Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Read online

  For Ely’s lay population, the heart of the city was the village green. This grassy swath was bordered by St Mary’s Church, the cathedral, and the usual mixture of fine and shabby houses: the merchants’ large, timber-framed buildings that boasted ample gardens for growing vegetables; the poorer ones comprising shacks with four walls and a roof of sorts, clinging to each other in dishevelled rows.

  The green was busy that Sunday morning, and a band of itinerant musicians played to a large gathering of townsfolk. Drums thumped and pipes fluted cheerfully, interrupted by bursts of laughter as a group of children watched the antics of a brightly clad juggler. A man was selling fruit from a barrel of cold water, shouting that a cool, juicy apple would invigorate whoever ate it, that it was more refreshing than wine. Bartholomew stopped for a moment, enjoying the spectacle of people happy on a summer day.

  ‘Come on, Matt,’ Michael grumbled. ‘I do not want to linger here while the likes of those guards are spreading malicious rumours about their prelate.’

  ‘At least you now know why de Lisle summoned you so urgently.’

  ‘We have only the claims of those incompetents on the bridge to go on,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not consider them a reliable indication of why my Bishop might need me.’

  ‘I see the crows have begun to gather,’ hissed a soft voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned and saw that they were being addressed by a man of middle years, who wore a green tunic with a red hood flung over his shoulders. He had shoes, too, although they were badly made and more to show that he was someone who could afford to buy them than to protect his feet from the muck and stones of the ground. ‘When a noble beast lies dying, a carrion bird always stands nearby, waiting for the end.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘There are no crows nesting on this village green – they would find it far too noisy with all the unseemly merrymaking. Do none of these folk have work to do? I know it is Sunday, but no one should be at leisure when there are crops to be harvested.’

  The sneer on the man’s face quickly turned to anger at Michael’s words. ‘Everyone has been in the fields since long before daybreak, Brother. They deserve a rest before they return to toil under the hot sun until darkness falls. But I am wasting my time explaining this – I cannot imagine you know much about rising before dawn.’

  ‘I rise before dawn every day,’ replied Michael indignantly. ‘I attend prime and I sometimes conduct masses.’

  ‘Prayers and reading,’ jeered the man. ‘I am talking about real work, using hoes and spades and ploughs. But why have you come to Ely, Brother? Is it to help the good Bishop escape this charge of murder? Or have you come to drive the nails into his coffin?’

  ‘You are an insolent fellow,’ said Michael, half angry and half amused at the man’s presumption. ‘My business here is none of your concern. Who are you, anyway?’

  The man effected an elegant bow. ‘Richard de Leycestre. I owned land here before the price of bread forced me to sell it to buy food. So, now I am a ploughman, in the employ of the priory.’

  ‘And clearly resentful of the fact,’ observed Michael. ‘Well, your reduced circumstances are none of my affair, although I know there are many others like you all over the country. But you should not make a habit of slinking up to monks and insulting their Bishop, unless you want to find yourself in a prison. If you are a wise man, you will keep your thoughts to yourself.’

  ‘That is hard to do, when harsh landlords drive men to take their own lives because they cannot feed their families,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘And do not give me your sympathy, Brother, because I am certain you cannot recall the last time you were faced with an empty table at mealtimes.’

  ‘Not this morning, certainly,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that Michael had fortified himself for the twenty-mile journey from Cambridge with a substantial breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, bread and some cold pheasant that had been left from the previous evening.

  ‘Who has taken his own life?’ demanded Michael. ‘Are you talking about this steward – Glovere – whom those rascally guards told me the Bishop is accused of killing? However, they also happened to mention that de Lisle maintains Glovere’s death was a suicide – which I am sure we will discover is the case.’

  ‘Not Glovere, although they died similar deaths,’ said Leycestre obliquely.

  Michael sighed. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ The way he kicked his sandalled feet into the sides of his horse indicated that he had no wish to find out, either.

  ‘I am talking about Will Haywarde, who killed himself yesterday,’ said Leycestre, keeping pace with Michael’s horse. ‘Like Glovere, Haywarde died in the river.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the murky River Ouse, which meandered its way around the eastern edge of the town.

  ‘I see,’ said Michael, uncomprehending, but not inclined to learn more.

  ‘You should not listen to tales spun by the likes of those guards, though,’ Leycestre advised. ‘I do not believe that Bishop de Lisle has killed anyone. I think Glovere was a suicide, just like the Bishop says.’

  ‘I am sure he will be relieved to know he can count on your support,’ said Michael, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks a second time to hurry it along. It was no use – Leycestre merely walked faster.

  ‘The gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Leycestre. He cast a contemptuous glance to a group of people wearing embroidered tunics similar to Eulalia’s, who were watching the musicians on the green. ‘They say they came to help with the harvest, but since they arrived houses have been burgled almost every night.’

  ‘Do you have evidence to prove that these travellers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that it would be very stupid of the gypsies to indulge themselves in a crime spree as soon as they had arrived. It would be obvious who were the culprits, and his brief encounter with Eulalia told him that she had more sense.

  Leycestre rounded on him. ‘The fact is that the day after these folk arrived, a house was broken into. And then another and another. Is this evidence enough for you?’

  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, instit
ution 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 di
scover 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.