Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Read online

  Meanwhile, Glovere was still angry as he slouched towards the river. Unlike the others, he was not obliged to rise before the sun was up to spend the day labouring in the fields. As steward to Lady Blanche de Wake, his only task was to watch over her small Ely manor while she was away. It was scarcely onerous, and he often found himself with time on his hands, and he liked to pass some of it by speculating about the private lives of his fellow citizens. He had risen at noon that day and was not yet ready for sleep. He reached the river and began to stroll upstream, breathing in deeply the rich, fertile scent of ripe crops and the underlying gassy stench of the marshes that surrounded the City in the Fens.

  A rustle in the reeds behind him caught his attention and he glanced around sharply. Someone was walking towards him. He stopped and waited, wondering whether he had gone too far in the tavern, and one of the patrons had come to remonstrate with him or warn him not to be so outspoken. It was too dark to see who it was, so he waited, standing with his hands on his hips, ready to dispense a taste of his tongue if anyone dared tell him how to behave. A slight noise from behind made him spin around the other way. Was someone else there, or was it just the breeze playing among the waving reeds? Suddenly Glovere had the feeling that it was not such a fine evening for a stroll after all.

  Chapter 1

  Near the Isle of Ely, Cambridgeshire, August 1354

  ALIGHT MIST SEEPED FROM THE MARSHES, AND WRAPPED ghostly white fingers around the stunted trees that stood amid the wasteland of sedge and reed. In the distance, a flock of geese flapped and honked in panic at something that had disturbed them, but otherwise the desolate landscape was silent. The water, which formed black, pitchy puddles and ditches that stretched as far as the eye could see, had no ebb and flow, and was a vast, soundless blanket that absorbed everyday noises to create an eerie stillness. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of the College of Michaelhouse at the University of Cambridge, felt as though his presence in the mysterious land of bog and tangled undergrowth was an intrusion, and that to speak and shatter the loneliness and quiet would be wrong. He recalled stories from his childhood about Fenland spirits and ghosts, which were said to tolerate humans only as long as they demonstrated appropriate reverence and awe.

  ‘This is a vile, godforsaken spot,’ announced his colleague loudly, gazing around him with a distasteful shudder. Brother Michael was a practical man, and tales of vengeful creatures that chose to inhabit bogs held no fear for him. ‘It is a pity St Etheldreda decided to locate her magnificent monastery in a place like this.’

  ‘She built it here precisely because it was in the middle of the Fens,’ said Bartholomew, glancing behind him as a bird fidgeted noisily in the undergrowth to one side. The causeway along which they rode ran between the thriving market town of Cambridge and the priory-dominated city of Ely, and was often used by merchants and wealthy clerics. Thus it was a popular haunt for robbers – and four travellers comprising a richly dressed monk, a physician with a well-packed medicine bag, and two servants would provide a tempting target. ‘St Etheldreda was fleeing a husband intent on claiming his conjugal rights, and she selected Ely because she knew he would not find her here.’

  ‘Did it work?’ asked Cynric, Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, who sat in his saddle with the ease of a born horseman. Tom Meadowman, Michael’s favourite beadle, rode next to him, but white-knuckled hands on the reins and his tense posture indicated that he was unused to horses and that he would just as soon be walking.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘The legend says that she fled from the north country to the Fens almost seven hundred years ago. Her husband, the King of Northumbria, never found her, and she built her monastery here, among the marshes.’

  ‘She is one of those saints whose body is as perfect now as when it went into its tomb,’ added Meadowman, addressing Cynric but looking at Michael, clearly intending to impress his master with his theological knowledge. ‘Her sister dug up the corpse a few years after it was buried, and found it whole and uncorrupted. A shrine was raised over the tomb, and some Benedictine monks later came and built a cathedral over it.’

  ‘I know the story,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I am a monk of Ely, after all. But my point is that Etheldreda could equally well have hidden in a much nicer place than this. Just look around you. That we are riding here at all, and not rowing in a boat like peasants, is a testament to my priory’s diligence in maintaining this causeway.’

  ‘It is a testament to the huge tithes your priory demands from its tenants,’ muttered Cynric, casting a resentful glower at the monk’s broad back.

  Since the Great Pestilence had swept through the country, claiming one in three souls, there had been fewer peasants to pay rents and tithes to landowners. Inevitably, the landowners had increased their charges. At the same time the price of bread had risen dramatically but wages had remained low, so there was growing resentment among the working folk toward their wealthy overlords. Cynric sided wholly with the peasants, and seldom missed an opportunity to point out the injustice of the disparity between rich and poor to anyone who would listen.

  Meadowman shot his companion an uneasy glance, and Bartholomew suspected that while he might well agree with the sentiments expressed by Cynric, he was reluctant to voice his support while Michael was listening. Besides being the Bishop of Ely’s most trusted agent, a Benedictine monk, and, like Bartholomew, a Fellow of Michaelhouse, Brother Michael was also the University’s Senior Proctor. He had recently promoted Meadowman to the post of Chief Beadle – his right-hand man in keeping unruly students in order. Meadowman enjoyed his work and was devoted to Michael, and he had no intention of annoying his master over an issue like peasants’ rights. Cynric, on the other hand, had known Michael for years, and felt no need to whisper his radical opinions.

  ‘Between the Bishop and the Prior, the people in Ely are all but bled dry,’ he continued. ‘The Death should have made the wealthy kinder to their tenants, but it has made them greedier and more demanding. It is not just, and the people will not tolerate it for much longer.’

  Bartholomew knew that his book-bearer was right. He could not avoid hearing the growing rumble of discontent when he visited his poorer patients, and believed them when they claimed they would join any rebellion that would see the wealthy strung up like the thieves they were seen to be. Personally, he believed such grievances were justified, and thought the wealthy were wrong to continue in their excesses while the peasants starved.

  Michael chose to ignore Cynric, concentrating on negotiating a way through one of the many spots where the road had lost its battle with the dank waters of the Fens. The track, for which ‘causeway’ was rather too grand a title, was little more than a series of mud-filled ruts that barely rose above the bogs surrounding them. Reeds and long cream-coloured grasses clustered at its edges, waiting for an opportunity to encroach and reclaim the barren ribbon of land that stood between Ely and isolation.

  The route through the Fens was an ancient one, first established by Romans who did not like the fact that there were huge tracts of their newly conquered empire to which they did not have easy access. They built a road that ran as straight as the flight of an arrow across the marshes and the little islets that dotted them. In places, this ancient trackway could still be seen, identifiable by the unexpected appearance of red-coloured bricks or cleverly constructed drainage channels that kept the path from becoming waterlogged. There were bridges, too, which took the track higher in areas that regularly flooded, and from the top of these the traveller could look across a seemingly endless sea of short, twisted alder trees and reed beds that swayed and hissed in the breeze.

  The people who lived in the Fens – and many considered the risk of flood and the marshes’ eye-watering odours a fair exchange for the riches the land had to offer – made their living by harvesting sedge for thatching, cutting peat to sell as fuel, and catching wildfowl and fish for food. Legally, any bird or animal that inhabited the marshes belonged to the p
riory, but the Fenfolk knew the area much better than their monastic overlords, and it was almost impossible to prevent poachers from taking what they wanted. Punishment, in the form of a heavy fine or the loss of a hand, was meted out to anyone caught stealing the priory’s game, but it was not often that the thieves were apprehended.

  ‘There is certainly a growing unease among the people,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still dwelling on Cynric’s comments and the hungry, resentful faces he had seen hovering in Cambridge’s Market Square the previous day. Men and women had come to buy grain or bread, only to find that prices had risen yet again and their hard-earned pennies were insufficient. ‘These days, a loaf costs more than a man’s daily wage.’

  ‘It is disgraceful,’ agreed Cynric, his dark features angry. ‘How do landlords expect people to live when they cannot afford bread? There is talk of a rebellion, you know.’

  ‘And “talk” is all it is,’ said Michael disdainfully, finally entering the conversation. ‘I, too, have heard discussions in taverns, where men in their cups promise to rise up and destroy the landlords. But their wives talk sense into them when they are sober. However, you should be careful, Cynric: not everyone is as tolerant as Matt and me when it comes to chatting about riots and revolts. You do not want to be associated with such things.’

  ‘It may be dangerous not to be associated with an uprising,’ muttered Cynric darkly. ‘If it is successful, people will know who stood with them and who was against them.’

  ‘In that case, you should bide your time and assess who is likely to win,’ advised Michael pragmatically. ‘Keep your opinions to yourself, and only voice them when you know which of the two factions will be victorious.’

  ‘I see you will be on the side of right and justice,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly. ‘Cynric is right. The people are resentful that the wealthy grow richer while the poor cannot afford a roof over their heads or bread for their children. The King was wrong to pass a law that keeps wages constant but allows the price of grain to soar.’

  ‘Cynric is not the only one who needs to watch his tongue,’ said Michael, giving his friend an admonishing glance. ‘When we arrive at Ely, you will be a guest of the Prior. He will not take kindly to you urging his peasants to revolt.’

  ‘You mean you do not want me to embarrass you by voicing controversial opinions,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘You were kind enough to arrange for me to stay at your priory so that I can use the books in the library to complete my treatise on fevers, but you want me to behave myself while I am there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Michael. ‘Prior Alan is a sensitive man, and I do not want you distressing him with your unorthodox thoughts. And while we are on this subject, you might consider not telling him what you think of phlebotomy, either. He has all his monks bled every six weeks, because he believes it keeps their humours balanced. Please do not disavow him of this notion.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘In my experience as a physician, bleeding usually does more harm than good. If a man is hale and hearty, why poke about in his veins with dirt-encrusted knives and risk giving him a wound that may fester?’

  ‘The monks like being bled,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And they will not want you encouraging Alan to deprive them of something they enjoy.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘Why would they be happy to undergo unnecessary and painful surgery?’

  ‘Because afterwards they spend a week in the infirmary being fed with the priory’s finest food and wine. You will make no friends by recommending that the practice of bleeding be abandoned, I can assure you.’

  Their conversation was cut short by a warning yell from Cynric. Meadowman fumbled for his sword, then fell backwards to land with a gasp of pain on the rutted trackway. Cynric whipped his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow into it, looking around wildly. As a crossbow bolt thudded into the ground near the horses’ hoofs, a stout staff miraculously appeared in Michael’s hand and Bartholomew drew his dagger. When a second bolt hissed past his chest, perilously close, Bartholomew’s horse panicked and started to rear and buck. Knowing he would be an easy target in his saddle, the physician abandoned his attempts to control the animal and slipped to the ground, anticipating the sharp thump of a quarrel between his ribs at any moment.

  * * *

  It was all over very quickly. Cynric drew his long Welsh dagger and spurred his pony into the undergrowth. Moments later he emerged with the crossbowman held captive. Meadowman sat up and grinned sheepishly, indicating that it had been poor horsemanship that had precipitated his tumble, not an arrow. Michael held his staff warily, ready to use it, while Bartholomew tried to calm his horse.

  ‘And the rest of you can come out, too,’ growled Cynric angrily, addressing the thick bushes that lined one side of the causeway. ‘Or I shall slit your friend’s throat.’

  Evidently, Cynric’s tone of voice and gleaming dagger were convincing. There was a rustle, and two more men and a woman emerged to stand on the trackway. Still clutching his knife and alert for any tricks, Bartholomew studied them.

  They were all olive skinned and black haired, and their clothes comprised smock-like garments covered in a colourful display of embroidery. Bartholomew imagined they were itinerant travellers from the warm lands around the Mediterranean, who drifted wherever the roads took them, paying their way by hiring out their labour in return for food or a few pennies. They looked sufficiently similar to each other for Bartholomew to assume they were related in some way, perhaps brothers and sister.

  The three men were heavy-set fellows who sported closely cropped hair and a week’s growth of beard that made them appear disreputable. One of them stared at Cynric, his eyes wide with childlike terror, and Bartholomew saw that although he possessed the strong body of man, his mind was that of an infant. The woman moved closer to him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder to silence the beginnings of a fearful whimper. She was tall and, although Bartholomew would not have described her as pretty, there was a certain attractiveness in the strength of her dark features.

  ‘There is no need for further violence,’ she said in French that held traces of the language of the south. ‘You can see we are unarmed. Just take what you want and let us be on our way. We have no wish to do battle with robbers.’

  Michael gaped at her. ‘It may have escaped your notice, madam, but you were shooting at us, not the other way around.’

  The man who was still perilously close to the tip of Cynric’s knife turned angry eyes on the monk. He was the largest of the three, and had a hard-bitten look about him, as if he was used to settling matters with his fists. He wore a peculiar gold-coloured cap that was newer and of a much higher quality than his other clothes. Bartholomew wondered whether he had stolen it, since it seemed at odds with the rest of his clothing.

  ‘That is a lie!’ Gold-Hat shouted furiously. ‘We heard you coming, so we hid in the undergrowth to wait for you to pass. Then your servants spotted us and immediately drew their weapons.’

  ‘That is not what happened!’ exclaimed Michael, astonished. ‘We were riding along in all innocence, when you started loosing crossbow bolts at us.’

  ‘You fired first,’ said the woman firmly. ‘We are not robbers.’

  ‘You look like robbers,’ said Meadowman bluntly. He inspected their clothes with the uneasy, disparaging curiosity of an untravelled man encountering something with which he was unfamiliar.

  ‘I will not stand here and listen to this—’ began Gold-Hat angrily, and rather rashly, given that Cynric’s dagger still hovered dangerously close to his neck. The woman silenced him with a wave of her hand – although the prod of Cynric’s weapon may also have had something to do with the sudden cessation of furious words – and turned to Michael, addressing him in a controlled and reasonable tone of voice.

  ‘We are respectable folk, who have come to Ely to hire out our services for the harvest. The priory owns a great deal of land and casual labour is always in deman
d at this time of year. We are not outlaws.’ She looked Michael up and down as if she thought the same could not be said for him.

  ‘Do I look like the kind of man to rob fellow travellers?’ demanded Michael, tapping his chest to indicate his Benedictine habit. ‘I am a monk!’

  ‘Why do you imagine that exonerates you?’ asked the woman in what seemed to be genuine confusion. ‘In my experience, there are few folk more adept at stealing from the poor than men of the Church.’

  ‘That is certainly true,’ muttered Cynric, sheathing his weapon. Gold-Hat immediately moved away from him, rubbing his neck where the blade had nicked it and glowering at the Welshman in a way that indicated he would be only too willing to restart the fight.

  ‘No harm has been done,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Michael bristle with indignation. Arguing about who was or who was not a robber in the middle of the Fens was a pointless exercise, and the longer they lingered, the greater were the chances that they might all fall victim to a real band of brigands. ‘There was a misunderstanding: few people can hide successfully from Cynric, and he mistook your caution for hostile intent. I suggest we acknowledge that we were lucky no one was hurt, and go our separate ways.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the woman stiffly. ‘I suppose my brothers and I can agree to overlook this incident. As I said, we are honest folk, and only want to go about our lawful business.’

  ‘And what “lawful business” would see you skulking all the way out here?’ demanded Michael tartly. ‘The priory has no fields to be harvested so far from Ely.’

  ‘We are only a mile or two from the city,’ protested Gold-Hat, still rubbing his throat. ‘And we are not obliged to explain ourselves to you anyway.’

  Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Four people in the Fens with a crossbow? It seems to me that you were thinking to fill tonight’s cooking pot with one of my Prior’s ducks. Or perhaps a fish.’