‘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.
Chapter 3
The following day was clear and bright, and the sun had burned away the odorous mist even before the office of prime started at six. Bartholomew stood in the nave, listening to the chanting of the Benedictines in the chancel, closing his eyes to appreciate the singing as it washed and echoed along the vaulted roof. The first rays of sunlight caught the bright glass in the windows, and made dappled patterns in red, yellow and blue on the smooth cream paving stones of the floor.
While the monks completed their devotions in the privacy of the chancel, which was separated from the nave by an intricately carved stone pulpitum, Bartholomew wandered through the rest of the church, admiring the soaring vaulting above the vast emptiness of the nave, so high that he could barely make out details of the ribs in the dusty gloom above the clerestory. Although every available scrap of wall space was covered in brilliantly hued paintings, and every niche boasted a statue of a saint or a cleric, the flagstones were bare and, apart from a rather cheap-looking altar that stood at the east end of the nave, there was not another piece of furniture in sight. Walking alone, with his footsteps echoing, Bartholomew began to feel oppressed by the great emptiness. Of Lady Blanche and her retinue there was no sign, and Bartholomew assumed they were not in the habit of rising early.
At the heart of the cathedral was the shrine to St Etheldreda. It was a box-shaped structure with a wooden coffin in the middle, covered with a dazzling mass of precious stones, so that it glittered and gleamed with its own light. A number of pilgrims lined up nearby, each ready to present three pennies to a hulking lay-brother with hairy knuckles, who had evidently been selected for his ability to intimidate. One barefoot, ragged woman was sobbing bitterly, and Bartholomew supposed she did not have the necessary funds to buy access to the shrine. Bartholomew felt a surge of anger towards Almoner Robert for demanding payment for something that should have been open to all.
At the west end of the nave were a pair of matching transepts, each decorated with intricate designs in a riot of colours, and adorned with so many statues of saints and biblical figures that Bartholomew felt overwhelmed by the presence of the silent host that gazed down at him with blank eyes. Everywhere he looked was another face. Some were familiar, and he saw that clever masons had used monks in the priory as models for their creations. William was St Edmund, while Robert was an evil-looking green man.
The south-west transept contained a font for baptisms, and a group of lay-brothers who had gathered there were taking advantage of the monks’ period of prayer by chatting in low voices. The north-west transept, however, was another matter. A half-hearted barrier in the form of a frayed rope suggested that people would be wise not to venture inside, although cracked flagstones and pieces of smashed masonry provided a more obvious deterrent. Bartholomew walked towards it and gazed upwards, noting the great cracks that zigzagged their way up the walls, and the peculiar lopsidedness of the wooden rafters above. A statue of an animal that looked like a pig leaned precariously overhead, as if ready to precipitate itself downward at any moment, while a couple of gargoyles seemed as though they would not be long in following. He recalled Alan saying that the building looked worse than it was, and thought the architect might well be underestimating the problem: to Bartholomew, it looked ready for collapse.
He was admiring the impressive carvings around the great door in the west front, when a crash preceded a string of people traipsing in. Some were rubbing sleep from their eyes, clearly having just dragged themselves from their beds, while others had hands that were stained dark with the peaty blackness of the local soil, having already started their day’s labours. There were peasants wearing undyed homespun tunics, with bare arms burned brown by the sun; and there were merchants, in clothes of many colours with their tight-fitting gipons, flowing kirtles, and fashionable shoes.
Among them was a small, bustling character wearing the habit of a Dominican friar. He had black, greasy hair that was worn too long, and eyes so close together that the physician wondered whether either could see anything other than his nose. The priest spotted Bartholomew and strode purposefully towards him.
‘Are you visiting the city?’ he demanded without preamble. ‘Or are you a priory guest?’
‘The latter,’ replied Bartholomew, startled by the brusque enquiry.
‘Then you are the priory’s responsibility and none of mine,’ said the priest curtly. ‘You may attend my service, but you must behave yourself in a fitting manner.’
‘Behave myself?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. Had the shabbiness of his academic tabard, which should have been black but was more charcoal due to frequent washes, and the patches on his shirt made him appear more disreputable than he had imagined? He decided to invest in a set of new clothes as soon as he had enough money to do so.