A Summer of Discontent (6 page)

Bartholomew edged away with the others, having no
desire to hear any secrets de Lisle might want to divulge to Michael. He was surprised, and not terribly pleased, to feel
Michael’s restraining hand on his sleeve. He fought against it, but the monk’s grip intensified, and Bartholomew saw he would
have to stay unless he wanted to tear his shirt. De Lisle hesitated before beginning his story, glancing uneasily at the physician.

‘Do not worry about Matt,’ said Michael. ‘He is as good a man as you will ever hope to meet, and has been my right hand in
many a nasty case.’

‘Oh, no!’ muttered Bartholomew in dismay. ‘I came here to read, not to become embroiled in one of your investigations.’

‘Of course, none of these stories about me are true,’ said de Lisle, ignoring him. ‘They are lies, put about by my enemies
to discredit me.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘What stories are being told and by whom?’

‘Do you know Lady Blanche de Wake?’ asked de Lisle. ‘She is the widow of the Earl of Lancaster and a close relative of the
King. Her estates border mine, and she is constantly trying to steal a field here and a sheep there.’

‘Typical of the Lancasters,’ announced Michael. ‘They are a greedy, grasping brood. But how does she relate to this charge
of murder?’

‘She has accused me of burning her tenants’ houses,’ said de Lisle indignantly. ‘At Colne.’

‘And did you?’ asked Michael casually.

Bartholomew glanced uncertainly at his friend, anticipating that de Lisle would not take kindly to such blunt questioning.
But the Bishop apparently realised that he needed Michael’s good graces, and he bit back what had doubtless been a crisp response.

‘Yes and no,’ he said, exchanging a guilty glance with his steward. ‘Ralph and I had a slight misunderstanding one evening.
He took something I said literally, when I was speaking figuratively.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael flatly. ‘One of
those
misunderstandings.’

‘But she has no evidence to prove I did it, and Ralph was very careful,’ de Lisle continued. ‘The case came to the courts,
and the King ordered me to pay a fine of ninety shillings. He listened with great care to his kinswoman, but refused to hear
my side of the story at all.’

‘He would,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘He is well known for showing partiality to his favourites. Did you pay the money?’

‘I did, even though I can scarce afford such a monstrous fine, but worse was to come. About ten days ago, Lady Blanche’s steward
died here, in Ely, and she has accused
me
of killing him!’

Michael gazed at his Bishop, and Bartholomew held his breath, half expecting the monk to demand to know whether de Lisle had
added murder to the crime of arson. But Michael merely regarded the prelate with sombre green eyes, rubbing the bristles on
his chin as he did so.

‘And the Bishop had nothing to do with the death, before you ask,’ put in Ralph nastily, apparently believing that Michael
hesitated only because he was searching for the right words to phrase the question. ‘In fact, there is no evidence that Glovere
met his end by violence at all. It is obvious to me that he was in his cups and he fell in the river.’

‘He drowned, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Did anyone see him drunk or walking near the water?’

‘That is what I want you to find out,’ said de Lisle. ‘And then, at dawn yesterday, another man was found dead, floating near
the hythes in the same river.’

‘Haywarde,’ muttered Bartholomew, recalling what the malcontent Leycestre had told them. ‘A suicide.’

‘Quite. But it is only a matter of time before that vile-minded rabble in the city claim that my Bishop killed him, too,’
said Ralph indignantly. ‘That is why he sent word for you to come
yesterday
.’ His stress indicated that he strongly disapproved of Michael’s tardiness.

‘Your task is to exonerate me from these malicious and wholly untrue charges,’ said de Lisle to Michael. ‘You must begin immediately;
there is not a moment to lose.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But is there anything else I should know about this case? Have you and Blanche’s steward argued
in public at any time? Did any of your household issue threats against the man?’

‘Glovere was a vile specimen of humanity,’ said de Lisle with distaste. ‘I have never known such a misery. All he did was
complain; he was even unpopular among Blanche’s retinue.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Ralph. ‘He was hated intensely by anyone who knew him. Blanche loathed him, too, and she is only showing
concern for him because he is dead.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘But neither of you has answered my question. Was Glovere the subject of threats from the Bishop’s
household?’

‘I doubt we were any more hostile to him than the unfortunates in Blanche’s employ who were obliged to work closely with the
fellow,’ said de Lisle ambiguously.

‘So, you did threaten him,’ surmised Michael thoughtfully. ‘That could prove awkward. What did you say, exactly?’

De Lisle gave a sigh. ‘It all happened two weeks ago – four days before his death. I happened to meet Blanche, here in the
priory – she stays here when she visits her Ely estates, because it is more comfortable than the shabby manor house Glovere
maintained for her. Naturally, I told her that I was disappointed with the King’s verdict over the burning of her tenants’
houses, and we started to argue.’

‘Glovere took part in the disagreement, even though it was none of his affair,’ elaborated Ralph. ‘He became abusive, and
claimed that my Lord Bishop was the kind of man to father children and then abandon the mothers.’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. He kept his voice neutral, as though he did not know for a fact that the Bishop had indeed
fathered children, and that Michael and Bartholomew had encountered one of them fairly recently.

‘I wonder what gave him that impression.’

‘The monks were appalled, both by the foulness of Glovere’s language and by his unfounded accusations,’ continued Ralph hotly,
outraged on de Lisle’s behalf. ‘The only way my Bishop could shut him up was to threaten him with dire consequences if he
did not.’

‘So, the entire priory heard you promising him harm,’ mused Michael, regarding the prelate gloomily. ‘This is not looking
good at all.’

‘Even the most dim-witted Benedictine must have seen that the threat was made purely to silence him,’ said de Lisle testily.
‘No sane person could imagine it was issued in earnest.’

‘It is not the dim-witted and the sane I am worried about,’ said Michael. ‘It is the sharp-witted and the
in
sane, who may well use this nasty little incident against you. Not all the monks here like you, and one may well have capitalised
on the enmity between you and Blanche to have you accused of this crime.’

‘If it
is
a crime,’ suggested Bartholomew tentatively. ‘Ralph said that Glovere had simply fallen in the river. If that is true, then
any threats to kill him are irrelevant.’

‘True,’ agreed de Lisle approvingly. ‘If Michael can prove that the man died in his cups, then there is no way Blanche or
anyone else can substantiate this charge of murder.’

‘What about the man who died yesterday?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you quarrel with him, too?’

‘I had never heard of him before he was carried dripping to St Mary’s Church,’ said de Lisle. ‘I do not even recall his name.
I have no idea what is happening here, but I do not like it at all.’

‘Will Haywarde,’ said Ralph. ‘He was a suicide, but you know how people let their imaginations run away with them. Mark my
words, it will not be long before one of these silly monks puts two with two to get six.’

‘What about the theft from your house ten days ago?’ asked Michael of de Lisle. ‘Do you have any idea what happened there?’

De Lisle did not seem particularly interested. ‘The rumour is that the gypsies did that – the burglaries started in the city
the day after they arrived, you see.’

‘If everyone is so convinced of their guilt, then why are they tolerated here?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Why are they
not driven away?’

‘Because we need them for the harvest,’ explained de Lisle. ‘They undertake the heaviest and least popular work, and it is
in no one’s interests to send them away now. People will just have to lock their windows and doors, and be a little more careful
until they have gone.’

‘What was stolen from you, exactly?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were any documents missing?’

De Lisle smiled wanly at him. ‘I know what you are thinking: the burglary was political, rather than a case of random theft.
But, fortunately for me, you are wrong. I had a number of sensitive documents on my desk, but these were ignored. I lost a
silver plate and a ring – things that an opportunistic burglar would snatch because they are saleable and easy to carry.’

Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered the information.

‘You will prove me innocent of any involvement in these unfortunate deaths,’ instructed de Lisle when the monk did not reply.
‘And do it quickly. I cannot leave Ely until this is settled and I have business elsewhere that needs attending.’

Michael nodded. ‘Very well. I—’ But he was speaking to thin air. The Bishop had swung around and was stalking across the courtyard
towards the cathedral, with his sycophants strewn out behind him as they hurried to catch up.

‘And this is the man to whom you have tied your ambitions?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He does not seem to be the kind
of person who would remember favours done. In fact, I imagine he would expect loyalty, but then slit your throat when you
have outlived your usefulness to him.’

‘You have not seen him in his best light,’ said Michael
defensively. ‘He is a good man at heart. He was one of few bishops in the country who visited the sick during the Death,
and he does pen a remarkable sermon.’

‘It occurs to me that he might be qualified to give one on his personal experience of murder,’ said Bartholomew nervously.
‘I hope you know that he may not be innocent of this crime, Brother. He denies it, but so do most killers, and I do not see
him offering any good reasons as to why he could
not
have killed this Glovere.’

‘That is what I must find out,’ said Michael, turning to steer Bartholomew towards the Prior’s house. ‘I do not imagine it
will take me long. I shall inspect the corpses of these drowned men this afternoon, assuming they are still above ground,
and will lay the matter to rest once and for all.’

‘I suppose you want me to go with you,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘To see what clues might be found on the bodies.’

‘No,’ said Michael, opening the door that led to the Prior’s private garden and pushing his friend inside. ‘I want to introduce
you to Prior Alan, and then I want you to spend your few days here reading about fevers. That is why you came, after all.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment. ‘You do not need the help of a medical man?’

Michael shook his head. ‘I have watched you often enough to manage perfectly well alone.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I am coming with you.’

The monk gave a humourless smile. ‘Thank you, Matt. I only wish you were as forthcoming in
all
the murders I am obliged to investigate. But this is a simple matter, and I do not need you.’

‘You do not want me involved,’ said Bartholomew, trying to read what the monk was thinking. ‘You are as suspicious of de Lisle’s
protestations of innocence as I am, and you think you will protect me by not allowing me to help.’

‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘You travelled
to Ely to indulge yourself in your unhealthy fascination with diseases, not to traipse around the city’s inns to learn how
much these dead men had to drink before they stumbled into the river. You do your work and I shall do mine.’

‘I
am
coming with you,’ repeated Bartholomew, this time with determination. ‘You might need a good friend.’

Michael’s smile became gentle. ‘You were right the first time, Matt; I do not want you involved in this. It may lead to places
you would not like, and it is better that I investigate alone.’

‘It is better that you investigate with me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I am not afraid of de Lisle. The worst that could happen
is that I lose his favour and he tries to make my life uncomfortable at Michaelhouse.’

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘Discrediting you is not the worst he could do at all.’

T
HE
P
RIOR OF THE
B
ENEDICTINE MONASTERY AT
E
LY WAS
an important man, and his living quarters reflected that fact. Set aside for his personal use was a handsome house with its
own chapel and kitchen, while at right angles to it was the Prior’s Great Hall, a sumptuous building with a lofty-ceilinged
room that was almost as large as the one that served the entire community. The house itself was roofed with baked red tiles
imported from the north country, and its plaster walls were neat and clean. Real glass in the windows allowed the light to
filter into the rooms where the great man worked, slept and ate, although these were thrown open so that a cooling breeze
whispered through the documents on the tables and billowed among the gorgeous hangings on the walls.

Originally, Ely had been an abbey, with an abbot to rule and a prior as his second-in-command. But when the post of Bishop
of Ely had been created by Henry I, the position of abbot had been abolished – an abbot and a bishop in the same diocese would
have been impractical. The Bishop then ran the diocese, while the Prior controlled the monastery. Without an abbot, Ely became
a ‘cathedral-priory’, with the all-important ‘cathedral’ denoting the fact that although the foundation boasted no abbot,
it was a cut above the average priory.

Prior Alan de Walsingham was sitting in his solar, a light and airy room that afforded a pleasant view over his private gardens.
The sweet scent of ripening apples and newly mown grass drifted through the windows, along with the sounds of the priory –
the chanting of a psalm in the chapter house, the distant voices of lay-brothers hoeing the vineyards, the
clatter of pots from the kitchens and the coos of birds roosting in the dovecote.

Bartholomew had seen Alan officiating at masses when he had visited Ely on previous occasions, but he had never met him in
person. From afar, Alan had given an impression of frailty, and his voice had barely been audible in the massive vaults of
the cathedral. But as he glanced up from his work, Bartholomew could see that Alan was not frail at all. He was a slight man
in his mid-fifties with a head of thick, grey hair and the kind of wiry strength that came from clambering over scaffolding
and supervising the building work for which he was famous. He was generally regarded as one of the most talented architects
in the country, and had personally overseen the raising of the cathedral’s new tower and the splendid Lady Chapel. It was
not easy keeping a band of masons and their apprentices in order, and that Alan had done so over a period spanning more than
thirty years said a good deal about the strength of his character, as well as his body.

‘Ah, Michael,’ said Alan, presenting his ring for Michael to kiss. ‘I imagine you are here because Thomas de Lisle has landed
himself in trouble again?’

‘He says Lady Blanche de Wake is responsible for these accusations,’ replied Michael, making another perfunctory obeisance.
He was never keen on acts of subservience, even to the Prior of his own monastery. ‘He assures me that he is innocent, and
has ordered me to prove it.’

Alan regarded Michael worriedly. ‘I sincerely hope you did not accept such a commission. You have a reputation for tenacity,
and if you explore this matter too closely, you will almost certainly discover that de Lisle did have a hand in this steward’s
death.’

‘
You
believe the Bishop is guilty of murder?’ blurted Bartholomew, alarmed that even the Prior should consider the accusations
a matter of fact. Michael dug him in the ribs with an elbow, but it was too late. The Prior had already fixed Bartholomew
with keen blue eyes.

‘I know harsh words were exchanged between Glovere and de Lisle, and I know that de Lisle is not a man to allow such insults
to pass unpunished. If de Lisle decided that the world would be a better place without Glovere in it, then it is not inconceivable
that Glovere’s days would have been numbered.’ Alan’s expression was sombre.

‘But he is a bishop,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s warning prods and persisting in trying to learn why everyone was
so willing to believe de Lisle capable of the most violent of crimes. ‘I do not think that bishops merrily indulge themselves
in murdering people they do not like.’

‘No,’ agreed Alan. ‘They pay someone else to do it for them. But you seem to believe these accusations are unjust – which
is encouraging. I do not like de Lisle personally, but no monk wants to see a man of the Church in this kind of trouble, because
it reflects badly on the rest of us. I should be delighted to see him exonerated. Do you have information that might help?’

Bartholomew shook his head uncomfortably. ‘Forgive me, Father Prior. I should not have spoken. I was merely surprised that
even you believe a high-ranking churchman could be capable of murder.’

Alan’s smile was gentle. ‘You must forgive my manners, too. Michael told me to expect you this week: you are Doctor Bartholomew
from Michaelhouse, who is writing a treatise on fevers.’

‘A treatise that will shake Christendom to its very foundations,’ said Michael dryly. ‘A more fascinating and thought-provoking
work you could not hope to match – and I should know, because I have been treated to lengthy extracts from it over the last
three years. The details regarding different types of phlegm defy description.’

‘Really?’ said Alan warily. ‘I hope there are no sacrilegious sections in this work. Medical men are occasionally driven to
present their views on matters best left to monastics, and I do not want my priory associated with wild and heretical theories.’

Michael grinned. ‘There is a physician in Salerno who claims that God’s removal of Adam’s rib to make Eve would be a fatal
operation and therefore impossible.’

Alan was visibly shocked. ‘Lord help us!’ he exclaimed, crossing himself. He gazed at Bartholomew. ‘If you want to write that
sort of seditious nonsense, please do not do it here. This is a holy place, where every thought and deed is dedicated to God.’

‘Even murder?’ muttered Bartholomew.

Alan did not hear him. ‘I am lucky in my own physician. Brother Henry de Wykes is a god-fearing and sensible fellow, who would
never offend our holy Church.
He
harbours no irreverent notions.’

The priory’s physician sounded dull and tedious, and Bartholomew was surprised when Michael smiled fondly. ‘Henry was kind
to me when I was a novice. You will like him, Matt.’

‘Michael tells me that you wish to read books in Ely that are unavailable in Cambridge,’ said Alan to Bartholomew. ‘However,
I should warn you that while you are here you will almost certainly hear de Lisle criticised by my monks. He is not popular
in the priory.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. He immediately wished he had not spoken, suspecting that a good part of their antipathy was
due to the fact that the Pope had appointed de Lisle as Bishop of Ely when the monks themselves had elected Alan.

Alan looked modest. ‘No particular reason,’ he said, ‘although his personality does not help. He is arrogant and condescending,
and that kind of attitude does not win friends. He is no better and no worse than most bishops I know, although I wish one
of my monks had not taken it upon himself to throw in his lot quite so fully with such a man.’

He turned his piercing gaze on Michael, who shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘I have been in de Lisle’s service for five years,
and during that time I have done nothing more
than keep the University in order on his behalf,’ said Michael defensively. ‘It is important that
someone
is working for the Church there.’

‘I agree,’ said Alan softly. ‘And you have done well. But now de Lisle has asked you to exonerate him from a charge of murder:
that has nothing to do with the Church or your beloved University. I will not prevent you from acting as his agent, Michael
– although as your Prior, I could – but I do not want my monastery associated with any fall from grace de Lisle might take.’

‘De Lisle will not fall—’ began Michael.

Alan raised a hand that was calloused and scarred from years of working with stone. ‘I know you hope your fortunes will rise
by aligning yourself with de Lisle, and your success may well reflect favourably on our Order. But the Bishop might equally
prove to be a dangerous ally. Be vigilant, and do not allow him to drag you down with him, should you fail to prove him innocent.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael stiffly.

‘It is a pity you responded to his summons in the first place,’ Alan went on with a sigh. ‘It would have been better if you
had avoided the issue altogether, and remained safely in Cambridge.’

‘But I did not know what he wanted,’ objected Michael. ‘All I received were two messages, each instructing me to come immediately.’

Alan did not seem impressed. ‘Really, Michael! I expected more guile from you! You should have guessed that there was something
amiss when de Lisle carefully omitted to mention the reason for these abrupt summonses.’

‘Well, it is done now, and I shall have to do the best I can,’ said Michael, a little sulky at the reprimand. ‘If he is innocent,
I shall prove it for him.’

‘I suppose stranger things have come to pass,’ said Alan enigmatically. He turned to Bartholomew with a smile. ‘But let us
talk of more pleasant things. What do you hope to find in our meagre library, Doctor?’

‘It is not meagre,’ said Bartholomew enthusiastically. ‘It has all the works of Avicenna, as well as Serapion’s
Brevarium
, Pietro d’Abano’s fascinating
Conciliaton
, Isaac Iudeaus’s
Liber Febrium
—’

‘A lot of books on medicine,’ interrupted Michael, seeing that his friend was quite prepared to present Alan with a complete
list of the priory’s medical texts. ‘But Lord, it is hot today! Do you have any bona cervisia, Father, to slake a burning
thirst?’

Alan rang a small silver bell that was on his table. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you asked for a jug of our famous
ale.’ Before he had finished speaking, a servant entered. ‘Summon the Brother Hosteller,’ he instructed. He smiled at Bartholomew.
‘The priory makes four kinds of beer, and bona cervisia is the best of them.’

After a few moments, during which time Michael waxed lyrical over the delights of Ely’s ale compared to other brews he had
sampled all over East Anglia, the door opened a second time. The most distinguishing feature of the man who entered was his
shock of grey hair, which had been sculpted into a bob around his tonsure. Bartholomew thought it made him look like an elderly
page-boy. Around his neck he wore a cross made from a cheap metal, rather than the gold or silver favoured by most Benedictines
of his elevated station. Bartholomew wondered whether the Brother Hosteller was one of those men who wore their poverty like
badges, openly and ostentatiously, for all to see and admire.

The Brother Hosteller’s small eyes glittered with hostility when he spotted Michael reclining in the Prior’s best chair, and
Bartholomew saw a similar expression cross Michael’s face. He supposed that Robert the almoner was not the only Ely monk with
whom Michael had crossed swords.

‘William de Bordeleys,’ said Michael heavily, looking the monk up and down as he might a pile of dung. ‘You have been promoted,
have you?’

‘I am now the Brother Hosteller,’ replied William grandly.
‘I am responsible for both guesthouses and the monks’ dormitory. It is an important post, and I am answerable only to Prior
Alan and Sub-Prior Thomas. So, if you do not like it, you can go back to that stinking hell you seem to prefer to your own
monastery.’

‘Michael will be with us for a few days,’ said Alan quickly. Bartholomew sensed he was adept at preventing arguments among
his subordinates. ‘He will stay in the Black Hostry, where all our visiting Benedictines are quartered. I wanted Doctor Bartholomew
to sleep in the Outer Hostry. However, we are anticipating a visit from Lady Blanche de Wake soon, and her retinue will require
every bed we have there, so he cannot.’

‘But Blanche has accused de Lisle of murder,’ said Michael in surprise. ‘She cannot stay here!’

‘It may prove awkward,’ admitted Alan. ‘But we have no choice. We do not want to anger the King by refusing hospitality to
his kinswoman.’

‘Since de Lisle prefers to stay in his own house when he is in Ely, he and Blanche may not even meet,’ said William. He spoke
wistfully, as though he hoped they would, so that he could amuse himself by observing the consequences.

‘In a town the size of Ely?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘Do not be ridiculous, man! Of course they will meet.’

‘Then you should advise your Bishop to control himself,’ said William tartly. ‘He will do himself no favours if he storms
up to her and calls her names—’

‘When is she due to arrive?’ asked Alan. ‘Soon?’

‘Probably not for some days,’ replied William, a little annoyed by the interruption, ‘although you stipulated that we must
be ready for her at any time. She says she wishes to be in the city when de Lisle is hanged, so she will not be long.’

Alan turned to Bartholomew before Michael could respond to William’s provocative statements. ‘Because of Blanche’s impending
visit I am afraid the only available bed is in the infirmary with our physician. Will that be
acceptable? It is near the library.’

‘I shall see to it,’ said William, without waiting for Bartholomew’s answer. He regarded Michael coolly. ‘And I imagine
he
will be wanting a jug of bona cervisia, given that the sun is shining and he always claims a thirst if the day is warm –
or if it is cold, come to that.’

‘He does indeed,’ said Michael, meeting the hostile gaze with a glare of his own. It was William who looked away first. The
hosteller glanced at Alan, who gave a nod of dismissal, and stalked out.

Michael regarded Alan with questioning eyebrows.

‘William was the most senior monk when the last incumbent passed away,’ said Alan defensively. ‘He was not my choice as hosteller,
either, but it was his right and I had to appoint him.’