A Summer of Discontent (39 page)

Michael swore softly under his breath.

The cloisters ended in the beautiful carved door that
opened into the cathedral. It was silent inside the great building, with no monastic offices in progress, and the nave abandoned
by the parishioners of Holy Cross. Sunlight created patterns in the dust of the clerestory high above, and the blind eyes
of saints gazed at them from every direction, as if disturbed by the footsteps that echoed as Bartholomew and Michael walked.

In contrast to the rest of the cathedral, the area surrounding St Etheldreda’s shrine was a hive of activity. People clustered
around it, some kneeling, some standing, and prayers of all kinds were being spoken. Some pilgrims were awkward and self-conscious,
whispering their entreaties almost furtively, as if they imagined that the great saint would never bother to listen to them
and that their mere presence was presumptuous. Others had no such qualms, and their prayers were more akin to demands, often
delivered with ultimatums.

De Lisle’s were among the latter. He knelt on a velvet cushion at the shrine’s head, holding the jewelled ring that he promised
would be St Etheldreda’s if she would only free him from his predicament. Evidently, the deal was to be payment on delivery,
because the Bishop replaced it on his finger before leaving.

Also among the multicoloured throng that surrounded the tomb was Guido, holding his gold hat awkwardly in his hands. Next
to him Eulalia was kneeling on the floor with her hands pressed together in front of her and her large dark eyes fixed solemnly
on the saint’s wooden coffin. After a few moments, she rose and walked away, her brother at her side. When she saw Bartholomew
her eyes lit with pleasure.

‘I did not expect to see you today,’ she said, coming towards him with a smile. ‘I thought you would be busy investigating
the death of the almoner.’

‘We are,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But first, we wanted to see whether Robert’s untimely demise has
resulted in the lifting of the toll on the shrine.’

Eulalia nodded. ‘It happened at dawn this morning – Brother Henry petitioned Prior Alan to abolish the charge
at prime. Henry is a good man. I thought it would take weeks for something like this to come about, but he had it all arranged
in a trice. Three pennies was a lot for many people to pay, and it is good to come here as often as we like with no thought
for the cost.’

‘And we need St Etheldreda at the moment,’ added Guido pugnaciously. ‘People keep accusing us of these burglaries, so I told
her that she had better tell whoever is spreading these lies to stop. If she does not, then I will find out myself, and ensure
that the culprit never utters another lie again.’ His face was ugly with anger.

Eulalia sighed in exasperation. ‘If you put our request like that, it would serve us right if she does not answer.’ She turned
to Bartholomew. ‘There have now been at least ten burglaries in the city, and a lot of money has gone missing. I admit that
some members of our group occasionally take a chicken or catch a fish when times are hard, but we do not arrive in a town
and systematically burgle every house in it.’

‘It would be obvious it was us, if we did that,’ added Guido for Bartholomew’s benefit, just in case he had not understood.
‘And we are not stupid.’

‘You have not collected your black resin yet,’ said Eulalia, smiling shyly at Bartholomew. ‘It is waiting for you any time
you want it.’

‘I cannot come today,’ said Michael, as though the offer were being made to him. ‘I am busy. But perhaps we could manage tomorrow.
Keep a pot of stew bubbling over the fire, just in case. I will provide some wine, and we will drink a toast to the removal
of Robert and his nasty fees.’

‘You live dangerously, Brother,’ said Eulalia, laughing at the way the monk had inveigled himself an invitation. ‘I do not
think you should be seen celebrating the deaths of your fellows, no matter how much you disliked them.’

She walked away, the cloth of her skirt swinging around her fine ankles. Next to her, Guido looked like an ape, with his thick
arms and slightly stooped stance. Bartholomew wondered how their mother could have produced two such
different offspring, but supposed it was easy enough if there were different fathers. He was so engrossed in watching Eulalia
that Michael had to nudge him hard in the ribs to gain his attention.

‘I said look at Father John,’ whispered the monk crossly. ‘It seems that the lifting of the toll has resulted in all manner
of new supplicants.’

Bartholomew looked to where the monk was pointing. At the rear of the shrine, in a place where they probably imagined they
were invisible to the casual observer, John and Leycestre were involved in one of their low-voiced discussions. Bartholomew
looked around for Leycestre’s nephews, and, sure enough, spotted them near the door, almost as though they were keeping guard.
They were obviously unconcerned by the possibility that someone might enter from the priory side of the cathedral – or perhaps
it was only townsfolk in whom they were interested.

‘They are always muttering to each other,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘John claims he wants nothing to do with the rebellion-in-the-making,
but he seems to spend a lot of time in conversation with Leycestre, who seems able to talk about nothing else. I think John
is involved a good deal more deeply than he would have us believe – especially since Leycestre’s nephews seem to think these
chats warrant privacy. Also, John ordered me not to speak to Leycestre when I first met him. He thought I might be a spy for
the King.’

Michael agreed. ‘If you were, and if Leycestre told you exactly what he thinks of the local landowners, then Leycestre would
be deemed guilty of treason. He would name his accomplices and John would hang with him.’

Bartholomew turned away from the seditious plotting in the corner. ‘We have done what we came to do, Brother. You will miss
your meal if we wait here much longer.’

Michael started to follow him away, but footsteps striding resolutely down the nave caught his attention. As quick as lightning,
he darted behind a pillar, so that Bartholomew
suddenly found himself alone. Then he saw that the person who walked with such purpose was Tysilia, with Ralph scurrying
in her wake. The steward did not seem pleased by the task of escort, and his red face and harried expression indicated that
he was finding it a great deal of work.

‘I have three pennies,’ Tysilia announced happily, as she drew close enough to speak to Bartholomew. ‘I am going to pray to
the saint.’

‘You no longer need your pennies,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Robert is dead, and the levy was his idea.’

‘I shall buy a new dress, then,’ she said, apparently unaware that she would need a good deal more than three grubby coins
for that sort of item.

Next to her, Ralph sighed impatiently. ‘Hurry up, Tysilia. You said your prayers would only take a few moments, but we have
been out for more than an hour and we have not even reached the shrine yet.’

‘I like to walk around the town,’ said Tysilia, unperturbed by Ralph’s bad temper. ‘I might meet Brother Michael there. Where
is he, by the way?’ She began to look around eagerly, and Bartholomew saw a shadow easing further behind the stout pillar.

‘Ready for some food, I imagine,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously. ‘I told you he is never available at mealtimes.’

‘Yes, I suppose he would not like to miss his midday meal,’ said Tysilia thoughtfully. ‘He is a little fat, although it just
lends him more charm, do you not think, Ralph?’

‘Oh, yes. Very charming,’ growled Ralph irritably. ‘Now, pray at this damned shrine, and then let us go home. I promised the
Bishop I would have you back ages ago.’

‘I am going to ask St Earthdigger to give him to me,’ she said confidentially to Bartholomew, making no attempt to obey Ralph.

‘St Etheldreda,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And to give you who?’

‘Brother Michael, of course,’ said Tysilia. ‘I shall pray to the saint to let me have him. I am sure she will oblige. After
all, Michael is a monk, and so he is a holy man. The saint
will want to make a holy man happy.’

‘I do not think it works like that,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh. ‘And Michael is a Benedictine. That means women
are forbidden to him.’

‘I heard that,’ said Tysilia confidentially. ‘Ralph explained it to me. It all sounds very silly, and it will not apply to
me, anyway. I am not an ordinary woman. I am special. My uncle told me so, and he is a bishop, so he must be right.’

‘Come
on
,’ said Ralph, finally losing patience and taking her arm to drag her roughly towards the shrine. She continued to chatter
as he led her away, and Michael stepped out from his pillar with a sigh of relief. She was informing Ralph – and anyone else
who happened to be within a mile of her – that Blanche wore a wig, and that her front teeth were tied in place each morning
with two small pieces of twine.

‘That was close,’ said Michael, puffing out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Come on, Matt. We will have to walk around the back of
the building, to make sure she does not see us on our way out. It would be terrible to be accosted by her in a public place
like this, and I do not think Ralph is strong enough to keep her under control.’

They walked briskly to the back of the cathedral, where the rope had been stretched between two stools as a frail barrier
to prevent people from entering the north-west transept. Fresh rubble on the floor indicated that there had been another recent
fall. Bartholomew glanced up and saw that an angel he had observed a few days before was leaning at an even more precarious
angle, and that one or two gargoyles looked as though the merest breath would be sufficient to send them crashing to the ground
below. Even as they watched, a shower of plaster and a few larger flakes drifted downwards, like a sudden flurry of snow.

‘Come on, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, pulling the monk away. ‘It is not safe here.’

‘You are right!’ said Michael, casting a nervous glance back to St Etheldreda’s shrine.

* * *

Bartholomew wanted to talk to Henry, Symon, Welles, Julian and the old men, to see whether anyone could recall any small detail
about the death of Thomas that might allow them to trace the killer. However, Michael declined to do anything until he had
eaten, claiming that the near encounter with Tysilia had unsettled him, and that he needed food to calm his nerves. It was
still early, and the brethren milled around the refectory door, waiting for it to open. Looking critically at them, Bartholomew
decided that a missed meal would do many of them a lot of good: Benedictines were a contemplative Order, and sitting around
thinking about God did little for their waistlines. Because Ely was a wealthy cathedral-priory with a large number of servants
and lay-brothers, few of the brethren were obliged to work in the fields, except as penance, and the effects of lack of exercise
and a surfeit of rich food was very apparent.

Delicious smells emanated from behind the doors – freshly baked bread, roasted parsnips, fish (because it was Friday) and
the obligatory pea pottage. These rich aromas mingled pleasantly with the scents of summer, and mown grass, flowers and warm
earth reminded Bartholomew of the abbey school he had attended in Peterborough.

Henry was not among the men who thronged impatiently outside the refectory. The novices were there, however, and Julian, Welles
and Bukton stood chatting together nearby. Julian informed Bartholomew that the infirmarian was taking his meal with Roger,
because the old man had expressed a desire for company.

‘I do not suppose it crossed
your
mind to dine with him?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

Julian shook his head vehemently. ‘It did not! I prefer eating here, with men of my own age. I have no wish to feed with dribbling
ancients, who ask me to slice up their peas every few moments. But it occurred to Henry, and
he
offered my services to Roger. I was not pleased, I can tell you!’

‘I am sure you were not,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘So what are you doing here, if you are supposed to be with Roger?’

‘Roger said he would prefer Henry to me, actually,’ said Julian, looking away, uninterested by the discussion. ‘I cannot imagine
why. All Henry wants to talk about is medicine, and what a good thing it is to make people well again. Boring!’

‘Brother Henry is the best man in the priory,’ declared Welles hotly, fists clenching. ‘He is kind and sweet-tempered, and
you have no right to say unpleasant things about him!’

‘I agree,’ said Bukton, equally angry. ‘Henry cured me when I had marsh ague last year. He is like a father to us novices,
so just watch what you say about him.’

Sensibly, Julian said no more on the matter. Bartholomew suspected that if he had, he might well have been punched. In a priory
full of unkind men, the gentle Henry provided a much-needed haven and he was loved for it. Bartholomew glanced at Michael
and saw that he entirely concurred with the novices’ sentiments, and that he also owed a debt of gratitude to the man who
had befriended him in his youth.

‘I saw you two slipping into the infirmary after breakfast this morning,’ Michael remarked casually to Julian and Welles.

‘So?’ demanded Julian insolently. ‘We work in the infirmary – unfortunately. We are supposed to be there.’

‘They dallied in the refectory after breakfast,’ said Bukton helpfully. ‘In the end, Prior Alan made them go to work.’

Julian shot him an unpleasant look for his tale-telling, then turned to Michael. ‘I did not kill Thomas, if that is what you
are thinking. I did not even go into the chamber where he was resting. I went straight to the workshop and started my chores.’

Bartholomew glanced at the faces of Julian’s fellow novices and saw a gamut of emotions there. Some seemed impressed that
Julian should be under suspicion for removing a much-detested member of the community;
others appeared to be uneasy at the thought that Julian might commit such a crime.