the bridge’s gatehouse. One dragged himself to his feet when he heard visitors approaching, although
his eyes remained firmly
fixed on the far more interesting events that were occurring in the gloomy shadows of the lodge.

‘Business?’ he asked curtly, not looking at them. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave a sudden grin as, presumably, the
dice rolled in his favour.

‘We have come to set fire to the cathedral,’ said Michael mildly. ‘And then I plan to rob the Guildhall of St Mary’s and make
off with as much gold as I can carry.’

‘Enter, then,’ said the guard, pushing open the gate that led to the bridge, craning his neck so that he could still watch
his game. ‘And go in peace.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Michael amiably. ‘Perhaps when I have finished with the cathedral and the guildhall I shall pay a
visit to your own humble hovel and see whether you have any wives, daughters or sisters who might warrant my manly attentions.
What is your name?’

‘I said you could enter,’ snapped the guard, becoming aware that the travellers were lingering when he wanted to return to
his game. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Your name,’ snapped Michael, with an edge of anger in his voice that suddenly claimed the guard’s full attention. Aware that
a confrontation was brewing, his comrades abandoned their sport and emerged into the sunlight to see what was happening. Eulalia
and her brothers edged away, unwilling to be part of the argument.

‘Stephen,’ replied the guard nervously. ‘Why?’

‘You are worthless,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You should not be allowed the responsibility of gate duty. I shall recommend that
my Prior replaces you as soon as possible.’

Stephen sneered insolently. ‘The Prior will have more important things on his mind than the likes of me, Brother. Like how
he can help Bishop de Lisle evade the hangman’s noose.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael testily. ‘Do not try to divert me with lies.’

‘Not lies, Brother,’ replied another guard, who had straw-coloured hair and thick lips that did not cover his
protruding front teeth. ‘De Lisle stands accused of murdering a man called Glovere. The Bishop claims Glovere killed himself,
but Glovere’s folk say he is lying. They accused him on Friday – two days ago now.’

Michael stared at them, while Bartholomew saw in Stephen’s triumphant, spiteful smile that his comrade was telling the truth.
Stephen appeared to be genuinely delighted that a powerful and probably unpopular landlord had been accused of so serious
a crime.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Michael eventually.

Stephen shrugged. ‘Believe what you like, Brother. But de Lisle is accused of murdering the steward of a woman he disliked
– and that is as true as you are standing there in front of me. The whole town is agog at the news. Go ahead, and see for
yourself.’

Once they were through the gate, it was a short ride along the remaining section of causeway to the city of Ely. Michael said
little as they hurried past the outlying farmsteads and strip-fields, although Cynric and Meadowman muttered piously to each
other about the ruthless and undisciplined behaviour of bishops who considered themselves above the law. Bartholomew sensed
Michael’s unease, and left the monk alone with his thoughts. The gypsies, who confirmed the soldiers’ claim that Ely was indeed
buzzing with the news of the Bishop’s predicament, slipped away to their camp on the outskirts of the city as soon as they
could, the three men clearly relieved to be away from the monk and his companions. Eulalia hesitated before giving Bartholomew
a brief smile and darting after them.

Bartholomew glanced at Michael as they drew near the first of the houses. The monk had clearly been appalled to hear that
his mentor had been accused of a crime, but Bartholomew noted that he did not seem particularly surprised. The physician knew,
as did Michael, that Thomas de Lisle had not been selected for a prestigious post like that of Bishop of Ely by being nice
to people, and imagined
that a degree of corruption and criminal behaviour was probably a requirement for holding a position of such power. However,
most churchmen did not allow themselves to become sullied by accusations of murder, and Bartholomew suspected that the Bishop
had miscalculated some aspect of his various plots and machinations. While grateful that
he
would be spending his time in the priory library, well away from the webs weaved by men like de Lisle, the physician was
worried that Michael’s obligations as de Lisle’s agent would lead him into something sinister.

He pushed morbid thoughts from his mind, and looked around him. Ahead, on a low hill, stood the grey mass of the cathedral.
At its western end was a vast tower, topped by four crenellated turrets. To either side were smaller turrets, separated by
a glorious façade of blank arcading that Bartholomew knew was at least two centuries old. The section to the north-west was
clad in a complex system of ropes, planks and scaffolding, and the physician recalled hearing rumours that it was ripe for
collapse. The bells were ringing, an urgent jangle of six discordant clappers calling the monks to the office of sext – the
daily service that took place before the midday meal.

At the cathedral’s central crossing, where the north and south transepts met the nave, was Ely’s best-known feature, and one
of the most remarkable achievements of its day. Thirty years earlier, the heavy tower erected by the Normans had toppled,
taking with it a good part of the chancel. The monks had hastened to repair the damage, and one of their own number had designed
an octagonal tower. More famous architects had scoffed at the unusual structure, claiming that it would be too heavy for the
foundations. But the gifted monk knew his theories of buttressing and thrust, and the octagon stood firm.

Clustered around the base of the cathedral, and almost insignificant at its mighty stone feet, was the monastery. This was
linked to the cathedral by a cloister, and included an infirmary, a massive refectory, dormitories for the monks to
sleep in, a chapter house for their meetings, barns, stables, kitchens, and a large house and chapel for the Prior. There
was also a handsome guesthouse for the exclusive use of visiting Benedictines, known by the rather sinister name of the Black
Hostry. All this was enclosed by a stout wall, except for the part that bordered an ancient and ruinous castle, which was
protected by a wooden fence liberally punctuated with sharpened stakes.

At first, the only people Bartholomew saw were distant figures bent over the crops in the fields, but as he and his companions
rode closer to the cathedral, the streets became more crowded. Besides the drab homespun of labourers, there were merchants,
clad in the richly coloured garments that were the height of fashion in the King’s court – hose and gipons of scarlet, amber
and blue, while their wives wore the close-cut kirtles that had many prudish clerics running to their pulpits to issue condemnations.
Personally, Bartholomew liked the way the dresses showed the slender – or otherwise – figures of the women, and he thought
it would be a pity if fashion saw the return of the voluminous garments he recalled from his youth.

For Ely’s lay population, the heart of the city was the village green. This grassy swath was bordered by St Mary’s Church,
the cathedral, and the usual mixture of fine and shabby houses: the merchants’ large, timber-framed buildings that boasted
ample gardens for growing vegetables; the poorer ones comprising shacks with four walls and a roof of sorts, clinging to each
other in dishevelled rows.

The green was busy that Sunday morning, and a band of itinerant musicians played to a large gathering of townsfolk. Drums
thumped and pipes fluted cheerfully, interrupted by bursts of laughter as a group of children watched the antics of a brightly
clad juggler. A man was selling fruit from a barrel of cold water, shouting that a cool, juicy apple would invigorate whoever
ate it, that it was more refreshing than wine. Bartholomew stopped for a moment, enjoying the spectacle of people happy on
a summer day.

‘Come on, Matt,’ Michael grumbled. ‘I do not want to linger here while the likes of those guards are spreading malicious rumours
about their prelate.’

‘At least you now know why de Lisle summoned you so urgently.’

‘We have only the claims of those incompetents on the bridge to go on,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not consider
them
a reliable indication of why my Bishop might need me.’

‘I see the crows have begun to gather,’ hissed a soft voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned and saw that they were being
addressed by a man of middle years, who wore a green tunic with a red hood flung over his shoulders. He had shoes, too, although
they were badly made and more to show that he was someone who could afford to buy them than to protect his feet from the muck
and stones of the ground. ‘When a noble beast lies dying, a carrion bird always stands nearby, waiting for the end.’

‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘There are no crows nesting on this village green – they would find
it far too noisy with all the unseemly merrymaking. Do none of these folk have work to do? I know it is Sunday, but no one
should be at leisure when there are crops to be harvested.’

The sneer on the man’s face quickly turned to anger at Michael’s words. ‘Everyone has been in the fields since long before
daybreak, Brother. They deserve a rest before they return to toil under the hot sun until darkness falls. But I am wasting
my time explaining this – I cannot imagine
you
know much about rising before dawn.’

‘I rise before dawn every day,’ replied Michael indignantly. ‘I attend prime and I sometimes conduct masses.’

‘Prayers and reading,’ jeered the man. ‘I am talking about
real
work, using hoes and spades and ploughs. But why have you come to Ely, Brother? Is it to help the good Bishop escape this
charge of murder? Or have you come to drive the nails into his coffin?’

‘You are an insolent fellow,’ said Michael, half angry and
half amused at the man’s presumption. ‘My business here is none of your concern. Who are you, anyway?’

The man effected an elegant bow. ‘Richard de Leycestre. I owned land here before the price of bread forced me to sell it to
buy food. So, now I am a ploughman, in the employ of the priory.’

‘And clearly resentful of the fact,’ observed Michael. ‘Well, your reduced circumstances are none of my affair, although I
know there are many others like you all over the country. But you should not make a habit of slinking up to monks and insulting
their Bishop, unless you want to find yourself in a prison. If you are a wise man, you will keep your thoughts to yourself.’

‘That is hard to do, when harsh landlords drive men to take their own lives because they cannot feed their families,’ said
Leycestre bitterly. ‘And do not give me your sympathy, Brother, because I am certain
you
cannot recall the last time you were faced with an empty table at mealtimes.’

‘Not this morning, certainly,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that Michael had fortified himself for the twenty-mile journey
from Cambridge with a substantial breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, bread and some cold pheasant that had been left from the previous
evening.

‘Who has taken his own life?’ demanded Michael. ‘Are you talking about this steward – Glovere – whom those rascally guards
told me the Bishop is accused of killing? However, they also happened to mention that de Lisle maintains Glovere’s death was
a suicide – which I am sure we will discover is the case.’

‘Not Glovere, although they died similar deaths,’ said Leycestre obliquely.

Michael sighed. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ The way he kicked his sandalled feet into the sides of his horse
indicated that he had no wish to find out, either.

‘I am talking about Will Haywarde, who killed himself yesterday,’ said Leycestre, keeping pace with Michael’s
horse. ‘Like Glovere, Haywarde died in the river.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the murky River Ouse, which
meandered its way around the eastern edge of the town.

‘I see,’ said Michael, uncomprehending, but not inclined to learn more.

‘You should not listen to tales spun by the likes of those guards, though,’ Leycestre advised. ‘I do not believe that Bishop
de Lisle has killed anyone. I think Glovere was a suicide, just like the Bishop says.’

‘I am sure he will be relieved to know he can count on your support,’ said Michael, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks
a second time to hurry it along. It was no use – Leycestre merely walked faster.

‘The gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Leycestre. He cast a contemptuous glance to a group of people wearing embroidered tunics
similar to Eulalia’s, who were watching the musicians on the green. ‘They say they came to help with the harvest, but since
they arrived houses have been burgled almost every night.’

‘Do you have evidence to prove that these travellers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that it would
be very stupid of the gypsies to indulge themselves in a crime spree as soon as they had arrived. It would be obvious who
were the culprits, and his brief encounter with Eulalia told him that she had more sense.

Leycestre rounded on him. ‘The fact is that the day after these folk arrived, a house was broken into. And then another and
another. Is this
evidence
enough for you?’