Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

As they walked, the final wisps of mist disappeared as the summer sun bathed the marshes in a clean, golden light. The bogs responded by releasing a malodorous stench of baked, rotting vegetation, so strong that it verged on the unbreathable.

‘No wonder so many Ely folk complain of agues in July and August,’ said Bartholomew, taking a deep breath and coughing as the stinking odour caught in his throat. ‘This fetid air must hold all manner of contagions.’

The woman agreed. ‘We visit Ely most summers, and I have never known an area reek so.’

‘How big is your clan?’

She shot him another suspicious glance. ‘There are twenty-one of us, including seven children. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I have not set foot outside Cambridge since last summer, and it is good to meet new people,’ replied Bartholomew with a smile. ‘Did you say your three companions are your brothers?’

She jerked a thumb at the man with the gold hat. ‘He is Guido. He will become king soon.’

‘King?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly, hoping he was not about to be regaled with details of some treasonous plot. There was always someone declaring he had a better right to the English throne than Edward III, but few lived to press their claims for any length of time.

The woman smiled for the first time. ‘It is not a word that translates well. He will become the leader of the clan when our current king dies.’

‘You sound as though you think that will not be long.’

She nodded sadly. ‘Our uncle is becoming more frail every day, and I do not think he will see the harvest completed. Then Guido will take his place.’

Bartholomew glanced at Guido, thinking that the surly giant who glowered resentfully at him would make no kind of ‘king’ for anyone, and especially not for a group of itinerants who needed to secure the goodwill of the people they met. Guido seemed belligerent and loutish; Bartholomew imagined the clan would do better under the rule of the more pleasant and intelligent woman who walked at his side.

‘The others are Goran and Rosel,’ she continued. ‘Rosel is slow-witted, but, to my people, that means he is blessed.’

‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘Why is that?’

‘He has dreams sometimes, which we believe is the way the spirits of our ancestors communicate with us. They have chosen him to voice their thoughts, and that makes him special.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Bartholomew, becoming more interested in the gypsies’ customs.

‘Eulalia.’ She smiled again when she saw the understanding in his face. ‘Yes, I was named for the saint in whose city I was born.’

They continued to talk as they neared Ely. Michael’s staff was still at the ready, and the three brothers were tense and wary, evidently trusting the monk no more than he did them. Cynric began to relax, though, and leaned back comfortably in his saddle with his eyes almost closed. To anyone who did not know him, he appeared half asleep, but Bartholomew knew he would snap into alertness at the first sign of danger – long before anyone else had anticipated the need for action. Next to him, Meadowman had followed Bartholomew’s example and was leading his horse, relieved not to be sitting on it.

Michael took the lead when they reached a shiny, flat expanse of water that had invaded the causeway. His horse objected to putting its feet into the rainbow sheen on its surface, and disliked the sensation of its hoofs sinking into the soft mud. It balked and shied, and only Michael’s superior horsemanship kept the party moving.

Finally, they were on firm ground again – or at least ground that was not under water – and the causeway stretched ahead of them, a great black snake of rutted peat that slashed northwards. Ahead of them stood the bridge that controlled access from the south to the Fens’ most affluent and powerful city. It was manned by soldiers in the pay of the Prior, whose word was law in the area; they were under orders to admit only desirable visitors to his domain. However, because Ely was surrounded by marshes and waterways, anyone with a boat could easily gain entry, and although guards regularly patrolled, there was little they could do to bar unwanted guests.

As they approached the bridge, Bartholomew had a clear view all around him for the first time since leaving Cambridge. There was little to see to the south, west or east, but to the north lay Ely. The massive cathedral, aptly called ‘the ship of the Fens’ by local people, rose out of the bogs ahead. Its crenellated towers, distinguished central octagon and elegant pinnacles pierced the skyline, dominating the countryside around it. It looked to Bartholomew to be floating, as if it were not standing on a small island, but was suspended somehow above the meres and the reeds. He had been to Ely several times before, but this first glimpse of the magnificent Norman cathedral never failed to astound him.

‘Ely is a splendid place,’ said Michael, reining in his horse to allow them time to admire the scene in front of them. Ely was his Mother House, and he was justifiably proud of it. ‘It is the finest Benedictine cathedral-priory in the country.’

‘Peterborough is also splendid,’ said Bartholomew, who had been educated there before completing his education at Oxford and then Paris. ‘But the surrounding countryside is not so distinctive.’

‘Barcelona is more impressive than either of them,’ stated Eulalia uncompromisingly.

‘Ely’s setting is its one sorry feature,’ said Michael, ignoring her. ‘I cannot imagine why St Etheldreda’s followers did not grab her corpse and move it somewhere more conducive to pleasant living. They must have been deranged, wanting to continue to live in a place like this.’ He cast a disgusted glance around him.

‘It allowed them to live unmolested,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘If the causeway were not here, Ely would be difficult to reach. The monks wanted isolation for their religious meditations, and the Isle of Ely provides just that.’

‘But it puts us so far from the King’s court and influential institutions like the University in Cambridge,’ complained Michael. ‘When I first came here, as a young novice, I very nearly turned around and headed for Westminster instead. I was not impressed by the Fens. Then I saw the cathedral, and the wealth of the priory buildings, and I decided to stay. Given that I am now indispensable to the Bishop, I am confident I made the right decision.’

‘Why has de Lisle summoned you?’ asked Bartholomew, falling back to walk with him while the gypsies moved ahead. He saw that some kind of muttered argument was in progress – evidently, Guido was objecting to the fact that Eulalia had agreed to return to Ely, rather than continue to try to catch something for the cooking pot. ‘You have not told me.’

‘That is because I do not know myself,’ said Michael. ‘Two days ago I received a message asking me to visit Ely as soon as possible. The summons sounded important, but not urgent, and I decided to wait until you were ready, so that we could travel together. Then, late last night, I received another message ordering me to come at once.’

‘So you packed my bags, hired horses and I was obliged to leave for Ely a day sooner than I had intended,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour: he had not been pleased to return to Michaelhouse after a long night with a querulous patient to learn that the monk had taken control of his travel plans. ‘Despite the fact that today is Sunday – our day of rest.’

‘It makes no sense for us both to make such a dangerous journey alone,’ said Michael, unrepentant. ‘Your students were delighted to be rid of you for a few days anyway, and you will have longer to work on that interminable treatise on fevers. You should thank me, not complain.’