Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Read online

  ‘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!’

  ‘I
t 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.’

  ‘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 di
d 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.’