A Summer of Discontent

‘He was not. But we have decent people, too. There are a handful of folk we would be better without, but which town does not have those? I am sure Cambridge has its share.’

‘It does,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘More than its share, if the truth be known.’

Agnes finished her ale and set the empty jug on the table, impressing Bartholomew with her ability to quaff the powerful brew as if it were milk. ‘I must go. My sister expects me to pray with her for that vagabond’s soul tonight — and he needs all the prayers he can get. Goodnight.’

Bartholomew watched her leave, then settled on the bench next to Michael. A cool breeze wafted through the window, and the gentle sound of the river lapping on the banks was just audible above the comfortable rumble of voices in the tavern: normal conversation had resumed because Leycestre had slipped into a drunken slumber and was no longer ranting. Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and saw that his friend had abandoned his attempts to prise information from the good people of Ely, and was merely enjoying his ale. He appeared relaxed and contented, and Bartholomew sincerely hoped the Bishop’s machinations would not bring him to harm. He closed his eyes. But that would be tomorrow. And tomorrow was another day.

Chapter 3

The following day was clear and bright, and the sun had burned away the odorous mist even before the office of prime started at six. Bartholomew stood in the nave, listening to the chanting of the Benedictines in the chancel, closing his eyes to appreciate the singing as it washed and echoed along the vaulted roof. The first rays of sunlight caught the bright glass in the windows, and made dappled patterns in red, yellow and blue on the smooth cream paving stones of the floor.

While the monks completed their devotions in the privacy of the chancel, which was separated from the nave by an intricately carved stone pulpitum, Bartholomew wandered through the rest of the church, admiring the soaring vaulting above the vast emptiness of the nave, so high that he could barely make out details of the ribs in the dusty gloom above the clerestory. Although every available scrap of wall space was covered in brilliantly hued paintings, and every niche boasted a statue of a saint or a cleric, the flagstones were bare and, apart from a rather cheap-looking altar that stood at the east end of the nave, there was not another piece of furniture in sight. Walking alone, with his footsteps echoing, Bartholomew began to feel oppressed by the great emptiness. Of Lady Blanche and her retinue there was no sign, and Bartholomew assumed they were not in the habit of rising early.

At the heart of the cathedral was the shrine to St Etheldreda. It was a box-shaped structure with a wooden coffin in the middle, covered with a dazzling mass of precious stones, so that it glittered and gleamed with its own light. A number of pilgrims lined up nearby, each ready to present three pennies to a hulking lay-brother with hairy knuckles, who had evidently been selected for his ability to intimidate. One barefoot, ragged woman was sobbing bitterly, and Bartholomew supposed she did not have the necessary funds to buy access to the shrine. Bartholomew felt a surge of anger towards Almoner Robert for demanding payment for something that should have been open to all.

At the west end of the nave were a pair of matching transepts, each decorated with intricate designs in a riot of colours, and adorned with so many statues of saints and biblical figures that Bartholomew felt overwhelmed by the presence of the silent host that gazed down at him with blank eyes. Everywhere he looked was another face. Some were familiar, and he saw that clever masons had used monks in the priory as models for their creations. William was St Edmund, while Robert was an evil-looking green man.

The south-west transept contained a font for baptisms, and a group of lay-brothers who had gathered there were taking advantage of the monks’ period of prayer by chatting in low voices. The north-west transept, however, was another matter. A half-hearted barrier in the form of a frayed rope suggested that people would be wise not to venture inside, although cracked flagstones and pieces of smashed masonry provided a more obvious deterrent. Bartholomew walked towards it and gazed upwards, noting the great cracks that zigzagged their way up the walls, and the peculiar lopsidedness of the wooden rafters above. A statue of an animal that looked like a pig leaned precariously overhead, as if ready to precipitate itself downward at any moment, while a couple of gargoyles seemed as though they would not be long in following. He recalled Alan saying that the building looked worse than it was, and thought the architect might well be underestimating the problem: to Bartholomew, it looked ready for collapse.