A Summer of Discontent

As always, when he entered Ely Cathedral-Priory’s grounds, Bartholomew was astonished at the difference a wall could make. On the city side, Ely was all colour and bustle. The houses were washed in pinks, greens and golds, and the gay clothes of the merchants and their apprentices added brilliance to a scene already rich with life and vitality. People ran and shouted, and horses and carts clattered. The streets possessed thick, soft carpets of manure and spilled straw, and the atmosphere in the heat of midday was a pungent mixture of sewage, the sulphurous stench of the marshes and the sharper smell of unwashed bodies and animal urine.

But the priory side of the wall was a world apart. Monks and lay-brothers were dressed in sober black or brown, and no one hurried. Hands were tucked reverently inside wide sleeves, and heads were bowed as the monks spoke in low voices or were lost in their meditations. Bartholomew knew the kitchens would be alive with noise and movement, as the cooks struggled to prepare meals for more than a hundred hungry men, but in the carefully maintained grounds the scene was peaceful and contemplative.

In front of them, the cathedral rose in mighty splendour, with rank after rank of round-headed arches. Its smooth grey stones formed a stark contrast to the riot of colour in the houses in the Heyrow, and although there was a faint scent of cooking bread from the ovens, the predominant smell was that of newly mown grass.

‘I take it you do not like Brother Robert,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as he followed Michael towards the sumptuous house the Prior occupied. Michael had decided to see Bartholomew introduced to the Prior and settled in the library before beginning what promised to be a lengthy interview with de Lisle.

Michael grimaced. ‘As almoner, Robert thinks that dispensing a few scraps of bread to the poor — that would have been destined for the pigs anyway — makes him more important than the rest of us. And he has taken an irrational dislike to the Bishop.’

‘And why would that be?’ asked Bartholomew, unsurprised. While he did not actively dislike de Lisle, he certainly neither trusted nor admired him. The Bishop was too grand and haughty, and far too vindictive a man for Bartholomew’s taste.

‘Probably because Robert is devious and petty,’ replied Michael dismissively. ‘And because he is jealous of anyone better than him — which is most people, as it happens.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not think Robert’s dislike is anything to do with the fact that ten years ago Ely’s Prior — Alan de Walsingham — was chosen by the monks here to be the Bishop of Ely? Alan was ousted in favour of de Lisle, because de Lisle happened to be at the papal palace at Avignon at the time, and the Pope had taken a fancy to him. So Alan remained a mere prior, while de Lisle was made Bishop.’

‘I hardly think it happened like that,’ objected Michael testily. ‘De Lisle was appointed by the Pope, because the Pope thought he would make a better bishop than Alan. And he was right: de Lisle is an exceptional man.’

‘He is also a murderous one, if these rumours are to be believed. You should be careful, Brother: it could be dangerous to ally yourself with de Lisle when he has been accused of committing unforgivable crimes.’

‘Those accusations are malicious lies, probably put about by the likes of that Robert,’ said Michael.

‘I hope you are right. Do you think it is significant that the Bishop was burgled, and then finds himself accused of murder?’

Michael stared at him. ‘Should I?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps de Lisle sent one of his spies to discover who had the audacity to steal from him, and then dispensed his own justice to the culprit.’

Michael grimaced. ‘You are quite wrong.’ He frowned uneasily. ‘At least, I hope so. There is always someone who would like to see a bishop fall from grace, and it is possible that whoever burgled de Lisle’s house was looking for something that might do just that. Finding nothing, this accusation of murder was fabricated instead.’

‘You do not have any evidence to jump to that sort of conclusion,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do not try to make this case into one of your complex University plots, Brother. We are miles from Cambridge here.’

‘True,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘But clerics are just as good at creating webs of lies and intrigue as scholars, you know.’

Bartholomew caught the monk’s sleeve and pointed to a tall, silver-haired man who was hurrying towards them with a significant retinue of servants at his heels. ‘Here comes de Lisle now. He looks agitated.’

‘Of course he is agitated,’ said Michael. ‘So would you be, if half the town believed you guilty of murder.’