A Summer of Discontent (7 page)

‘He wants to be Prior when you die,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘He is ambitious.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael had no small ambition himself.

‘I must be very wicked for God to give me men like William
and
Robert in my flock,’ sighed Alan. He glanced at Michael in a way that indicated he might as well add
him
to the list of undesirables, too.

‘Perhaps God does not like the designs of your buildings,’ suggested Michael rudely. ‘That octagon is a peculiar thing; I
have never seen anything quite like it.’

‘That is the point,’ said Alan, offended. ‘It is unique.’

‘It is a masterpiece,’ said Bartholomew warmly. ‘You must have a remarkable understanding of the properties
of force and thrust to invent such a fabulous—’

‘William is devious,’ interrupted Michael, still agitated by his exchange with the hosteller. ‘And Robert is a snivelling
liar, who is mean with the alms intended for the poor.’

‘They are not popular,’ agreed Alan, reluctantly giving his attention to Michael. It was clear he would rather discuss his
octagon. Bartholomew did not blame him. ‘The other monks do not like them much.’

‘Your sub-prior, Thomas de Stokton, is hardly destined for a place in heaven, either,’ remarked Michael, raising his bulk
from the chair and strolling to the window, where there was a bowl of nuts. He took a handful and slapped them into his mouth.
‘He is a selfish glutton, who would benefit from a few weeks away from the dining table.’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael, whose own girth was by no means modest. He imagined the sub-prior must be of almighty proportions
indeed to attract that kind of criticism from the monk.

‘We finished painting the octagon last week,’ said Alan, smiling hopefully at Bartholomew and eager to talk about his life’s
work to an appreciative listener. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘Very fine,’ said Michael flatly, although Bartholomew knew he had not yet been inside the cathedral to see it. The monk rifled
carefully through the Prior’s bowl, selecting the best nuts with a concentration and attention to detail he would never lavish
on any aspect of architecture.

Alan ignored him, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘Do you know the story of the octagon? The original cathedral tower was too heavy
for its foundations, and it collapsed in 1322. Something lighter and smaller was required, but it had to be a design that
was both impressive and elegant. The octagon was my solution.’

‘What will you do now it is finished?’ asked Michael, jaws working vigorously as he rooted in the bowl. ‘Will you shore up
the foundations on the unstable north-west transept? I saw the scaffolding around that when we arrived. It looks as though
it is ready to tumble down at any moment.’

‘But it is not,’ said Alan. ‘It is more stable than it appears, although I do not mind people believing it is about to collapse.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, failing to see the advantage in making people think their cathedral was about to fall around their
ears.

Alan was wistful. ‘Because then they might ask me to
rebuild it. But as things stand, I am now obliged to devote my energy and resources to completing the parish church. Have
you seen it? It is that uninteresting half-built lean-to structure against the north wall of the cathedral. The parishioners
have been demanding that we finish it soon, so that they have a place of their own, and no longer have to use the cathedral.
They do not like saying their prayers in the nave while we are in the chancel.’

There was a perfunctory knock on the door and William entered, followed by a servant who carried a heavy pewter jug and three
goblets on a tray. The jug was filled to the brim with frothing ale, and the sweet, rich scent of it had Michael leaning forward
in eager anticipation, nuts forgotten. William poured it, then infuriated Michael by deliberately presenting him with the
cup that was only half full. Smiling maliciously, the hosteller gave Alan a brief nod and left again, closing the door behind
him.

‘Bona cervisia,’ said Michael, taking a deep draught of the ale and sighing in appreciation, foam clinging to his upper lip.
‘A drink fit for the angels.’

‘Only ones with very strong stomachs,’ said Bartholomew, wincing at the power of the brew in his cup. ‘I could render patients
insensible for amputations with a goblet of this.’

‘It is wasted on you,’ said Michael critically. ‘You are too used to the watery muck served at Michaelhouse to be able to
savour a fine brew like this.’

‘I cannot help but worry about what de Lisle has asked you to do,’ said Alan, taking his own cup and walking to the window,
where he stood looking in dismay at his depleted nut bowl. ‘I am sure it will not end well.’ He turned to fix Bartholomew
with his intense blue eyes. ‘Can you not persuade Michael to return to Cambridge, Doctor? You can say he has marsh fever.
There is a lot of that about at this time of year, and the Bishop would never suspect that Michael had removed himself for
his own safety.’

‘We could do that,’ acknowledged Michael, draining his cup and refilling it – this time to the brim. ‘But de Lisle is
not the only one with a cunning mind. I have a little cleverness myself.’

‘You do,’ agreed Alan. ‘And your success in solving the most perplexing of crimes is known in Ely, as well as in Cambridge.
But that worries me, too. De Lisle knows you are clever and he knows you are likely to uncover the truth.’

‘So?’ asked Michael, draining his cup a second time. ‘I do not understand your point.’

‘I mean that if de Lisle knows you are likely to reveal him as a murderer – if he is guilty – then why did he send for you?
Why not appoint a lesser investigator instead – one of his own creatures?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Because he
is
innocent, and he wants me to prove it?’

Alan remained uneasy. ‘Perhaps. But the murder of this servant is not the only thing that has happened to the Bishop recently.
There was a burglary, too.’

‘He was a victim,’ Michael pointed out. ‘No one has suggested
he
is the thief!’

Alan inclined his head in acknowledgement, although the anxious expression did not fade from his eyes. He was about to continue,
when there was another knock, and William entered a third time.

‘I thought you should know, Father Prior, that a messenger has just arrived. He informs me that Lady Blanche is a short distance
from Ely, and will be here within the hour. She says she wants to ensure that the murder of her steward is investigated in
a proper and thorough manner.’ He shot Michael an unpleasant glance, as though he thought the matter well beyond Michael’s
capabilities.

‘Damn it all!’ muttered Michael. ‘This case will be difficult enough to solve without the likes of that woman demanding to
know my every move and trying to pervert the course of justice.’

While Alan de Walsingham and William hastened to make ready for the great lady’s arrival, Bartholomew and Michael
were left to their own devices. The physician wanted to go to the library, to begin his reading, but it seemed that the Prior
and hosteller were not the only ones engaged in the preparations for Lady Blanche: Brother Symon, who was in charge of the
books, was also unavailable, and sent a message to Bartholomew informing him that he would have to wait until the following
day.

‘But I only need him to unlock the door,’ Bartholomew objected to the messenger, a cheerful novice with freckles, whom Michael
introduced as John de Bukton. ‘I do not require him to fetch books or carry them to a table. I can do that myself.’

Bukton looked apologetic. ‘Symon does not like people reading his books. He would rather see them on the shelves, and considers
their removal for education anathema.’

‘That is not a good characteristic in a librarian,’ Bartholomew pointed out, ignoring Michael’s snigger of amusement. ‘Books
were written to be read.’

‘That is not what Symon believes,’ said Bukton with a grin. ‘And there is another thing: he does not know what books we own
anyway. He classifies them according to their size, so that they look nice on his shelves, but if you were to ask him for
a specific volume, he could not tell you where it was unless you also told him how big it was.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I was looking forward to a few quiet days among books. Now I learn that the librarian is a man who would
rather his collection was never used, and that my friend is to investigate a murder for which his Bishop stands accused. What
kind of place is this?’

Bukton was offended by the criticism. ‘You have just caught us on a bad day.’

‘I should say!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the young man speed away as he went to help his elders ready the Outer Hostry
for Lady Blanche and her followers. He turned to Michael. ‘No wonder you like Cambridge, Brother. It is a haven of peace compared
to this.’

‘As he said, you are not seeing us at our best,’ replied
Michael, also unwilling to see his priory regarded in an unfavourable light. ‘But I can take you to the infirmary, where
you can settle yourself for your stay, and then we can go to view the body of the man whom my Bishop murdered.’

‘Is
accused
of murdering,’ corrected Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Brother. One slip like that in front of the
wrong people might see de Lisle condemned.’

Michael said nothing, and Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, alarmed that Michael, like so many others, had accepted
as fact the Bishop’s guilt. The monk’s task, therefore, would not be to prove de Lisle’s innocence, but to ensure that he
escaped the charges. The physician felt a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach, aware that his friend was about
to begin something that could lead him on to dangerous ground. Michael was a clever man, and his inventively cunning mind
often surprised Bartholomew, but, nevertheless, the physician wished neither of them had come to Ely in the first place.

‘We have been here for an hour, and we are already embroiled in something sinister,’ he grumbled, following Michael along
the well-kept path that led from the Prior’s House in the direction of the infirmary.

Michael turned to face him, his expression sombre. ‘I would not have let you come had I known what de Lisle wanted me to do.
But it is not too late. Leave now, and take Cynric and Meadowman with you. You will be back in Cambridge before nightfall.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The horses are tired and Cynric is already showing Meadowman the taverns. It will be far too
late by the time I find them. Besides, how can I leave you here alone?’

‘I am in my own priory, Matt. I am surrounded by friends.’

‘Hardly!’ snorted Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Prior Alan seems decent enough, but the almoner does not like you and neither does
the hosteller. You are not among friends here.’

Michael smiled and slapped him on the shoulders. ‘Then allow me to introduce you to Henry de Wykes, the priory’s physician.
He is a good and honest man, and there is hardly a soul in the town who does not like him. He is a little immodest, perhaps,
but that is no great fault when you compare him to the rest of my brethren here.’

The hospital was a substantial building adjoining the Black Hostry. It boasted a large, airy central hall, its own chapel,
and a pair of chambers for treating patients and preparing medicines. Another two rooms at the opposite end of the hall served
as living quarters for the infirmarian and his assistants. The library occupied the rooms on the floor above. The building
overlooked gardens on two sides, the cathedral on the third, and, rather disconcertingly for a place dedicated to the sick,
the monks’ graveyard on the fourth.

There were two entrances to the infirmary. One was via a covered walkway known as the Dark Cloister, which allowed the monks
to reach it from the chapter house without exposing themselves to the elements; the other was through a small door in the
north wall, which was reached by walking through the monks’ cemetery. Michael chose the latter, strolling along a path that
was almost obliterated by long meadow grass, and opening a small, round-headed gate that led directly into the hospital’s
main hall.

Bartholomew followed him inside and looked around, admiring the carvings on the arches that had been executed by Norman masons
two hundred years before, and the dark strength of the oak beams that supported the ceiling. The floor comprised smooth slabs
of stone that had been scrubbed almost white, while large windows allowed the light to flood into the sickroom. A row of beds
ran down each of the walls, so that about twenty men could be accommodated at a time. However, the priory’s infirmary was
not only a place for monks who were ill; it was also home to elderly brethren who were too ancient or infirm to look after
themselves. Bartholomew glanced down the hall, and
saw that there were currently five such inmates, each tucked neatly under covers that were crisp and clean.

Michael walked between the rows of beds, to where voices could be heard in one of the chambers that stood at the far end of
the hall. He knocked briskly on a door that was half closed, before pushing it open. An older monk was evidently teaching
two novices some aspect of medicine, because he was holding a flask of urine to the light, and was in the process of matching
its colour to examples given in Theophilus’s
De Urinis
. The monk was too engrossed in his explanation to notice that his charges were bored and restless.

‘I hope that is wine you are regarding with such loving attention, Brother Henry,’ called Michael, leaning nonchalantly against
the door frame.

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Henry in delight, immediately abandoning his teaching. He was a sturdy man in his fifties, who was burned
a deep nut-brown by the sun. His forearms were sinewy and knotted, indicating that the large hospital garden they had passed
on their way in, with its neat rows of herbs and vegetables, was probably tended by him personally and that he was no stranger
to hard work. He had twinkling blue eyes, wiry grey hair and a large gap between his two front teeth.