Read A Summer of Discontent for Free Online

predicament, slipped away to their camp on the outskirts of the city as soon as they
     could, the three men clearly relieved to be away from the monk and his companions. Eulalia hesitated before giving Bartholomew
     a brief smile and darting after them.
    Bartholomew glanced at Michael as they drew near the first of the houses. The monk had clearly been appalled to hear that
     his mentor had been accused of a crime, but Bartholomew noted that he did not seem particularly surprised. The physician knew,
     as did Michael, that Thomas de Lisle had not been selected for a prestigious post like that of Bishop of Ely by being nice
     to people, and imaginedthat a degree of corruption and criminal behaviour was probably a requirement for holding a position of such power. However,
     most churchmen did not allow themselves to become sullied by accusations of murder, and Bartholomew suspected that the Bishop
     had miscalculated some aspect of his various plots and machinations. While grateful that
he
would be spending his time in the priory library, well away from the webs weaved by men like de Lisle, the physician was
     worried that Michael’s obligations as de Lisle’s agent would lead him into something sinister.
    He pushed morbid thoughts from his mind, and looked around him. Ahead, on a low hill, stood the grey mass of the cathedral.
     At its western end was a vast tower, topped by four crenellated turrets. To either side were smaller turrets, separated by
     a glorious façade of blank arcading that Bartholomew knew was at least two centuries old. The section to the north-west was
     clad in a complex system of ropes, planks and scaffolding, and the physician recalled hearing rumours that it was ripe for
     collapse. The bells were ringing, an urgent jangle of six discordant clappers calling the monks to the office of sext – the
     daily service that took place before the midday meal.
    At the cathedral’s central crossing, where the north and south transepts met the nave, was Ely’s best-known feature, and one
     of the most remarkable achievements of its day. Thirty years earlier, the heavy tower erected by the Normans had toppled,
     taking with it a good part of the chancel. The monks had hastened to repair the damage, and one of their own number had designed
     an octagonal tower. More famous architects had scoffed at the unusual structure, claiming that it would be too heavy for the
     foundations. But the gifted monk knew his theories of buttressing and thrust, and the octagon stood firm.
    Clustered around the base of the cathedral, and almost insignificant at its mighty stone feet, was the monastery. This was
     linked to the cathedral by a cloister, and included an infirmary, a massive refectory, dormitories for the monks tosleep in, a chapter house for their meetings, barns, stables, kitchens, and a large house and chapel for the Prior. There
     was also a handsome guesthouse for the exclusive use of visiting Benedictines, known by the rather sinister name of the Black
     Hostry. All this was enclosed by a stout wall, except for the part that bordered an ancient and ruinous castle, which was
     protected by a wooden fence liberally punctuated with sharpened stakes.
    At first, the only people Bartholomew saw were distant figures bent over the crops in the fields, but as he and his companions
     rode closer to the cathedral, the streets became more crowded. Besides the drab homespun of labourers, there were merchants,
     clad in the richly coloured garments that were the height of fashion in the King’s court – hose and gipons of scarlet, amber
     and blue, while their wives wore the close-cut kirtles that had many prudish clerics running to their pulpits to issue condemnations.
     Personally, Bartholomew liked the way the dresses showed the slender – or otherwise – figures of the women, and he thought
     it would be a pity if fashion saw the return of the voluminous garments he recalled from his youth.
    For Ely’s lay