Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

For Ely’s lay population, the heart of the city was the village green. This grassy swath was bordered by St Mary’s Church, the cathedral, and the usual mixture of fine and shabby houses: the merchants’ large, timber-framed buildings that boasted ample gardens for growing vegetables; the poorer ones comprising shacks with four walls and a roof of sorts, clinging to each other in dishevelled rows.

The green was busy that Sunday morning, and a band of itinerant musicians played to a large gathering of townsfolk. Drums thumped and pipes fluted cheerfully, interrupted by bursts of laughter as a group of children watched the antics of a brightly clad juggler. A man was selling fruit from a barrel of cold water, shouting that a cool, juicy apple would invigorate whoever ate it, that it was more refreshing than wine. Bartholomew stopped for a moment, enjoying the spectacle of people happy on a summer day.

‘Come on, Matt,’ Michael grumbled. ‘I do not want to linger here while the likes of those guards are spreading malicious rumours about their prelate.’

‘At least you now know why de Lisle summoned you so urgently.’

‘We have only the claims of those incompetents on the bridge to go on,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not consider them a reliable indication of why my Bishop might need me.’

‘I see the crows have begun to gather,’ hissed a soft voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned and saw that they were being addressed by a man of middle years, who wore a green tunic with a red hood flung over his shoulders. He had shoes, too, although they were badly made and more to show that he was someone who could afford to buy them than to protect his feet from the muck and stones of the ground. ‘When a noble beast lies dying, a carrion bird always stands nearby, waiting for the end.’

‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘There are no crows nesting on this village green – they would find it far too noisy with all the unseemly merrymaking. Do none of these folk have work to do? I know it is Sunday, but no one should be at leisure when there are crops to be harvested.’

The sneer on the man’s face quickly turned to anger at Michael’s words. ‘Everyone has been in the fields since long before daybreak, Brother. They deserve a rest before they return to toil under the hot sun until darkness falls. But I am wasting my time explaining this – I cannot imagine you know much about rising before dawn.’

‘I rise before dawn every day,’ replied Michael indignantly. ‘I attend prime and I sometimes conduct masses.’

‘Prayers and reading,’ jeered the man. ‘I am talking about real work, using hoes and spades and ploughs. But why have you come to Ely, Brother? Is it to help the good Bishop escape this charge of murder? Or have you come to drive the nails into his coffin?’

‘You are an insolent fellow,’ said Michael, half angry and half amused at the man’s presumption. ‘My business here is none of your concern. Who are you, anyway?’

The man effected an elegant bow. ‘Richard de Leycestre. I owned land here before the price of bread forced me to sell it to buy food. So, now I am a ploughman, in the employ of the priory.’

‘And clearly resentful of the fact,’ observed Michael. ‘Well, your reduced circumstances are none of my affair, although I know there are many others like you all over the country. But you should not make a habit of slinking up to monks and insulting their Bishop, unless you want to find yourself in a prison. If you are a wise man, you will keep your thoughts to yourself.’

‘That is hard to do, when harsh landlords drive men to take their own lives because they cannot feed their families,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘And do not give me your sympathy, Brother, because I am certain you cannot recall the last time you were faced with an empty table at mealtimes.’

‘Not this morning, certainly,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that Michael had fortified himself for the twenty-mile journey from Cambridge with a substantial breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, bread and some cold pheasant that had been left from the previous evening.

‘Who has taken his own life?’ demanded Michael. ‘Are you talking about this steward – Glovere – whom those rascally guards told me the Bishop is accused of killing? However, they also happened to mention that de Lisle maintains Glovere’s death was a suicide – which I am sure we will discover is the case.’

‘Not Glovere, although they died similar deaths,’ said Leycestre obliquely.

Michael sighed. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ The way he kicked his sandalled feet into the sides of his horse indicated that he had no wish to find out, either.

‘I am talking about Will Haywarde, who killed himself yesterday,’ said Leycestre, keeping pace with Michael’s horse. ‘Like Glovere, Haywarde died in the river.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the murky River Ouse, which meandered its way around the eastern edge of the town.

‘I see,’ said Michael, uncomprehending, but not inclined to learn more.

‘You should not listen to tales spun by the likes of those guards, though,’ Leycestre advised. ‘I do not believe that Bishop de Lisle has killed anyone. I think Glovere was a suicide, just like the Bishop says.’

‘I am sure he will be relieved to know he can count on your support,’ said Michael, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks a second time to hurry it along. It was no use – Leycestre merely walked faster.

‘The gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Leycestre. He cast a contemptuous glance to a group of people wearing embroidered tunics similar to Eulalia’s, who were watching the musicians on the green. ‘They say they came to help with the harvest, but since they arrived houses have been burgled almost every night.’

‘Do you have evidence to prove that these travellers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that it would be very stupid of the gypsies to indulge themselves in a crime spree as soon as they had arrived. It would be obvious who were the culprits, and his brief encounter with Eulalia told him that she had more sense.

Leycestre rounded on him. ‘The fact is that the day after these folk arrived, a house was broken into. And then another and another. Is this evidence enough for you?’

Bartholomew did not reply. He suspected he would be unable to convince the man that the spate of burglaries need not necessarily be related to the arrival of the gypsies, and knew it was simpler to blame strangers in a small town than to seek a culprit among long-term acquaintances.

‘And while these vagabonds strut openly along our streets, honest men like me are forced to labour like slaves in the Prior’s fields,’ continued Leycestre bitterly.

‘Go back to work, Master Leycestre,’ said Michael, making another attempt to leave the malcontent behind. ‘And I advise you again: take care whom you approach with your seditious thoughts, or your land might not be all you lose. The King is weary of demands by labourers for more pay.’

‘And labourers are weary of making them,’ Bartholomew heard Cynric mutter as Leycestre finally abandoned his quarry and went in search of more malleable minds. ‘And soon they will not bother to ask, when the answer is always no. So they will take what they want, permission or not.’

‘You be careful, too, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew, looking around him uneasily. ‘This is a strange city for us, and we do not know who might be a spy. I do not want to spend my time arranging your release from prison because you have voiced your opinions to the wrong people.’

‘I am always careful,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘But you should heed your own advice, because you are not a man to ignore the injustices we see around us either. I will keep my own counsel, but you must keep yours, too.’