A Summer Of Discontent

Book 8: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Crime Fiction; Historical Thrillers; Medical Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Matthew Bartholomew jumps at the chance to travel to Ely with Brother Michael, as it will give him a unique opportunity to study in the richly stocked library of the Benedictine priory.

Michael has been summoned to the city by his bishop, but it isn't until they arrive that they discover the reason - the bishop has been accused of murder. The charge seems ludicrous, but Michael takes the investigation seriously and energetically sets about his task. Almost immediately he discovers that there appears to have been a series of unexplained deaths in the area.

At the same time, Bartholomew comes across an underground movement of rebellion against the church and the tithes they demand from the laity, and the two men also learn that there has been a spate of burglaries which are being blamed on a band of travellers.

Then a fellow of the priory is murdered almost under their noses. Can this death be connected to the others? Are all the killings linked to the burgeoning rebellion in the city?

Once again Susanna Gregory has created a superbly crafted mystery narrated with wit and style against a perfectly realised period background.

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 528

Sample

Colne, Huntingdonshire; February 1354

THE PEOPLE WHO HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO LIVE IN THE tiny Fenland village of Colne led miserable lives. Their homes were little more than hovels, with walls of woven hazel twigs
that had been plastered over with mud from the nearby river. The crude thatching on the roofs leaked, allowing water to pool
on the beaten-earth floors and to deposit irregular and unpleasant drips on the huts’ inhabitants. Winter rain and biting
winds had stripped away some of the walls’ mud, so that Ralph could see the orange flicker of a hearth fire through them in
the darkness. He shifted his position, uncomfortable after the long wait in the frigid chill of a February night. In one of
the houses, a dog started to bark. Its yaps were half-hearted, as though it, like its owners, was too dispirited to care much
about someone lurking suspiciously in the shadows outside.


Ralph huddled more deeply into his cloak, grateful that he worked for a man who provided clothes that kept him warm through
the worst of winter and boots that were equal to wading through the thick, sucking muck of the country’s roads. The same could
not be said of the people who lived in the cottages he watched. These were villeins, bound by law for their entire lives to
the estates of Lady Blanche de Wake. If their own crops failed and they had not stored enough food for the winter, then they
would starve. Blanche was not obliged to help them, and they were not permitted to leave their vermin-infested homes to seek
a better life elsewhere. Ralph sniffed softly, thinking that what he was about to do might even help the poor wretches in
their cramped, stinking huts, shivering near meagre fires lit with stolen wood.


He had been watching them for the best part of a week now, and knew their daily routine: they trudged home from labouring
in Lady Blanche’s stony fields, ate whatever they had managed to poach or steal from her woods – the grain saved from the
last harvest had long since gone – and then fell into an exhausted slumber until the first glimmer of light in the east heralded
the beginning of another dreary day. Ralph’s careful observations had yielded a great deal of information about the people
of Colne and their lives. For example, he knew that the folk in the cottage to his left had feasted on a pigeon that night;
the inhabitants of the other two had made do with a thin stew of nettles, a handful of dried beans and some onion skins that
had been intended for Blanche’s pigs.


Lady Blanche’s manor house stood in a thicket of scrubby trees some distance away, near the swollen stream that bubbled through
the dull winter-brown fields. Ralph had managed to slip inside it earlier that day, when the reeve was out overseeing the
peasants at their work. Although Blanche was not currently in residence, the house was always kept in readiness for her. There
were clean rushes on the floor, sprinkled with fresh herbs to keep them sweet smelling, and the kitchens were well stocked.
Blanche liked her food, and the reeve saw no reason to let standards slip just because his mistress was away. He and his family
had certainly not eaten onion skins and nettles that evening.


Ralph turned his attention back to the cottages. The occupants had been sleeping for a while now and Colne was well off the
beaten track: no one was likely to come along and disturb him. It was time. Stiffly, because he had been waiting for some
hours, Ralph stood and brushed dead leaves and twigs from his cloak. He flexed his limbs, then made his way to the nearest
of the three hovels, treading softly. The dog whined, and Ralph grimaced, sensing that he would have to be quick if he did
not want to be caught red-handed.


He had thought carefully about what he was going to do, painstakingly planning and making preparations. He had already packed the thatched roofs with dried grass, and had placed
small bundles of twigs at strategic points around the backs of the hovels. He would have used straw, but was afraid one of
the cottagers would notice if he made too many obvious changes.


The dog barked again when he struck the tinder, but he ignored it as he set the tiny flame to the first clump of dry grass.
It caught quickly, then smoked and hissed as the flames licked up the damp thatch. When he was sure it would not blow out,
he moved to the second bundle of kindling, and then the next. The dog barked a third time, more urgently now, unsettled by
the odour of smoke and the snap of gently smouldering roof. Someone swore at it, there was a thud, and its barks became yelps.
Hurrying, Ralph moved to the next cottage, where he set the dancing flame to a bundle of tinder-dry sticks.


He did not have time to reach the third house. The dog would not be silenced and, as the occupants of the first hovel were
torn from their exhausted slumbers, they became aware that the top of their home was full of thick white smoke and that the
crackle of burning was not coming from the logs in the hearth. A child started to scream in terror, while the adults poured
out of the house, yelling in alarm. Their shouts woke their neighbours, who tumbled into the icy night air, rubbing the sleep
from their eyes.


By now, the fire had taken a good hold of the first home, and the roof of the second released tendrils of smoke: already it
was too late to save it. Sparks danced through the darkness to land on the roof of the third, and soon that was alight, also.
Ralph ducked away from the peasants’ sudden fevered, but futile, attempts to douse the flames, watching from a safe distance.
No amount of water would save the houses now, and any pails or pots that might have been used were inside, being consumed
by the very flames they might have helped to quench.


The cottagers milled around in helpless confusion. The men poked and jabbed desperately at the burning thatches with hoes and spades, but their efforts only served to make the
fire burn more fiercely. The women stood with their children clinging to their skirts and stared in silent dismay. For them,
life had been almost unbearably hard. Now it would be harder still.


Ralph watched them for a while longer, savouring the sharp, choking stench of burning wood and the crackling roar of the flames
that devoured the last of the thatching. The people were silhouetted against the orange pyre, breath pluming like fog in the
bitter winter night. The reeve and his family came running from the manor, woken by the shouts of alarm and the fountain of
glittering sparks that flew into the black sky, but there was little they could do to help. Ralph heard the reeve demand to
know which household had left a fire burning while they slept, and saw two families regarding the third in silent reproach.
He smiled in satisfaction. The cottagers who had warmed themselves with stolen kindling, and had rashly fallen asleep to its
comforting heat, would be blamed for the mishap. No one would suspect foul play. Ralph was now free to leave.


Tom Glovere finished his ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He was aware that the atmosphere in the Lamb Inn
was icy, despite the warmth of the summer evening, but he did not care. The inhabitants of Ely were too complacent and willing
to believe in the good in people. Glovere intended to cure them of such foolery.


‘So,’ said the landlord, turning away from Glovere to address another of his patrons. ‘It is a good summer we are having,
Master Leycestre. Long, hot days are excellent for gathering the harvest.’


‘Do not try to change the subject, Barbour,’ snapped Glovere nastily, as he set his cup on the table to be refilled. ‘We were
discussing the spate of burglaries that have plagued our city for the last few days: the locksmith was relieved of six groats last night, while the Cordwainers Guild had three
silver pieces stolen the day before.’


‘We know all this,’ said Barbour wearily. ‘My customers and I do not need you to tell us the story a second time. And we do
not need you to make nasty accusations about our fellow citizens, either.’


Glovere smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. ‘Then you should expect these thefts to continue. Whoever is breaking into
our homes and making off with our gold is a local man. He knows which houses are likely to contain the most money, the best way to enter them, and even how to pacify the dogs.
The locksmith’s hound is a mean-spirited brute, and yet it did not so much as growl when its home was entered in the depths
of the night. That, my friends, is because the dog knew the burglar.’ He sat back, confident that he had made his point.


The landlord regarded Glovere with dislike. It was growing late, so most of his patrons had already gone to their beds, but
a dozen or so remained, enjoying the cool, sweet ale that made the Lamb a popular place to be on a sultry summer night. The
sun had set in a blaze of orange and gold, and the shadows of dusk were gathering, dark and velvety. The air smelled of mown
hay, and of the ripe crops that waited in the fields to be harvested. It was a beautiful evening, and Barbour thought Glovere
was wrong to pollute it by creating an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. He turned to Leycestre again, and enquired politely
after the health of his nephews in the hope that Glovere would grow bored and leave.


‘Why would an Ely citizen suddenly resort to burgling the houses in his own town?’ asked Leycestre, ignoring the landlord’s
attempt to change the subject and addressing the gleefully malicious Glovere. ‘Your accusations make no sense. I keep telling
you that it is gypsies who are responsible for these thefts. The burglaries started the day after those folk arrived, and that speaks for itself.’
He folded his arms and looked around him belligerently, sure that no one could fail to agree.


Barbour sighed heartily, wishing that Leycestre would keep his unfounded opinions to himself, too. The gypsies liked their
ale just as much as the next man, and the landlord did not want to lose valuable customers just because Leycestre had taken
against them.


Glovere sneered. ‘The gypsies would not burgle us. They come here every year to help with the harvest, and they have never
stolen anything before. You just do not want to face up to the truth: the culprit is a townsman who will be known to us all.
You mark my words.’ He tapped his goblet on the table. ‘Another ale, Barbour.’


‘No,’ said Barbour, angry with both his customers. ‘You have had enough of my ale.’

Glovere gazed at him, the scornful expression fading from his face. He was not an attractive man – his complexion was florid
and flaky, and the uneven whiskers that sprouted from his cheeks and chin made him appear unwashed and unsavoury, despite
his neat and expensive clothes. ‘I am not drunk. Give me another ale.’


‘I did not say you were drunk,’ said Barbour coolly. ‘I said you have had enough of my ale. You have a vicious tongue and
I do not want you wagging it any longer in my tavern.’


Glovere glowered at the Lamb’s other patrons, his eyes bright with malice. He held the lofty position of steward, after all,
while they were mere labourers, and it galled him to think that they should be served Barbour’s ale while he was refused.
‘I am not the only one who tells what he knows. Leycestre revealed that it was Agnes Fitzpayne who raided the Prior’s peach
tree last year, while Adam Clymme told us that Will Mackerell ate his neighbour’s cat.’


‘That is not the same,’ said Barbour firmly. ‘Your gossip is dangerous. You have already caused one young woman to drown herself
because her life was blighted by your lies.’


There was a growl of agreement from the other drinkers, and Glovere at least had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘It was not
my fault that she killed herself before it could be proven that she was not with child,’ he objected sullenly. ‘I only told people what I thought. And it was not my fault that her betrothed went off and married someone else, either. Was it, Chaloner?’


He stared archly at a burly man who sat alone in one corner of the inn. Others looked at Chaloner, too, and none of the expressions
were friendly. Chaloner was a rough, belligerent fellow who cared little for what people thought. But he knew the good citizens
of Ely had neither forgotten nor forgiven the fact that he had too readily abandoned poor Alice to marry another woman when
Glovere made his accusations – accusations that turned out to be wholly false. People had liked Alice; they did not like Chaloner
and he often found himself at the receiving end of hostile glances or comments. Usually, he ignored it all, and certainly
did not permit his neighbours’ priggish disapprobation to influence the way he lived his life. But it was late and Chaloner
was too tired for a confrontation that night. He drained his cup, slammed it on the table and slouched from the tavern without
a word.


‘Why Alice killed herself over him is beyond me,’ said Glovere sanctimoniously, after Chaloner had gone. He was well aware
that a conversation about the detested Chaloner might induce Barbour to forget his irritation with Glovere himself. ‘I did
her a favour by saving her from marriage with him.’


‘A favour that killed the poor lass,’ muttered Leycestre under his breath.

‘It would not surprise me to learn that Chaloner is the thief,’ Glovere went on. ‘We all know he has a penchant for the property
of others. Perhaps he has become greedy.’


‘And the reason we all know about his weakness for other people’s goods is because he keeps getting caught,’ Barbour pointed
out. ‘Chaloner does not have the skill or the daring to burgle the homes of the wealthiest men in Ely.’


‘The gypsies do, though,’ said Leycestre immediately.

‘I do not know why we tolerate men like Chaloner in our town,’ said Glovere, cutting across what would have been a tart reprimand from Barbour. ‘None of us like him, and Alice is better dead than wed to him. More ale, landlord!’


Barbour’s expression was unfriendly. ‘You can have more when you can keep a decent tongue in your head. And it is late anyway.’
He glanced around at his other patrons. ‘You all need to be up early tomorrow to gather the harvest, and so should be heading
off to your own homes now.’ He began to collect empty jugs and to blow out the candles that cast an amber light on the whitewashed
walls.


Glovere glared at the landlord, then stood reluctantly and made his way outside. There was a sigh of relief from several customers
when the door closed behind him.


‘He is an evil fellow,’ said Leycestre fervently. ‘And Chaloner is not much better.’

‘There are a number of folk in this city we would be better without,’ agreed Barbour. He gestured to a lanky, greasy-haired
man who lurched to his feet and clutched at a door frame to prevent himself from falling. ‘Haywarde is drunk again, which
means his wife will feel his fists tonight. If there was any justice in the world, someone would take a knife to all three
of them.’


Leycestre frowned, watching the other patrons give Haywarde a wide berth as they left. Haywarde was scowling angrily, and
no one wanted to be on the receiving end of his quick temper. ‘What do you think of Glovere’s claims, Barbour? Do you believe that a townsman – like Chaloner – is responsible for these burglaries?’


The landlord shrugged as he set a tray of goblets on a table and began to dunk them in a bucket of cold water; he was relieved
when Haywarde finally released the door frame and staggered away into the night. ‘Possibly. These are desperate times.’


‘But it is the gypsies, I tell you,’ insisted Leycestre. ‘The thefts started the day after they arrived in Ely. It is obvious that they are to blame.’


‘It is late,’ said Barbour flatly. He was tired, and had not silenced Glovere’s malicious diatribe in order to hear one from Leycestre. ‘And if you see Glovere on your way home, you can tell him that I meant what I said. You know I like a bit
of gossip myself – what taverner does not like news to entertain his guests with? – but Glovere’s chatter is spiteful and
dangerous, and I want none of it in my inn.’


He ushered Leycestre unceremoniously out of the door and barred it from the inside, walking back through his inn to exit through
the rear door. He stood for a few moments, savouring the silence of the night before deciding he was too unsettled for sleep,
and that he needed to stretch his legs. When he reached the main street, he saw that Leycestre and several of his fellow drinkers
had also declined to return home when the night was too humid and hot for comfortable sleeping.


Meanwhile, Glovere was still angry as he slouched towards the river. Unlike the others, he was not obliged to rise before
the sun was up to spend the day labouring in the fields. As steward to Lady Blanche de Wake, his only task was to watch over
her small Ely manor while she was away. It was scarcely onerous, and he often found himself with time on his hands, and he
liked to pass some of it by speculating about the private lives of his fellow citizens. He had risen at noon that day and
was not yet ready for sleep. He reached the river and began to stroll upstream, breathing in deeply the rich, fertile scent
of ripe crops and the underlying gassy stench of the marshes that surrounded the City in the Fens.


A rustle in the reeds behind him caught his attention and he glanced around sharply. Someone was walking towards him. He stopped
and waited, wondering whether he had gone too far in the tavern, and one of the patrons had come to remonstrate with him or
warn him not to be so outspoken. It was too dark to see who it was, so he waited, standing with his hands on his hips, ready
to dispense a taste of his tongue if anyone dared tell him how to behave. A slight noise from behind made him spin around
the other way. Was someone else there, or was it just the breeze playing among the waving reeds? Suddenly Glovere had the
feeling that it was not such a fine evening for a stroll after all.


Near the Isle of Ely, Cambridgeshire, August 1354

ALIGHT 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 b