A Summer of Discontent

‘And you would be wise to oblige her,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Leycestre murmur.

‘Forget what, precisely?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The fact that I have just witnessed the unedifying spectacle of rival clerics trying to yell each other hoarse? Or the fact that Ely’s young men, like those in Cambridge, do not like harvesting crops?’

Agnes put her hands on her hips and regarded him closely. ‘You are one of that rabble of scholars from the University in Cambridge. I hear that the masters there engage in unnatural acts with animals, and that the students practise satanic rites in the churchyards after dark — when they are not murdering townsfolk, that is.’

‘Only when they are not roasting babies on spits in the Market Square,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering what scholars had done to earn such a peculiar reputation. From what he had observed during his brief sojourn with the residents of Ely, he thought they should concentrate on improving their own image before launching attacks on those of others.

‘Come, Leycestre,’ Agnes ordered, apparently uncertain whether or not the newcomer was jesting with her and not inclined to stay to find out. ‘We should make sure those feckless lads go to the priory’s fields and do their duty, or there will be trouble.’

As Bartholomew watched them hurry away, a sharp voice made him turn. It was Father John, his face dark with anger. ‘I told you not to talk to Leycestre and his nephews,’ he snapped, seizing Bartholomew’s arm angrily.

The physician pulled away, irked that the man should manhandle him. ‘You can tell me whatever you like, but I am not obliged to follow any of your orders. And they spoke to me first, not the other way around.’

‘They came to ascertain whether you are one of them,’ said John bitterly. ‘Foolish men! It is the surest way to place a noose around their necks — and mine, if they implicate me in their plans. It was lucky Agnes arrived when she did. Doubtless she stopped them from saying anything that might have been dangerous.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew testily, weary of the threats and assumptions that Ely’s citizens seemed happy to bandy about. ‘What is so dangerous about a conversation in a church?’

‘Rebellion,’ said John in a whisper, glancing around him as if the King’s spies might be lurking behind the cathedral’s pillars. ‘Sedition and bloody uprising. The people have grown tired of bending under the yoke of harsh landlords, and they are ready to rise against them. Leycestre and his nephews are the leaders of the movement in Ely. I am not with them, of course; I shall have to wait to see which side will win before I choose one faction over the other.’

‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘But I am no rabble rouser, and I do not want to become involved in any such venture. You can tell your trio of rebels to leave me alone.’

‘Not my trio,’ said John hastily. ‘But you will say nothing of this to the monks, especially Almoner Robert, or he will have them imprisoned. So, the matter is closed. Are we agreed? I see you carry a medicine bag. Are you a physician?’

‘Yes — I am here to read in the monks’ library; I have no time to work on horoscopes,’ Bartholomew said quickly before he was inundated with requests in that quarter.

‘I do not believe in such nonsense,’ said John dismissively. Bartholomew warmed to him a little. ‘I am interested in acquiring your services on another matter. I will pay you for your time; I know how physicians like their gold. Are you interested?’

‘It depends what you want me to do,’ said Bartholomew warily. ‘I do not cut hair or shave beards like a surgeon, and I certainly do not bleed people.’

‘I want you to give me your opinion,’ replied John mysteriously. ‘I want you to tell me whether a man died from his own hand or by accident. Can you do that? I know University men use dead bodies to further their knowledge of anatomy, so you must be familiar with corpses.’

‘Ask a local physician,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to spend his precious time examining bodies when he could be in the library. ‘What about Brother Henry?’

‘Henry is a good man, but he knows nothing about the dead,’ said John.

‘Then what about a surgeon? There must be one in Ely.’

‘Barbour, the landlord of the Lamb, bleeds us and cuts our hair while we recover. But I do not trust a surgeon who is better with hair than he is with veins. I would rather hire you.’

‘Who do you want me to look at?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I have already examined Glovere in the Bone House.’

‘And what did you find?’ asked John with keen interest. ‘Did he drown by accident, was it suicide, or did someone do away with him, as Lady Blanche would have us believe?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing Michael were with him. He did not like the fact that the priest already seemed aware that Glovere’s death was not all it seemed, and he did not like to imagine how.