John glanced around him in alarm. ‘I am advising him to caution, not encouraging him to engage in treasonous acts.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who knew perfectly well that John had been agreeing with Leycestre, not remonstrating with him. ‘But you should be careful, Father. I do not think this rebellion will succeed, no matter how many houses Leycestre has robbed to ensure its success.’
John clapped his hands across his face, and Bartholomew knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all his reasoning had been correct. The priest gave a groan, and when he looked at Bartholomew again, his expression was haggard.
‘I do not want to be mixed up in this, but how can I stop? All my parishioners are poor, and the landowners have made their lives even harder since the Death. Leycestre is right in that the wealthy will never listen to the peasants, and he is right when he says something must be done. But I am no rebel, and violence is abhorrent to me. What shall I do?’
‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, who could see the priest’s quandary and was glad he had not been placed in such a position himself. ‘But you should beware of involving yourself with men who break the law. It is one thing to be executed for treason over a cause you believe is just, and another altogether to be hanged for a common crime like theft.’
‘I told Leycestre there were other ways,’ said John miserably. ‘I told him that King Edward would hear the voice of his people, and that we should allow more time to pass before he took such desperate action. He would not listen.’
‘Fanatics rarely do.’
‘What will you do with this knowledge?’ asked John nervously. ‘Will you tell the Bishop and Prior Alan? Or will you give me until sunset to leave with my few belongings? I know what they do to traitors, and I do not want to be an example for other would-be rebels. You would not wish the execution of a priest on your conscience, would you?’
‘I think you will find that de Lisle and Alan already have some inkling of Leycestre’s plans, although I doubt they also know about the burglaries. You must do what you think is right, but I will not tell the priory or the Bishop of your involvement, if that is what you want.’
‘And what do you demand for your silence?’ asked John tiredly. ‘I have no money – anything I have goes to feed the poor these days. I could say a mass for you at St Etheldreda’s tomb before I leave.’
‘I would like some information,’ said Bartholomew, gazing up at the priest. ‘Does Leycestre intend to break into the priory tonight?’
John nodded unhappily. ‘And now I am a traitor to both sides! If Leycestre ever learns I told you this, he will kill me.’
‘Is he the kind of man who kills, then?’ asked Bartholomew, very interested in this revelation. ‘Is Leycestre the murderer who has been taking the lives of his fellow citizens?’
‘I do not know,’ said John in a whisper. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘Really, I do not! The possibility has crossed my mind, because he is so determined that his rebellion will be a success, and the men who have died are folk who were not interested in joining him.’
‘Chaloner, Glovere and Haywarde were against the rebellion?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘They just did not care one way or the other. And because of their apathy, I thought Leycestre might have decided they were better out of the way. But then monks died, and now I am not so sure.’ He saw Bartholomew look sceptical, and he raised his hands in earnest entreaty. ‘Please, believe me! I really do not know the identity of this killer.’
Bartholomew decided the priest was probably telling the truth, and supposed that Leycestre and his cronies did not confide in him because he was nervous and the kind of person to fall at the first hurdle – which was exactly what he had done. He charged John to say nothing to Leycestre about the fact that his plan to raid the priory had been anticipated. The priest nodded acquiescence, then informed Bartholomew that he was planning to leave Ely anyway, and that he would do better in another city.
‘But you have been here for years,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that the priest had made plans to abandon the people he professed to love, even before he knew his part in Leycestre’s rebellion had been discovered.
‘It is time for a change,’ said John quietly. ‘I shall be on the road by this evening and will not return.’ He said farewell and then was gone, hurrying through the shadows towards the door, which he fled through without bothering to close it behind him. The sound of children playing nearby drifted in, along with the agitated bark of a dog, which was probably part of their game and wished it were not. Bartholomew stared at the gate for a long time before he uncoiled himself from the foot of his column and stood up.
Bartholomew walked slowly around the cathedral, thinking about what he had learned, and wondering when the legacy of the Death would loosen its grip on his country. The life of a peasant had not been easy before the plague, and there had been a shortage of land that had meant bread was expensive. But it was ten times harder after the Great Pestilence had swept through England, and now it seemed as though it would precipitate a rebellion that would plunge huge tracts of the country into a state of anarchy. Men like John saw that the cause was just, and were torn between siding with the people for whom they cared and staying on the right side of the law, while men like Leycestre were preparing for a war without considering the fact that their actions could make matters worse.
The sun was beginning to dip red in the afternoon sky when Bartholomew realised that he had been walking in circles for at least an hour, round and round inside the cathedral. He was at the rear again, near the pillar where he had met John, when he decided he had better stop and do something more productive than analysing his country’s economic problems.
He glanced to one side, and saw that the transept was still in its chaotic state of disrepair, with the rope hanging between two stools to warn people to stay out. It seemed to Bartholomew that the ground was more littered with smashed flagstones and broken masonry than ever, and he noted that the angel, which had clung precariously to the beam high on the roof above, was now a pile of painted rubble on the floor. Only the angel’s eyes were identifiable, gazing sightlessly upward as though admonishing the builders for giving her a niche that was not sound. The scaffolding that clung to the wall looked more unstable than the building it was supposed to support, and Bartholomew was surprised that the whole lot had not already crashed to the ground.
He was about to leave through the west door, when he saw two familiar figures walking slowly towards him. Tysilia and de Lisle were strolling arm in arm through the cathedral that was the centre of his See. Bartholomew had seldom seen a greater look of contentment on the haughty features of the Bishop, although Tysilia seemed bored with her father’s company. Ralph was behind them, dogging their footsteps like a faithful, if reluctant, hound. Quickly Bartholomew moved behind one of the thick Norman columns. He did not want to meet Tysilia and have another conversation that revolved around Brother Michael’s physical virtues in front of the Bishop. He listened carefully to their approaching footsteps, ready to edge further around the column if they came towards him.
‘What is this?’ he heard Tysilia ask, as she passed the ruinous transept.
‘A broken angel,’ came de Lisle’s voice, tenderly patient. ‘She must have fallen from the roof. This entire section is not as strong as the rest of the cathedral. One day it will tumble to the ground.’
Tysilia clapped her hands in childlike delight. ‘Can I come to see it? I have never seen a church fall down.’
‘I imagine few people have,’ said de Lisle, reaching out to touch her hair in a rare sign of paternal affection. ‘But I hope it will not happen for a while, because then the monks will insist on rebuilding it immediately, and they should finish the parish church of Holy Cross first.’