Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

‘What could be so urgent that the Bishop could not wait a day to see his favourite spy?’

‘Agent,’ corrected Michael. ‘And I cannot imagine what has distressed de Lisle. His second note was almost rude in its summons, and contained none of the fatherly affection he usually pens in missives to me.’ He prodded his horse gently with his sandalled heels to urge it forward. ‘But he will despair of me ever arriving if we delay much longer.’

With some reluctance, Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the spectacle of the cathedral and followed Michael to where a group of soldiers were dicing in the bridge’s gatehouse. One dragged himself to his feet when he heard visitors approaching, although his eyes remained firmly fixed on the far more interesting events that were occurring in the gloomy shadows of the lodge.

‘Business?’ he asked curtly, not looking at them. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave a sudden grin as, presumably, the dice rolled in his favour.

‘We have come to set fire to the cathedral,’ said Michael mildly. ‘And then I plan to rob the Guildhall of St Mary’s and make off with as much gold as I can carry.’

‘Enter, then,’ said the guard, pushing open the gate that led to the bridge, craning his neck so that he could still watch his game. ‘And go in peace.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Michael amiably. ‘Perhaps when I have finished with the cathedral and the guildhall I shall pay a visit to your own humble hovel and see whether you have any wives, daughters or sisters who might warrant my manly attentions. What is your name?’

‘I said you could enter,’ snapped the guard, becoming aware that the travellers were lingering when he wanted to return to his game. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Your name,’ snapped Michael, with an edge of anger in his voice that suddenly claimed the guard’s full attention. Aware that a confrontation was brewing, his comrades abandoned their sport and emerged into the sunlight to see what was happening. Eulalia and her brothers edged away, unwilling to be part of the argument.

‘Stephen,’ replied the guard nervously. ‘Why?’

‘You are worthless,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You should not be allowed the responsibility of gate duty. I shall recommend that my Prior replaces you as soon as possible.’

Stephen sneered insolently. ‘The Prior will have more important things on his mind than the likes of me, Brother. Like how he can help Bishop de Lisle evade the hangman’s noose.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael testily. ‘Do not try to divert me with lies.’

‘Not lies, Brother,’ replied another guard, who had straw-coloured hair and thick lips that did not cover his protruding front teeth. ‘De Lisle stands accused of murdering a man called Glovere. The Bishop claims Glovere killed himself, but Glovere’s folk say he is lying. They accused him on Friday – two days ago now.’

Michael stared at them, while Bartholomew saw in Stephen’s triumphant, spiteful smile that his comrade was telling the truth. Stephen appeared to be genuinely delighted that a powerful and probably unpopular landlord had been accused of so serious a crime.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Michael eventually.

Stephen shrugged. ‘Believe what you like, Brother. But de Lisle is accused of murdering the steward of a woman he disliked – and that is as true as you are standing there in front of me. The whole town is agog at the news. Go ahead, and see for yourself.’

Once they were through the gate, it was a short ride along the remaining section of causeway to the city of Ely. Michael said little as they hurried past the outlying farmsteads and strip-fields, although Cynric and Meadowman muttered piously to each other about the ruthless and undisciplined behaviour of bishops who considered themselves above the law. Bartholomew sensed Michael’s unease, and left the monk alone with his thoughts. The gypsies, who confirmed the soldiers’ claim that Ely was indeed buzzing with the news of the Bishop’s predicament, slipped away to their camp on the outskirts of the city as soon as they could, the three men clearly relieved to be away from the monk and his companions. Eulalia hesitated before giving Bartholomew a brief smile and darting after them.

Bartholomew glanced at Michael as they drew near the first of the houses. The monk had clearly been appalled to hear that his mentor had been accused of a crime, but Bartholomew noted that he did not seem particularly surprised. The physician knew, as did Michael, that Thomas de Lisle had not been selected for a prestigious post like that of Bishop of Ely by being nice to people, and imagined that a degree of corruption and criminal behaviour was probably a requirement for holding a position of such power. However, most churchmen did not allow themselves to become sullied by accusations of murder, and Bartholomew suspected that the Bishop had miscalculated some aspect of his various plots and machinations. While grateful that he would be spending his time in the priory library, well away from the webs weaved by men like de Lisle, the physician was worried that Michael’s obligations as de Lisle’s agent would lead him into something sinister.

He pushed morbid thoughts from his mind, and looked around him. Ahead, on a low hill, stood the grey mass of the cathedral. At its western end was a vast tower, topped by four crenellated turrets. To either side were smaller turrets, separated by a glorious façade of blank arcading that Bartholomew knew was at least two centuries old. The section to the north-west was clad in a complex system of ropes, planks and scaffolding, and the physician recalled hearing rumours that it was ripe for collapse. The bells were ringing, an urgent jangle of six discordant clappers calling the monks to the office of sext – the daily service that took place before the midday meal.

At the cathedral’s central crossing, where the north and south transepts met the nave, was Ely’s best-known feature, and one of the most remarkable achievements of its day. Thirty years earlier, the heavy tower erected by the Normans had toppled, taking with it a good part of the chancel. The monks had hastened to repair the damage, and one of their own number had designed an octagonal tower. More famous architects had scoffed at the unusual structure, claiming that it would be too heavy for the foundations. But the gifted monk knew his theories of buttressing and thrust, and the octagon stood firm.

Clustered around the base of the cathedral, and almost insignificant at its mighty stone feet, was the monastery. This was linked to the cathedral by a cloister, and included an infirmary, a massive refectory, dormitories for the monks to sleep in, a chapter house for their meetings, barns, stables, kitchens, and a large house and chapel for the Prior. There was also a handsome guesthouse for the exclusive use of visiting Benedictines, known by the rather sinister name of the Black Hostry. All this was enclosed by a stout wall, except for the part that bordered an ancient and ruinous castle, which was protected by a wooden fence liberally punctuated with sharpened stakes.

At first, the only people Bartholomew saw were distant figures bent over the crops in the fields, but as he and his companions rode closer to the cathedral, the streets became more crowded. Besides the drab homespun of labourers, there were merchants, clad in the richly coloured garments that were the height of fashion in the King’s court – hose and gipons of scarlet, amber and blue, while their wives wore the close-cut kirtles that had many prudish clerics running to their pulpits to issue condemnations. Personally, Bartholomew liked the way the dresses showed the slender – or otherwise – figures of the women, and he thought it would be a pity if fashion saw the return of the voluminous garments he recalled from his youth.