A Summer of Discontent (11 page)

‘I know that,’ snapped Michael testily. ‘But Northburgh is ninety years old, if he is a day, and is only in Cambridge because
he has been pestering the canons of St John’s Hospital to give him tonics and remedies to prevent his impending death. Like
many churchmen who see their end looming large, he would rather stay in this world than experience what might be in store
for him in the next.’

‘Then look on the bright side: you will not have a rival investigator breathing down your neck. Northburgh will spend his
time with Brother Henry.’

‘True. I suppose Alan chose him because he is the only bishop within reach at such short notice. But no one in his right mind
would bide by any conclusions drawn by Northburgh.’

‘No one in his right mind would bide by any conclusions drawn by Northburgh,’ announced Blanche to Alan, although she was
too far away to have heard the muttered conversation between Bartholomew and Michael. ‘I knew this priory would not select
a suitable man, so I have appointed my own agent – a man whom the King and the Black Prince recommended to me.’

‘Who?’ asked Alan uneasily. ‘I am not sure it is wise to have too many investigations proceeding simultaneously. De Lisle
has engaged Brother Michael to look into the matter, too.’

Blanche shot Michael a disparaging glance. ‘You mean de Lisle has instructed his creature to hide the evidence and allow him
to weasel out of the noose he has knotted for himself.’

‘He ordered me to uncover the truth,’ said Michael indignantly, although as far as Bartholomew recalled de Lisle had done
no such thing. Michael had been charged to prove de Lisle innocent, which was not necessarily the same. ‘I am no one’s creature,
madam, and I am only interested in the facts.’

Blanche turned back to Alan. ‘I have ordered Robert Stretton to come to my aid. He, too, will arrive in a day or two.’

Michael gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for small mercies!’ he whispered to Bartholomew. ‘Stretton is no more capable of
investigating a murder than Northburgh. The royal family like him, but their confidence is misplaced.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, feeling that Blanche was not a fool, and that she would not have appointed Stretton if
he were a total incompetent.

‘He is virtually illiterate for a start,’ said Michael. ‘He was collated to the canonry of St Cross at Lincoln Cathedral earlier
this year, and has ambitions to be a bishop. I doubt he will ever succeed, given his intellectual shortcomings.’

‘I should hope not, if he cannot read. The days of prelates who do not know one end of a bible from another are mostly over.’

‘I imagine the Black Prince encouraged Blanche to appoint Stretton.’ Michael smiled complacently. ‘But she will soon learn
not to take advice from relatives, no matter how well meaning. Stretton will present
me
with no problems.’

‘This investigation promises to be a farce,’ remarked
Bartholomew. ‘The principal for the Church is an aged malingerer; the principal for Blanche is a man who cannot read; and
the principal for the Bishop is you, who has been charged to “find de Lisle innocent”. I can already see the way this will
end.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael comfortably. ‘Matters
are
looking up. But now that Blanche’s accusation is official, we have work to do. Come with me to the taverns, and we will see
what more we can learn about Glovere that may help to exonerate my Bishop from the charge of murder.’

Traipsing around every tavern in Ely that evening was not Bartholomew’s idea of fun, although Michael seemed to enjoy it.
Scholars were not permitted to enter inns in Cambridge: such places were obvious breeding grounds for fights between students
and townsfolk, so any drinking in the town needed to be conducted with a degree of discretion. No such restrictions applied
in Ely, however, and Bartholomew and Michael could wander openly into any establishment they chose.

Ely’s taverns varied enormously. Some were large and prosperous, like the Lamb and the Bell, while others were little more
than a bench outside a hovel where the occupants brewed and sold their own beer. Some of it was surprisingly good, although
Bartholomew found that the more he drank, the less discriminating he tended to be.

As evening turned to night, they finished with the respectable inns on the Heyrow and reached the less respectable ones near
the quay. While the Heyrow taverns were full of visiting merchants and the occasional cleric, the waterfront hostelries were
frequented by townsfolk and the beer was generally cheaper.

Michael’s Benedictine habit caused one or two raised eyebrows, but most people accepted the fact that monks had a talent for
sniffing out the most inexpensive brews and so their presence at the riverside taverns was not uncommon. Michael eased himself
into conversations,
pretending to be a bumbling brother from one of the priory’s distant outposts, and earning confidences by making the odd
disparaging remark about the wealth of the Benedictines. The ploy worked, and he soon had people talking to him about Glovere,
Blanche, de Lisle and Alan.

It seemed that none was especially popular in Ely. The Prior was disliked because he was a landlord; Blanche was arrogant
and unsympathetic to the plight of the poor; de Lisle was criticised for his love of good clothes and expensive wines; while
Glovere was deemed a malicious gossip. The gypsies, who had been in Ely for almost two weeks, were also the object of suspicion,
although Bartholomew did not think this was based on more than a natural wariness of outsiders. He sympathised with the travellers:
once on his travels he and his Arab master had been on the receiving end of some unfounded accusations, because it was easier
to blame misfortune on passing strangers than to believe ill of friends. He and Ibn Ibrahim had barely escaped with their
lives, despite the fact that they had had nothing to do with strangling the local priest’s lapdog.

When Bartholomew and Michael entered an especially insalubrious tavern named the Mermaid, they found the patrons sitting at
their tables listening to a rabid diatribe delivered by the disenfranchised farmer Richard de Leycestre. Leycestre stood on
a bench, waving a jug of slopping ale, his face sweaty and red from the drink and his passion.

‘Anyone who cannot see that there is a connection between the gypsies and the burglaries is blind,’ he raved. ‘The thefts
started
the day after
that crowd of criminals arrived. That is all the evidence
I
need.’

‘I am sure it is,’ muttered Bartholomew, regarding the man with disapproval as he waved to a pot-boy to bring them ale.

Michael nudged him hard. ‘Watch what you say, Matt. Rightly or wrongly, these travellers are not popular, and it is not wise
to be heard speaking in their defence.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew, rather loudly. One or two people turned to look at him. ‘Are you saying that no one should
speak up for what he believes, for what is right?’

‘Yes. There is no need to court problems. We have more than enough of those at the moment without you going out on a limb
to protect the reputation of people you do not know.’

Michael turned to the man who stood next to him, and began a conversation about Glovere and the woman who had killed herself.
The man only reiterated what they already knew – that young Alice had committed suicide when Glovere’s tales had caused her
betrothed to marry someone else. Alice had been pretty, sweet-tempered and likeable, and it seemed that Glovere was generally
regarded as the Devil incarnate.

Bartholomew took a deep draught of the rich ale. It was stronger than anything available in Cambridge, and he felt his head
swimming. He had been tired and thirsty, and had drunk too much too quickly when he and Michael had started their round of
the taverns. He was well on the way to becoming intoxicated. Someone bumped into him, and a good part of the jug spilled down
the front of his tabard. The culprit regarded the mess in horror, and then released a chain of impressive oaths.

‘I am sorry,’ she mumbled eventually, seeing that Bartholomew was regarding her warily. ‘Nothing has gone right today, and
now I drown a scholar in his own ale. Allow me to buy you more – although I can ill afford it. Haywarde’s suicide will cost
me a pretty penny.’

‘I do not need any more ale,’ said Bartholomew, trying to make sense of her seemingly random statements. ‘Haywarde?’

‘My sister’s husband,’ explained the woman. ‘Damn the man for his selfishness!’

‘Selfishness for committing suicide?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the conversation’s peculiar twists and turns.
The ale slopping around inside him did not help.

The woman gave a tired grin. She was a large lady, who wore a set of skirts around her middle that contained enough material
to clothe half the town. Her face was sunburned and homely, and she possessed a set of large, evenly spaced beige teeth. She
was as tall as any of the men in the tavern, and a good deal wider than most, and Bartholomew supposed it was this that allowed
her to thrust her way into a domain usually frequented by males.

‘Forgive me. You are a stranger, and so cannot know what is happening in our town. My name is Agnes Fitzpayne, and my sister
had the misfortune to be married to that good-for-nothing lout Haywarde, may God rot his poxy soul! His death will cost me
a fortune.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, who did not.

‘It is not as if I even liked him,’ continued Agnes bitterly. ‘He was a bully, and my sister and their children are glad to
see him gone.’

‘I heard a man had killed himself yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, trying to clear his wits. ‘Leycestre said it was because it
is difficult for folk to feed their families these days. If that is why Haywarde died, then his suicide will not help them
either.’

‘If Haywarde committed suicide, then it was not for selfless reasons,’ said Agnes harshly. ‘He was far too fond of himself
to think of others. Leycestre wants to see everything in terms of the struggle between rich and poor. But then perhaps he
was thinking of Chaloner. He committed suicide, too.’

‘Chaloner? Who is he?’

‘He drowned five or six days ago.’

Bartholomew gazed at her. ‘So there have been
three
deaths in Ely over the past ten days? I thought it was just Glovere and this Haywarde.’

‘Then you thought wrong. The river has claimed three souls recently. But I cannot see Chaloner killing himself to benefit
others, either. He was no better than Haywarde in that respect.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair and wishing he had never started the discussion. ‘What had he done?’

‘He married where he should not have done,’ said Agnes mysteriously. ‘And he caused a sweet angel to die of a broken heart.’

‘Chaloner was the intended husband of Alice – about whom Glovere told lies?’ asked Bartholomew in sudden understanding.

Agnes regarded him in surprise. ‘I see you already know our local stories. Chaloner broke Alice’s heart by wedding another
woman, and it brought about her death. People would not have taken against Chaloner so, if he had been even a little remorseful.
But he was not. Like Haywarde, he will not be missed.’

‘Except by Chaloner’s wife,’ said Bartholomew.

‘She died in childbirth a few weeks ago,’ said Agnes with grim satisfaction. ‘It was God’s judgement on her for taking the
man promised to another.’

‘How did Chaloner die?’ asked Bartholomew, sipping the remains of his drink.

‘He was found floating face-down in the river, opposite the Monks’ Hythe. You can see it from here, if you look through the
window.’

‘And Haywarde?’

‘The same. But, as I said, his wife and children will be glad to be rid of
him
. He did no work, and drank away any pennies they earned. And he was violent to them.’

‘He sounds unpleasant,’ said Bartholomew absently, thinking that it had been a long day, and it was time he was in his bed.
He hoped Henry would not insist on a lengthy medical discourse before he went to sleep.

‘No one liked him,’ said Agnes fervently. ‘He was an animal!’

‘It seems that Ely is inhabited by quite a number of nasty people,’ remarked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Glovere was not much liked,
either.’

‘He was not. But we have decent people, too. There are a handful of folk we would be better without, but which town does not
have those? I am sure Cambridge has its share.’

‘It does,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘More than its share, if the truth be known.’

Agnes finished her ale and set the empty jug on the table, impressing Bartholomew with her ability to quaff the powerful brew
as if it were milk. ‘I must go. My sister expects me to pray with her for that vagabond’s soul tonight – and he needs all
the prayers he can get. Goodnight.’

Bartholomew watched her leave, then settled on the bench next to Michael. A cool breeze wafted through the window, and the
gentle sound of the river lapping on the banks was just audible above the comfortable rumble of voices in the tavern: normal
conversation had resumed because Leycestre had slipped into a drunken slumber and was no longer ranting. Bartholomew glanced
at Michael, and saw that his friend had abandoned his attempts to prise information from the good people of Ely, and was merely
enjoying his ale. He appeared relaxed and contented, and Bartholomew sincerely hoped the Bishop’s machinations would not bring
him to harm. He closed his eyes. But that would be tomorrow. And tomorrow was another day.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY WAS CLEAR AND BRIGHT, AND THE SUN
had burned away the odorous mist even before the office of prime started at six. Bartholomew stood in the nave, listening
to the chanting of the Benedictines in the chancel, closing his eyes to appreciate the singing as it washed and echoed along
the vaulted roof. The first rays of sunlight caught the bright glass in the windows, and made dappled patterns in red, yellow
and blue on the smooth cream paving stones of the floor.

While the monks completed their devotions in the privacy of the chancel, which was separated from the nave by an intricately
carved stone pulpitum, Bartholomew wandered through the rest of the church, admiring the soaring vaulting above the vast emptiness
of the nave, so high that he could barely make out details of the ribs in the dusty gloom above the clerestory. Although every
available scrap of wall space was covered in brilliantly hued paintings, and every niche boasted a statue of a saint or a
cleric, the flagstones were bare and, apart from a rather cheap-looking altar that stood at the east end of the nave, there
was not another piece of furniture in sight. Walking alone, with his footsteps echoing, Bartholomew began to feel oppressed
by the great emptiness. Of Lady Blanche and her retinue there was no sign, and Bartholomew assumed they were not in the habit
of rising early.

At the heart of the cathedral was the shrine to St Etheldreda. It was a box-shaped structure with a wooden coffin in the middle,
covered with a dazzling mass of precious stones, so that it glittered and gleamed with its own light. A number of pilgrims
lined up nearby, each ready to
present three pennies to a hulking lay-brother with hairy knuckles, who had evidently been selected for his ability to intimidate.
One barefoot, ragged woman was sobbing bitterly, and Bartholomew supposed she did not have the necessary funds to buy access
to the shrine. Bartholomew felt a surge of anger towards Almoner Robert for demanding payment for something that should have
been open to all.

At the west end of the nave were a pair of matching transepts, each decorated with intricate designs in a riot of colours,
and adorned with so many statues of saints and biblical figures that Bartholomew felt overwhelmed by the presence of the silent
host that gazed down at him with blank eyes. Everywhere he looked was another face. Some were familiar, and he saw that clever
masons had used monks in the priory as models for their creations. William was St Edmund, while Robert was an evil-looking
green man.

The south-west transept contained a font for baptisms, and a group of lay-brothers who had gathered there were taking advantage
of the monks’ period of prayer by chatting in low voices. The north-west transept, however, was another matter. A half-hearted
barrier in the form of a frayed rope suggested that people would be wise not to venture inside, although cracked flagstones
and pieces of smashed masonry provided a more obvious deterrent. Bartholomew walked towards it and gazed upwards, noting the
great cracks that zigzagged their way up the walls, and the peculiar lopsidedness of the wooden rafters above. A statue of
an animal that looked like a pig leaned precariously overhead, as if ready to precipitate itself downward at any moment, while
a couple of gargoyles seemed as though they would not be long in following. He recalled Alan saying that the building looked
worse than it was, and thought the architect might well be underestimating the problem: to Bartholomew, it looked ready for
collapse.

He was admiring the impressive carvings around the great door in the west front, when a crash preceded a string of people
traipsing in. Some were rubbing sleep from their
eyes, clearly having just dragged themselves from their beds, while others had hands that were stained dark with the peaty
blackness of the local soil, having already started their day’s labours. There were peasants wearing undyed homespun tunics,
with bare arms burned brown by the sun; and there were merchants, in clothes of many colours with their tight-fitting gipons,
flowing kirtles, and fashionable shoes.

Among them was a small, bustling character wearing the habit of a Dominican friar. He had black, greasy hair that was worn
too long, and eyes so close together that the physician wondered whether either could see anything other than his nose. The
priest spotted Bartholomew and strode purposefully towards him.

‘Are you visiting the city?’ he demanded without preamble. ‘Or are you a priory guest?’

‘The latter,’ replied Bartholomew, startled by the brusque enquiry.

‘Then you are the priory’s responsibility and none of mine,’ said the priest curtly. ‘You may attend my service, but you must
behave yourself in a fitting manner.’

‘Behave myself?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. Had the shabbiness of his academic tabard, which should have been black but
was more charcoal due to frequent washes, and the patches on his shirt made him appear more disreputable than he had imagined?
He decided to invest in a set of new clothes as soon as he had enough money to do so.

The priest sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, behave: no swearing, no fighting and no spitting.’

‘I shall do my best,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering what kind of congregations the priest usually entertained with his morning
masses.

‘I hope so,’ said the priest sternly. ‘My name is Father John Michel, and I am the chaplain of the parish of Holy Cross –
this parish. I am about to conduct mass, so take your place among my congregation, if you want to stay.’

‘Here?’ asked Bartholomew, as the priest struggled into an alb and made for the rough altar at the end of the nave.
‘You plan to conduct a mass here, in the nave of the cathedral, while the monks are still singing prime in the chancel?’

‘They are a nuisance with all their warbling,’ agreed John, evidently believing that Bartholomew’s sympathies lay with the
mass about to begin rather than the one already in progress. ‘Their strident voices tend to distract my parishioners from
their devotions. Still, we do our best to drown them out.’

‘Why not use St Mary’s Church, on the village green?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued by the curious arrangement the priest seemed
to have with the priory. ‘Then you and the monks would not disturb each other.’

John gave a hearty sigh, and glared at Bartholomew in a way that suggested the physician should keep quiet if he did not know
what he was talking about. ‘Because St Mary’s Church is in St Mary’s parish,’ he explained with painstaking slowness, as if
Bartholomew were lacking in wits. ‘I am the priest of Holy Cross parish, and the nave of this cathedral is Holy Cross Church.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I wondered why there was such a thick screen separating nave and chancel.’

‘You may have noticed that a new structure is being erected against the north wall of the cathedral,’ said John, gesturing
vaguely to a spot where a half-finished building could be seen through the stained-glass windows. ‘When that is completed,
it will be our parish church, and I shall be disturbed by the monks no longer. I wish the builders would hurry up, though:
I complained to the Archbishop of Canterbury about the situation years ago, and the monks have still not finished my new church.
It is the fault of that damned octagon.’

‘The cathedral’s new central tower?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How can that be responsible for your church being unfinished?’

The patronising tone crept back into John’s voice. ‘Because the monks took the builders away from my church to raise that
monstrosity instead. Then the Death came, and
many masons died. It was all most inconvenient.’

‘Especially for the masons. I am sure most of them would have preferred to work on your church than to die of the plague.’

‘They were a lazy crowd, anyway,’ said John, apparently unaware of the irony in Bartholomew’s voice. ‘They would go to any
lengths to avoid an honest day’s work. It would have been quicker for me to raise the damned thing myself. But I have a mass
to conduct. Stand there, next to that pillar, and stay well away from those three men near the altar.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, turning to glance at the people whom the priest indicated with a careless flick of his hand. As
far as he could tell, they were perfectly normal, and had no obvious infectious disease that might be passed from close contact.
Two were young men, who wore sullen expressions and exuded the impression that they thought the world owed them a good deal
more than they had been given; the third was Richard de Leycestre.

‘Just do as I tell you,’ said John irritably. ‘Stay by the pillar and keep quiet until I finish. However, in future I would
rather you attended mass with the monks. My parishioners do not take kindly to having the priory’s spies in their midst.’

‘Spies?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘I am not a spy. And anyway, what could there be to report to the monks – or anyone
else – about a mass held so close to them that they will be able to hear every word anyway?’

‘I am sure you do not require me to elaborate on that,’ replied John obscurely. ‘And now you must excuse me, before my parishioners
decide they have better things to do than watch me chattering to you.’

He bustled away, leaving the physician feeling like an unwelcome interloper. Bartholomew saw he was the subject of several
curious gazes, not all of them friendly. The three men he had been forbidden to speak to regarded him with unreadable expressions
before turning away to watch Father John.

Flinging a few tawdry receptacles carelessly on to the altar, John took a deep breath and began to bellow the words of
his mass at the top of his lungs. Immediately, the volume of the monks’ singing increased, so John yelled louder still. In
reply, the monks notched up the volume once again, so that it was difficult to concentrate on either. The air rang with noise,
frightening two pigeons that had been roosting among the rafters; the sounds of their agitated flapping, and the shrieks of
a woman as one flew too close to her, added to the general racket. The lay-brothers, who had been talking quietly in the transept
at the end of the nave, began to speak more loudly in order to make themselves heard, and John’s congregation, unable to understand
the priest’s abominable Latin, started to converse among themselves. Bartholomew watched open-mouthed from the base of his
pillar.

And so it continued, with John abandoning the usual format of the mass in favour of repeating those parts that would provide
him with the opportunity to shout. He crashed the chalice and patens so hard on the top of the altar that Bartholomew was
certain they would have broken had they been made from anything other than metal. That the sacred vessels made such satisfying
clangs reiterated the fact that the dispute between monks and parish was not a new one, and Bartholomew wondered whether John
had ordered iron vessels specially manufactured for the express purpose of allowing him to use them like gongs.

Eventually, the monks completed their devotions, and their unnecessarily loud footsteps could be heard leaving the chancel
and stamping towards the cloisters. Doors were slammed, wooden pews banged and bumped, and psalters and prayer books snapped
shut in one of the noisiest exits from a church Bartholomew had ever witnessed. He was surprised that Prior Alan, who had
not seemed to be a petty man, permitted such churlish behaviour among his monks.

John’s mass was completed as soon as the door to the vestries slammed for the final time and the last of the monks had left.
Bartholomew had expected that John would merely lower his voice and complete the service at a more
reasonable volume, thus instilling at least some degree of reverence into his restless, bored parishioners. But John merely
devoured the Host, gulped down some wine, and gathered his iron vessels together in anticipation of a speedy completion. He
raised his hand to sign a benediction over his assembled flock, although Bartholomew saw that the priest was more interested
in the doings of the lay-brothers who were lurking among the shadows of the north aisle than in blessing his people.

‘Did you enjoy our mass?’ came a soft voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. The physician turned to see Richard de Leycestre; the
two young men were at his side.

‘It was an interesting experience,’ replied Bartholomew guardedly. ‘I am used to masses conducted a little more quietly.’

Leycestre chuckled. ‘I imagine there are few who are not.’

‘I have been instructed not to speak to you,’ said Bartholomew, looking to where Father John’s determined advance on the chattering
lay-brothers had been brought to a halt: Agnes Fitzpayne, the prodigious drinker in the Mermaid the night before, had intercepted
him and had his arm gripped in one of her powerful hands. Thus occupied, John had not yet noticed that his earlier command
was being ignored, and that Bartholomew was conversing with Leycestre and his companions.

‘By Father John, I suppose,’ said Leycestre, shaking his head. ‘He is always trying to prevent us from speaking to the strangers
who pass through our city.’ He indicated the two young men with a wave of his hand. ‘These are my nephews, Adam Clymme and
Robert Buk. They are of the same mind as me as regards the pitiful circumstances our peasants have been forced into by greedy
landlords, but Father John dislikes us spreading the word.’

‘I imagine he is trying to protect you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are very vocal about your beliefs, and he probably does not
want you telling one of the King’s spies that Ely is a hotbed of insurrection.’

‘Unfortunately, it is not,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘I wish it were, because then we might be able to set about rectifying
the unjust situation that prevails here. But although everyone complains about high taxes and crippling tithes, no one is
prepared to do anything about them.’

‘And you are?’

Leycestre regarded him warily. ‘That is a blunt question. Perhaps Father John was right to try to prevent us from speaking
to you.’