A Summer of Discontent

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.