Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

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 priory, 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.