Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

He gave the physician a grin, which broke the mood of unease, and they rode on. Eventually, they reached the Heyrow, where the largest and most magnificent of the merchants’ houses were located. It was a wide street, with timber-framed buildings standing in a proud row along the north side and the stalwart wall of the cathedral-priory lining the south side. Two inns stood on the Heyrow – the Lamb was a huge, but shabby, institution with a reputation for excellent ale, while the White Hart was a fashionable establishment with two guest wings and a central hall.

Opposite the White Hart was the entrance to the priory called Steeple Gate, so named for the small spire on the half-finished parish church that was little more than a lean-to against the north wall of the cathedral. The Gate was located near the almonry, where food, and occasionally money, was distributed to the city’s poor. A cluster of beggars hovered there, jostling each other to be first to grab whatever the priory deigned to pass their way. Michael dismounted, pushed his way through them and hammered on the door.

Moments later, a pair of unfriendly eyes peered through the grille, and the door was pulled open with distinct reluctance.

‘Oh, it is you,’ said the dark-featured monk who stood on the other side. His face was soft and decadent, like an Italian banker’s, while a sizeable bulge around his middle indicated that he should either do more exercise or eat less at the priory’s refectory. ‘I thought it would not be long before you came to help the Bishop get out of the mess he has made for himself.’

‘I was summoned,’ said Michael haughtily, pushing open the door and easing his bulk through it. ‘And what are you doing answering gates, Brother Robert? I thought almoners were far too important to perform such menial tasks.’

‘It is Sunday sext – one of the times when we distribute alms to the poor,’ replied Robert, unpleasantly churlish. ‘I can hardly do that with the door closed, can I?’

‘This is Robert de Sutton, Matt,’ said Michael, turning to Bartholomew and indicating the monk with a contemptuous flick of his hand. ‘He is a famous man in Ely, because he demands a fee of three pennies from anyone wanting to pray at St Etheldreda’s shrine.’

Bartholomew gazed at Robert in disbelief. ‘You charge pilgrims to pray? But some of them have no money to give you. They are poor folk, who make their way here on foot because they are desperate, and can think of no other way to improve their lot.’

‘Then they do not gain access to St Etheldreda,’ said Robert with finality. ‘Maintaining an edifice like that is expensive, and pilgrims will wear it out with their kisses and their knees rubbing across its flagstones.’

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, giving Robert a withering glance. ‘We have no time to waste in idle chatter.’

‘Wait!’ ordered Robert. He nodded to Bartholomew and the two servants. ‘Who are these people? We do not let just anyone inside, you know.’

‘They are with me, and that is all you need to know,’ said Michael importantly, turning to leave. Robert dared to lay several plump fingers on the expensive fabric of Michael’s gown to detain him, which earned him an outraged glare.

‘The Bishop’s house was burgled a few nights ago,’ said Robert, withdrawing his hand hastily. ‘The Prior says that no strangers are to be admitted to the monastery unless they are accompanied by one of us.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh at the almoner’s slow wits. ‘They are accompanied by one of us. Me.’ He started to walk away, but then turned again. ‘What is this about the Bishop being burgled? What was stolen, and when did this occur?’

‘It was about ten days ago,’ replied the almoner, reluctantly yielding the information. ‘Nothing much was stolen. I expect the thieves anticipated gold, but de Lisle is deeply in debt, as you know, and there is little in his house worth taking.’

Michael poked his head back through the gate and gazed at the handsome house on the Heyrow, where the Bishop resided when he was in Ely. De Lisle could have stayed in the cathedral-priory, but the Bishop no more wanted a prior watching his every move than the Prior wanted a bishop loose in his domain. De Lisle’s renting of the house on the Heyrow was an arrangement that suited everyone.

‘He may be in debt, but he is not impoverished,’ said Michael defensively. ‘He still owns a considerable amount of property.’

‘Well, none of it was in his house when the burglars struck,’ argued Robert. ‘They took a silver plate and a ring, but nothing else. The rumour is that the gypsies, who are here to help with the harvest, are responsible.’

Bartholomew wanted to point out that the travellers would have to be either very rash or very stupid to start stealing the moment they arrived in the town, but he decided to hold his tongue, since he would soon be a guest in Michael’s Mother House. Meanwhile, the monk thrust the reins of his horse at the bemused Cynric, then shoved past Robert to the sacred grounds of the priory beyond.

As always, when he entered Ely Cathedral-Priory’s grounds, Bartholomew was astonished at the difference a wall could make. On the city side, Ely was all colour and bustle. The houses were washed in pinks, greens and golds, and the gay clothes of the merchants and their apprentices added brilliance to a scene already rich with life and vitality. People ran and shouted, and horses and carts clattered. The streets possessed thick, soft carpets of manure and spilled straw, and the atmosphere in the heat of midday was a pungent mixture of sewage, the sulphurous stench of the marshes and the sharper smell of unwashed bodies and animal urine.

But the priory side of the wall was a world apart. Monks and lay-brothers were dressed in sober black or brown, and no one hurried. Hands were tucked reverently inside wide sleeves, and heads were bowed as the monks spoke in low voices or were lost in their meditations. Bartholomew knew the kitchens would be alive with noise and movement, as the cooks struggled to prepare meals for more than a hundred hungry men, but in the carefully maintained grounds the scene was peaceful and contemplative.

In front of them, the cathedral rose in mighty splendour, with rank after rank of round-headed arches. Its smooth grey stones formed a stark contrast to the riot of colour in the houses in the Heyrow, and although there was a faint scent of cooking bread from the ovens, the predominant smell was that of newly mown grass.

‘I take it you do not like Brother Robert,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as he followed Michael towards the sumptuous house the Prior occupied. Michael had decided to see Bartholomew introduced to the Prior and settled in the library before beginning what promised to be a lengthy interview with de Lisle.

Michael grimaced. ‘As almoner, Robert thinks that dispensing a few scraps of bread to the poor – that would have been destined for the pigs anyway – makes him more important than the rest of us. And he has taken an irrational dislike to the Bishop.’

‘And why would that be?’ asked Bartholomew, unsurprised. While he did not actively dislike de Lisle, he certainly neither trusted nor admired him. The Bishop was too grand and haughty, and far too vindictive a man for Bartholomew’s taste.

‘Probably because Robert is devious and petty,’ replied Michael dismissively. ‘And because he is jealous of anyone better than him – which is most people, as it happens.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not think Robert’s dislike is anything to do with the fact that ten years ago Ely’s Prior – Alan de Walsingham – was chosen by the monks here to be the Bishop of Ely? Alan was ousted in favour of de Lisle, because de Lisle happened to be at the papal palace at Avignon at the time, and the Pope had taken a fancy to him. So Alan remained a mere prior, while de Lisle was made Bishop.’