Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

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.’

The Prior of the Benedictine monastery at Ely 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.