A Summer of Discontent (51 page)

Bartholomew went to find Michael, to tell him about Leycestre’s offer to Guido, but the monk had gone in search of the elusive
Symon, determined to interrogate him about his backache. Bartholomew scoured the priory for them with no success, then wandered
through the town again. Finally, hot and tired, he retired to the cathedral, intending to sit alone for a while in its cool,
stone interior.

As soon as he had entered the great building, he realised he should have sought sanctuary in it sooner. It was calm and silent,
and a far cry from the hectic bustle of the town and the atmosphere of unease and distrust that pervaded the priory. Father
John was conducting a short mass at his altar, but because there were no monks with whom to compete, he did little more than
whisper his prayers. Bartholomew found a pillar at the rear of the church, and sat with his back to it, relishing the chill
from the stone that seeped through his clothes.

John finished his mass, and Bartholomew was surprised to see Leycestre emerge from the shadows of the aisle and approach the
priest. Agnes Fitzpayne was there, too, and Bartholomew grew more certain that his suppositions had been right and that the
‘burglary’ of her house had been fictitious, expressly designed to deflect suspicion from Leycestre and his nephews. The trio
spoke in low, urgent voices for a few moments, before leaving to go their separate ways. Bartholomew had the feeling that
Leycestre was spending most of his time organising his rebellion, because he certainly had not been in the fields much that
day, nor the previous one.

John stumbled over Bartholomew’s legs when he hurried past, then cast a furtive glance up the nave, presumably to assess whether
Bartholomew could have observed his meeting with Leycestre.

‘What are you doing here?’ the priest demanded, staring down at the physician who sat comfortably at the base of his column.
‘It is not nice to lurk in dark corners and startle honest men.’

‘Not so honest,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw you with Leycestre and Agnes Fitzpayne, plotting how you will overthrow the landlords.
You told me you would wait to see which side won before pinning your colours to a mast, but you seem to be very close to Leycestre.’

John glanced around him in alarm. ‘I am advising him to caution, not encouraging him to engage in treasonous acts.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who knew perfectly well that John had been agreeing with Leycestre, not remonstrating with
him. ‘But you should be careful, Father. I do not think this rebellion will succeed, no matter how many houses Leycestre has
robbed to ensure its success.’

John clapped his hands across his face, and Bartholomew knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all his reasoning had been
correct. The priest gave a groan, and when he looked at Bartholomew again, his expression was haggard.

‘I do not want to be mixed up in this, but how can I stop? All my parishioners are poor, and the landowners have made their
lives even harder since the Death. Leycestre is right in that the wealthy will never listen to the peasants, and he is right
when he says something must be done. But I am no rebel, and violence is abhorrent to me. What shall I do?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, who could see the priest’s quandary and was glad he had not been placed in such a position
himself. ‘But you should beware of involving yourself with men who break the law. It is one thing to be executed for treason
over a cause you believe is just, and another altogether to be hanged for a common crime like theft.’

‘I told Leycestre there were other ways,’ said John miserably. ‘I told him that King Edward would hear the voice of his people,
and that we should allow more time to pass
before he took such desperate action. He would not listen.’

‘Fanatics rarely do.’

‘What will you do with this knowledge?’ asked John nervously. ‘Will you tell the Bishop and Prior Alan? Or will you give me
until sunset to leave with my few belongings? I know what they do to traitors, and I do not want to be an example for other
would-be rebels. You would not wish the execution of a priest on your conscience, would you?’

‘I think you will find that de Lisle and Alan already have some inkling of Leycestre’s plans, although I doubt they also know
about the burglaries. You must do what you think is right, but I will not tell the priory or the Bishop of your involvement,
if that is what you want.’

‘And what do you demand for your silence?’ asked John tiredly. ‘I have no money – anything I have goes to feed the poor these
days. I could say a mass for you at St Etheldreda’s tomb before I leave.’

‘I would like some information,’ said Bartholomew, gazing up at the priest. ‘Does Leycestre intend to break into the priory
tonight?’

John nodded unhappily. ‘And now I am a traitor to both sides! If Leycestre ever learns I told you this, he will kill me.’

‘Is he the kind of man who kills, then?’ asked Bartholomew, very interested in this revelation. ‘Is Leycestre the murderer
who has been taking the lives of his fellow citizens?’

‘I do not know,’ said John in a whisper. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘Really, I do not! The possibility has crossed my
mind, because he is so determined that his rebellion will be a success, and the men who have died are folk who were not interested
in joining him.’

‘Chaloner, Glovere and Haywarde were against the rebellion?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘They just did not care one way or the other. And because of their apathy, I thought Leycestre might have decided they were
better out of the way. But then monks died, and now I am not so sure.’ He saw Bartholomew look sceptical, and
he raised his hands in earnest entreaty. ‘Please, believe me! I really do not know the identity of this killer.’

Bartholomew decided the priest was probably telling the truth, and supposed that Leycestre and his cronies did not confide
in him because he was nervous and the kind of person to fall at the first hurdle – which was exactly what he had done. He
charged John to say nothing to Leycestre about the fact that his plan to raid the priory had been anticipated. The priest
nodded acquiescence, then informed Bartholomew that he was planning to leave Ely anyway, and that he would do better in another
city.

‘But you have been here for years,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that the priest had made plans to abandon the people he professed
to love, even before he knew his part in Leycestre’s rebellion had been discovered.

‘It is time for a change,’ said John quietly. ‘I shall be on the road by this evening and will not return.’ He said farewell
and then was gone, hurrying through the shadows towards the door, which he fled through without bothering to close it behind
him. The sound of children playing nearby drifted in, along with the agitated bark of a dog, which was probably part of their
game and wished it were not. Bartholomew stared at the gate for a long time before he uncoiled himself from the foot of his
column and stood up.

Bartholomew walked slowly around the cathedral, thinking about what he had learned, and wondering when the legacy of the Death
would loosen its grip on his country. The life of a peasant had not been easy before the plague, and there had been a shortage
of land that had meant bread was expensive. But it was ten times harder after the Great Pestilence had swept through England,
and now it seemed as though it would precipitate a rebellion that would plunge huge tracts of the country into a state of
anarchy. Men like John saw that the cause was just, and were torn between siding with the people for whom they cared and staying
on the right side of the law, while men like Leycestre were
preparing for a war without considering the fact that their actions could make matters worse.

The sun was beginning to dip red in the afternoon sky when Bartholomew realised that he had been walking in circles for at
least an hour, round and round inside the cathedral. He was at the rear again, near the pillar where he had met John, when
he decided he had better stop and do something more productive than analysing his country’s economic problems.

He glanced to one side, and saw that the transept was still in its chaotic state of disrepair, with the rope hanging between
two stools to warn people to stay out. It seemed to Bartholomew that the ground was more littered with smashed flagstones
and broken masonry than ever, and he noted that the angel, which had clung precariously to the beam high on the roof above,
was now a pile of painted rubble on the floor. Only the angel’s eyes were identifiable, gazing sightlessly upward as though
admonishing the builders for giving her a niche that was not sound. The scaffolding that clung to the wall looked more unstable
than the building it was supposed to support, and Bartholomew was surprised that the whole lot had not already crashed to
the ground.

He was about to leave through the west door, when he saw two familiar figures walking slowly towards him. Tysilia and de Lisle
were strolling arm in arm through the cathedral that was the centre of his See. Bartholomew had seldom seen a greater look
of contentment on the haughty features of the Bishop, although Tysilia seemed bored with her father’s company. Ralph was behind
them, dogging their footsteps like a faithful, if reluctant, hound. Quickly Bartholomew moved behind one of the thick Norman
columns. He did not want to meet Tysilia and have another conversation that revolved around Brother Michael’s physical virtues
in front of the Bishop. He listened carefully to their approaching footsteps, ready to edge further around the column if they
came towards him.

‘What is this?’ he heard Tysilia ask, as she passed the ruinous transept.

‘A broken angel,’ came de Lisle’s voice, tenderly patient. ‘She must have fallen from the roof. This entire section is not
as strong as the rest of the cathedral. One day it will tumble to the ground.’

Tysilia clapped her hands in childlike delight. ‘Can I come to see it? I have never seen a church fall down.’

‘I imagine few people have,’ said de Lisle, reaching out to touch her hair in a rare sign of paternal affection. ‘But I hope
it will not happen for a while, because then the monks will insist on rebuilding it immediately, and they should finish the
parish church of Holy Cross first.’

‘But it will be much more fun to build a big church than a little one,’ said Tysilia. ‘I like large things. Like Brother Michael.’

‘Michael?’ asked de Lisle, somewhat startled. ‘Do you mean my agent?’

‘I do not know what he does in his spare time,’ said Tysilia warmly. ‘But he is a charming man and he has a fine physique.’

‘Are we talking about the same fellow?’ asked de Lisle, his voice wary. ‘You mean Brother Michael from Michaelhouse in Cambridge?’

‘That is the one,’ said Tysilia dreamily. ‘He is a perfect specimen.’

‘I have always considered him rather fat, personally,’ said de Lisle. ‘But he has served me well in the past, although he
is not doing a very good job as regards these murders.’

‘Poor William,’ said Tysilia. ‘He was my brother, you know?’

Bartholomew saw de Lisle stare at her. ‘He was not,’ he said eventually. ‘And I can assure you that I have a very good reason
to know.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Tysilia merrily. ‘He said we were brother and sister because we both have black hair and dark
eyes. It is a family resplendence, he said.’

‘Resemblance,’ said de Lisle fondly. ‘But William did not have black hair – he had that puffy grey stuff that looked like
a big piece of fungus, and eyes that were more pale than dark.’

‘That is what I told him,’ said Tysilia. ‘But he told me that hair and eyes change colour when a person ages.’

‘He was lying,’ said de Lisle. ‘But you and I both have dark eyes.’

‘
You
cannot be my brother,’ said Tysilia, pushing him playfully. ‘You are far too old. In fact, you are so old that I would not
even consider you as a bedfellow, and I do not usually mind a little maternity.’

‘Maturity,’ corrected de Lisle. ‘They are not words you should muddle, my dearest one.’

He broke away from Tysilia when one of his clerks hurried towards him, holding some piece of parchment that had to be signed.
De Lisle was not the kind of man who signed documents without reading them first, and Tysilia grew restless with the enforced
wait. While the clerk and Ralph chatted, and de Lisle read his parchment, she wandered away to look at the damaged transept.
Before anyone noticed what she was doing, she had stepped across the rope barrier and was poking around among the smashed
statues on the floor.

With a sigh of annoyance, Bartholomew abandoned his hiding place and walked towards her. Much as he found her dim wits irritating,
he could not stand by and see her in danger. He called her name, ordering her to leave the transept and move towards him.
At the sound of his voice, de Lisle turned in alarm.

‘Tysilia!’ he cried, dropping his parchment and racing towards her. ‘The physician is right. Come out of there at once!’

Tysilia half turned. ‘But there are interesting things here,’ she objected, stooping to lift a piece of painted wood to show
them. ‘Pretty things.’

‘Come out!’ de Lisle shouted. ‘At once. That rope is to
stop people from entering that area, and you are not supposed to step over it.’

With a petulant pout, Tysilia started to slouch towards him. Then there was a rumble, a sharp crack and suddenly the whole
of the north-west transept was full of falling stone and rising dust.

‘Tysilia!’ howled de Lisle, trying to run towards her but forced back by the veil of falling masonry and wood. Ralph darted
forward to seize his Bishop’s arm and prevent him from doing anything rash, but de Lisle was not a stupid man. He could see
there was little point in dashing among the large clumps of debris that crashed in front of him.

After a few moments, the roar of falling rubble ceased and the cathedral was silent. De Lisle gave another wail, and tugged
away from Ralph to rush towards his daughter. Bartholomew glanced up, afraid that he would be hit, too, but there was little
more left to fall. He realised they had just witnessed the largest collapse so far, although most of the debris seemed to
stem from the unstable scaffolding rather than the building itself. However, gaping holes had appeared in the roof, so that
the golden sunlight of late afternoon caught the swirling dust and made patterns with it. Of Tysilia there was no sign.