A Summer of Discontent (55 page)

He followed Guido to the Mermaid Inn on the Quay, then hesitated outside the door. Now what? He had done what he had set out
to do, and knew Guido’s intended destination. But the speed of the man’s walk suggested that he had pressing business inside,
and now Bartholomew decided he wanted to know what. He could hardly enter the inn and continue to observe Guido without being
seen, and he did not want to linger outside waiting for him to come out – there were not many places to hide and he was sure
his loitering would be noticed and reported to the occupants of the tavern.

Wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, he ducked down a narrow passageway that led to the rear of the premises, uncertain
of his plan, but determined to do something. He found himself in a small yard that had weeds growing between the cobbles and
a generally derelict air about it, as though it was seldom used. In one corner was a large pile of sacks. Bartholomew had
seen sacks like them once before: stacked inside the priory’s granary.

He glanced around him, looking for a window or a back door through which he might enter unobtrusively. He saw a small window,
and peered through it. It led to a pantry. Like the yard, it appeared to enjoy little regular use, and was piled high with
crates and barrels, but none of them looked as if they had been moved recently. Bartholomew
pushed open the shutter and eased himself inside, swearing under his breath when a sharp rip told him that he had caught
his last good shirt on a nail that protruded from the neglected latch.

He stood on the tiled floor and listened, trying to detect the rumble of voices from the tavern’s main room. But the walls
were sturdy and thick, and Bartholomew could hear nothing, so he tiptoed across the floor and put his ear to the door. Again,
there was nothing. He pulled open the door a little, but the silence remained absolute.

He reflected for a moment. There was little point in lingering in the pantry if he could see and hear nothing of interest.
He needed to be nearer the tavern itself. However, he had no wish to be caught trespassing by the landlord and knew it would
be difficult to explain why he was lurking in the private recesses of the inn. But, he decided, encountering the landlord
was just a chance he would have to take. He grasped the handle and pulled the door open. He leapt in alarm when he saw that
it was no empty corridor in front of him, but Guido. The gypsy held a knife in one hand and a candle in the other, and his
ugly features were creased into a victorious smile.

Bartholomew backed away quickly, intending to dive through the window and escape into the yard beyond. He knew he could move
more quickly than the heavier, slower Guido. But, even as he turned, a shadow darkened his line of vision, and he saw Goran
framed in the window, wearing the same gloating grin as his brother. Bartholomew was trapped. He considered leaping for the
window anyway, in the hope that his sudden move would take Goran by surprise and that he could make good his escape before
the fellow realised what was happening. But there were other people in the yard, too – several of the clan were there, waiting
for Guido to tell them what to do. Unfortunately, Eulalia was not among them.

Bartholomew turned back to Guido; he considered
shoving past him to reach the corridor, but Guido was watching him intently, and Bartholomew sensed a mad bid for escape
would merely provide the gypsy king with the perfect opportunity to run him through. He let his hands fall to his sides to
indicate that he was defeated, and waited to see what would happen next.

‘I thought you Cambridge scholars were clever,’ began Guido, in a tone of voice that suggested he considered himself cleverer.
He set his candle on a shelf without taking his eyes off Bartholomew. ‘You followed me, but you did not once glance behind
to see whether anyone was following
you
.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in disgust, aware that he had been unforgivably careless. It had not occurred to him that Guido
might have charged his brother to watch his rapid progress down the hill.

‘Goran was behind me,’ Guido continued. ‘And since my cousins and Rosel are here now, as well, you can be assured that you
are well and truly outnumbered.’

‘So I see,’ was all Bartholomew could think to say.

‘I suppose you thought you would eavesdrop. You wanted to overhear something that will prove that I am the killer you are
hunting.’

Bartholomew was silent.

‘You will learn nothing from us,’ said Goran, climbing through the window. For some inexplicable reason, he was wearing an
expensive-looking cloak and a woman’s kirtle. There was padding around his middle, some of which had been arranged to provide
him with a substantial bosom, and powders and paste had been applied to his face, so that at a glance he could be mistaken
for Lady Blanche. Bartholomew gaped at him.

‘It is a good disguise, is it not?’ asked Guido, enjoying Bartholomew’s confusion. ‘Lady Blanche has just set fire to the
Bishop’s house. She failed as it happened, but a number of people saw her try.’

‘Did the Bishop pay you to do this?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that de Lisle might well embark on a plot to clear
his own name, since Michael seemed to be incapable of doing so. What better way than to arrange for Blanche to be ‘seen’
in the very act of venting her spleen against her enemy? Not only would it raise questions about her sanity and behaviour,
but it would serve to increase the Bishop’s popularity and add credibility to his claim that he was the victim of an unjust
persecution.

‘Ralph paid us two groats for what we did,’ said Goran, pleased with himself. ‘It was money honestly earned. No real harm
was done, and Guido was ready to raise the alarm before the fire really took hold.’

‘When I first saw you dressed as Blanche – here in the Mermaid Inn several days ago – were you demonstrating to the Bishop
that you could achieve a reasonable likeness?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Ralph wanted to see how good the disguise would be,’ said Goran, still smiling in satisfaction. ‘Apparently, several people
mentioned to the Bishop that Blanche had been seen drinking with us in a tavern. You were fooled, too, I hear.’

‘And when you were in the cathedral at midnight on Friday, was that to collect your pay?’

‘No. Ralph would not pay us until the job was done,’ said Guido. ‘The meeting at St Etheldreda’s shrine was to finalise details.’

‘But the plan will not work,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that they thought it would. ‘No one will believe that a lady indulges
in arson.’

Goran shrugged carelessly. ‘That is not our problem. We were paid to do what we did, and what happens next is up to the Bishop
and Ralph. But we came here to collect our grain, not to chatter with you.’ He glanced at his brother. ‘What shall we do with
him?’

Outside the window Bartholomew saw Guido’s cousins, dressed in their flowing skirts and embroidered hats. The yard was located
at the end of an alley, well out of sight, so Bartholomew doubted that anyone knew they were there.
His only hope was that the landlord would see the strangers, and would fetch help. Guido seemed to read his mind.

‘It is no good you expecting assistance from the taverner. Leycestre bribed him well to keep his eyes and ears closed regarding
anything that happens in his yard tonight.’

‘But what are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

‘We have come to collect what Leycestre promised us for leaving Ely,’ said Guido. ‘Father John is here to make certain that
everything is done fairly. I insisted on him, because a man of God would not cheat us – I do not trust Leycestre.’

Bartholomew was not so sure his faith in John was justified, either. He could see the dark robes of the priest as he stood
near the grain sacks. Guido’s cousins were listening to him as he spoke in a low voice.

‘John!’ shouted Bartholomew, pushing past Goran. Goran stopped him from jumping through the window, but John glanced in his
direction anyway. Bartholomew saw the priest recognise him, and then watched him register the fact that Goran held him in
a grip that was far from friendly. For a moment, indecision reigned on John’s face, then deliberately and slowly, he turned
away.

‘What these people choose to do with you is none of my affair,’ he said, refusing to look in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘I will
mind my business, and they will leave me alone. That is the arrangement we made.’

‘You and I made an arrangement, too,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘True. But you are not in a position to threaten my safety now, and so I consider that particular agreement invalid,’ replied
John coolly. He moved away, clearly considering the conversation over. Bartholomew knew the priest would not reply if hailed
again. He turned back to Guido.

‘As I said, we are here to take possession of Leycestre’s payment,’ said the king of the gypsies, giving a malicious smile
when he observed Bartholomew’s despair.

‘Eulalia suggested we should not accept gold,’ added
Goran. ‘She said we would only be accused of stealing when we tried to use it, and grain is the best currency anyway – we
can use it to trade for anything we want, and if that fails, we can eat it.’

‘Eulalia?’ asked Bartholomew. He jumped sideways when he saw another person scrambling through the window, and felt a peculiar
combination of relief and alarm when he saw the dark hair and eyes of his gypsy friend. ‘I thought you were going to stay
in Ely.’

‘Guido is king now,’ she said, with more than a trace of disapproval. ‘He makes the decisions for the clan, and we are obliged
to follow them. He has decided that we should accept Leycestre’s offer and leave the city. All I did was recommend that we
ask for wheat.’

‘I imagine that suited Leycestre very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He lost all his gold today, thanks to Tysilia.’

‘We heard about that,’ said Eulalia. She did not smile, even though it was an amusing story.

‘You do not have to leave,’ Bartholomew said to her, his voice sounding more desperate than he would have liked. ‘Leycestre
and his nephews are under arrest. As we predicted, they planned to have you accused of stealing the priory’s treasure, and
your sudden departure tonight was to be evidence of your guilt.’

‘If Leycestre is under lock and key, then it
is
necessary for us to leave,’ said Eulalia. ‘It will not be long before he tells people that we accepted stolen grain, and
we will be fugitives anyway.’

‘The authorities will track you if you go,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘They will do exactly what Leycestre intended – assume your
guilt because you ran away.’

‘No one will find us once we leave,’ said Eulalia confidently. ‘We know ancient route-ways that are barely above the water,
and only a Fenman will be able to track us. None will, though, because they do not like the priory or the Bishop any more
than we do.’

‘But why are you allowing Leycestre to drive you away?’
asked Bartholomew, thinking they were making a serious mistake. Clerics travelled, too, and it was only a matter of time
before the gypsies were recognised by someone from the priory and arrested.

‘No one is driving us anywhere,’ snarled Guido angrily. ‘We are going because I have decided to leave.’

‘It has not been pleasant in Ely this year,’ said Eulalia, almost apologetically to Bartholomew. ‘People have not been as
kind as usual, and none of us has enjoyed being accused of crimes of which we were innocent.’

‘But by leaving, it will appear as though you were complicit—’

‘I know,’ she said, raising a hand to his mouth to silence him. ‘But that is part of the price we will have to pay for our
grain. As I said, there is nothing for us here. You are virtually the only person who has not shunned us.’

‘That is because he is lovesick for you, woman,’ snapped Guido in disgust. ‘It has nothing to do with the fact that we are
innocent.’

‘There is evidence that Guido killed William,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring him and addressing his sister. ‘Theft is serious
enough, but the murder of one of the priory’s most important officials will result in a much more vigorous search. You will
not escape.’

Eulalia regarded him sombrely as she considered this new information. It was growing crowded in the small room with Eulalia,
Guido and Goran there, and Bartholomew felt hot and hemmed in. He flinched when Goran accidentally bumped him, and his bare
arm touched Guido’s blade. He glanced at the weapon uneasily, wondering whether it was the one that had killed Glovere, Chaloner
and the others.

‘What evidence do you have?’ sneered Guido contemptuously, when Eulalia said nothing. ‘You cannot prove the clan had anything
to do with that.’

‘Not the clan,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You. Michael knows enough to hang you.’

Eulalia stood close to Bartholomew, gazing into his face.
‘Are you telling the truth?’ She nodded slowly, and answered her own question. ‘Yes. I think you are. At least, what you
perceive to be the truth. But you are wrong, Matthew: Guido has killed no one. I know he often says he will kill if anyone
threatens the clan, but it is empty bluster. He is not a murderer.’

Guido’s sneer deepened, and Bartholomew thought Eulalia could not be more wrong. Guido was a killer, and at some point he
had translated his ‘empty bluster’ to reality. He pointed to the puckering on Guido’s cap. ‘The strand of gold thread that
you see has been torn from the hat was found on William’s body – caught on the cross he wore around his neck. William was
engaged in a violent struggle before he died, and it is obvious that the strand was ripped away from the hat then.’

‘Liar,’ snarled Guido, his sneer instantly replaced by fury. Bartholomew thought he might have gone too far, and was surprised
that Eulalia managed to stop her brother’s sudden advance merely by turning to look at him and raising one imperious hand.

‘Guido told me he had nothing to do with these deaths,’ she said to Bartholomew. ‘I know he would not lie to me: the clan
is not given to telling untruths – at least, not to each other.’