A Summer of Discontent

‘I suppose stranger things have come to pass,’ said Alan enigmatically. He turned to Bartholomew with a smile. ‘But let us talk of more pleasant things. What do you hope to find in our meagre library, Doctor?’

‘It is not meagre,’ said Bartholomew enthusiastically. ‘It has all the works of Avicenna, as well as Serapion’s Brevarium, Pietro d’Abano’s fascinating Conciliaton, Isaac Iudeaus’s Liber Febrium-’

‘A lot of books on medicine,’ interrupted Michael, seeing that his friend was quite prepared to present Alan with a complete list of the priory’s medical texts. ‘But Lord, it is hot today! Do you have any bona cervisia, Father, to slake a burning thirst?’

Alan rang a small silver bell that was on his table. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you asked for a jug of our famous ale.’ Before he had finished speaking, a servant entered. ‘Summon the Brother Hosteller,’ he instructed. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘The priory makes four kinds of beer, and bona cervisia is the best of them.’

After a few moments, during which time Michael waxed lyrical over the delights of Ely’s ale compared to other brews he had sampled all over East Anglia, the door opened a second time. The most distinguishing feature of the man who entered was his shock of grey hair, which had been sculpted into a bob around his tonsure. Bartholomew thought it made him look like an elderly page-boy. Around his neck he wore a cross made from a cheap metal, rather than the gold or silver favoured by most Benedictines of his elevated station. Bartholomew wondered whether the Brother Hosteller was one of those men who wore their poverty like badges, openly and ostentatiously, for all to see and admire.

The Brother Hosteller’s small eyes glittered with hostility when he spotted Michael reclining in the Prior’s best chair, and Bartholomew saw a similar expression cross Michael’s face. He supposed that Robert the almoner was not the only Ely monk with whom Michael had crossed swords.

‘William de Bordeleys,’ said Michael heavily, looking the monk up and down as he might a pile of dung. ‘You have been promoted, have you?’

‘I am now the Brother Hosteller,’ replied William grandly. ‘I am responsible for both guesthouses and the monks’ dormitory. It is an important post, and I am answerable only to Prior Alan and Sub-Prior Thomas. So, if you do not like it, you can go back to that stinking hell you seem to prefer to your own monastery.’

‘Michael will be with us for a few days,’ said Alan quickly. Bartholomew sensed he was adept at preventing arguments among his subordinates. ‘He will stay in the Black Hostry, where all our visiting Benedictines are quartered. I wanted Doctor Bartholomew to sleep in the Outer Hostry. However, we are anticipating a visit from Lady Blanche de Wake soon, and her retinue will require every bed we have there, so he cannot.’

‘But Blanche has accused de Lisle of murder,’ said Michael in surprise. ‘She cannot stay here!’

‘It may prove awkward,’ admitted Alan. ‘But we have no choice. We do not want to anger the King by refusing hospitality to his kinswoman.’

‘Since de Lisle prefers to stay in his own house when he is in Ely, he and Blanche may not even meet,’ said William. He spoke wistfully, as though he hoped they would, so that he could amuse himself by observing the consequences.

‘In a town the size of Ely?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘Do not be ridiculous, man! Of course they will meet.’

‘Then you should advise your Bishop to control himself,’ said William tartly. ‘He will do himself no favours if he storms up to her and calls her names-’

‘When is she due to arrive?’ asked Alan. ‘Soon?’

‘Probably not for some days,’ replied William, a little annoyed by the interruption, ‘although you stipulated that we must be ready for her at any time. She says she wishes to be in the city when de Lisle is hanged, so she will not be long.’

Alan turned to Bartholomew before Michael could respond to William’s provocative statements. ‘Because of Blanche’s impending visit I am afraid the only available bed is in the infirmary with our physician. Will that be acceptable? It is near the library.’

‘I shall see to it,’ said William, without waiting for Bartholomew’s answer. He regarded Michael coolly. ‘And I imagine he will be wanting a jug of bona cervisia, given that the sun is shining and he always claims a thirst if the day is warm — or if it is cold, come to that.’

‘He does indeed,’ said Michael, meeting the hostile gaze with a glare of his own. It was William who looked away first. The hosteller glanced at Alan, who gave a nod of dismissal, and stalked out.

Michael regarded Alan with questioning eyebrows.

‘William was the most senior monk when the last incumbent passed away,’ said Alan defensively. ‘He was not my choice as hosteller, either, but it was his right and I had to appoint him.’

‘He wants to be Prior when you die,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘He is ambitious.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael had no small ambition himself.