A Summer of Discontent (5 page)

Bartholomew did not reply. He suspected he would be unable to convince the man that the spate of burglaries need not necessarily
be related to the arrival of the gypsies, and knew it was simpler to blame strangers in a small town than to seek a culprit
among long-term acquaintances.

‘And while these vagabonds strut openly along our streets, honest men like me are forced to labour like slaves in the Prior’s
fields,’ continued Leycestre bitterly.

‘Go back to work, Master Leycestre,’ said Michael, making another attempt to leave the malcontent behind. ‘And I advise you
again: take care whom you approach with your seditious thoughts, or your land might not be all you lose. The King is weary
of demands by labourers for more pay.’

‘And labourers are weary of making them,’ Bartholomew heard Cynric mutter as Leycestre finally abandoned his quarry and went
in search of more malleable minds. ‘And soon they will not bother to ask, when the answer is always no. So they will take
what they want, permission or not.’

‘You be careful, too, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew, looking around him uneasily. ‘This is a strange city for us, and we do
not know who might be a spy. I do not want to spend my time arranging your release from prison because you have voiced your
opinions to the wrong people.’

‘I am always careful,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘But you should heed your own advice, because you are not a man to ignore
the injustices we see around us either. I will keep my own counsel, but you must keep yours, too.’

He gave the physician a grin, which broke the mood of unease, and they rode on. Eventually, they reached the Heyrow, where
the largest and most magnificent of the merchants’ houses were located. It was a wide street, with timber-framed buildings
standing in a proud row along the north side and the stalwart wall of the cathedral-priory lining the south side. Two inns
stood on the Heyrow – the Lamb was a huge, but shabby, institution with a reputation for excellent ale, while the White Hart
was a fashionable establishment with two guest wings and a central hall.

Opposite the White Hart was the entrance to the priory called Steeple Gate, so named for the small spire on the half-finished
parish church that was little more than a lean-to against the north wall of the cathedral. The Gate was located near the almonry,
where food, and occasionally money, was distributed to the city’s poor. A cluster of beggars hovered there, jostling each
other to be first to
grab whatever the priory deigned to pass their way. Michael dismounted, pushed his way through them and hammered on the door.

Moments later, a pair of unfriendly eyes peered through the grille, and the door was pulled open with distinct reluctance.

‘Oh, it is you,’ said the dark-featured monk who stood on the other side. His face was soft and decadent, like an Italian
banker’s, while a sizeable bulge around his middle indicated that he should either do more exercise or eat less at the priory’s
refectory. ‘I thought it would not be long before
you
came to help the Bishop get out of the mess he has made for himself.’

‘I was summoned,’ said Michael haughtily, pushing open the door and easing his bulk through it. ‘And what are you doing answering
gates, Brother Robert? I thought almoners were far too important to perform such menial tasks.’

‘It is Sunday sext – one of the times when we distribute alms to the poor,’ replied Robert, unpleasantly churlish. ‘I can
hardly do that with the door closed, can I?’

‘This is Robert de Sutton, Matt,’ said Michael, turning to Bartholomew and indicating the monk with a contemptuous flick of
his hand. ‘He is a famous man in Ely, because he demands a fee of three pennies from anyone wanting to pray at St Etheldreda’s
shrine.’

Bartholomew gazed at Robert in disbelief. ‘You charge pilgrims to pray? But some of them have no money to give you. They are
poor folk, who make their way here on foot because they are desperate, and can think of no other way to improve their lot.’

‘Then they do not gain access to St Etheldreda,’ said Robert with finality. ‘Maintaining an edifice like that is expensive,
and pilgrims will wear it out with their kisses and their knees rubbing across its flagstones.’

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, giving Robert a withering glance. ‘We have no time to waste in idle chatter.’

‘Wait!’ ordered Robert. He nodded to Bartholomew and
the two servants. ‘Who are these people? We do not let just anyone inside, you know.’

‘They are with me, and that is all you need to know,’ said Michael importantly, turning to leave. Robert dared to lay several
plump fingers on the expensive fabric of Michael’s gown to detain him, which earned him an outraged glare.

‘The Bishop’s house was burgled a few nights ago,’ said Robert, withdrawing his hand hastily. ‘The Prior says that no strangers
are to be admitted to the monastery unless they are accompanied by one of us.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh at the almoner’s slow wits. ‘They
are
accompanied by one of us. Me.’ He started to walk away, but then turned again. ‘What is this about the Bishop being burgled?
What was stolen, and when did this occur?’

‘It was about ten days ago,’ replied the almoner, reluctantly yielding the information. ‘Nothing much was stolen. I expect
the thieves anticipated gold, but de Lisle is deeply in debt, as you know, and there is little in his house worth taking.’

Michael poked his head back through the gate and gazed at the handsome house on the Heyrow, where the Bishop resided when
he was in Ely. De Lisle could have stayed in the cathedral-priory, but the Bishop no more wanted a prior watching his every
move than the Prior wanted a bishop loose in his domain. De Lisle’s renting of the house on the Heyrow was an arrangement
that suited everyone.

‘He may be in debt, but he is not impoverished,’ said Michael defensively. ‘He still owns a considerable amount of property.’

‘Well, none of it was in his house when the burglars struck,’ argued Robert. ‘They took a silver plate and a ring, but nothing
else. The rumour is that the gypsies, who are here to help with the harvest, are responsible.’

Bartholomew wanted to point out that the travellers would have to be either very rash or very stupid to start stealing the
moment they arrived in the town, but he decided to hold his tongue, since he would soon be a guest
in Michael’s Mother House. Meanwhile, the monk thrust the reins of his horse at the bemused Cynric, then shoved past Robert
to the sacred grounds of the priory beyond.

As always, when he entered Ely Cathedral-Priory’s grounds, Bartholomew was astonished at the difference a wall could make.
On the city side, Ely was all colour and bustle. The houses were washed in pinks, greens and golds, and the gay clothes of
the merchants and their apprentices added brilliance to a scene already rich with life and vitality. People ran and shouted,
and horses and carts clattered. The streets possessed thick, soft carpets of manure and spilled straw, and the atmosphere
in the heat of midday was a pungent mixture of sewage, the sulphurous stench of the marshes and the sharper smell of unwashed
bodies and animal urine.

But the priory side of the wall was a world apart. Monks and lay-brothers were dressed in sober black or brown, and no one
hurried. Hands were tucked reverently inside wide sleeves, and heads were bowed as the monks spoke in low voices or were lost
in their meditations. Bartholomew knew the kitchens would be alive with noise and movement, as the cooks struggled to prepare
meals for more than a hundred hungry men, but in the carefully maintained grounds the scene was peaceful and contemplative.

In front of them, the cathedral rose in mighty splendour, with rank after rank of round-headed arches. Its smooth grey stones
formed a stark contrast to the riot of colour in the houses in the Heyrow, and although there was a faint scent of cooking
bread from the ovens, the predominant smell was that of newly mown grass.

‘I take it you do not like Brother Robert,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as he followed Michael towards the sumptuous
house the Prior occupied. Michael had decided to see Bartholomew introduced to the Prior and settled in the library before
beginning what promised to be a lengthy interview with de Lisle.

Michael grimaced. ‘As almoner, Robert thinks that
dispensing a few scraps of bread to the poor – that would have been destined for the pigs anyway – makes him more important
than the rest of us. And he has taken an irrational dislike to the Bishop.’

‘And why would that be?’ asked Bartholomew, unsurprised. While he did not actively dislike de Lisle, he certainly neither
trusted nor admired him. The Bishop was too grand and haughty, and far too vindictive a man for Bartholomew’s taste.

‘Probably because Robert is devious and petty,’ replied Michael dismissively. ‘And because he is jealous of anyone better
than him – which is most people, as it happens.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not think Robert’s dislike is anything to do with the fact that ten years ago Ely’s Prior
– Alan de Walsingham – was chosen by the monks here to be the Bishop of Ely? Alan was ousted in favour of de Lisle, because
de Lisle happened to be at the papal palace at Avignon at the time, and the Pope had taken a fancy to him. So Alan remained
a mere prior, while de Lisle was made Bishop.’

‘I hardly think it happened like that,’ objected Michael testily. ‘De Lisle was appointed by the Pope, because the Pope thought
he would make a better bishop than Alan. And he was right: de Lisle is an exceptional man.’

‘He is also a murderous one, if these rumours are to be believed. You should be careful, Brother: it could be dangerous to
ally yourself with de Lisle when he has been accused of committing unforgivable crimes.’

‘Those accusations are malicious lies, probably put about by the likes of that Robert,’ said Michael.

‘I hope you are right. Do you think it is significant that the Bishop was burgled, and then finds himself accused of murder?’

Michael stared at him. ‘Should I?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps de Lisle sent one of his spies to discover who had the audacity to steal from him, and then
dispensed his own justice to the culprit.’

Michael grimaced. ‘You are quite wrong.’ He frowned
uneasily. ‘At least, I hope so. There is always someone who would like to see a bishop fall from grace, and it is possible
that whoever burgled de Lisle’s house was looking for something that might do just that. Finding nothing, this accusation
of murder was fabricated instead.’

‘You do not have any evidence to jump to that sort of conclusion,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do not try to make this case into one
of your complex University plots, Brother. We are miles from Cambridge here.’

‘True,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘But clerics are just as good at creating webs of lies and intrigue as scholars, you know.’

Bartholomew caught the monk’s sleeve and pointed to a tall, silver-haired man who was hurrying towards them with a significant
retinue of servants at his heels. ‘Here comes de Lisle now. He looks agitated.’

‘Of course he is agitated,’ said Michael. ‘So would you be, if half the town believed you guilty of murder.’

Michael stepped forward as the Bishop approached, smiling a greeting. Bartholomew stood back, to allow Michael to speak to
de Lisle in private, although the great man’s retinue showed no such consideration. They pushed forward to surround him and
his agent, some elbowing others so that they might better see and hear what was happening. There were pages, clerks and retainers,
all dressed in the sober livery of the Bishop’s household. They changed each time Bartholomew saw them, and there was only
one face among the crowd that he recognised – that of de Lisle’s steward, Ralph. De Lisle was not an easy man to work for,
and it was to Ralph’s – and Michael’s – credit that they had survived in his service for so long.

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.