A Summer of Discontent

The cloisters ended in the beautiful carved door that opened into the cathedral. It was silent inside the great building, with no monastic offices in progress, and the nave abandoned by the parishioners of Holy Cross. Sunlight created patterns in the dust of the clerestory high above, and the blind eyes of saints gazed at them from every direction, as if disturbed by the footsteps that echoed as Bartholomew and Michael walked.

In contrast to the rest of the cathedral, the area surrounding St Etheldreda’s shrine was a hive of activity. People clustered around it, some kneeling, some standing, and prayers of all kinds were being spoken. Some pilgrims were awkward and self-conscious, whispering their entreaties almost furtively, as if they imagined that the great saint would never bother to listen to them and that their mere presence was presumptuous. Others had no such qualms, and their prayers were more akin to demands, often delivered with ultimatums.

De Lisle’s were among the latter. He knelt on a velvet cushion at the shrine’s head, holding the jewelled ring that he promised would be St Etheldreda’s if she would only free him from his predicament. Evidently, the deal was to be payment on delivery, because the Bishop replaced it on his finger before leaving.

Also among the multicoloured throng that surrounded the tomb was Guido, holding his gold hat awkwardly in his hands. Next to him Eulalia was kneeling on the floor with her hands pressed together in front of her and her large dark eyes fixed solemnly on the saint’s wooden coffin. After a few moments, she rose and walked away, her brother at her side. When she saw Bartholomew her eyes lit with pleasure.

‘I did not expect to see you today,’ she said, coming towards him with a smile. ‘I thought you would be busy investigating the death of the almoner.’

‘We are,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But first, we wanted to see whether Robert’s untimely demise has resulted in the lifting of the toll on the shrine.’

Eulalia nodded. ‘It happened at dawn this morning — Brother Henry petitioned Prior Alan to abolish the charge at prime. Henry is a good man. I thought it would take weeks for something like this to come about, but he had it all arranged in a trice. Three pennies was a lot for many people to pay, and it is good to come here as often as we like with no thought for the cost.’

‘And we need St Etheldreda at the moment,’ added Guido pugnaciously. ‘People keep accusing us of these burglaries, so I told her that she had better tell whoever is spreading these lies to stop. If she does not, then I will find out myself, and ensure that the culprit never utters another lie again.’ His face was ugly with anger.

Eulalia sighed in exasperation. ‘If you put our request like that, it would serve us right if she does not answer.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘There have now been at least ten burglaries in the city, and a lot of money has gone missing. I admit that some members of our group occasionally take a chicken or catch a fish when times are hard, but we do not arrive in a town and systematically burgle every house in it.’

‘It would be obvious it was us, if we did that,’ added Guido for Bartholomew’s benefit, just in case he had not understood. ‘And we are not stupid.’

‘You have not collected your black resin yet,’ said Eulalia, smiling shyly at Bartholomew. ‘It is waiting for you any time you want it.’

‘I cannot come today,’ said Michael, as though the offer were being made to him. ‘I am busy. But perhaps we could manage tomorrow. Keep a pot of stew bubbling over the fire, just in case. I will provide some wine, and we will drink a toast to the removal of Robert and his nasty fees.’

‘You live dangerously, Brother,’ said Eulalia, laughing at the way the monk had inveigled himself an invitation. ‘I do not think you should be seen celebrating the deaths of your fellows, no matter how much you disliked them.’

She walked away, the cloth of her skirt swinging around her fine ankles. Next to her, Guido looked like an ape, with his thick arms and slightly stooped stance. Bartholomew wondered how their mother could have produced two such different offspring, but supposed it was easy enough if there were different fathers. He was so engrossed in watching Eulalia that Michael had to nudge him hard in the ribs to gain his attention.

‘I said look at Father John,’ whispered the monk crossly. ‘It seems that the lifting of the toll has resulted in all manner of new supplicants.’