A Summer of Discontent

‘By Father John, I suppose,’ said Leycestre, shaking his head. ‘He is always trying to prevent us from speaking to the strangers who pass through our city.’ He indicated the two young men with a wave of his hand. ‘These are my nephews, Adam Clymme and Robert Buk. They are of the same mind as me as regards the pitiful circumstances our peasants have been forced into by greedy landlords, but Father John dislikes us spreading the word.’

‘I imagine he is trying to protect you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are very vocal about your beliefs, and he probably does not want you telling one of the King’s spies that Ely is a hotbed of insurrection.’

‘Unfortunately, it is not,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘I wish it were, because then we might be able to set about rectifying the unjust situation that prevails here. But although everyone complains about high taxes and crippling tithes, no one is prepared to do anything about them.’

‘And you are?’

Leycestre regarded him warily. ‘That is a blunt question. Perhaps Father John was right to try to prevent us from speaking to you.’

‘Perhaps he was. Not everyone feels the same way as you do.’

Leycestre went back to his preaching. ‘All the folk here resent the heavy taxes and the fact that they owe at least three days’ labour each week to the Bishop or the priory — depending on who owns the land — before they can even begin to see to their own crops. But no one except us has the courage to speak out.’

‘Father John is certainly vocal in his way,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘He must have spoiled the monks’ morning mass.’

Leycestre did not smile back. ‘It is a matter of principle that we do not allow those fat, wealthy clerics to gain the better of us poor folk. It is a pity, though: I used to find prime in the cathedral a restful time, and now it has become a battle.’

‘Then do not take part in it,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry if I offend you, but competing to see who can shout the loudest is no way to behave. It is very childish.’

‘That is because you do not understand what is at issue here,’ said one of the nephews, pushing forward and thrusting his heavy, ruddy face close to Bartholomew’s. The physician was startled: he had forgotten the youths were there. ‘You only heard a lot of shouting, but-’

‘That is enough!’ came a sharp voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned to see that Agnes Fitzpayne had abandoned John, and was approaching them. She glowered menacingly at the hapless young man. ‘I have warned you about this kind of thing before, Adam!’

Adam fell back, reddening in embarrassment at the admonition.

‘Mistress Fitzpayne,’ said Leycestre pleasantly. ‘Good morning.’

‘A “good morning” for talking rebellious nonsense, you mean,’ she snapped. ‘Go on! Be off! All three of you have work to do in the fields, and making nuisances of yourselves in the cathedral will not get the crops harvested.’

‘Priory crops!’ spat Adam in disgust. ‘The monks have no right to force us to work in their fields for no pay. We have families to feed and bread to earn, and we have no spare days for labouring just so that the likes of them can get fat on our sweat.’

‘That may be so, but it is not for you to try to change things,’ said Agnes briskly, cocking her head meaningfully at Bartholomew in an unsubtle warning that strangers were present. ‘Go away before I take a broom handle to you.’

Reluctantly, the nephews slunk away, casting resentful glances over their shoulders to show their displeasure at being dismissed like schoolboys. Leycestre lingered, although he was evidently not in Agnes’s good books for spinning his disaffected thoughts to the priory’s visitors, because she turned her back on him when she addressed Bartholomew. She looked the physician up and down before speaking, as she might examine a fish she was considering buying.

‘I am surprised to see you here so early this morning,’ she began rudely. ‘You and your fat Benedictine friend trawled every tavern in the town last night, asking about Glovere. I did not expect to see you until at least noon, given that Ely ale is stronger than that pale stuff served in Cambridge.’

‘We did not drink that much,’ said Bartholomew, blithely ignoring the fact that he had felt less than lively when he had awoken that morning. ‘We wanted information, not ale.’

Agnes nodded. ‘I know what you wanted. You are trying to find evidence that Thomas de Lisle did not drown Glovere in the river.’

‘Much as I despise the man for oppressing the people he is supposed to care for, I do not think de Lisle killed Glovere … ’ began Leycestre.

Agnes said tiredly, ‘No, we all know what you think, Leycestre. You blame Glovere’s death on the gypsies. Personally, I do not know what to believe, so I suppose we will just have to wait and see what the official investigators — Brother Michael, Bishop Northburgh and Canon Stretton — discover.’ She turned her penetrating gaze on Bartholomew. ‘But meanwhile, I would be obliged if you would forget what you just heard.’