A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 2

The Prior of the Benedictine monastery at Ely was an important man, and his living quarters reflected that fact. Set aside for his personal use was a handsome house with its own chapel and kitchen, while at right angles to it was the Prior’s Great Hall, a sumptuous building with a lofty-ceilinged room that was almost as large as the one that served the entire community. The house itself was roofed with baked red tiles imported from the north country, and its plaster walls were neat and clean. Real glass in the windows allowed the light to filter into the rooms where the great man worked, slept and ate, although these were thrown open so that a cooling breeze whispered through the documents on the tables and billowed among the gorgeous hangings on the walls.

Originally, Ely had been an abbey, with an abbot to rule and a prior as his second-in-command. But when the post of Bishop of Ely had been created by Henry I, the position of abbot had been abolished – an abbot and a bishop in the same diocese would have been impractical. The Bishop then ran the diocese, while the Prior controlled the monastery. Without an abbot, Ely became a ‘cathedral-priory’, with the all-important ‘cathedral’ denoting the fact that although the foundation boasted no abbot, it was a cut above the average priory.

Prior Alan de Walsingham was sitting in his solar, a light and airy room that afforded a pleasant view over his private gardens. The sweet scent of ripening apples and newly mown grass drifted through the windows, along with the sounds of the priory – the chanting of a psalm in the chapter house, the distant voices of lay-brothers hoeing the vineyards, the clatter of pots from the kitchens and the coos of birds roosting in the dovecote.

Bartholomew had seen Alan officiating at masses when he had visited Ely on previous occasions, but he had never met him in person. From afar, Alan had given an impression of frailty, and his voice had barely been audible in the massive vaults of the cathedral. But as he glanced up from his work, Bartholomew could see that Alan was not frail at all. He was a slight man in his mid-fifties with a head of thick, grey hair and the kind of wiry strength that came from clambering over scaffolding and supervising the building work for which he was famous. He was generally regarded as one of the most talented architects in the country, and had personally overseen the raising of the cathedral’s new tower and the splendid Lady Chapel. It was not easy keeping a band of masons and their apprentices in order, and that Alan had done so over a period spanning more than thirty years said a good deal about the strength of his character, as well as his body.

‘Ah, Michael,’ said Alan, presenting his ring for Michael to kiss. ‘I imagine you are here because Thomas de Lisle has landed himself in trouble again?’

‘He says Lady Blanche de Wake is responsible for these accusations,’ replied Michael, making another perfunctory obeisance. He was never keen on acts of subservience, even to the Prior of his own monastery. ‘He assures me that he is innocent, and has ordered me to prove it.’

Alan regarded Michael worriedly. ‘I sincerely hope you did not accept such a commission. You have a reputation for tenacity, and if you explore this matter too closely, you will almost certainly discover that de Lisle did have a hand in this steward’s death.’

‘You believe the Bishop is guilty of murder?’ blurted Bartholomew, alarmed that even the Prior should consider the accusations a matter of fact. Michael dug him in the ribs with an elbow, but it was too late. The Prior had already fixed Bartholomew with keen blue eyes.

‘I know harsh words were exchanged between Glovere and de Lisle, and I know that de Lisle is not a man to allow such insults to pass unpunished. If de Lisle decided that the world would be a better place without Glovere in it, then it is not inconceivable that Glovere’s days would have been numbered.’ Alan’s expression was sombre.

‘But he is a bishop,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s warning prods and persisting in trying to learn why everyone was so willing to believe de Lisle capable of the most violent of crimes. ‘I do not think that bishops merrily indulge themselves in murdering people they do not like.’

‘No,’ agreed Alan. ‘They pay someone else to do it for them. But you seem to believe these accusations are unjust – which is encouraging. I do not like de Lisle personally, but no monk wants to see a man of the Church in this kind of trouble, because it reflects badly on the rest of us. I should be delighted to see him exonerated. Do you have information that might help?’

Bartholomew shook his head uncomfortably. ‘Forgive me, Father Prior. I should not have spoken. I was merely surprised that even you believe a high-ranking churchman could be capable of murder.’

Alan’s smile was gentle. ‘You must forgive my manners, too. Michael told me to expect you this week: you are Doctor Bartholomew from Michaelhouse, who is writing a treatise on fevers.’

‘A treatise that will shake Christendom to its very foundations,’ said Michael dryly. ‘A more fascinating and thought-provoking work you could not hope to match – and I should know, because I have been treated to lengthy extracts from it over the last three years. The details regarding different types of phlegm defy description.’

‘Really?’ said Alan warily. ‘I hope there are no sacrilegious sections in this work. Medical men are occasionally driven to present their views on matters best left to monastics, and I do not want my priory associated with wild and heretical theories.’

Michael grinned. ‘There is a physician in Salerno who claims that God’s removal of Adam’s rib to make Eve would be a fatal operation and therefore impossible.’

Alan was visibly shocked. ‘Lord help us!’ he exclaimed, crossing himself. He gazed at Bartholomew. ‘If you want to write that sort of seditious nonsense, please do not do it here. This is a holy place, where every thought and deed is dedicated to God.’

‘Even murder?’ muttered Bartholomew.

Alan did not hear him. ‘I am lucky in my own physician. Brother Henry de Wykes is a god-fearing and sensible fellow, who would never offend our holy Church. He harbours no irreverent notions.’

The priory’s physician sounded dull and tedious, and Bartholomew was surprised when Michael smiled fondly. ‘Henry was kind to me when I was a novice. You will like him, Matt.’

‘Michael tells me that you wish to read books in Ely that are unavailable in Cambridge,’ said Alan to Bartholomew. ‘However, I should warn you that while you are here you will almost certainly hear de Lisle criticised by my monks. He is not popular in the priory.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. He immediately wished he had not spoken, suspecting that a good part of their antipathy was due to the fact that the Pope had appointed de Lisle as Bishop of Ely when the monks themselves had elected Alan.

Alan looked modest. ‘No particular reason,’ he said, ‘although his personality does not help. He is arrogant and condescending, and that kind of attitude does not win friends. He is no better and no worse than most bishops I know, although I wish one of my monks had not taken it upon himself to throw in his lot quite so fully with such a man.’

He turned his piercing gaze on Michael, who shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘I have been in de Lisle’s service for five years, and during that time I have done nothing more than keep the University in order on his behalf,’ said Michael defensively. ‘It is important that someone is working for the Church there.’

‘I agree,’ said Alan softly. ‘And you have done well. But now de Lisle has asked you to exonerate him from a charge of murder: that has nothing to do with the Church or your beloved University. I will not prevent you from acting as his agent, Michael – although as your Prior, I could – but I do not want my monastery associated with any fall from grace de Lisle might take.’

‘De Lisle will not fall–’ began Michael.

Alan raised a hand that was calloused and scarred from years of working with stone. ‘I know you hope your fortunes will rise by aligning yourself with de Lisle, and your success may well reflect favourably on our Order. But the Bishop might equally prove to be a dangerous ally. Be vigilant, and do not allow him to drag you down with him, should you fail to prove him innocent.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael stiffly.

‘It is a pity you responded to his summons in the first place,’ Alan went on with a sigh. ‘It would have been better if you had avoided the issue altogether, and remained safely in Cambridge.’

‘But I did not know what he wanted,’ objected Michael. ‘All I received were two messages, each instructing me to come immediately.’

Alan did not seem impressed. ‘Really, Michael! I expected more guile from you! You should have guessed that there was something amiss when de Lisle carefully omitted to mention the reason for these abrupt summonses.’

‘Well, it is done now, and I shall have to do the best I can,’ said Michael, a little sulky at the reprimand. ‘If he is innocent, I shall prove it for him.’

‘I suppose stranger things have come to pass,’ said Alan enigmatically. He turned to Bartholomew with a smile. ‘But let us talk of more pleasant things. What do you hope to find in our meagre library, Doctor?’

‘It is not meagre,’ said Bartholomew enthusiastically. ‘It has all the works of Avicenna, as well as Serapion’s Brevarium, Pietro d’Abano’s fascinating Conciliaton, Isaac Iudeaus’s Liber Febrium–’

‘A lot of books on medicine,’ interrupted Michael, seeing that his friend was quite prepared to present Alan with a complete list of the priory’s medical texts. ‘But Lord, it is hot today! Do you have any bona cervisia, Father, to slake a burning thirst?’

Alan rang a small silver bell that was on his table. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you asked for a jug of our famous ale.’ Before he had finished speaking, a servant entered. ‘Summon the Brother Hosteller,’ he instructed. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘The priory makes four kinds of beer, and bona cervisia is the best of them.’

After a few moments, during which time Michael waxed lyrical over the delights of Ely’s ale compared to other brews he had sampled all over East Anglia, the door opened a second time. The most distinguishing feature of the man who entered was his shock of grey hair, which had been sculpted into a bob around his tonsure. Bartholomew thought it made him look like an elderly page-boy. Around his neck he wore a cross made from a cheap metal, rather than the gold or silver favoured by most Benedictines of his elevated station. Bartholomew wondered whether the Brother Hosteller was one of those men who wore their poverty like badges, openly and ostentatiously, for all to see and admire.

The Brother Hosteller’s small eyes glittered with hostility when he spotted Michael reclining in the Prior’s best chair, and Bartholomew saw a similar expression cross Michael’s face. He supposed that Robert the almoner was not the only Ely monk with whom Michael had crossed swords.

‘William de Bordeleys,’ said Michael heavily, looking the monk up and down as he might a pile of dung. ‘You have been promoted, have you?’

‘I am now the Brother Hosteller,’ replied William grandly. ‘I am responsible for both guesthouses and the monks’ dormitory. It is an important post, and I am answerable only to Prior Alan and Sub-Prior Thomas. So, if you do not like it, you can go back to that stinking hell you seem to prefer to your own monastery.’

‘Michael will be with us for a few days,’ said Alan quickly. Bartholomew sensed he was adept at preventing arguments among his subordinates. ‘He will stay in the Black Hostry, where all our visiting Benedictines are quartered. I wanted Doctor Bartholomew to sleep in the Outer Hostry. However, we are anticipating a visit from Lady Blanche de Wake soon, and her retinue will require every bed we have there, so he cannot.’

‘But Blanche has accused de Lisle of murder,’ said Michael in surprise. ‘She cannot stay here!’

‘It may prove awkward,’ admitted Alan. ‘But we have no choice. We do not want to anger the King by refusing hospitality to his kinswoman.’

‘Since de Lisle prefers to stay in his own house when he is in Ely, he and Blanche may not even meet,’ said William. He spoke wistfully, as though he hoped they would, so that he could amuse himself by observing the consequences.

‘In a town the size of Ely?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘Do not be ridiculous, man! Of course they will meet.’

‘Then you should advise your Bishop to control himself,’ said William tartly. ‘He will do himself no favours if he storms up to her and calls her names–’

‘When is she due to arrive?’ asked Alan. ‘Soon?’

‘Probably not for some days,’ replied William, a little annoyed by the interruption, ‘although you stipulated that we must be ready for her at any time. She says she wishes to be in the city when de Lisle is hanged, so she will not be long.’

Alan turned to Bartholomew before Michael could respond to William’s provocative statements. ‘Because of Blanche’s impending visit I am afraid the only available bed is in the infirmary with our physician. Will that be acceptable? It is near the library.’

‘I shall see to it,’ said William, without waiting for Bartholomew’s answer. He regarded Michael coolly. ‘And I imagine he will be wanting a jug of bona cervisia, given that the sun is shining and he always claims a thirst if the day is warm – or if it is cold, come to that.’

‘He does indeed,’ said Michael, meeting the hostile gaze with a glare of his own. It was William who looked away first. The hosteller glanced at Alan, who gave a nod of dismissal, and stalked out.

Michael regarded Alan with questioning eyebrows.

‘William was the most senior monk when the last incumbent passed away,’ said Alan defensively. ‘He was not my choice as hosteller, either, but it was his right and I had to appoint him.’

‘He wants to be Prior when you die,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘He is ambitious.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael had no small ambition himself.

‘I must be very wicked for God to give me men like William and Robert in my flock,’ sighed Alan. He glanced at Michael in a way that indicated he might as well add him to the list of undesirables, too.

‘Perhaps God does not like the designs of your buildings,’ suggested Michael rudely. ‘That octagon is a peculiar thing; I have never seen anything quite like it.’

‘That is the point,’ said Alan, offended. ‘It is unique.’

‘It is a masterpiece,’ said Bartholomew warmly. ‘You must have a remarkable understanding of the properties of force and thrust to invent such a fabulous–’

‘William is devious,’ interrupted Michael, still agitated by his exchange with the hosteller. ‘And Robert is a snivelling liar, who is mean with the alms intended for the poor.’

‘They are not popular,’ agreed Alan, reluctantly giving his attention to Michael. It was clear he would rather discuss his octagon. Bartholomew did not blame him. ‘The other monks do not like them much.’

‘Your sub-prior, Thomas de Stokton, is hardly destined for a place in heaven, either,’ remarked Michael, raising his bulk from the chair and strolling to the window, where there was a bowl of nuts. He took a handful and slapped them into his mouth. ‘He is a selfish glutton, who would benefit from a few weeks away from the dining table.’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael, whose own girth was by no means modest. He imagined the sub-prior must be of almighty proportions indeed to attract that kind of criticism from the monk.

‘We finished painting the octagon last week,’ said Alan, smiling hopefully at Bartholomew and eager to talk about his life’s work to an appreciative listener. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘Very fine,’ said Michael flatly, although Bartholomew knew he had not yet been inside the cathedral to see it. The monk rifled carefully through the Prior’s bowl, selecting the best nuts with a concentration and attention to detail he would never lavish on any aspect of architecture.

Alan ignored him, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘Do you know the story of the octagon? The original cathedral tower was too heavy for its foundations, and it collapsed in 1322. Something lighter and smaller was required, but it had to be a design that was both impressive and elegant. The octagon was my solution.’

‘What will you do now it is finished?’ asked Michael, jaws working vigorously as he rooted in the bowl. ‘Will you shore up the foundations on the unstable north-west transept? I saw the scaffolding around that when we arrived. It looks as though it is ready to tumble down at any moment.’

‘But it is not,’ said Alan. ‘It is more stable than it appears, although I do not mind people believing it is about to collapse.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, failing to see the advantage in making people think their cathedral was about to fall around their ears.

Alan was wistful. ‘Because then they might ask me to rebuild it. But as things stand, I am now obliged to devote my energy and resources to completing the parish church. Have you seen it? It is that uninteresting half-built lean-to structure against the north wall of the cathedral. The parishioners have been demanding that we finish it soon, so that they have a place of their own, and no longer have to use the cathedral. They do not like saying their prayers in the nave while we are in the chancel.’

There was a perfunctory knock on the door and William entered, followed by a servant who carried a heavy pewter jug and three goblets on a tray. The jug was filled to the brim with frothing ale, and the sweet, rich scent of it had Michael leaning forward in eager anticipation, nuts forgotten. William poured it, then infuriated Michael by deliberately presenting him with the cup that was only half full. Smiling maliciously, the hosteller gave Alan a brief nod and left again, closing the door behind him.

‘Bona cervisia,’ said Michael, taking a deep draught of the ale and sighing in appreciation, foam clinging to his upper lip. ‘A drink fit for the angels.’

‘Only ones with very strong stomachs,’ said Bartholomew, wincing at the power of the brew in his cup. ‘I could render patients insensible for amputations with a goblet of this.’

‘It is wasted on you,’ said Michael critically. ‘You are too used to the watery muck served at Michaelhouse to be able to savour a fine brew like this.’

‘I cannot help but worry about what de Lisle has asked you to do,’ said Alan, taking his own cup and walking to the window, where he stood looking in dismay at his depleted nut bowl. ‘I am sure it will not end well.’ He turned to fix Bartholomew with his intense blue eyes. ‘Can you not persuade Michael to return to Cambridge, Doctor? You can say he has marsh fever. There is a lot of that about at this time of year, and the Bishop would never suspect that Michael had removed himself for his own safety.’

‘We could do that,’ acknowledged Michael, draining his cup and refilling it – this time to the brim. ‘But de Lisle is not the only one with a cunning mind. I have a little cleverness myself.’

‘You do,’ agreed Alan. ‘And your success in solving the most perplexing of crimes is known in Ely, as well as in Cambridge. But that worries me, too. De Lisle knows you are clever and he knows you are likely to uncover the truth.’

‘So?’ asked Michael, draining his cup a second time. ‘I do not understand your point.’

‘I mean that if de Lisle knows you are likely to reveal him as a murderer – if he is guilty – then why did he send for you? Why not appoint a lesser investigator instead – one of his own creatures?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Because he is innocent, and he wants me to prove it?’

Alan remained uneasy. ‘Perhaps. But the murder of this servant is not the only thing that has happened to the Bishop recently. There was a burglary, too.’

‘He was a victim,’ Michael pointed out. ‘No one has suggested he is the thief!’

Alan inclined his head in acknowledgement, although the anxious expression did not fade from his eyes. He was about to continue, when there was another knock, and William entered a third time.

‘I thought you should know, Father Prior, that a messenger has just arrived. He informs me that Lady Blanche is a short distance from Ely, and will be here within the hour. She says she wants to ensure that the murder of her steward is investigated in a proper and thorough manner.’ He shot Michael an unpleasant glance, as though he thought the matter well beyond Michael’s capabilities.

‘Damn it all!’ muttered Michael. ‘This case will be difficult enough to solve without the likes of that woman demanding to know my every move and trying to pervert the course of justice.’

While Alan de Walsingham and William hastened to make ready for the great lady’s arrival, Bartholomew and Michael were left to their own devices. The physician wanted to go to the library, to begin his reading, but it seemed that the Prior and hosteller were not the only ones engaged in the preparations for Lady Blanche: Brother Symon, who was in charge of the books, was also unavailable, and sent a message to Bartholomew informing him that he would have to wait until the following day.

‘But I only need him to unlock the door,’ Bartholomew objected to the messenger, a cheerful novice with freckles, whom Michael introduced as John de Bukton. ‘I do not require him to fetch books or carry them to a table. I can do that myself.’

Bukton looked apologetic. ‘Symon does not like people reading his books. He would rather see them on the shelves, and considers their removal for education anathema.’

‘That is not a good characteristic in a librarian,’ Bartholomew pointed out, ignoring Michael’s snigger of amusement. ‘Books were written to be read.’

‘That is not what Symon believes,’ said Bukton with a grin. ‘And there is another thing: he does not know what books we own anyway. He classifies them according to their size, so that they look nice on his shelves, but if you were to ask him for a specific volume, he could not tell you where it was unless you also told him how big it was.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I was looking forward to a few quiet days among books. Now I learn that the librarian is a man who would rather his collection was never used, and that my friend is to investigate a murder for which his Bishop stands accused. What kind of place is this?’

Bukton was offended by the criticism. ‘You have just caught us on a bad day.’

‘I should say!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the young man speed away as he went to help his elders ready the Outer Hostry for Lady Blanche and her followers. He turned to Michael. ‘No wonder you like Cambridge, Brother. It is a haven of peace compared to this.’

‘As he said, you are not seeing us at our best,’ replied Michael, also unwilling to see his priory regarded in an unfavourable light. ‘But I can take you to the infirmary, where you can settle yourself for your stay, and then we can go to view the body of the man whom my Bishop murdered.’

‘Is accused of murdering,’ corrected Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Brother. One slip like that in front of the wrong people might see de Lisle condemned.’

Michael said nothing, and Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, alarmed that Michael, like so many others, had accepted as fact the Bishop’s guilt. The monk’s task, therefore, would not be to prove de Lisle’s innocence, but to ensure that he escaped the charges. The physician felt a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach, aware that his friend was about to begin something that could lead him on to dangerous ground. Michael was a clever man, and his inventively cunning mind often surprised Bartholomew, but, nevertheless, the physician wished neither of them had come to Ely in the first place.

‘We have been here for an hour, and we are already embroiled in something sinister,’ he grumbled, following Michael along the well-kept path that led from the Prior’s House in the direction of the infirmary.

Michael turned to face him, his expression sombre. ‘I would not have let you come had I known what de Lisle wanted me to do. But it is not too late. Leave now, and take Cynric and Meadowman with you. You will be back in Cambridge before nightfall.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The horses are tired and Cynric is already showing Meadowman the taverns. It will be far too late by the time I find them. Besides, how can I leave you here alone?’

‘I am in my own priory, Matt. I am surrounded by friends.’

‘Hardly!’ snorted Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Prior Alan seems decent enough, but the almoner does not like you and neither does the hosteller. You are not among friends here.’

Michael smiled and slapped him on the shoulders. ‘Then allow me to introduce you to Henry de Wykes, the priory’s physician. He is a good and honest man, and there is hardly a soul in the town who does not like him. He is a little immodest, perhaps, but that is no great fault when you compare him to the rest of my brethren here.’

The hospital was a substantial building adjoining the Black Hostry. It boasted a large, airy central hall, its own chapel, and a pair of chambers for treating patients and preparing medicines. Another two rooms at the opposite end of the hall served as living quarters for the infirmarian and his assistants. The library occupied the rooms on the floor above. The building overlooked gardens on two sides, the cathedral on the third, and, rather disconcertingly for a place dedicated to the sick, the monks’ graveyard on the fourth.

There were two entrances to the infirmary. One was via a covered walkway known as the Dark Cloister, which allowed the monks to reach it from the chapter house without exposing themselves to the elements; the other was through a small door in the north wall, which was reached by walking through the monks’ cemetery. Michael chose the latter, strolling along a path that was almost obliterated by long meadow grass, and opening a small, round-headed gate that led directly into the hospital’s main hall.

Bartholomew followed him inside and looked around, admiring the carvings on the arches that had been executed by Norman masons two hundred years before, and the dark strength of the oak beams that supported the ceiling. The floor comprised smooth slabs of stone that had been scrubbed almost white, while large windows allowed the light to flood into the sickroom. A row of beds ran down each of the walls, so that about twenty men could be accommodated at a time. However, the priory’s infirmary was not only a place for monks who were ill; it was also home to elderly brethren who were too ancient or infirm to look after themselves. Bartholomew glanced down the hall, and saw that there were currently five such inmates, each tucked neatly under covers that were crisp and clean.

Michael walked between the rows of beds, to where voices could be heard in one of the chambers that stood at the far end of the hall. He knocked briskly on a door that was half closed, before pushing it open. An older monk was evidently teaching two novices some aspect of medicine, because he was holding a flask of urine to the light, and was in the process of matching its colour to examples given in Theophilus’s De Urinis. The monk was too engrossed in his explanation to notice that his charges were bored and restless.

‘I hope that is wine you are regarding with such loving attention, Brother Henry,’ called Michael, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame.

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Henry in delight, immediately abandoning his teaching. He was a sturdy man in his fifties, who was burned a deep nut-brown by the sun. His forearms were sinewy and knotted, indicating that the large hospital garden they had passed on their way in, with its neat rows of herbs and vegetables, was probably tended by him personally and that he was no stranger to hard work. He had twinkling blue eyes, wiry grey hair and a large gap between his two front teeth.

‘Good morning,’ said Michael, taking the proffered hand and shaking it warmly. ‘Why are you keeping these young fellows inside, when the rest of the priory is busy making ready for the impending arrival of Lady Blanche?’

‘He wanted to show us this urine,’ said one of the novices resentfully. He was a sulky-faced youth, with an unprepossessing smattering of white-headed spots around his mouth. ‘Its colour is unusual, apparently.’

‘It is,’ said Bartholomew, who had noticed the orange hue from across the room. ‘If you were to use Theophilus’s guidelines, you would diagnose whoever produced this as having a disease of the kidneys.’

‘Precisely!’ exclaimed Henry eagerly. He turned to his charges, who remained unimpressed. ‘You see? Urine is a valuable tool for us physicians. It tells us a great deal about our patients and should never be disregarded or forgotten.’

‘But I do not want to be a physician,’ objected the youth. ‘I am only working here because Prior Alan ordered me to.’

‘Then you should not have tied the cockerel and the cat together, Julian,’ said the other youngster, regarding the spotty-faced lad with cool dislike. ‘It was a vile thing to do. I cannot imagine what possessed you.’

Julian’s sigh suggested he was bored by the discussion. He placed his elbows on the table, plumped his pox-ravaged face into his hands, and stared ahead of him in silent disgruntlement.

‘I thought we had agreed to say no more about that unfortunate incident, Welles,’ said Henry admonishingly to the other lad. Unlike Julian, Welles had a pleasant face, with fair curls and a mouth that looked far too ready for laughter to belong to a novice. ‘Julian has apologised to the Prior for committing an act of such cruelty, and we are all hoping he learns some compassion by working with the sick.’

Julian said nothing, but cast Henry a glance so full of malice that Bartholomew saw the physician would have his work cut out for him if he thought he could instil a modicum of kindness in a youth who was clearly one of those to whom the suffering of others meant little. It was clever of Alan to send Julian to the hospital, where he might be moved by the plight of the inmates, but Bartholomew suspected the plan would not work. He did not usually jump to such rapid conclusions, but there was something hard and cruel about Julian that was obvious and unattractive, even to strangers.

‘What particular ailment would you predict, judging from the colour of this urine?’ asked Henry of Bartholomew, bringing the topic of conversation back to medicine.

‘I would not make a diagnosis on the basis of the urine alone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I would want to speak to the patient–’

‘To make his horoscope,’ agreed Henry, nodding eagerly.

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew, a little tartly. He did not believe that the stars told him much about a person’s state of health, and he certainly did not base his diagnoses on the movements of the celestial bodies, although many physicians did precisely that and charged handsomely for the privilege. ‘I would ask him whether he had experienced pain in his stomach or back, what he had eaten recently, whether he drank water from the river or ale that was cloudy–’

‘What does ale or the river have to do with his urine?’ asked Welles, intrigued.

‘In this case, probably nothing,’ said Bartholomew, holding the flask near his nose to smell it. The two novices exchanged a look of disgust. ‘I would say, however, that whoever produced this should not be quite so greedy with the asparagus, and that next time he should use a different dye to prove his point. Theophilus said that redness in the urine is caused by blood, but this is orange and was caused by the addition of some kind of plant extract.’

Henry gave a shout of excited laughter, and clapped his hands in delight. ‘Excellent! Excellent! That is indeed my urine, and I did add a little saffron to make it a different hue. I wanted to show these boys that the colour of urine is vital knowledge for a physician. I see now I should have used a little pig’s blood instead. I am not usually so careless, but none of us is perfect.’

‘Did you really eat asparagus?’ asked Michael distastefully. ‘Why?’

Henry laughed again. ‘Not everyone loathes vegetables, Michael. And your friend is right: asparagus does produce a distinctive odour in the urine. You should have smelled the latrines this morning! He would have known at once what we all ate last night.’

‘There is very little about urine that Matt does not know,’ said Michael drolly. ‘I knew you would like him. And that is just as well, because he will be staying here with you for the next week, since Blanche is going to hog all the beds in the priory guesthouse.’

‘Lady Blanche is generous to the priory, so we are obliged to give her the entire Outer Hostry when she visits,’ Henry explained. ‘But this time I stand to benefit – by having a fellow physician to entertain. I am sure I shall teach him a great deal.’

‘Oh, good!’ muttered Julian facetiously to Welles. ‘Now there will be endless discussions about piss and how to puncture pustules every time we move.’

‘I am glad I do not have to sleep here, like you do,’ replied Welles in an undertone. ‘Listening to them would give me nightmares.’

‘Matt is from Michaelhouse,’ said Michael to Henry, pretending not to hear their complaints. ‘He has some strange notions about medicine, so you should find a lot to talk about.’

‘We will,’ said Henry, grasping Bartholomew’s hand in welcome. He turned to Michael. ‘But what brings you to Ely, my friend? Have you come to rest from your onerous duties in Cambridge?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Michael. ‘De Lisle sent for me because he is accused of murder.’

Henry’s brown hands flew to his mouth in horror. ‘No! Do not tell me that you have agreed to investigate on his behalf? Oh, Michael! How could you do such a thing?’

‘I am his agent,’ replied Michael irritably, growing tired of hearing this. ‘I have no choice but to do what he asks.’

‘I admire de Lisle,’ said Henry sincerely. ‘He was not afraid to visit the sick during the Great Pestilence, and he gives fabulous sermons – but powerful men have powerful enemies. Let de Lisle clear his own name. He is innocent, so it should not be difficult.’

‘You believe de Lisle is innocent?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering why he was so surprised to hear this from a monk.

‘Of course,’ said Henry, as though it were obvious. ‘He is proud and arrogant, but he has a gentle heart. This charge has been invented to harm him by someone who is strong and resourceful, and Michael should not become embroiled in it. De Lisle can always petition for the Archbishop’s support if matters grow too hot for him, but Michael has no such luxury. Do not accept this commission, Brother. Go home.’

Michael smiled gently. ‘I cannot. But I am no longer the youth you protected when I first came to Ely, Henry. I can look after myself, and I have good friends in you and Matt.’

Shaking his head in disapproval, Henry turned to his apprentices. ‘Tidy this room, and then you can join your friends preparing to receive Lady Blanche. Meanwhile, Michael and I have much to talk about. It has been months since I last saw him.’

‘Free at last!’ mumbled Julian, leaping to his feet. ‘These duties are like a sentence of death. Who wants to spend all day wiping up old men’s drool, and helping them to the garderobe every few moments? I would rather work in the kitchens.’

‘I am sure you would,’ said Henry tartly. ‘There are dead animals and sharp knives in the kitchens, and I imagine it would suit you very well. But you have been committed to my care to learn how to care for the sick, and I shall do everything in my power to ensure that you do.’

Julian cast him another dark look, and then began to help Welles with the tidying, although Bartholomew noted that he left the more unpleasant messes for his classmate.

‘Julian does not seem to appreciate what you are trying to teach him,’ he remarked, as he followed Henry through the infirmary towards the other end of the hall, where the physician had a small bedchamber that also served as an office.

Henry agreed. ‘I fear he will never be a physician. I do not think there is a single shred of compassion or kindness in him. Alan gave him to me as a last resort: if he fails here, he will be released from the priory, but I do not think that will be a good thing.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘It seems to me that he has no business being in a monastery.’

‘I do not like to think of a cruel and vicious lad like that loose in the town,’ said Henry. ‘At least while he is here we can control him. He would commit all manner of harm without someone like me to watch him.’

He gave a cheerful wave to an old man who occupied one of the beds. The inmate waved back, revealing a battery of pink gums. The other four were either asleep or did not seem to be aware of anything around them. All were ancient, some perhaps as much as ninety years, and Bartholomew supposed that life as monks had been kind to them. It was not a bad way to end their days, although he personally did not relish the prospect of lying in a bed while he slowly lost all his faculties.

‘Roger is deaf,’ explained Henry as they walked. ‘Two of the others are blind, and most have lost their wits. They are our permanent residents. Usually, we have half a dozen monks who are recovering from being bled, but the Prior has suspended bleeding for this month.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is it because he is aware of new evidence from French and Italian medical faculties that indicates bleeding is not always healthy?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Henry stiffly, indicating that he disapproved of such notions. ‘It is because Blanche is coming, and we will be too busy to have monks resting in the infirmary. But I believe bleeding is a very healthy thing to do. You only need to compare the monks, who are bled regularly, to the townsfolk, who are not, to see the difference.’

‘That is because the monks’ food is better than that of the townsfolk,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And they probably have more sleep, better beds, cleaner water–’

Henry grinned in delight, and slapped Bartholomew’s shoulders. ‘You are quite wrong, but I can see we shall enjoy some lively debates on the subject. It is always refreshing to converse with another medical man. And I anticipate we shall learn a great deal from each other.’

‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not want to be present when you do it. Julian and Welles are right: you can keep your pustules and your flasks of urine to yourselves!’

Michael found it impossible to drag Bartholomew away from Henry once the two physicians had started to talk. Seeing he would be unable to prise them apart until they had been granted at least some time to exchange opinions, he left them to their own devices, while he wandered around the priory renewing acquaintances and listening to the latest gossip. When the afternoon faded to early evening, and the sun was more saffron than the hot silver-gold of midday, he brought his socialising to an end and turned his mind to the Bishop’s problem.

Daylight in August lasted from about five-thirty in the morning until around eight o’clock at night, and Michael sensed there was probably a little more than two hours of good light left in which to inspect bodies. Since he had no desire to do it in the dark, he hurried towards the infirmary, intending to remove Bartholomew from his discussion with Henry and complete the unpleasant task of corpse-inspecting as soon as possible. Briefly, he entertained the notion of going alone, but, despite his blustering confidence when he had spoken to Bartholomew earlier that day, he knew he would miss vital clues that would be obvious at a mere glance to his friend. Reluctant though he was to involve him in the enquiry, Michael knew he needed the physician’s help.

‘Perhaps I should come, too,’ offered Henry uneasily. ‘I have little experience with corpses – as a physician I prefer to deal with the living – but I may be able to help.’

‘No,’ said Michael immediately. ‘I do not want both my friends involved in this. And anyway, although you know nothing about corpses, Matt is very good with them. He peels away their secrets as one might the layers of an onion.’

‘Hardly,’ began Bartholomew in protest, not liking the way Michael made him sound so sinister. Although he had discovered that he and Henry disagreed about many aspects of medicine, he liked the man and wanted to make a good impression on him. This description of his skill with corpses would be unlikely to raise him in anyone’s estimation.

‘Come on,’ said Michael, taking his arm and steering him towards the door. ‘The sooner we examine this body, the sooner we shall have this case resolved and the Bishop’s name cleared.’

‘Then God go with you,’ said Henry, sketching a benediction at him. ‘If I cannot persuade you to leave Ely, then I urge you to prove de Lisle’s innocence quickly, so that we can all be done with this unpleasant situation.’

Promising to bring Bartholomew back as soon as they had finished with the body of Glovere, Michael set off to the Bone House, where Prior Alan had said the corpse was being stored until Lady Blanche came to bury it.

‘We have been told that de Lisle was accused of this murder two days ago,’ said Bartholomew, walking with Michael along the path that wound through the monks’ cemetery towards the cathedral. ‘But when did the victim die? I thought the Bishop said ten days, but that cannot be right – if he died that long ago, he would have been buried by now, and we would not be going to look at his body.’

‘Luckily for us, Glovere is still above ground, or we would have found ourselves obliged to do a little midnight digging.’

‘We did that once, and I have no intention of doing it again,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘But why so long between Glovere’s death and this accusation against de Lisle?’

‘Lady Blanche was at her other estates near Huntingdon, and it took some time for the news to reach her about her servant’s death. When she did hear what had happened, she sent a missive to Alan, informing him that de Lisle was responsible for Glovere’s death. It arrived on Friday.’

‘So, de Lisle summoned you the day he was accused – Friday – and then sent a second summons the following day,’ said Bartholomew, trying to understand the order of events as they had occurred.

Michael nodded. ‘It was the second death by drowning – Haywarde, on Saturday morning – that really alarmed him. He is afraid Blanche will accuse him of that, too, and while the good citizens of Ely may overlook one suspicious death, they will certainly not disregard two of them.’

‘What was Glovere doing here without Blanche anyway?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If he was her steward, why was he not with her in Huntingdon?’

‘I asked Prior Alan that when you were gossiping about boils to Henry. Apparently, Glovere was employed to protect Blanche’s Ely estates – she owns farms nearby, and he oversaw them for her. By all accounts, he was a proficient steward, but not likeable, and she was always relieved to be away from him when she left Ely.’

‘Ten days is a long time for a corpse to be above ground in this hot weather,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘Why was he not buried a week ago – before Blanche made her accusation?’

‘Apparently, no one was willing to pay. His requiem mass is Blanche’s responsibility, so I suppose she will provide the necessary funds when she arrives.’

‘It does not cost much to dig a hole.’ Bartholomew was still disgusted. ‘It would have been better to bury him immediately, rather than leave him lying around until Blanche deigns to arrive. Supposing she refuses to pay? Then what happens?’

Michael waved a dismissive hand, uninterested in the logistics of burial. He felt it was fortunate that Glovere was still above ground, given the circumstances, and was hopeful that Bartholomew would be able to produce a verdict of death by drowning while drunk, and thus put an end to Blanche’s machinations. He thought about what he had learned from talking to his brethren that afternoon.

‘According to Alan, Glovere was universally disliked because he was a gossip. When he and de Lisle had that very public argument two weeks ago, it did wonders for de Lisle’s popularity – everyone was delighted to see Glovere on the receiving end of some eloquently vicious insults. Now it seems that very same disagreement is leading people to believe de Lisle guilty of murder.’

‘It is not just the public row, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Even you think he may have done it, and you were not even a witness to this squabble.’

‘Whatever,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But suffice to say that Glovere was loathed by all, and no one is prepared to pay a few pennies for a hole for his corpse.’

‘Because he told tales?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I can see that would make him unpopular, but I cannot see that it would lead to such heartlessness regarding his mortal remains.’

‘Apparently he was a liar, too, whose uncontrolled tongue caused a lot of unnecessary heartache. Alan told me that his malicious stories resulted in a young woman committing suicide last winter.’

‘How?’

‘He started rumours that she was with child, which led her intended husband to marry someone else. It transpired that Glovere’s accusations were wholly unfounded, and were based on the fact that he had seen the girl sewing clothes for a baby. The clothes were for her sister’s child.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk uncertainly. ‘But if Glovere was a known liar, why did this husband-to-be believe him in the first place?’

‘Because he was a foolish man with too much pride and too little trust. It was one of those silly affairs that would have righted itself, given time. Unfortunately, the intended groom acted immediately, and Glovere’s spite thus brought about a tragedy. But the city has not forgotten the story and Glovere remains friendless and graveless.’

‘And the body is in a church somewhere?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing he had not agreed to help Michael after all. The last ten days had been gloriously hot, and a corpse of that age was not going to be pleasant company.

‘Lord, no!’ said Michael. ‘No sane parish priest would agree to hosting a corpse for that length of time in the summer. Glovere resides in the Bone House.’

‘What is a bone house?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously. ‘It sounds horrible.’

Michael started to explain. ‘When the foundations of the Lady Chapel and the Church of the Holy Cross were laid, we kept unearthing bones. The whole area to the north of the cathedral – where these buildings were being raised – is the lay cemetery, you see.’

‘I hope plague victims were not buried there,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘I do not think it will be safe to unearth those bodies for a long time yet.’

‘Most were found thirty years ago. But there were so many remains that it was decided a bone house should be erected to store them until they could be reburied.’

‘Why not inter them straight away? Why keep them above ground at all?’

‘Because we did not want to lay them to rest only to dig them up later when more foundations were needed. It is better to stack them safely, then bury them with due ceremony when we are sure they will not be disturbed again. Look – there it is.’

Michael pointed to a two-storeyed lean-to building near the north wall of the priory, between the Steeple Gate and the sacristy. It was sturdily built, but was little more than a long house with one or two very small windows and a thick, heavy door. It was evidently anticipated that the occupants would not require much in the way of daylight, because the shutters had been painted firmly closed, giving the whole building a forlorn, secretive appearance that did not encourage visitors. For some peculiar reason, the Bone House had also been provided with a chimney, although Bartholomew could not see why. He could not imagine anyone – living, at least – tarrying inside for long enough to warrant the lighting of a fire.

‘It is obvious it was built for laymen, and not monks,’ said Bartholomew, critically eyeing its crude lines and unprepossessing appearance. ‘It is hardly the grandest edifice in the area.’

‘It is a storeroom, Matt,’ said Michael irritably. ‘It is not intended to be a final resting place.’

‘I hope I do not end up in a place like this,’ said Bartholomew, as Michael took a hefty key from his scrip and fitted it to the lock on the door. ‘My skull at one end of a room and my feet at the other, all mixed with someone else’s limbs, and my ribs still buried in the churchyard.’

‘I shall see what I can do to prevent it,’ said Michael, evidently anticipating that he would last a good deal longer than his friend. ‘You should approve of Glovere being stored here, Matt. It means he is well away from living people.’

‘But he is also out of sight and therefore out of mind. Perhaps the Prior is hoping that he will turn into bones if left long enough.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Michael, leaping backwards as he opened the door. ‘What a stench!’

‘I am not surprised the monks do not want this in their cathedral,’ said Bartholomew, recoiling, despite the fact that he had prepared himself for the olfactory onslaught. ‘Such a vile smell cannot be good for the health of the living.’

‘It does not say much about the health of the dead, either,’ muttered Michael. ‘I have never known a corpse to stink so.’

He took a step forward, but then hesitated when he became aware that flies buzzed within. Pulling a face, Michael produced from his scrip a huge pomander stuffed with lavender and cloves, placed it over the lower part of his face, and indicated that Bartholomew was to precede him inside. Bartholomew obliged, taking care to breathe through his nose. It was a popular belief that inhaling through the mouth was the best solution for dealing with foul odours, but Bartholomew had learned that did not work for especially strong smells: he ended up being able to taste the foulness as well as smell it.

It was dark inside the Bone House, and the two scholars waited a few moments for their eyes to adapt to the gloom. Someone had placed a lamp on a shelf to one side, and as Michael lit it, Bartholomew looked around curiously.

A row of shelves in front of him was stacked with grinning skulls, most with missing teeth that lent them rakish expressions. To his left was a pile of long bones – arms and legs – in various states of repair, while to his right lay a heap of broken coffins. Some revealed a glimmer of white inside, while others had apparently been emptied of their contents. An old barrel near one shuttered window was filled almost to the brim with bone fragments – flat pieces of cranium, and tiny carpals and tarsals that had once been living hands and feet.

‘I suppose this must be him,’ said Michael, stepping forward to a human shape that lay on the bare stone of the floor. It had been covered with a filthy piece of sacking, but that was all. Glovere had no coffin, no shroud, and no one had performed even the most basic cleansing of his body. The sacking was too small for its purpose: a bristly stack of hair protruded from one end, and a pair of legs from the other. Michael grabbed the material and pulled it away, backing off quickly when the movement aroused a swarm of buzzing flies.

‘This is horrible!’ he choked through his pomander. ‘Why are we doing this?’

‘Because you promised your Bishop you would,’ replied Bartholomew, flapping at the insects that circled his head as he knelt next to the bloated features of the dead man.

In the summer months, most corpses were laid in the ground within a day or two of their deaths, and it was unusual to see one that had been left for so long. The face was dark, with a blackish-green sheen about it, and was strangely mottled. The eyes were dull and opaque, half open beneath discoloured lids, while the mouth looked as though it had been stretched, and gaped open in a lopsided way that Bartholomew had never observed in the living.

He studied Glovere for a moment before beginning his examination, trying to see the man who had lived, rather than the corpse that lay mouldering in front of him. He saw a fellow in his middle thirties who had been well nourished, and who had sported a head of brown hair and a patchy beard. His skin was puckered in places, as though his complexion had been spoiled by a pox at some point. His clothes were dirty and stained, but of decent quality.

‘He drowned,’ pronounced Michael with authority. He reached out a tentative hand, and plucked something from Glovere’s hair. ‘See? River weed.’

‘There is more of it in his clothes, too,’ said Bartholomew, pointing. ‘And that smear of mud on his cheek doubtless comes from the river bank. His bloated features also indicate that he spent some time in water, along with the fact that you can see a stain on the floor, where some of it leaked from him and then dried.’

‘Nasty,’ said Michael, backing away quickly when he saw his sandalled feet were placed squarely in the middle of one such stain. ‘But, if he drowned, then the Bishop is innocent of murder. Come away, Matt. It is unpleasant in here with all these flies. I will ascertain from the inns in the city that Glovere was in his cups, and we will have an end to the matter.’

‘He fell in the river while drunk and then drowned,’ mused Bartholomew, turning Glovere’s head this way and that as he examined the neck for signs of injury. ‘It is possible, but we should be absolutely sure, if you want to lay this affair to rest once and for all.’

‘Even I can see there are no marks of violence on the body,’ said Michael, too far away to tell anything of the kind. ‘I appreciate your meticulousness, Matt, but do not feel obliged to linger here on my account. Cover him. I will see you outside.’

Flapping vigorously at the winged creatures that swarmed around him, the monk was gone, leaving Bartholomew alone in the Bone House. The physician did not mind; he had found Michael’s commentary distracting in any case. He moved the lantern to a better position for a thorough examination, and began to remove the dead man’s clothes.

Just when he was beginning to think that Michael was right, and that Glovere had simply drowned – although whether by accident or deliberately was impossible to say – Bartholomew’s careful exploration of every inch of mottled flesh paid off. His probing fingers encountered a wound at the base of Glovere’s skull, just above the hairline. Bartholomew turned the body and studied it, noting that the injury was a narrow slit about the length of a thumbnail, and that it appeared to go deep. If it had bled, then any stains had been washed away by the river. Because it was hidden by Glovere’s hair, Bartholomew realised that he might well have missed it, had he not been in the habit of inspecting the heads of corpses very closely when examining them for Michael.

He took one of the metal probes he carried in his medicine bag, and put one end into the hole to test its depth. He was startled when it disappeared for almost half the length of a finger before encountering the solid resistance of bone. He sat back on his heels and considered.

He knew that damage to the whitish-coloured cord that ran from the brain down the spine was serious, and it seemed that the injury to Glovere’s neck was sufficiently deep to have punctured it. Since Glovere was unlikely to have inflicted such a wound on himself, the only explanation was that someone else had done it. It was very precisely centred, and the physician doubted that it could have happened by chance. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then called out to Michael. The monk entered the Bone House reluctantly, but listened to what Bartholomew had to say without complaining, flies forgotten.

‘Lord, Matt!’ he breathed when the physician had finished. ‘Glovere was murdered after all? And worse, someone committed the crime with considerable care, so that his death would appear to be an accident?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It is impossible for me to say what happened, but it seems reasonable to assume that a blade of some kind was inserted into Glovere – perhaps while he lay drunk and insensible on the river bank – and then he was pushed into the water so that it would look as though he had drowned.’

‘And would he have drowned? Or did this tiny wound end his life?’

‘Probably the latter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Injuries to this part of the neck often result in the loss of the ability to breathe. I do not think he drowned. If I lean hard on his chest, the water that emerges from his mouth is clear – it contains none of the bubbles that I would expect if he had breathed water.’

Michael shuddered. ‘You really do know some unpleasant things, Matt. Thank God I am a theologian, and do not have to acquaint myself with how to squeeze water from dead men and where to stab them so it will not show.’ He gazed at Bartholomew in sudden alarm. ‘Would de Lisle know about these things?’

‘What do you think? You know him better than I do.’

Michael was silent for a while, but then said slowly, ‘I imagine he might. Cunning ways to commit a murder and then conceal the evidence are no secret to men in positions of power.’

‘Then you will find it difficult to prove that de Lisle did not kill Glovere. Shall we look at the body of the other fellow who died? It was his death that resulted in de Lisle sending you a second summons, after all.’

‘As yet, no one has accused de Lisle of killing anyone but Glovere,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not want to put ideas into people’s heads by going straight from Glovere’s body to Haywarde’s, so we will examine him tomorrow. But this is all very cold-blooded, is it not? I can imagine de Lisle striking out in anger and perhaps knocking a man into the river, but I do not see him leaning over his victim and deliberately slicing through his neck.’

‘So, you think the manner of Glovere’s death means that de Lisle is innocent?’

Michael’s eyes were large and round in the dim light from the lamp. ‘I did not say that.’ He gave a huge sigh. ‘Damn it all, Matt! I was hoping this would be a straightforward case of Glovere taking a tumble into the river, and Blanche using the death to discredit her enemy. Now we are faced with a cunning killer. I wish we had never left Cambridge!’

‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

There was nothing more they could do in the Bone House, so Bartholomew re-dressed Glovere, and covered him again with the piece of sacking. Michael watched him, now oblivious to the flies that formed a thick cloud in the air around his head as he thought about the implications of their findings. Then they walked out into the golden light of a summer evening. The bells were ringing for vespers, and the sounds of people walking and riding along the Heyrow on the other side of the priory wall were welcome reminders of normal life.

‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, as he watched the monk lock the Bone House door. He could not imagine why the monks felt the need for such security, when no one in his right mind would have willingly entered the grim little house of the dead.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Michael gloomily. ‘What do you recommend? Shall I visit de Lisle and ask to see any sharp knives he might own? Shall I enquire whether he knows that a man can be dispatched with a small jab to the neck or that there are ways of killing a man that all but defy detection?’

‘Not if you do not want to find yourself with a cut neck in the river,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘I would concentrate on Glovere, if I were you. It seems that de Lisle was not the only person who did not like him. Perhaps the relatives of the woman who committed suicide killed him.’

‘True,’ said Michael, cheering up a little. ‘I shall spend a few hours in the taverns tonight, asking questions of the local folk, and we shall see where that leads us. And there are also the gypsies to consider. Richard de Leycestre, who sidled up to us with his malicious tales when we arrived in Ely, seemed to think that they, and not de Lisle, were to blame for Glovere’s death.’

‘Only because the travellers are outsiders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is easy to pick on strangers and hold them responsible for inexplicable happenings.’

Michael studied him with an amused expression. ‘You seem very defensive of these people, Matt. It would not be because you are stricken by the charms of Mistress Eulalia, would it?’

‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is because I do not like the way crowds are so willing to turn on people who cannot protect themselves. Leycestre said the gypsies were responsible for the burglaries, too, but he had no evidence.’

‘No evidence other than the fact that the burglaries started the moment the gypsies arrived in the city,’ said Michael. ‘It seems that Glovere died a few days later. Perhaps he saw them committing their thefts and was killed to ensure his silence. That trick with the knife in the neck is the kind of thing a gypsy might know.’

‘It is the kind of thing anyone might know. Soldiers, butchers, courtiers, medical men, scholars who might have read it – anyone, really.’

‘Well, our enquiries will tell us whether your faith in these gypsies is justified,’ said Michael, unruffled by his friend’s annoyance. ‘If they are guilty, I will find out.’

Suddenly, the serene stillness of the priory was shattered by the sound of running footsteps. Monks emerged from all sorts of nooks and crannies, aiming for the Steeple Gate. Robert the almoner was there, jostling the bob-haired William and the surly Julian to reach it first, the pending office of vespers clearly forgotten. There was an unseemly tussle for the handle, during which Robert used the bulge of his stomach to force his rivals out of the way. Eventually, he had cleared sufficient space to drag open the door and turn an ingratiating smile on the people who waited on the other side.

Michael chuckled softly as the almoner effected a sweeping bow that was so deep he almost toppled. Hosteller William had managed to elbow his way through the crowd of grovelling monastics to stand next to him; his bow was less deep but far more elegant than Robert’s. Bartholomew and Michael stood well back as a cavalcade entered the priory grounds, content to watch those monks who enjoyed indulging in servile behaviour take reins from ungrateful courtiers and offer haughty maids-in-waiting cool cups of wine. That high-ranking clerics like Robert and William were prepared to submit themselves to such indignities told its own story: here was Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue, arriving in Ely to see the Bishop convicted of the murder of their steward.

Bartholomew had never seen Lady Blanche before, despite her fame in the area, and he studied the King’s kinswoman with interest. She was a short, dour-faced specimen in her early fifties. Her clothes were made of the finest cloth, but she clearly allowed none of the latest fashions of the court to influence what she wore. Her voluminous skirts were gathered uncomfortably under her large bosom, and were rather too short, so that a pair of stout calves poked from under them. Her wimple was viciously starched, and red lines around her face showed where it had chafed. There was a determined look in her pale blue eyes, and the strength of her character was evident in the way her bristly chin jutted out in front of her.

Her retinue was almost as impressive as the Bishop’s. She was followed not by clerks and monks, but by grooms and squires and tiring women. However, while their mistress may have abandoned fashion thirty years before, her retinue certainly had not, and Bartholomew had seldom seen such a gaudily dressed crowd. All wore the flowing cote-hardies and kirtles that were currently popular, and sported the shoes with the peculiar pointed toes and thin soles that were so impractical for walking. One woman uttered an unmannerly screech of delight that was directed at Michael, and with a sinking heart, Bartholomew recognised the dark features and expressionless eyes of Tysilia de Apsley.

Tysilia was a close relative of Bishop de Lisle, and had been lodged at a convent near Cambridge for much of the previous year, but had been removed when the nuns had failed to prevent her from becoming pregnant for the third time. She was one of the least intelligent people Bartholomew had ever met, and certainly one of the most licentious. She was not a person whom he liked, nor one with whom he wished to associate in any way. He gave a groan when she started to come towards them, while Michael diplomatically arranged his fat features into a smile of welcome. Unfortunately, her energetic progress was hampered by the fact that her riding cloak caught in her stirrup as she started running, and for some moments she was a mess of trailing sleeves, long skirts, loose straps and agitated horse. William rushed to her assistance, and was rewarded with a leering smile and some unnecessarily revealing flashes of long white legs that had him blushing furiously

‘Lord help us, Matt,’ Michael muttered through clenched teeth, watching the scene with rank disapproval. ‘What is she doing in Blanche’s retinue, when Blanche and de Lisle are such bitter enemies? And anyway, I thought de Lisle had foisted Tysilia on the lepers at Barnwell Hospital, so that they could cure whatever ails her mind.’

‘There is no cure for her,’ replied Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘She was born stupid, and no amount of “healing” will ever change that.’

Michael gave a soft laugh. ‘And this was the woman you thought was a criminal mastermind earlier this year!’

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘I was wrong. But I was right about one thing: her appalling lack of wits makes her dangerous to know. She should be locked away, but not with lepers.’

‘Why? Because she might catch the contagion?’

‘Because she puts them at risk. On one occasion, she seized someone in an amorous embrace that relieved him of three fingers and part of his nose, while on another she set the chapel alight by putting the eternal flame under the wooden altar.’

‘Why did she do that?’ asked Michael with appalled curiosity.

‘To keep it warm during the night, apparently. After that, the lepers decided that they would rather starve than accept the Bishop’s money to care for her. I wondered what he had done with her when they ordered her to leave. But here she is, overcome with delight at meeting her old friend Michael.’

‘Brother Martin!’ exclaimed Tysilia joyfully, flinging herself into the monk’s ample arms. ‘And Doctor Butcher the surgeon, too! You both came here to visit me!’

‘We did not know you would be here,’ said Michael, hastily disengaging himself before Blanche and her retinue could assume he was one of Tysilia’s many former lovers. Bartholomew ducked behind the monk’s sizeable bulk, before he could be treated to a similar display of affection.

‘My uncle, Thomas de Lisle, suggested that I spend time with Blanche,’ said Tysilia, smiling as vacantly as ever. ‘I am now her ward. I did not like being with the lepers, anyway. Their faces kept falling off, so it was difficult for me to remember who was who.’

As she spoke, Blanche broke away from the obsequious grovelling of Robert and William and approached Michael, curious about the man who was acquainted with her charge.

‘De Lisle lied to me,’ said Blanche without preamble, regarding the monk as though he were responsible. ‘He told me that Tysilia was a sweet and gentle child, who could benefit from a motherly hand. She is not, and he can have her back again.’

Tysilia’s face fell. ‘But I have had such fun with you and all your charming young courtiers!’

‘I assure you I know,’ said Blanche grimly. She turned to Michael. ‘You are the Bishop’s agent. Are you here to help him escape from the charge of murder I have brought against him?’

‘I am here to see justice done,’ replied Michael. ‘I do not want to see an innocent man convicted of a crime any more than I want to see a murder go unpunished. We men of God have strong views on such matters.’

‘Not in my experience,’ retorted Blanche. ‘Your Bishop is a wicked man. I know he killed poor Glovere, and I am here to ensure that he pays the price. And he can have this little whore back again, too. She has seduced virtually every man on my estates, so she will be looking for new pastures soon, anyway.’

‘But I am not ready to leave yet!’ wailed Tysilia in dismay. She was about to add details, but Blanche took her arm and hurried her away, leaving Bartholomew and Michael bemused by the encounter.

‘Did you know that de Lisle had managed to foist his “niece” on Blanche?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘No wonder she loathes him! Looking after Tysilia would not be easy.’

‘I did not know,’ said Michael, smiling wickedly. ‘Although it was a clever ploy on his part. By giving Blanche a kinswoman to watch over, he is indicating that he trusts her and that he wishes a truce. However, Tysilia is capable of driving anyone insane, and I imagine he derived a good deal of amusement from the fact that she would lead Blanche a merry dance.’

‘Prior Alan!’ Blanche’s strident voice echoed across the courtyard and the hum of conversation between her followers and the fussing monks faltered into silence. Alan had emerged from his lodgings, and was hurrying towards her, a slight, wiry man converging on a squat, dumpy woman.

‘Lady Blanche,’ Alan replied breathlessly, as he reached her. ‘Welcome to Ely.’

She inclined her head to acknowledge his greeting. ‘I have come on grave business,’ she announced in tones loud enough to have been heard in the marketplace. ‘I accuse Thomas de Lisle, Bishop of Ely, of the most heinous of crimes: the murder of my steward, Master Glovere.’

Alan nodded. ‘As a churchman, de Lisle is subject to canon, not secular, law, and this matter will be investigated accordingly. When I heard news of your imminent arrival, I dispatched a messenger to fetch the Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield – Roger de Northburgh – to examine the case. As luck would have it, he is currently visiting Cambridge, and I expect him here in two or three days.’

‘Northburgh?’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘Alan has engaged Roger de Northburgh for this?’

‘What is wrong with him?’ whispered Bartholomew, puzzled by Michael’s reaction. ‘It would not be right for de Lisle to be examined by someone who is not at least a bishop.’

‘I know that,’ snapped Michael testily. ‘But Northburgh is ninety years old, if he is a day, and is only in Cambridge because he has been pestering the canons of St John’s Hospital to give him tonics and remedies to prevent his impending death. Like many churchmen who see their end looming large, he would rather stay in this world than experience what might be in store for him in the next.’

‘Then look on the bright side: you will not have a rival investigator breathing down your neck. Northburgh will spend his time with Brother Henry.’

‘True. I suppose Alan chose him because he is the only bishop within reach at such short notice. But no one in his right mind would bide by any conclusions drawn by Northburgh.’

‘No one in his right mind would bide by any conclusions drawn by Northburgh,’ announced Blanche to Alan, although she was too far away to have heard the muttered conversation between Bartholomew and Michael. ‘I knew this priory would not select a suitable man, so I have appointed my own agent – a man whom the King and the Black Prince recommended to me.’

‘Who?’ asked Alan uneasily. ‘I am not sure it is wise to have too many investigations proceeding simultaneously. De Lisle has engaged Brother Michael to look into the matter, too.’

Blanche shot Michael a disparaging glance. ‘You mean de Lisle has instructed his creature to hide the evidence and allow him to weasel out of the noose he has knotted for himself.’

‘He ordered me to uncover the truth,’ said Michael indignantly, although as far as Bartholomew recalled de Lisle had done no such thing. Michael had been charged to prove de Lisle innocent, which was not necessarily the same. ‘I am no one’s creature, madam, and I am only interested in the facts.’

Blanche turned back to Alan. ‘I have ordered Robert Stretton to come to my aid. He, too, will arrive in a day or two.’

Michael gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for small mercies!’ he whispered to Bartholomew. ‘Stretton is no more capable of investigating a murder than Northburgh. The royal family like him, but their confidence is misplaced.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, feeling that Blanche was not a fool, and that she would not have appointed Stretton if he were a total incompetent.

‘He is virtually illiterate for a start,’ said Michael. ‘He was collated to the canonry of St Cross at Lincoln Cathedral earlier this year, and has ambitions to be a bishop. I doubt he will ever succeed, given his intellectual shortcomings.’

‘I should hope not, if he cannot read. The days of prelates who do not know one end of a bible from another are mostly over.’

‘I imagine the Black Prince encouraged Blanche to appoint Stretton.’ Michael smiled complacently. ‘But she will soon learn not to take advice from relatives, no matter how well meaning. Stretton will present me with no problems.’

‘This investigation promises to be a farce,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘The principal for the Church is an aged malingerer; the principal for Blanche is a man who cannot read; and the principal for the Bishop is you, who has been charged to “find de Lisle innocent”. I can already see the way this will end.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael comfortably. ‘Matters are looking up. But now that Blanche’s accusation is official, we have work to do. Come with me to the taverns, and we will see what more we can learn about Glovere that may help to exonerate my Bishop from the charge of murder.’

Traipsing around every tavern in Ely that evening was not Bartholomew’s idea of fun, although Michael seemed to enjoy it. Scholars were not permitted to enter inns in Cambridge: such places were obvious breeding grounds for fights between students and townsfolk, so any drinking in the town needed to be conducted with a degree of discretion. No such restrictions applied in Ely, however, and Bartholomew and Michael could wander openly into any establishment they chose.

Ely’s taverns varied enormously. Some were large and prosperous, like the Lamb and the Bell, while others were little more than a bench outside a hovel where the occupants brewed and sold their own beer. Some of it was surprisingly good, although Bartholomew found that the more he drank, the less discriminating he tended to be.

As evening turned to night, they finished with the respectable inns on the Heyrow and reached the less respectable ones near the quay. While the Heyrow taverns were full of visiting merchants and the occasional cleric, the waterfront hostelries were frequented by townsfolk and the beer was generally cheaper.

Michael’s Benedictine habit caused one or two raised eyebrows, but most people accepted the fact that monks had a talent for sniffing out the most inexpensive brews and so their presence at the riverside taverns was not uncommon. Michael eased himself into conversations, pretending to be a bumbling brother from one of the priory’s distant outposts, and earning confidences by making the odd disparaging remark about the wealth of the Benedictines. The ploy worked, and he soon had people talking to him about Glovere, Blanche, de Lisle and Alan.

It seemed that none was especially popular in Ely. The Prior was disliked because he was a landlord; Blanche was arrogant and unsympathetic to the plight of the poor; de Lisle was criticised for his love of good clothes and expensive wines; while Glovere was deemed a malicious gossip. The gypsies, who had been in Ely for almost two weeks, were also the object of suspicion, although Bartholomew did not think this was based on more than a natural wariness of outsiders. He sympathised with the travellers: once on his travels he and his Arab master had been on the receiving end of some unfounded accusations, because it was easier to blame misfortune on passing strangers than to believe ill of friends. He and Ibn Ibrahim had barely escaped with their lives, despite the fact that they had had nothing to do with strangling the local priest’s lapdog.

When Bartholomew and Michael entered an especially insalubrious tavern named the Mermaid, they found the patrons sitting at their tables listening to a rabid diatribe delivered by the disenfranchised farmer Richard de Leycestre. Leycestre stood on a bench, waving a jug of slopping ale, his face sweaty and red from the drink and his passion.

‘Anyone who cannot see that there is a connection between the gypsies and the burglaries is blind,’ he raved. ‘The thefts started the day after that crowd of criminals arrived. That is all the evidence I need.’

‘I am sure it is,’ muttered Bartholomew, regarding the man with disapproval as he waved to a pot-boy to bring them ale.

Michael nudged him hard. ‘Watch what you say, Matt. Rightly or wrongly, these travellers are not popular, and it is not wise to be heard speaking in their defence.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew, rather loudly. One or two people turned to look at him. ‘Are you saying that no one should speak up for what he believes, for what is right?’

‘Yes. There is no need to court problems. We have more than enough of those at the moment without you going out on a limb to protect the reputation of people you do not know.’

Michael turned to the man who stood next to him, and began a conversation about Glovere and the woman who had killed herself. The man only reiterated what they already knew – that young Alice had committed suicide when Glovere’s tales had caused her betrothed to marry someone else. Alice had been pretty, sweet-tempered and likeable, and it seemed that Glovere was generally regarded as the Devil incarnate.

Bartholomew took a deep draught of the rich ale. It was stronger than anything available in Cambridge, and he felt his head swimming. He had been tired and thirsty, and had drunk too much too quickly when he and Michael had started their round of the taverns. He was well on the way to becoming intoxicated. Someone bumped into him, and a good part of the jug spilled down the front of his tabard. The culprit regarded the mess in horror, and then released a chain of impressive oaths.

‘I am sorry,’ she mumbled eventually, seeing that Bartholomew was regarding her warily. ‘Nothing has gone right today, and now I drown a scholar in his own ale. Allow me to buy you more – although I can ill afford it. Haywarde’s suicide will cost me a pretty penny.’

‘I do not need any more ale,’ said Bartholomew, trying to make sense of her seemingly random statements. ‘Haywarde?’

‘My sister’s husband,’ explained the woman. ‘Damn the man for his selfishness!’

‘Selfishness for committing suicide?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the conversation’s peculiar twists and turns. The ale slopping around inside him did not help.

The woman gave a tired grin. She was a large lady, who wore a set of skirts around her middle that contained enough material to clothe half the town. Her face was sunburned and homely, and she possessed a set of large, evenly spaced beige teeth. She was as tall as any of the men in the tavern, and a good deal wider than most, and Bartholomew supposed it was this that allowed her to thrust her way into a domain usually frequented by males.

‘Forgive me. You are a stranger, and so cannot know what is happening in our town. My name is Agnes Fitzpayne, and my sister had the misfortune to be married to that good-for-nothing lout Haywarde, may God rot his poxy soul! His death will cost me a fortune.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, who did not.

‘It is not as if I even liked him,’ continued Agnes bitterly. ‘He was a bully, and my sister and their children are glad to see him gone.’

‘I heard a man had killed himself yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, trying to clear his wits. ‘Leycestre said it was because it is difficult for folk to feed their families these days. If that is why Haywarde died, then his suicide will not help them either.’

‘If Haywarde committed suicide, then it was not for selfless reasons,’ said Agnes harshly. ‘He was far too fond of himself to think of others. Leycestre wants to see everything in terms of the struggle between rich and poor. But then perhaps he was thinking of Chaloner. He committed suicide, too.’

‘Chaloner? Who is he?’

‘He drowned five or six days ago.’

Bartholomew gazed at her. ‘So there have been three deaths in Ely over the past ten days? I thought it was just Glovere and this Haywarde.’

‘Then you thought wrong. The river has claimed three souls recently. But I cannot see Chaloner killing himself to benefit others, either. He was no better than Haywarde in that respect.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair and wishing he had never started the discussion. ‘What had he done?’

‘He married where he should not have done,’ said Agnes mysteriously. ‘And he caused a sweet angel to die of a broken heart.’

‘Chaloner was the intended husband of Alice – about whom Glovere told lies?’ asked Bartholomew in sudden understanding.

Agnes regarded him in surprise. ‘I see you already know our local stories. Chaloner broke Alice’s heart by wedding another woman, and it brought about her death. People would not have taken against Chaloner so, if he had been even a little remorseful. But he was not. Like Haywarde, he will not be missed.’

‘Except by Chaloner’s wife,’ said Bartholomew.

‘She died in childbirth a few weeks ago,’ said Agnes with grim satisfaction. ‘It was God’s judgement on her for taking the man promised to another.’

‘How did Chaloner die?’ asked Bartholomew, sipping the remains of his drink.

‘He was found floating face-down in the river, opposite the Monks’ Hythe. You can see it from here, if you look through the window.’

‘And Haywarde?’

‘The same. But, as I said, his wife and children will be glad to be rid of him. He did no work, and drank away any pennies they earned. And he was violent to them.’

‘He sounds unpleasant,’ said Bartholomew absently, thinking that it had been a long day, and it was time he was in his bed. He hoped Henry would not insist on a lengthy medical discourse before he went to sleep.

‘No one liked him,’ said Agnes fervently. ‘He was an animal!’

‘It seems that Ely is inhabited by quite a number of nasty people,’ remarked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Glovere was not much liked, either.’

‘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.