A Summer of Discontent

‘Ely is a splendid place,’ said Michael, reining in his horse to allow them time to admire the scene in front of them. Ely was his Mother House, and he was justifiably proud of it. ‘It is the finest Benedictine cathedral-priory in the country.’

‘Peterborough is also splendid,’ said Bartholomew, who had been educated there before completing his education at Oxford and then Paris. ‘But the surrounding countryside is not so distinctive.’

‘Barcelona is more impressive than either of them,’ stated Eulalia uncompromisingly.

‘Ely’s setting is its one sorry feature,’ said Michael, ignoring her. ‘I cannot imagine why St Etheldreda’s followers did not grab her corpse and move it somewhere more conducive to pleasant living. They must have been deranged, wanting to continue to live in a place like this.’ He cast a disgusted glance around him.

‘It allowed them to live unmolested,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘If the causeway were not here, Ely would be difficult to reach. The monks wanted isolation for their religious meditations, and the Isle of Ely provides just that.’

‘But it puts us so far from the King’s court and influential institutions like the University in Cambridge,’ complained Michael. ‘When I first came here, as a young novice, I very nearly turned around and headed for Westminster instead. I was not impressed by the Fens. Then I saw the cathedral, and the wealth of the priory buildings, and I decided to stay. Given that I am now indispensable to the Bishop, I am confident I made the right decision.’

‘Why has de Lisle summoned you?’ asked Bartholomew, falling back to walk with him while the gypsies moved ahead. He saw that some kind of muttered argument was in progress — evidently, Guido was objecting to the fact that Eulalia had agreed to return to Ely, rather than continue to try to catch something for the cooking pot. ‘You have not told me.’

‘That is because I do not know myself,’ said Michael. ‘Two days ago I received a message asking me to visit Ely as soon as possible. The summons sounded important, but not urgent, and I decided to wait until you were ready, so that we could travel together. Then, late last night, I received another message ordering me to come at once.’

‘So you packed my bags, hired horses and I was obliged to leave for Ely a day sooner than I had intended,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour: he had not been pleased to return to Michaelhouse after a long night with a querulous patient to learn that the monk had taken control of his travel plans. ‘Despite the fact that today is Sunday — our day of rest.’

‘It makes no sense for us both to make such a dangerous journey alone,’ said Michael, unrepentant. ‘Your students were delighted to be rid of you for a few days anyway, and you will have longer to work on that interminable treatise on fevers. You should thank me, not complain.’

‘What could be so urgent that the Bishop could not wait a day to see his favourite spy?’

‘Agent,’ corrected Michael. ‘And I cannot imagine what has distressed de Lisle. His second note was almost rude in its summons, and contained none of the fatherly affection he usually pens in missives to me.’ He prodded his horse gently with his sandalled heels to urge it forward. ‘But he will despair of me ever arriving if we delay much longer.’

With some reluctance, Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the spectacle of the cathedral and followed Michael to where a group of soldiers were dicing in the bridge’s gatehouse. One dragged himself to his feet when he heard visitors approaching, although his eyes remained firmly fixed on the far more interesting events that were occurring in the gloomy shadows of the lodge.

‘Business?’ he asked curtly, not looking at them. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave a sudden grin as, presumably, the dice rolled in his favour.

‘We have come to set fire to the cathedral,’ said Michael mildly. ‘And then I plan to rob the Guildhall of St Mary’s and make off with as much gold as I can carry.’

‘Enter, then,’ said the guard, pushing open the gate that led to the bridge, craning his neck so that he could still watch his game. ‘And go in peace.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Michael amiably. ‘Perhaps when I have finished with the cathedral and the guildhall I shall pay a visit to your own humble hovel and see whether you have any wives, daughters or sisters who might warrant my manly attentions. What is your name?’

‘I said you could enter,’ snapped the guard, becoming aware that the travellers were lingering when he wanted to return to his game. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Your name,’ snapped Michael, with an edge of anger in his voice that suddenly claimed the guard’s full attention. Aware that a confrontation was brewing, his comrades abandoned their sport and emerged into the sunlight to see what was happening. Eulalia and her brothers edged away, unwilling to be part of the argument.

‘Stephen,’ replied the guard nervously. ‘Why?’