A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 1

Near the Isle of Ely, Cambridgeshire, August 1354

A light mist seeped from the marshes, and wrapped ghostly white fingers around the stunted trees that stood amid the wasteland of sedge and reed. In the distance, a flock of geese flapped and honked in panic at something that had disturbed them, but otherwise the desolate landscape was silent. The water, which formed black, pitchy puddles and ditches that stretched as far as the eye could see, had no ebb and flow, and was a vast, soundless blanket that absorbed everyday noises to create an eerie stillness. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of the College of Michaelhouse at the University of Cambridge, felt as though his presence in the mysterious land of bog and tangled undergrowth was an intrusion, and that to speak and shatter the loneliness and quiet would be wrong. He recalled stories from his childhood about Fenland spirits and ghosts, which were said to tolerate humans only as long as they demonstrated appropriate reverence and awe.

‘This is a vile, godforsaken spot,’ announced his colleague loudly, gazing around him with a distasteful shudder. Brother Michael was a practical man, and tales of vengeful creatures that chose to inhabit bogs held no fear for him. ‘It is a pity St Etheldreda decided to locate her magnificent monastery in a place like this.’

‘She built it here precisely because it was in the middle of the Fens,’ said Bartholomew, glancing behind him as a bird fidgeted noisily in the undergrowth to one side. The causeway along which they rode ran between the thriving market town of Cambridge and the priory-dominated city of Ely, and was often used by merchants and wealthy clerics. Thus it was a popular haunt for robbers – and four travellers comprising a richly dressed monk, a physician with a well-packed medicine bag, and two servants would provide a tempting target. ‘St Etheldreda was fleeing a husband intent on claiming his conjugal rights, and she selected Ely because she knew he would not find her here.’

‘Did it work?’ asked Cynric, Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, who sat in his saddle with the ease of a born horseman. Tom Meadowman, Michael’s favourite beadle, rode next to him, but white-knuckled hands on the reins and his tense posture indicated that he was unused to horses and that he would just as soon be walking.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The legend says that she fled from the north country to the Fens almost seven hundred years ago. Her husband, the King of Northumbria, never found her, and she built her monastery here, among the marshes.’

‘She is one of those saints whose body is as perfect now as when it went into its tomb,’ added Meadowman, addressing Cynric but looking at Michael, clearly intending to impress his master with his theological knowledge. ‘Her sister dug up the corpse a few years after it was buried, and found it whole and uncorrupted. A shrine was raised over the tomb, and some Benedictine monks later came and built a cathedral over it.’

‘I know the story,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I am a monk of Ely, after all. But my point is that Etheldreda could equally well have hidden in a much nicer place than this. Just look around you. That we are riding here at all, and not rowing in a boat like peasants, is a testament to my priory’s diligence in maintaining this causeway.’

‘It is a testament to the huge tithes your priory demands from its tenants,’ muttered Cynric, casting a resentful glower at the monk’s broad back.

Since the Great Pestilence had swept through the country, claiming one in three souls, there had been fewer peasants to pay rents and tithes to landowners. Inevitably, the landowners had increased their charges. At the same time the price of bread had risen dramatically but wages had remained low, so there was growing resentment among the working folk toward their wealthy overlords. Cynric sided wholly with the peasants, and seldom missed an opportunity to point out the injustice of the disparity between rich and poor to anyone who would listen.

Meadowman shot his companion an uneasy glance, and Bartholomew suspected that while he might well agree with the sentiments expressed by Cynric, he was reluctant to voice his support while Michael was listening. Besides being the Bishop of Ely’s most trusted agent, a Benedictine monk, and, like Bartholomew, a Fellow of Michaelhouse, Brother Michael was also the University’s Senior Proctor. He had recently promoted Meadowman to the post of Chief Beadle – his right-hand man in keeping unruly students in order. Meadowman enjoyed his work and was devoted to Michael, and he had no intention of annoying his master over an issue like peasants’ rights. Cynric, on the other hand, had known Michael for years, and felt no need to whisper his radical opinions.

‘Between the Bishop and the Prior, the people in Ely are all but bled dry,’ he continued. ‘The Death should have made the wealthy kinder to their tenants, but it has made them greedier and more demanding. It is not just, and the people will not tolerate it for much longer.’

Bartholomew knew that his book-bearer was right. He could not avoid hearing the growing rumble of discontent when he visited his poorer patients, and believed them when they claimed they would join any rebellion that would see the wealthy strung up like the thieves they were seen to be. Personally, he believed such grievances were justified, and thought the wealthy were wrong to continue in their excesses while the peasants starved.

Michael chose to ignore Cynric, concentrating on negotiating a way through one of the many spots where the road had lost its battle with the dank waters of the Fens. The track, for which ‘causeway’ was rather too grand a title, was little more than a series of mud-filled ruts that barely rose above the bogs surrounding them. Reeds and long cream-coloured grasses clustered at its edges, waiting for an opportunity to encroach and reclaim the barren ribbon of land that stood between Ely and isolation.

The route through the Fens was an ancient one, first established by Romans who did not like the fact that there were huge tracts of their newly conquered empire to which they did not have easy access. They built a road that ran as straight as the flight of an arrow across the marshes and the little islets that dotted them. In places, this ancient trackway could still be seen, identifiable by the unexpected appearance of red-coloured bricks or cleverly constructed drainage channels that kept the path from becoming waterlogged. There were bridges, too, which took the track higher in areas that regularly flooded, and from the top of these the traveller could look across a seemingly endless sea of short, twisted alder trees and reed beds that swayed and hissed in the breeze.

The people who lived in the Fens – and many considered the risk of flood and the marshes’ eye-watering odours a fair exchange for the riches the land had to offer – made their living by harvesting sedge for thatching, cutting peat to sell as fuel, and catching wildfowl and fish for food. Legally, any bird or animal that inhabited the marshes belonged to the priory, but the Fenfolk knew the area much better than their monastic overlords, and it was almost impossible to prevent poachers from taking what they wanted. Punishment, in the form of a heavy fine or the loss of a hand, was meted out to anyone caught stealing the priory’s game, but it was not often that the thieves were apprehended.

‘There is certainly a growing unease among the people,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still dwelling on Cynric’s comments and the hungry, resentful faces he had seen hovering in Cambridge’s Market Square the previous day. Men and women had come to buy grain or bread, only to find that prices had risen yet again and their hard-earned pennies were insufficient. ‘These days, a loaf costs more than a man’s daily wage.’

‘It is disgraceful,’ agreed Cynric, his dark features angry. ‘How do landlords expect people to live when they cannot afford bread? There is talk of a rebellion, you know.’

‘And “talk” is all it is,’ said Michael disdainfully, finally entering the conversation. ‘I, too, have heard discussions in taverns, where men in their cups promise to rise up and destroy the landlords. But their wives talk sense into them when they are sober. However, you should be careful, Cynric: not everyone is as tolerant as Matt and me when it comes to chatting about riots and revolts. You do not want to be associated with such things.’

‘It may be dangerous not to be associated with an uprising,’ muttered Cynric darkly. ‘If it is successful, people will know who stood with them and who was against them.’

‘In that case, you should bide your time and assess who is likely to win,’ advised Michael pragmatically. ‘Keep your opinions to yourself, and only voice them when you know which of the two factions will be victorious.’

‘I see you will be on the side of right and justice,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly. ‘Cynric is right. The people are resentful that the wealthy grow richer while the poor cannot afford a roof over their heads or bread for their children. The King was wrong to pass a law that keeps wages constant but allows the price of grain to soar.’

‘Cynric is not the only one who needs to watch his tongue,’ said Michael, giving his friend an admonishing glance. ‘When we arrive at Ely, you will be a guest of the Prior. He will not take kindly to you urging his peasants to revolt.’

‘You mean you do not want me to embarrass you by voicing controversial opinions,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘You were kind enough to arrange for me to stay at your priory so that I can use the books in the library to complete my treatise on fevers, but you want me to behave myself while I am there.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Michael. ‘Prior Alan is a sensitive man, and I do not want you distressing him with your unorthodox thoughts. And while we are on this subject, you might consider not telling him what you think of phlebotomy, either. He has all his monks bled every six weeks, because he believes it keeps their humours balanced. Please do not disavow him of this notion.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘In my experience as a physician, bleeding usually does more harm than good. If a man is hale and hearty, why poke about in his veins with dirt-encrusted knives and risk giving him a wound that may fester?’

‘The monks like being bled,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And they will not want you encouraging Alan to deprive them of something they enjoy.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘Why would they be happy to undergo unnecessary and painful surgery?’

‘Because afterwards they spend a week in the infirmary being fed with the priory’s finest food and wine. You will make no friends by recommending that the practice of bleeding be abandoned, I can assure you.’

Their conversation was cut short by a warning yell from Cynric. Meadowman fumbled for his sword, then fell backwards to land with a gasp of pain on the rutted trackway. Cynric whipped his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow into it, looking around wildly. As a crossbow bolt thudded into the ground near the horses’ hoofs, a stout staff miraculously appeared in Michael’s hand and Bartholomew drew his dagger. When a second bolt hissed past his chest, perilously close, Bartholomew’s horse panicked and started to rear and buck. Knowing he would be an easy target in his saddle, the physician abandoned his attempts to control the animal and slipped to the ground, anticipating the sharp thump of a quarrel between his ribs at any moment.

* * *

It was all over very quickly. Cynric drew his long Welsh dagger and spurred his pony into the undergrowth. Moments later he emerged with the crossbowman held captive. Meadowman sat up and grinned sheepishly, indicating that it had been poor horsemanship that had precipitated his tumble, not an arrow. Michael held his staff warily, ready to use it, while Bartholomew tried to calm his horse.

‘And the rest of you can come out, too,’ growled Cynric angrily, addressing the thick bushes that lined one side of the causeway. ‘Or I shall slit your friend’s throat.’

Evidently, Cynric’s tone of voice and gleaming dagger were convincing. There was a rustle, and two more men and a woman emerged to stand on the trackway. Still clutching his knife and alert for any tricks, Bartholomew studied them.

They were all olive skinned and black haired, and their clothes comprised smock-like garments covered in a colourful display of embroidery. Bartholomew imagined they were itinerant travellers from the warm lands around the Mediterranean, who drifted wherever the roads took them, paying their way by hiring out their labour in return for food or a few pennies. They looked sufficiently similar to each other for Bartholomew to assume they were related in some way, perhaps brothers and sister.

The three men were heavy-set fellows who sported closely cropped hair and a week’s growth of beard that made them appear disreputable. One of them stared at Cynric, his eyes wide with childlike terror, and Bartholomew saw that although he possessed the strong body of man, his mind was that of an infant. The woman moved closer to him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder to silence the beginnings of a fearful whimper. She was tall and, although Bartholomew would not have described her as pretty, there was a certain attractiveness in the strength of her dark features.

‘There is no need for further violence,’ she said in French that held traces of the language of the south. ‘You can see we are unarmed. Just take what you want and let us be on our way. We have no wish to do battle with robbers.’

Michael gaped at her. ‘It may have escaped your notice, madam, but you were shooting at us, not the other way around.’

The man who was still perilously close to the tip of Cynric’s knife turned angry eyes on the monk. He was the largest of the three, and had a hard-bitten look about him, as if he was used to settling matters with his fists. He wore a peculiar gold-coloured cap that was newer and of a much higher quality than his other clothes. Bartholomew wondered whether he had stolen it, since it seemed at odds with the rest of his clothing.

‘That is a lie!’ Gold-Hat shouted furiously. ‘We heard you coming, so we hid in the undergrowth to wait for you to pass. Then your servants spotted us and immediately drew their weapons.’

‘That is not what happened!’ exclaimed Michael, astonished. ‘We were riding along in all innocence, when you started loosing crossbow bolts at us.’

‘You fired first,’ said the woman firmly. ‘We are not robbers.’

‘You look like robbers,’ said Meadowman bluntly. He inspected their clothes with the uneasy, disparaging curiosity of an untravelled man encountering something with which he was unfamiliar.

‘I will not stand here and listen to this–’ began Gold-Hat angrily, and rather rashly, given that Cynric’s dagger still hovered dangerously close to his neck. The woman silenced him with a wave of her hand – although the prod of Cynric’s weapon may also have had something to do with the sudden cessation of furious words – and turned to Michael, addressing him in a controlled and reasonable tone of voice.

‘We are respectable folk, who have come to Ely to hire out our services for the harvest. The priory owns a great deal of land and casual labour is always in demand at this time of year. We are not outlaws.’ She looked Michael up and down as if she thought the same could not be said for him.

‘Do I look like the kind of man to rob fellow travellers?’ demanded Michael, tapping his chest to indicate his Benedictine habit. ‘I am a monk!’

‘Why do you imagine that exonerates you?’ asked the woman in what seemed to be genuine confusion. ‘In my experience, there are few folk more adept at stealing from the poor than men of the Church.’

‘That is certainly true,’ muttered Cynric, sheathing his weapon. Gold-Hat immediately moved away from him, rubbing his neck where the blade had nicked it and glowering at the Welshman in a way that indicated he would be only too willing to restart the fight.

‘No harm has been done,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Michael bristle with indignation. Arguing about who was or who was not a robber in the middle of the Fens was a pointless exercise, and the longer they lingered, the greater were the chances that they might all fall victim to a real band of brigands. ‘There was a misunderstanding: few people can hide successfully from Cynric, and he mistook your caution for hostile intent. I suggest we acknowledge that we were lucky no one was hurt, and go our separate ways.’

‘Very well,’ said the woman stiffly. ‘I suppose my brothers and I can agree to overlook this incident. As I said, we are honest folk, and only want to go about our lawful business.’

‘And what “lawful business” would see you skulking all the way out here?’ demanded Michael tartly. ‘The priory has no fields to be harvested so far from Ely.’

‘We are only a mile or two from the city,’ protested Gold-Hat, still rubbing his throat. ‘And we are not obliged to explain ourselves to you anyway.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Four people in the Fens with a crossbow? It seems to me that you were thinking to fill tonight’s cooking pot with one of my Prior’s ducks. Or perhaps a fish.’

Gold-Hat pursed his lips, but said nothing, and Bartholomew suspected that Michael was right. There had been no need for people with honest intentions to hide in the undergrowth, and doubtless it had been Michael’s Benedictine habit that had prompted them to make themselves scarce. Had the sharp-eyed Cynric not been with them, Bartholomew and Michael probably would have passed by without noticing anything amiss, and the encounter would never have taken place.

‘Walk with us to Ely,’ the physician suggested pleasantly, determined to avoid any further confrontation. The Fens were full of fish and fowl, and he was sure the Prior would not miss the few that ended up in the stomachs of hungry people. However, he saw that Michael could hardly leave the gypsies where they were, knowing that they fully intended to steal from his monastery.

The woman regarded him soberly for a moment, then nodded reluctant agreement, apparently accepting this was the only way to terminate the encounter without either side losing face. She turned to stride along the causeway, indicating with a nod of her head that her companions were to follow. Bartholomew took the reins of his horse and walked with her, more to ensure she did not antagonise Michael than for the want of further conversation with her. Meanwhile, Cynric placed himself tactfully between the three brothers and Michael, leaving the monk to mutter and grumble with Meadowman at the rear.

‘Where are you from?’ Bartholomew asked the woman, thinking it would be more pleasant to talk than to stride along in a strained silence. ‘Spain?’

She glanced at him, as if trying to determine his motive for asking such a question. ‘I was born in Barcelona,’ she replied brusquely. ‘You will not know it; it is a long way away.’

‘I spent a winter there once,’ he replied, thinking back to when he had been a student and had travelled much of the continent in the service of his Arab master, learning the skills that would make him a physician. ‘It is a pretty place, with a fine cathedral dedicated to St Eulalia.’

She gazed at him in surprise, and then said thoughtfully, ‘I see from your robes that you are a physician, so I suppose you may have travelled a little. But, although I was born in Spain, my clan do not stay in one city for long. I have moved from place to place all my life.’

‘Do you like that?’ Bartholomew asked, certain that he would not. While life at Michaelhouse could be bleak, and Cambridge was often violent and always dirty, he liked having a room that he could call home. He recalled from his travels that he had loved the summer months, when he had wandered through exciting and exotic places, but that the enjoyment had palled considerably once winter had come. Sleeping in the open was no fun when there was snow in the air and hungry wolves howled all night.

She shrugged. ‘It is all I know.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him, where her brothers slouched three-abreast more closely than was comfortable. The slack-jawed lad seemed contented enough, but the other two were sullen and brooding, and clearly resented being deprived of their illicit dinner. Behind Cynric, Michael rode with his stout wooden staff clutched firmly in one meaty hand, as though he did not trust the would-be robbers to refrain from further mischief.

As they walked, the final wisps of mist disappeared as the summer sun bathed the marshes in a clean, golden light. The bogs responded by releasing a malodorous stench of baked, rotting vegetation, so strong that it verged on the unbreathable.

‘No wonder so many Ely folk complain of agues in July and August,’ said Bartholomew, taking a deep breath and coughing as the stinking odour caught in his throat. ‘This fetid air must hold all manner of contagions.’

The woman agreed. ‘We visit Ely most summers, and I have never known an area reek so.’

‘How big is your clan?’

She shot him another suspicious glance. ‘There are twenty-one of us, including seven children. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I have not set foot outside Cambridge since last summer, and it is good to meet new people,’ replied Bartholomew with a smile. ‘Did you say your three companions are your brothers?’

She jerked a thumb at the man with the gold hat. ‘He is Guido. He will become king soon.’

‘King?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly, hoping he was not about to be regaled with details of some treasonous plot. There was always someone declaring he had a better right to the English throne than Edward III, but few lived to press their claims for any length of time.

The woman smiled for the first time. ‘It is not a word that translates well. He will become the leader of the clan when our current king dies.’

‘You sound as though you think that will not be long.’

She nodded sadly. ‘Our uncle is becoming more frail every day, and I do not think he will see the harvest completed. Then Guido will take his place.’

Bartholomew glanced at Guido, thinking that the surly giant who glowered resentfully at him would make no kind of ‘king’ for anyone, and especially not for a group of itinerants who needed to secure the goodwill of the people they met. Guido seemed belligerent and loutish; Bartholomew imagined the clan would do better under the rule of the more pleasant and intelligent woman who walked at his side.

‘The others are Goran and Rosel,’ she continued. ‘Rosel is slow-witted, but, to my people, that means he is blessed.’

‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘Why is that?’

‘He has dreams sometimes, which we believe is the way the spirits of our ancestors communicate with us. They have chosen him to voice their thoughts, and that makes him special.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Bartholomew, becoming more interested in the gypsies’ customs.

‘Eulalia.’ She smiled again when she saw the understanding in his face. ‘Yes, I was named for the saint in whose city I was born.’

They continued to talk as they neared Ely. Michael’s staff was still at the ready, and the three brothers were tense and wary, evidently trusting the monk no more than he did them. Cynric began to relax, though, and leaned back comfortably in his saddle with his eyes almost closed. To anyone who did not know him, he appeared half asleep, but Bartholomew knew he would snap into alertness at the first sign of danger – long before anyone else had anticipated the need for action. Next to him, Meadowman had followed Bartholomew’s example and was leading his horse, relieved not to be sitting on it.

Michael took the lead when they reached a shiny, flat expanse of water that had invaded the causeway. His horse objected to putting its feet into the rainbow sheen on its surface, and disliked the sensation of its hoofs sinking into the soft mud. It balked and shied, and only Michael’s superior horsemanship kept the party moving.

Finally, they were on firm ground again – or at least ground that was not under water – and the causeway stretched ahead of them, a great black snake of rutted peat that slashed northwards. Ahead of them stood the bridge that controlled access from the south to the Fens’ most affluent and powerful city. It was manned by soldiers in the pay of the Prior, whose word was law in the area; they were under orders to admit only desirable visitors to his domain. However, because Ely was surrounded by marshes and waterways, anyone with a boat could easily gain entry, and although guards regularly patrolled, there was little they could do to bar unwanted guests.

As they approached the bridge, Bartholomew had a clear view all around him for the first time since leaving Cambridge. There was little to see to the south, west or east, but to the north lay Ely. The massive cathedral, aptly called ‘the ship of the Fens’ by local people, rose out of the bogs ahead. Its crenellated towers, distinguished central octagon and elegant pinnacles pierced the skyline, dominating the countryside around it. It looked to Bartholomew to be floating, as if it were not standing on a small island, but was suspended somehow above the meres and the reeds. He had been to Ely several times before, but this first glimpse of the magnificent Norman cathedral never failed to astound him.

‘Ely is a splendid place,’ said Michael, reining in his horse to allow them time to admire the scene in front of them. Ely was his Mother House, and he was justifiably proud of it. ‘It is the finest Benedictine cathedral-priory in the country.’

‘Peterborough is also splendid,’ said Bartholomew, who had been educated there before completing his education at Oxford and then Paris. ‘But the surrounding countryside is not so distinctive.’

‘Barcelona is more impressive than either of them,’ stated Eulalia uncompromisingly.

‘Ely’s setting is its one sorry feature,’ said Michael, ignoring her. ‘I cannot imagine why St Etheldreda’s followers did not grab her corpse and move it somewhere more conducive to pleasant living. They must have been deranged, wanting to continue to live in a place like this.’ He cast a disgusted glance around him.

‘It allowed them to live unmolested,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘If the causeway were not here, Ely would be difficult to reach. The monks wanted isolation for their religious meditations, and the Isle of Ely provides just that.’

‘But it puts us so far from the King’s court and influential institutions like the University in Cambridge,’ complained Michael. ‘When I first came here, as a young novice, I very nearly turned around and headed for Westminster instead. I was not impressed by the Fens. Then I saw the cathedral, and the wealth of the priory buildings, and I decided to stay. Given that I am now indispensable to the Bishop, I am confident I made the right decision.’

‘Why has de Lisle summoned you?’ asked Bartholomew, falling back to walk with him while the gypsies moved ahead. He saw that some kind of muttered argument was in progress – evidently, Guido was objecting to the fact that Eulalia had agreed to return to Ely, rather than continue to try to catch something for the cooking pot. ‘You have not told me.’

‘That is because I do not know myself,’ said Michael. ‘Two days ago I received a message asking me to visit Ely as soon as possible. The summons sounded important, but not urgent, and I decided to wait until you were ready, so that we could travel together. Then, late last night, I received another message ordering me to come at once.’

‘So you packed my bags, hired horses and I was obliged to leave for Ely a day sooner than I had intended,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour: he had not been pleased to return to Michaelhouse after a long night with a querulous patient to learn that the monk had taken control of his travel plans. ‘Despite the fact that today is Sunday – our day of rest.’

‘It makes no sense for us both to make such a dangerous journey alone,’ said Michael, unrepentant. ‘Your students were delighted to be rid of you for a few days anyway, and you will have longer to work on that interminable treatise on fevers. You should thank me, not complain.’

‘What could be so urgent that the Bishop could not wait a day to see his favourite spy?’

‘Agent,’ corrected Michael. ‘And I cannot imagine what has distressed de Lisle. His second note was almost rude in its summons, and contained none of the fatherly affection he usually pens in missives to me.’ He prodded his horse gently with his sandalled heels to urge it forward. ‘But he will despair of me ever arriving if we delay much longer.’

With some reluctance, Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the spectacle of the cathedral and followed Michael to where a group of soldiers were dicing in the bridge’s gatehouse. One dragged himself to his feet when he heard visitors approaching, although his eyes remained firmly fixed on the far more interesting events that were occurring in the gloomy shadows of the lodge.

‘Business?’ he asked curtly, not looking at them. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave a sudden grin as, presumably, the dice rolled in his favour.

‘We have come to set fire to the cathedral,’ said Michael mildly. ‘And then I plan to rob the Guildhall of St Mary’s and make off with as much gold as I can carry.’

‘Enter, then,’ said the guard, pushing open the gate that led to the bridge, craning his neck so that he could still watch his game. ‘And go in peace.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Michael amiably. ‘Perhaps when I have finished with the cathedral and the guildhall I shall pay a visit to your own humble hovel and see whether you have any wives, daughters or sisters who might warrant my manly attentions. What is your name?’

‘I said you could enter,’ snapped the guard, becoming aware that the travellers were lingering when he wanted to return to his game. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Your name,’ snapped Michael, with an edge of anger in his voice that suddenly claimed the guard’s full attention. Aware that a confrontation was brewing, his comrades abandoned their sport and emerged into the sunlight to see what was happening. Eulalia and her brothers edged away, unwilling to be part of the argument.

‘Stephen,’ replied the guard nervously. ‘Why?’

‘You are worthless,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You should not be allowed the responsibility of gate duty. I shall recommend that my Prior replaces you as soon as possible.’

Stephen sneered insolently. ‘The Prior will have more important things on his mind than the likes of me, Brother. Like how he can help Bishop de Lisle evade the hangman’s noose.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael testily. ‘Do not try to divert me with lies.’

‘Not lies, Brother,’ replied another guard, who had straw-coloured hair and thick lips that did not cover his protruding front teeth. ‘De Lisle stands accused of murdering a man called Glovere. The Bishop claims Glovere killed himself, but Glovere’s folk say he is lying. They accused him on Friday – two days ago now.’

Michael stared at them, while Bartholomew saw in Stephen’s triumphant, spiteful smile that his comrade was telling the truth. Stephen appeared to be genuinely delighted that a powerful and probably unpopular landlord had been accused of so serious a crime.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Michael eventually.

Stephen shrugged. ‘Believe what you like, Brother. But de Lisle is accused of murdering the steward of a woman he disliked – and that is as true as you are standing there in front of me. The whole town is agog at the news. Go ahead, and see for yourself.’

Once they were through the gate, it was a short ride along the remaining section of causeway to the city of Ely. Michael said little as they hurried past the outlying farmsteads and strip-fields, although Cynric and Meadowman muttered piously to each other about the ruthless and undisciplined behaviour of bishops who considered themselves above the law. Bartholomew sensed Michael’s unease, and left the monk alone with his thoughts. The gypsies, who confirmed the soldiers’ claim that Ely was indeed buzzing with the news of the Bishop’s predicament, slipped away to their camp on the outskirts of the city as soon as they could, the three men clearly relieved to be away from the monk and his companions. Eulalia hesitated before giving Bartholomew a brief smile and darting after them.

Bartholomew glanced at Michael as they drew near the first of the houses. The monk had clearly been appalled to hear that his mentor had been accused of a crime, but Bartholomew noted that he did not seem particularly surprised. The physician knew, as did Michael, that Thomas de Lisle had not been selected for a prestigious post like that of Bishop of Ely by being nice to people, and imagined that a degree of corruption and criminal behaviour was probably a requirement for holding a position of such power. However, most churchmen did not allow themselves to become sullied by accusations of murder, and Bartholomew suspected that the Bishop had miscalculated some aspect of his various plots and machinations. While grateful that he would be spending his time in the priory library, well away from the webs weaved by men like de Lisle, the physician was worried that Michael’s obligations as de Lisle’s agent would lead him into something sinister.

He pushed morbid thoughts from his mind, and looked around him. Ahead, on a low hill, stood the grey mass of the cathedral. At its western end was a vast tower, topped by four crenellated turrets. To either side were smaller turrets, separated by a glorious façade of blank arcading that Bartholomew knew was at least two centuries old. The section to the north-west was clad in a complex system of ropes, planks and scaffolding, and the physician recalled hearing rumours that it was ripe for collapse. The bells were ringing, an urgent jangle of six discordant clappers calling the monks to the office of sext – the daily service that took place before the midday meal.

At the cathedral’s central crossing, where the north and south transepts met the nave, was Ely’s best-known feature, and one of the most remarkable achievements of its day. Thirty years earlier, the heavy tower erected by the Normans had toppled, taking with it a good part of the chancel. The monks had hastened to repair the damage, and one of their own number had designed an octagonal tower. More famous architects had scoffed at the unusual structure, claiming that it would be too heavy for the foundations. But the gifted monk knew his theories of buttressing and thrust, and the octagon stood firm.

Clustered around the base of the cathedral, and almost insignificant at its mighty stone feet, was the monastery. This was linked to the cathedral by a cloister, and included an infirmary, a massive refectory, dormitories for the monks to sleep in, a chapter house for their meetings, barns, stables, kitchens, and a large house and chapel for the Prior. There was also a handsome guesthouse for the exclusive use of visiting Benedictines, known by the rather sinister name of the Black Hostry. All this was enclosed by a stout wall, except for the part that bordered an ancient and ruinous castle, which was protected by a wooden fence liberally punctuated with sharpened stakes.

At first, the only people Bartholomew saw were distant figures bent over the crops in the fields, but as he and his companions rode closer to the cathedral, the streets became more crowded. Besides the drab homespun of labourers, there were merchants, clad in the richly coloured garments that were the height of fashion in the King’s court – hose and gipons of scarlet, amber and blue, while their wives wore the close-cut kirtles that had many prudish clerics running to their pulpits to issue condemnations. Personally, Bartholomew liked the way the dresses showed the slender – or otherwise – figures of the women, and he thought it would be a pity if fashion saw the return of the voluminous garments he recalled from his youth.

For Ely’s lay population, the heart of the city was the village green. This grassy swath was bordered by St Mary’s Church, the cathedral, and the usual mixture of fine and shabby houses: the merchants’ large, timber-framed buildings that boasted ample gardens for growing vegetables; the poorer ones comprising shacks with four walls and a roof of sorts, clinging to each other in dishevelled rows.

The green was busy that Sunday morning, and a band of itinerant musicians played to a large gathering of townsfolk. Drums thumped and pipes fluted cheerfully, interrupted by bursts of laughter as a group of children watched the antics of a brightly clad juggler. A man was selling fruit from a barrel of cold water, shouting that a cool, juicy apple would invigorate whoever ate it, that it was more refreshing than wine. Bartholomew stopped for a moment, enjoying the spectacle of people happy on a summer day.

‘Come on, Matt,’ Michael grumbled. ‘I do not want to linger here while the likes of those guards are spreading malicious rumours about their prelate.’

‘At least you now know why de Lisle summoned you so urgently.’

‘We have only the claims of those incompetents on the bridge to go on,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not consider them a reliable indication of why my Bishop might need me.’

‘I see the crows have begun to gather,’ hissed a soft voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned and saw that they were being addressed by a man of middle years, who wore a green tunic with a red hood flung over his shoulders. He had shoes, too, although they were badly made and more to show that he was someone who could afford to buy them than to protect his feet from the muck and stones of the ground. ‘When a noble beast lies dying, a carrion bird always stands nearby, waiting for the end.’

‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘There are no crows nesting on this village green – they would find it far too noisy with all the unseemly merrymaking. Do none of these folk have work to do? I know it is Sunday, but no one should be at leisure when there are crops to be harvested.’

The sneer on the man’s face quickly turned to anger at Michael’s words. ‘Everyone has been in the fields since long before daybreak, Brother. They deserve a rest before they return to toil under the hot sun until darkness falls. But I am wasting my time explaining this – I cannot imagine you know much about rising before dawn.’

‘I rise before dawn every day,’ replied Michael indignantly. ‘I attend prime and I sometimes conduct masses.’

‘Prayers and reading,’ jeered the man. ‘I am talking about real work, using hoes and spades and ploughs. But why have you come to Ely, Brother? Is it to help the good Bishop escape this charge of murder? Or have you come to drive the nails into his coffin?’

‘You are an insolent fellow,’ said Michael, half angry and half amused at the man’s presumption. ‘My business here is none of your concern. Who are you, anyway?’

The man effected an elegant bow. ‘Richard de Leycestre. I owned land here before the price of bread forced me to sell it to buy food. So, now I am a ploughman, in the employ of the priory.’

‘And clearly resentful of the fact,’ observed Michael. ‘Well, your reduced circumstances are none of my affair, although I know there are many others like you all over the country. But you should not make a habit of slinking up to monks and insulting their Bishop, unless you want to find yourself in a prison. If you are a wise man, you will keep your thoughts to yourself.’

‘That is hard to do, when harsh landlords drive men to take their own lives because they cannot feed their families,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘And do not give me your sympathy, Brother, because I am certain you cannot recall the last time you were faced with an empty table at mealtimes.’

‘Not this morning, certainly,’ muttered Bartholomew, aware that Michael had fortified himself for the twenty-mile journey from Cambridge with a substantial breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, bread and some cold pheasant that had been left from the previous evening.

‘Who has taken his own life?’ demanded Michael. ‘Are you talking about this steward – Glovere – whom those rascally guards told me the Bishop is accused of killing? However, they also happened to mention that de Lisle maintains Glovere’s death was a suicide – which I am sure we will discover is the case.’

‘Not Glovere, although they died similar deaths,’ said Leycestre obliquely.

Michael sighed. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ The way he kicked his sandalled feet into the sides of his horse indicated that he had no wish to find out, either.

‘I am talking about Will Haywarde, who killed himself yesterday,’ said Leycestre, keeping pace with Michael’s horse. ‘Like Glovere, Haywarde died in the river.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the murky River Ouse, which meandered its way around the eastern edge of the town.

‘I see,’ said Michael, uncomprehending, but not inclined to learn more.

‘You should not listen to tales spun by the likes of those guards, though,’ Leycestre advised. ‘I do not believe that Bishop de Lisle has killed anyone. I think Glovere was a suicide, just like the Bishop says.’

‘I am sure he will be relieved to know he can count on your support,’ said Michael, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks a second time to hurry it along. It was no use – Leycestre merely walked faster.

‘The gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Leycestre. He cast a contemptuous glance to a group of people wearing embroidered tunics similar to Eulalia’s, who were watching the musicians on the green. ‘They say they came to help with the harvest, but since they arrived houses have been burgled almost every night.’

‘Do you have evidence to prove that these travellers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that it would be very stupid of the gypsies to indulge themselves in a crime spree as soon as they had arrived. It would be obvious who were the culprits, and his brief encounter with Eulalia told him that she had more sense.

Leycestre rounded on him. ‘The fact is that the day after these folk arrived, a house was broken into. And then another and another. Is this evidence enough for you?’

Bartholomew did not reply. He suspected he would be unable to convince the man that the spate of burglaries need not necessarily be related to the arrival of the gypsies, and knew it was simpler to blame strangers in a small town than to seek a culprit among long-term acquaintances.

‘And while these vagabonds strut openly along our streets, honest men like me are forced to labour like slaves in the Prior’s fields,’ continued Leycestre bitterly.

‘Go back to work, Master Leycestre,’ said Michael, making another attempt to leave the malcontent behind. ‘And I advise you again: take care whom you approach with your seditious thoughts, or your land might not be all you lose. The King is weary of demands by labourers for more pay.’

‘And labourers are weary of making them,’ Bartholomew heard Cynric mutter as Leycestre finally abandoned his quarry and went in search of more malleable minds. ‘And soon they will not bother to ask, when the answer is always no. So they will take what they want, permission or not.’

‘You be careful, too, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew, looking around him uneasily. ‘This is a strange city for us, and we do not know who might be a spy. I do not want to spend my time arranging your release from prison because you have voiced your opinions to the wrong people.’

‘I am always careful,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘But you should heed your own advice, because you are not a man to ignore the injustices we see around us either. I will keep my own counsel, but you must keep yours, too.’

He gave the physician a grin, which broke the mood of unease, and they rode on. Eventually, they reached the Heyrow, where the largest and most magnificent of the merchants’ houses were located. It was a wide street, with timber-framed buildings standing in a proud row along the north side and the stalwart wall of the cathedral-priory lining the south side. Two inns stood on the Heyrow – the Lamb was a huge, but shabby, institution with a reputation for excellent ale, while the White Hart was a fashionable establishment with two guest wings and a central hall.

Opposite the White Hart was the entrance to the priory called Steeple Gate, so named for the small spire on the half-finished parish church that was little more than a lean-to against the north wall of the cathedral. The Gate was located near the almonry, where food, and occasionally money, was distributed to the city’s poor. A cluster of beggars hovered there, jostling each other to be first to grab whatever the priory deigned to pass their way. Michael dismounted, pushed his way through them and hammered on the door.

Moments later, a pair of unfriendly eyes peered through the grille, and the door was pulled open with distinct reluctance.

‘Oh, it is you,’ said the dark-featured monk who stood on the other side. His face was soft and decadent, like an Italian banker’s, while a sizeable bulge around his middle indicated that he should either do more exercise or eat less at the priory’s refectory. ‘I thought it would not be long before you came to help the Bishop get out of the mess he has made for himself.’

‘I was summoned,’ said Michael haughtily, pushing open the door and easing his bulk through it. ‘And what are you doing answering gates, Brother Robert? I thought almoners were far too important to perform such menial tasks.’

‘It is Sunday sext – one of the times when we distribute alms to the poor,’ replied Robert, unpleasantly churlish. ‘I can hardly do that with the door closed, can I?’

‘This is Robert de Sutton, Matt,’ said Michael, turning to Bartholomew and indicating the monk with a contemptuous flick of his hand. ‘He is a famous man in Ely, because he demands a fee of three pennies from anyone wanting to pray at St Etheldreda’s shrine.’

Bartholomew gazed at Robert in disbelief. ‘You charge pilgrims to pray? But some of them have no money to give you. They are poor folk, who make their way here on foot because they are desperate, and can think of no other way to improve their lot.’

‘Then they do not gain access to St Etheldreda,’ said Robert with finality. ‘Maintaining an edifice like that is expensive, and pilgrims will wear it out with their kisses and their knees rubbing across its flagstones.’

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, giving Robert a withering glance. ‘We have no time to waste in idle chatter.’

‘Wait!’ ordered Robert. He nodded to Bartholomew and the two servants. ‘Who are these people? We do not let just anyone inside, you know.’

‘They are with me, and that is all you need to know,’ said Michael importantly, turning to leave. Robert dared to lay several plump fingers on the expensive fabric of Michael’s gown to detain him, which earned him an outraged glare.

‘The Bishop’s house was burgled a few nights ago,’ said Robert, withdrawing his hand hastily. ‘The Prior says that no strangers are to be admitted to the monastery unless they are accompanied by one of us.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh at the almoner’s slow wits. ‘They are accompanied by one of us. Me.’ He started to walk away, but then turned again. ‘What is this about the Bishop being burgled? What was stolen, and when did this occur?’

‘It was about ten days ago,’ replied the almoner, reluctantly yielding the information. ‘Nothing much was stolen. I expect the thieves anticipated gold, but de Lisle is deeply in debt, as you know, and there is little in his house worth taking.’

Michael poked his head back through the gate and gazed at the handsome house on the Heyrow, where the Bishop resided when he was in Ely. De Lisle could have stayed in the cathedral-priory, but the Bishop no more wanted a prior watching his every move than the Prior wanted a bishop loose in his domain. De Lisle’s renting of the house on the Heyrow was an arrangement that suited everyone.

‘He may be in debt, but he is not impoverished,’ said Michael defensively. ‘He still owns a considerable amount of property.’

‘Well, none of it was in his house when the burglars struck,’ argued Robert. ‘They took a silver plate and a ring, but nothing else. The rumour is that the gypsies, who are here to help with the harvest, are responsible.’

Bartholomew wanted to point out that the travellers would have to be either very rash or very stupid to start stealing the moment they arrived in the town, but he decided to hold his tongue, since he would soon be a guest in Michael’s Mother House. Meanwhile, the monk thrust the reins of his horse at the bemused Cynric, then shoved past Robert to the sacred grounds of the priory beyond.

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.’

Michael stepped forward as the Bishop approached, smiling a greeting. Bartholomew stood back, to allow Michael to speak to de Lisle in private, although the great man’s retinue showed no such consideration. They pushed forward to surround him and his agent, some elbowing others so that they might better see and hear what was happening. There were pages, clerks and retainers, all dressed in the sober livery of the Bishop’s household. They changed each time Bartholomew saw them, and there was only one face among the crowd that he recognised – that of de Lisle’s steward, Ralph. De Lisle was not an easy man to work for, and it was to Ralph’s – and Michael’s – credit that they had survived in his service for so long.

De Lisle had aged since Bartholomew had last met him, and the austere, arrogant face that the physician remembered was lined with worry and fatigue. His hair was greyer, too, with no trace of the dark brown of his earlier years. De Lisle was a man in his fifties, with a tall, upright bearing and a confident swagger. His hair was neatly combed around a small tonsure, and his black and white Dominican robes were made of the finest cloth money could buy. Not for de Lisle the sandals worn by most monks and friars; his feet were clad in shoes made from soft calfskin. Several rings – so large they verged on the tasteless – adorned his fingers, and a large cross of solid gold hung around his neck.

‘Michael! At last!’ exclaimed de Lisle, extending one beringed hand to be kissed. He gave Bartholomew a cool nod of recognition, then his attention returned to Michael. ‘Where have you been? I expected you yesterday.’

‘I was detained by pressing business in Cambridge,’ Michael replied vaguely, giving the proffered ring the most perfunctory of kisses, and indicating that while he might be the Bishop’s spy, he was a cut above the sycophantic ranks that clustered around him. Michael was an ambitious man, and it was promises of future promotion and power that induced him to remain in the Bishop’s service, not financial necessity.

‘I needed you here,’ said de Lisle sharply. ‘And when I want my people, I expect them to come to me at once.’

‘Well, I am here now,’ replied Michael, a little tartly. ‘How can I be of service?’

De Lisle took a deep breath and when he spoke his words came out in a rush. ‘I have been accused of the most heinous of crimes!’

‘So I have heard,’ said Michael expressionlessly.

De Lisle nodded a dismissal to the servants who crowded around him. Reluctantly, they moved away until only one man was left: Ralph, the steward, who looked rough and unkempt with his lousy hair and unshaven face. It was said that Ralph would do almost anything for his Bishop, and certainly anything for money. He sported a mouth full of black, broken teeth, and even cast-off clothes from a fashionable dresser like de Lisle failed to render him more attractive.

Bartholomew edged away with the others, having no desire to hear any secrets de Lisle might want to divulge to Michael. He was surprised, and not terribly pleased, to feel Michael’s restraining hand on his sleeve. He fought against it, but the monk’s grip intensified, and Bartholomew saw he would have to stay unless he wanted to tear his shirt. De Lisle hesitated before beginning his story, glancing uneasily at the physician.

‘Do not worry about Matt,’ said Michael. ‘He is as good a man as you will ever hope to meet, and has been my right hand in many a nasty case.’

‘Oh, no!’ muttered Bartholomew in dismay. ‘I came here to read, not to become embroiled in one of your investigations.’

‘Of course, none of these stories about me are true,’ said de Lisle, ignoring him. ‘They are lies, put about by my enemies to discredit me.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘What stories are being told and by whom?’

‘Do you know Lady Blanche de Wake?’ asked de Lisle. ‘She is the widow of the Earl of Lancaster and a close relative of the King. Her estates border mine, and she is constantly trying to steal a field here and a sheep there.’

‘Typical of the Lancasters,’ announced Michael. ‘They are a greedy, grasping brood. But how does she relate to this charge of murder?’

‘She has accused me of burning her tenants’ houses,’ said de Lisle indignantly. ‘At Colne.’

‘And did you?’ asked Michael casually.

Bartholomew glanced uncertainly at his friend, anticipating that de Lisle would not take kindly to such blunt questioning. But the Bishop apparently realised that he needed Michael’s good graces, and he bit back what had doubtless been a crisp response.

‘Yes and no,’ he said, exchanging a guilty glance with his steward. ‘Ralph and I had a slight misunderstanding one evening. He took something I said literally, when I was speaking figuratively.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael flatly. ‘One of those misunderstandings.’

‘But she has no evidence to prove I did it, and Ralph was very careful,’ de Lisle continued. ‘The case came to the courts, and the King ordered me to pay a fine of ninety shillings. He listened with great care to his kinswoman, but refused to hear my side of the story at all.’

‘He would,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘He is well known for showing partiality to his favourites. Did you pay the money?’

‘I did, even though I can scarce afford such a monstrous fine, but worse was to come. About ten days ago, Lady Blanche’s steward died here, in Ely, and she has accused me of killing him!’

Michael gazed at his Bishop, and Bartholomew held his breath, half expecting the monk to demand to know whether de Lisle had added murder to the crime of arson. But Michael merely regarded the prelate with sombre green eyes, rubbing the bristles on his chin as he did so.

‘And the Bishop had nothing to do with the death, before you ask,’ put in Ralph nastily, apparently believing that Michael hesitated only because he was searching for the right words to phrase the question. ‘In fact, there is no evidence that Glovere met his end by violence at all. It is obvious to me that he was in his cups and he fell in the river.’

‘He drowned, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Did anyone see him drunk or walking near the water?’

‘That is what I want you to find out,’ said de Lisle. ‘And then, at dawn yesterday, another man was found dead, floating near the hythes in the same river.’

‘Haywarde,’ muttered Bartholomew, recalling what the malcontent Leycestre had told them. ‘A suicide.’

‘Quite. But it is only a matter of time before that vile-minded rabble in the city claim that my Bishop killed him, too,’ said Ralph indignantly. ‘That is why he sent word for you to come yesterday.’ His stress indicated that he strongly disapproved of Michael’s tardiness.

‘Your task is to exonerate me from these malicious and wholly untrue charges,’ said de Lisle to Michael. ‘You must begin immediately; there is not a moment to lose.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But is there anything else I should know about this case? Have you and Blanche’s steward argued in public at any time? Did any of your household issue threats against the man?’

‘Glovere was a vile specimen of humanity,’ said de Lisle with distaste. ‘I have never known such a misery. All he did was complain; he was even unpopular among Blanche’s retinue.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Ralph. ‘He was hated intensely by anyone who knew him. Blanche loathed him, too, and she is only showing concern for him because he is dead.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘But neither of you has answered my question. Was Glovere the subject of threats from the Bishop’s household?’

‘I doubt we were any more hostile to him than the unfortunates in Blanche’s employ who were obliged to work closely with the fellow,’ said de Lisle ambiguously.

‘So, you did threaten him,’ surmised Michael thoughtfully. ‘That could prove awkward. What did you say, exactly?’

De Lisle gave a sigh. ‘It all happened two weeks ago – four days before his death. I happened to meet Blanche, here in the priory – she stays here when she visits her Ely estates, because it is more comfortable than the shabby manor house Glovere maintained for her. Naturally, I told her that I was disappointed with the King’s verdict over the burning of her tenants’ houses, and we started to argue.’

‘Glovere took part in the disagreement, even though it was none of his affair,’ elaborated Ralph. ‘He became abusive, and claimed that my Lord Bishop was the kind of man to father children and then abandon the mothers.’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. He kept his voice neutral, as though he did not know for a fact that the Bishop had indeed fathered children, and that Michael and Bartholomew had encountered one of them fairly recently.

‘I wonder what gave him that impression.’

‘The monks were appalled, both by the foulness of Glovere’s language and by his unfounded accusations,’ continued Ralph hotly, outraged on de Lisle’s behalf. ‘The only way my Bishop could shut him up was to threaten him with dire consequences if he did not.’

‘So, the entire priory heard you promising him harm,’ mused Michael, regarding the prelate gloomily. ‘This is not looking good at all.’

‘Even the most dim-witted Benedictine must have seen that the threat was made purely to silence him,’ said de Lisle testily. ‘No sane person could imagine it was issued in earnest.’

‘It is not the dim-witted and the sane I am worried about,’ said Michael. ‘It is the sharp-witted and the insane, who may well use this nasty little incident against you. Not all the monks here like you, and one may well have capitalised on the enmity between you and Blanche to have you accused of this crime.’

‘If it is a crime,’ suggested Bartholomew tentatively. ‘Ralph said that Glovere had simply fallen in the river. If that is true, then any threats to kill him are irrelevant.’

‘True,’ agreed de Lisle approvingly. ‘If Michael can prove that the man died in his cups, then there is no way Blanche or anyone else can substantiate this charge of murder.’

‘What about the man who died yesterday?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you quarrel with him, too?’

‘I had never heard of him before he was carried dripping to St Mary’s Church,’ said de Lisle. ‘I do not even recall his name. I have no idea what is happening here, but I do not like it at all.’

‘Will Haywarde,’ said Ralph. ‘He was a suicide, but you know how people let their imaginations run away with them. Mark my words, it will not be long before one of these silly monks puts two with two to get six.’

‘What about the theft from your house ten days ago?’ asked Michael of de Lisle. ‘Do you have any idea what happened there?’

De Lisle did not seem particularly interested. ‘The rumour is that the gypsies did that – the burglaries started in the city the day after they arrived, you see.’

‘If everyone is so convinced of their guilt, then why are they tolerated here?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Why are they not driven away?’

‘Because we need them for the harvest,’ explained de Lisle. ‘They undertake the heaviest and least popular work, and it is in no one’s interests to send them away now. People will just have to lock their windows and doors, and be a little more careful until they have gone.’

‘What was stolen from you, exactly?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were any documents missing?’

De Lisle smiled wanly at him. ‘I know what you are thinking: the burglary was political, rather than a case of random theft. But, fortunately for me, you are wrong. I had a number of sensitive documents on my desk, but these were ignored. I lost a silver plate and a ring – things that an opportunistic burglar would snatch because they are saleable and easy to carry.’

Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered the information.

‘You will prove me innocent of any involvement in these unfortunate deaths,’ instructed de Lisle when the monk did not reply. ‘And do it quickly. I cannot leave Ely until this is settled and I have business elsewhere that needs attending.’

Michael nodded. ‘Very well. I–’ But he was speaking to thin air. The Bishop had swung around and was stalking across the courtyard towards the cathedral, with his sycophants strewn out behind him as they hurried to catch up.

‘And this is the man to whom you have tied your ambitions?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He does not seem to be the kind of person who would remember favours done. In fact, I imagine he would expect loyalty, but then slit your throat when you have outlived your usefulness to him.’

‘You have not seen him in his best light,’ said Michael defensively. ‘He is a good man at heart. He was one of few bishops in the country who visited the sick during the Death, and he does pen a remarkable sermon.’

‘It occurs to me that he might be qualified to give one on his personal experience of murder,’ said Bartholomew nervously. ‘I hope you know that he may not be innocent of this crime, Brother. He denies it, but so do most killers, and I do not see him offering any good reasons as to why he could not have killed this Glovere.’

‘That is what I must find out,’ said Michael, turning to steer Bartholomew towards the Prior’s house. ‘I do not imagine it will take me long. I shall inspect the corpses of these drowned men this afternoon, assuming they are still above ground, and will lay the matter to rest once and for all.’

‘I suppose you want me to go with you,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘To see what clues might be found on the bodies.’

‘No,’ said Michael, opening the door that led to the Prior’s private garden and pushing his friend inside. ‘I want to introduce you to Prior Alan, and then I want you to spend your few days here reading about fevers. That is why you came, after all.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment. ‘You do not need the help of a medical man?’

Michael shook his head. ‘I have watched you often enough to manage perfectly well alone.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I am coming with you.’

The monk gave a humourless smile. ‘Thank you, Matt. I only wish you were as forthcoming in all the murders I am obliged to investigate. But this is a simple matter, and I do not need you.’

‘You do not want me involved,’ said Bartholomew, trying to read what the monk was thinking. ‘You are as suspicious of de Lisle’s protestations of innocence as I am, and you think you will protect me by not allowing me to help.’

‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘You travelled to Ely to indulge yourself in your unhealthy fascination with diseases, not to traipse around the city’s inns to learn how much these dead men had to drink before they stumbled into the river. You do your work and I shall do mine.’

‘I am coming with you,’ repeated Bartholomew, this time with determination. ‘You might need a good friend.’

Michael’s smile became gentle. ‘You were right the first time, Matt; I do not want you involved in this. It may lead to places you would not like, and it is better that I investigate alone.’

‘It is better that you investigate with me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I am not afraid of de Lisle. The worst that could happen is that I lose his favour and he tries to make my life uncomfortable at Michaelhouse.’

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘Discrediting you is not the worst he could do at all.’