A Summer of Discontent (50 page)

‘So, now we have six corpses to avenge,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And Mackerell is still missing. Perhaps
he
is the killer.’

‘William was not.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael tiredly, trying to keep an open mind. ‘It is possible that someone else discovered the identity
of the murderer and took justice into his own hands. What we have here may be an execution, not a murder.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘The man we wrestled with in the Bone House last night was definitely our culprit, because of
the way he tried to cut my neck. And, although I cannot be precise about the exact time that William has been dead, I can
assure you it was not him we fought – unless his corpse was possessed by a water-spirit.’

‘Please!’ said Michael with a shudder, glancing around him uneasily. ‘This is no place to make that kind of jest.’

‘I was under the impression that you dismissed such stories as nonsense,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the monk’s reaction.
‘You have always been scornful of local superstitions and customs.’

‘So I am, when in a busy town or the cathedral-priory,’ said Michael. ‘But things are different out here, among all this water
and with that vast sky hanging above us. There are eerie rustles and strange sounds. I always feel I am entering a different
world when I venture into the Fens.’

‘We had better go home, then,’ said Bartholomew, looking towards the path that would take them back to Ely. ‘We should not
linger here longer than necessary, when we have so much to do.’

‘William will have to stay here. He is too heavy for us to carry without a stretcher and I do not feel like humping corpses
all over the countryside, anyway.’

‘We can cover him with reeds,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and hope he does not attract the attention of any wild animals. He has been
all right so far, so a few more hours should not make a difference.’

‘I will say a prayer and then we will be off,’ said Michael, muttering something brief, then leaning down to touch William’s
forehead, mouth and chest. ‘There, I am done.’

‘I am sure that will make all the difference,’ said
Bartholomew, hoping for William’s sake that his other brethren were prepared to take a little more time over his immortal
soul.

Michael took no notice, and put one hand on William’s chest as he heaved himself to his feet. He withdrew his fingers quickly,
then knelt again and peered closely at the front of William’s habit. ‘That is odd.’

Bartholomew crouched next to him, and looked at the cross that William still wore around his neck. His killer had evidently
decided it was not worth stealing, because the metal was some cheap alloy, not the gold or silver usually favoured by high-ranking
Benedictines. But it was not the cross itself that had attracted Michael’s attention – it was something that had caught on
one of its rough edges. Bartholomew took a pair of tweezers from his medicine bag and picked it up.

‘What is it?’ asked Michael. ‘It looks like a strand of gold thread – not that gold-coloured thread you can buy in the market
here, but the real stuff that courtiers use.’

‘Not only courtiers,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Guido and his unusual hat.

It was noon by the time they had walked back to Ely, informed Alan that they had located his missing hosteller, and dispatched
Cynric and five sturdy lay-brothers to fetch him back. Michael retired to the refectory, but had barely finished his repast
when de Lisle summoned him, demanding to know the details of William’s death and the implications of the discovery for the
case. The Bishop was not pleased to learn that it meant little other than that the hosteller was probably not the murderer.

Symon was still missing, and it seemed no one had set eyes on him since he had visited the infirmarian early that morning.
Alan was embarrassed to admit that he had no idea where his monk had gone, although Bartholomew sensed his concern did not
yet stretch to actual worry. The Prior offered to open the library himself, so that
Bartholomew could use it, but the physician was unable to concentrate on work, feeling as though the case was gaining momentum,
and that soon something would happen that would determine its outcome. He tried reading, but his attention wandered and he
kept staring across the leafy cemetery instead of at the words on the page in front of him.

He went to bed early that evening, exhausted by the day’s events and by the inadequate sleep snatched the previous two nights.
He rose late, long after prime had ended, feeling refreshed but uneasy, as if he sensed that something significant would happen
that day. He set out to find Symon, but then saw Welles emerging from the library. Henry had charged his assistant to hunt
out Galen’s
De Urinis
for a lecture he planned to deliver to his apprentices later that day, so Bartholomew seized the opportunity to slip inside.
He suspected that Symon would never have granted him access on the Sabbath, and decided that at least some good had come of
the librarian’s continued absence.

According to Welles, no one was unduly concerned for Symon’s safety: the man was permitted a considerable degree of freedom
in order to purchase new books for the library, although Welles was unable to say whether the collection was expanding as
a result. However, he did know that Symon seized with alacrity every opportunity to disappear for a few days. Bartholomew
regarded the novice thoughtfully, wondering whether he and Michael should walk upriver again, to see whether they could find
any more corpses to add to their collection. He suggested as much to Michael, who promptly sent Cynric and Meadowman on that
particular errand, while Michael himself began routine interviews of each of the priory’s monks, in the vain hope that one
of them might know something pertinent that he was willing to share.

Freed from helping Michael, Bartholomew lingered in the library all morning, then helped Henry set a cordwainer’s broken
leg during the afternoon. He returned to his books at about four o’clock, when the day still sizzled
under an unrelenting sun. Even the restless old men were sleeping soundly, exhausted by the heat, and Bartholomew found himself
still unable to concentrate as the sun heated the room to furnace levels.

At last he gave up, and wandered aimlessly around the town in search of somewhere cool. Because it was Sunday, the town was
busy with people walking to and from church. Officially, labour was forbidden on the Sabbath, but exceptions were made during
harvest, so the atmosphere in the city did not feel much different from other days. He saw de Lisle leaving a meeting with
Michael, limping heavily, as though in pain. Moments later, Julian walked past, both hands to the small of his back as though
he were trying to rub away an ache. The novice dropped his hands to his sides as soon as he became aware that he was the object
of Bartholomew’s interested scrutiny, and hurried away.

Bartholomew met Eulalia, who was carrying an enormous pitcher of the weak ale called stegman, evidently intended for the men
in the fields. She moved slowly, as though she had been working all day and was beginning to flag. Her face lit up when she
saw Bartholomew, and her gait was suddenly more sprightly. She gave him a grin with her small white teeth, and her dark eyes
sparkled with pleasure.

‘Matthew! I have not seen you for a while. You still have not collected your black resin from me. It is in my cart, waiting
for you.’

‘I have been busy. But I am not busy now. Can I walk with you for a while, and carry your bucket?’

She shook her head. ‘The priory may refuse to pay me if someone reports that you have been helping. But perhaps you can come
this evening, when work is over. We cannot compete with the fine fare offered by the monastery, but we have strong wine, wholesome
bread, fish caught illegally from the river this very morning by Rosel, and pleasant music.’

Bartholomew was startled when a hand placed firmly in the middle of his back shoved him forward so hard that he stumbled.
When he regained his balance, he turned to see
Guido towering over his sister with an expression of black fury creasing his dark features. He thought about the gold thread
– safely stowed in a box in Alan’s solar – that he had recovered from William’s body, but Guido was hatless. Bartholomew considered
interrogating him about it, but decided he had better wait until he could inspect the garment properly and be sure of his
facts. Guido was also angry, and Bartholomew did not feel like tackling the man without Michael or Cynric present.

‘Get away from my sister!’ Guido snapped. ‘She does not want anything to do with you.’

‘That is for her to decide,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It is for
me
to decide,’ snapped Guido. ‘Our king died on Friday night, and I have been elected in his place. And I say you should stay
away from my sister.’

‘Go away, Guido,’ said Eulalia, casting her brother a withering look. ‘You may intimidate Rosel, but you do not frighten me.
Go back to your work, and earn an honest penny for a change.’

‘For a change?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are the ones he usually earns dishonest?’

‘Becoming king has gone to his head,’ she said scornfully. ‘He thinks it puts him beyond a hard day’s labour, and he has been
plotting with men in the city who mean us no good.’

‘Like Leycestre,’ said Bartholomew.

Both gypsies stared at him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’ asked Eulalia.

‘I saw them together at Chettisham yesterday.’

‘You did what?’ exploded Eulalia, rounding on Guido. ‘I thought we decided that we would have nothing to do with Leycestre’s
proposition.’

‘That was before I was king,’ snarled Guido dangerously. ‘Now
I
make the decisions, and
I
say Leycestre’s offer is too good to turn down.’

‘What offer is this?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Nothing we will share with you,’ shouted Guido, turning to the physician and adding emphasis to his point by jabbing
a forefinger into his chest. It was like being stabbed with a piece of iron, and Bartholomew flinched backwards.

‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ flashed Eulalia. The humour that had danced in her eyes was replaced by a dangerous fury. ‘It
is because of your quick fists that we are in this predicament.’

‘What predicament?’ asked Bartholomew.

Guido took a menacing step towards the physician, but confined himself to waving a furious finger when Eulalia also moved
forward. ‘It is none of your affair. Mind your own business!’

Eulalia glowered at Guido, then turned to Bartholomew to explain. ‘Leycestre offered to pay us if we would leave Ely tomorrow.’

Bartholomew stared at her, his mind whirling. ‘How much did he offer you?’

‘More than we would earn if we stayed here for another two weeks, and it means we can earn money elsewhere, too.’

‘But the offer only stands if we leave tonight,’ said Guido, sulky that Eulalia had told Bartholomew what he wanted to know.
‘If we dither, he says he will give us nothing, and that is why I have decided we will go.’

‘And it is why
I
have decided that there is something peculiar about this arrangement,’ countered Eulalia. ‘I do not trust Leycestre. Why
does he want us gone, all of a sudden? And what will that mean for our return here next year?’

‘It would mean that you would hang for theft and possibly murder,’ said Bartholomew, knowing exactly why Leycestre was so
keen for the gypsies to leave. ‘Of course, that is assuming that there is a city here at all, and that his rebellion has not
destroyed everything and plunged the country into a civil war.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Guido. ‘Leycestre is a man full of silly dreams. He does not have the authority to
create that sort of havoc.’

‘He is not alone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are pockets of unrest all over the country, and men like him are working
to join them up. I am sure that
he
has been committing the burglaries around the town in order to raise funds for his cause. That is why he is able to pay you,
despite the fact that he is little more than a labourer himself.’

Eulalia took a sharp breath. ‘Is that why he has been so vocal against us this summer? He has always been friendly before,
but this year he has accused us of all manner of crimes. We are to be the scapegoat for the crimes
he
has committed?’

‘That is why he wants you to leave tonight: so that he can claim you burgled half the merchants in the city and then fled
with your ill-gotten gains.’

‘But why the urgency?’ asked Eulalia. ‘He told Guido the arrangement is only good until midnight.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Perhaps it is because he intends to commit a particularly spectacular burglary tonight, and he knows
it will result in a huge hue and cry. Unlike the offences committed against the merchants, this will be committed against
someone more powerful and influential, who will have the resources to investigate the crime properly.’

‘And their prime suspects will have gone,’ said Eulalia, nodding. ‘That is clever thinking on his part. The search will concentrate
on us, and will allow him to dispose of whatever he has taken at his leisure and without suspicion.’

‘This is all rubbish,’ growled Guido. ‘You are forgetting that the most powerful man in this area is de Lisle, and he has
already been burgled.’

‘He is also deep in debt and has little for a thief to take,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But there is someone a lot richer, and with
a lot more resources at his fingertips, than the Bishop.’

‘The cathedral-priory,’ said Eulalia in a low, awed voice. ‘He intends to burgle the priory and have us blamed for it. And
he intends to do it tonight.’

Guido was not convinced by the interpretation of facts deduced by Bartholomew and Eulalia, and was becoming belligerent. The
physician saw that his sister was having
trouble controlling him and, since he did not want to make the situation awkward, he decided it would be better if he left.
The gypsy hurled insults and threats after him as he walked away, causing more than one passer-by to stare.