The Devil's Disciples (55 page)

After the theft, Brownsley had tracked Danyell and his friend Spynk all the way to Cambridge, where he had managed to corner
the man. Danyell had freely admitted to stealing the box, but had stubbornly declined to say where he had hidden it. The stupid
man claimed it was his revenge on the Bishop for terrorising him in Norfolk. And then Danyell had just clutched his chest
and died, although neither Brownsley nor Osbern had laid a finger on him. It had taken several searches of Sewale Cottage,
but Brownsley had located the hoard in the end. It had been buried near one of the walls in a specially made recess. It was
neatly and cleverly done, as he would have expected from a talented mason like Danyell.

It was a safe place, so he had left it where it was, intending to collect it later. He knew the Bishop would be delighted,
not only with the brimming box, but with the additional revenue collected by his colleagues along the Huntingdon Way, too.
But then everything had turned sour: he and Osbern had been arrested, and Cambridge’s Sheriff had crushed their gang of henchmen.

Brownsley had not been worried at first, because de Lisle had always rescued him in the past, pulling strings, passing bribes
and having words in ears. But this time,
the Bishop had not bothered. Castle prisons were unhealthy places, and Brownsley had caught a fever. He had seen such sicknesses
before, and knew this one was going to kill him.

His original plan had been to claim the hoard as soon as he was released, and take it to Avignon. But the Bishop had not helped
Brownsley, so Brownsley did not see why he should help the Bishop. The box could stay where it was, and good luck to it. Perhaps
it would bring a smile to someone’s face in the future. He wondered why the book-bearer had not seen it when he had searched.
The Welshman was supposed to be observant, so why had he failed to see the clues?

Brownsley closed his eyes, and supposed he would never know.

In October 2000, a remarkable discovery was made in Cambridge. Some 1,805 silver pennies and nine gold nobles or half-nobles
were discovered near the corner of Chesterton Lane and Magdalene Street. The silver coins date from around the time of the
plague (1348–1350), while the gold ones appear to have been laid on top of them by about 1355. The coins were in an iron-studded
wooden chest, which had been placed in a hole near a wall. It seems that the hole was then sealed with a stone, and the room
overlaid with a new clay floor. Whether the home improvements were carried out specifically to hide the money, or whether
someone just took advantage of a convenient situation will probably never be known.

The hoard would have been a fabulous amount of money in the fourteenth century – perhaps enough to pay an agricultural labourer
for six years. Why it was deposited, and by whom, is not known, although it is likely that its owner had every expectation
of reclaiming it, but never had the chance. Whoever hid the money probably lived in the house where it was buried, either
as its owner or as a tenant. Barnwell Priory is known to have owned property in the area, and records show the building was
occupied by one Margery Sewale in the 1450s. The coins and a reconstruction of the chest are on display in the Fitzwilliam
Museum in Cambridge.

The Prior of the Augustinians at Barnwell in 1357 was Ralph de Norton. The convent was wealthy and respected, and hosted kings,
archbishops and high-ranking nobles. Henry Fencotes was one of its canons in the late fourteenth century, while the Italian
Matteo di Podiolo was at the Cambridge convent by 1359.

The Master of Michaelhouse in 1357 was Ralph de Langelee, and his Fellows probably included Michael de Causton, William Gotham,
John de Clippesby and Thomas Suttone (who had a namesake – Roger Suttone – at Peterhouse). Edmund Mildenale was a Fellow at
the College’s foundation in 1324; he was rector of East Bradenham church in Norfolk during the plague, and lived on until
at least 1361. Not much is known about Roger de Carton, except that he was a Michaelhouse Fellow in 1359.

Like most Colleges, Michaelhouse was keen on acquiring property, especially the land and buildings that adjoined it. In the
1340s or 1350s, its scholars were either given or purchased three houses (or shops) from Joan Refham. Her husband had died
during the plague, and it was possible that the arrangement included the College’s priests chanting prayers for his soul.
The houses stood on ground now belonging to Trinity College, and were later called St Catherine’s Hostel.

Bene’t College (now Corpus Christi) was founded in 1352 with donations from two town guilds: St Mary and Corpus Christi. Its
first Master was Thomas Heltisle (or
Eltisley); Sir John Goldynham and John Hardy were among the first benefactors. William de Eyton was rector of St Bene’t’s
Church in the early 1350s, and later went to South Pool in Devon.

Prior William Pechem ruled the Cambridge Franciscans after the plague, and one of his friars was named Thomas of Irith, who
was ordained as a deacon in 1354. Bukenham was a University proctor in the 1330s. Robert Spaldynge was a member of Clare College,
and records show he engaged in dubious activities (a fictional account of these is given in
To Kill or Cure
).

It is almost impossible to imagine the impact of the Black Death on the medieval world, but contemporary evidence suggests
people reacted very differently to the threat of its return. Some clung even more firmly to the Church, and tried to live
reformed lives. Others turned to more ancient gods to protect them, and it seems there was an increase in witchcraft and paganism.
Gatherings are thought to have taken place in the churches that were abandoned after the plague-deaths of their congregations;
one such chapel was All Saints-next-the-Castle. However, the distinction between magic and religion was still quite blurred
in the 1350s, and many people would have been perfectly happy to go to church on Sunday and visit a witch on Monday.

The Bishop of Ely – the Dominican and papal favourite, Thomas de Lisle – was a complex and contradictory man. He was elected
to his See in 1345, and almost immediately launched into a bitter feud with a merchant called Richard Spynk. Spynk plied his
trade in Norwich although he owned property all across Norfolk and was one of its richest inhabitants. Spynk decided
Norwich’s defensive walls needed refurbishing, and not only paid for much of the work, but gave a lot of his time to oversee
the project, too. All was going well for Spynk until he met Ely’s new prelate.

De Lisle, along with a band of henchman that included his keeper of parks at Downham (Osbern le Hawker), is said to have besieged
Spynk at his various properties ‘threatening [Spynk’s] life and threatening him with mutilation of his members and capture
and incarceration of his body, so that for fear of death he dared not go out’. The relentless attack is said to have cost
Spynk almost £1,000 in lost cattle and other goods, as well as damage to his houses and assaults on his staff.

This was not the only crime de Lisle was accused of committing. In the 1350s, he was charged with being complicit in at least
sixteen charges of theft, extortion, receiving stolen goods, abduction, arson, cattle rustling, assault and eventually murder.
One complainant was the King’s cousin, Blanche de Wake, and another was John Danyell, who claimed he was terrorised by de
Lisle’s steward, John Brownsley. In the winter of 1356, alarmed by the evidence massing against him, de Lisle fled to the
papal court in Avignon. He never returned to his native country and died in 1361.

Was such a high-ranking churchman guilty of these crimes? The consensus seems to be that he was unlikely to have soiled his
own hands, but that the attacks might well have been carried out on his orders or with his tacit agreement. Money was scarce
after the plague, and landowners were often ruthless in getting it where they could. In regard to the Spynk case, de Lisle
argued that the cattle he took were in lieu of money he was owed.
Spynk denied it, but the court found in favour of de Lisle anyway, and the matter was eventually forgotten – although probably
not by Spynk. The later charges laid against de Lisle by the various other complainants probably left Spynk thinking, ‘I told
you so.’