A Summer of Discontent

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.

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.’