A Summer of Discontent (56 page)

‘Then ask him again,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Guido was looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘See then whether you still
believe him.’

‘I had nothing to do with the deaths of the townsmen and those monks – Robert and Thomas,’ said Guido firmly, looking Eulalia
in the eye as he spoke. She turned to Bartholomew and raised her palms upwards, indicating that she believed her brother.

‘I did not say you killed
them
,’ said Bartholomew, sensing that as soon as Guido had his sister’s trust, he would take the grain and be away. And when Eulalia
was out of sight, Bartholomew knew he could expect a knife between his ribs – for angering the clan king as much as to ensure
his
silence. ‘I said you killed
William
.’

‘Where is this so-called evidence?’ spat Guido, snatching the offending hat from his head as though it were red hot. He shoved
it into his shirt, in a gesture that spoke more for his guilt than anything Bartholomew could have said.

Meanwhile, Goran lunged for the physician and pinned him against the wall. Irrelevantly, Bartholomew heard a sharp rip as
stitches in his shirt parted company. ‘You have nothing against Guido,’ Goran growled, forcing his face into Bartholomew’s.
The physician recoiled at the stench of his breath. ‘You are making it up so that there will be distrust and dissension within
the clan.’

‘Where is this evidence?’ repeated Guido. Bartholomew felt the gypsy claw at his medicine bag, supposing that the thread was
hidden there. ‘Give it to me.’

‘You said you did not kill William, Guido,’ said Eulalia immediately, regarding her brother through narrowed eyes. ‘If that
is true, then why are you looking for evidence?’

‘We have the gold thread from his hat,’ repeated Bartholomew.

Guido ripped the bag from Bartholomew’s shoulder, up-ended it and began poking among the contents that rolled across the floor.
He found the wineskin that contained the physician’s remedy for shocks, and gave an insolent salute before draining its contents.
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and slung it away. After a few moments, he saw that what he wanted was not in
the bag. He lunged towards Bartholomew with his knife at the ready.

‘Where is it? You might as well speak now, because you will tell me eventually. We know how to prise secrets from people.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Bartholomew, sounding less afraid than he felt, and wishing he had never mentioned the hat. ‘But
I am telling the truth. The thread is secure in the Prior’s solar, and I imagine he has already informed the sheriff about
it. What will you do? Murder Alan, to ensure he tells no one what I gave him, then kill the sheriff and
his deputies, too? And what about Michael and the other monks? Will you slaughter them as well?’

Eulalia watched the exchange with an expression of growing horror, understanding that Guido would not be so determined to
locate the evidence if he knew it did not exist. His knife was dangerously close to Bartholomew’s face when she stepped forward
and pushed her brother’s hand away.

‘There will be no killing,’ she said in an unsteady voice. She addressed Bartholomew. ‘That thread means nothing. Someone
put it there, trying to implicate Guido in a crime he did not commit.’

‘Then why is he so intent on claiming it back?’ demanded Bartholomew, struggling ineffectually against Goran’s iron grip.
He saw the doubt in her face, and pushed his point further. ‘He has denied killing the others, and he may be telling the truth
on that score, but he murdered William. Ask him. See whether he can look into your eyes and lie about William.’

Eulalia regarded Guido uneasily. ‘Tell him he is wrong. We are not killers. Tell him.’

‘You deliver a pretty speech, Eulalia,’ sneered Guido. ‘And you can stay here to give it to the sheriff if you like, but the
rest of us are going. I am not staying here to be hanged for William.’

‘You see?’ said Bartholomew, appealing to Eulalia. ‘He has all but admitted it.’

Guido’s thick features became ugly with hatred. ‘William deserved to die. He accused us of committing those other murders,
and urged us to give ourselves up. He claimed he was riding to Norwich to fetch the King’s justices, so that the whole clan
would hang.’

Eulalia’s face crumpled in shock and Bartholomew realised that convincing her of her brother’s guilt had done nothing to extricate
him from the precarious situation he was in. Now that Guido was a self-acknowledged killer, he suddenly appeared stronger
and more dangerous. Eulalia
seemed to shrink before him, while Goran was uncertain and wary. The balance of power in the clan had undergone a subtle
shift, and it was in Guido’s favour.

‘William was travelling north?’ asked Bartholomew. He sensed his predicament had just taken a definite turn for the worse,
and that it would not be long before Guido decided to put an end to the conversation with the blade of his knife. He felt
he was only delaying the inevitable, but some deep instinct drove him to keep talking, to grab every moment he could before
his life was snuffed out. ‘Is that what he was doing on the river path?’

‘Yes,’ said Guido. ‘He was dressed in his finery, with his saddlebags bulging, to impress the authorities with his presence.
He said everyone at the priory was putting too much faith in Michael, who was the Bishop’s man and could therefore not be
trusted to come up with the complete truth. He was going to fetch independent investigators.’

‘So, that is what happened,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why did he tell no one of his plans?’

‘He said he informed a friend what he was going to do,’ replied Guido. ‘But I did not believe him. It was obvious that he
was lying – claiming that people would come to look for him, just so that I would set him free. Well, he underestimated me.
All monks believe the afterlife is more important than this one, so I helped him to Paradise. He was sick anyway. He claimed
he had Fen cramps, so I did him a favour by releasing him from his agonies.’

‘You knocked him on the head and threw him in the river,’ said Bartholomew harshly. ‘It was cold-blooded murder.’

‘It was self-defence,’ corrected Guido. ‘He fought like the Devil – scratching and clawing at me, and trying to rake me with
his nails.’ He gazed around at his mute relatives. ‘Do not look at me like that. You know I did it for you. How could I stand
by and let him fetch men who would hang us all for something we did not do? It is my duty as king to protect you, so I did
what I thought was best.’

‘You were not king, though,’ Goran pointed out. ‘Not then.’

‘And you committed murder!’ whispered Eulalia in shock.

‘Look!’ shouted Guido, brandishing the coins he had been paid for the charade with Blanche and the fire. He bit one hard between
his teeth to show that it was real, then pointed at the window. ‘I got us money
and
grain. I will be a good king.’

‘What about him?’ asked Goran uneasily, still holding Bartholomew by the shirt. ‘He knows what you did.’

‘Leave him to me,’ said Guido. ‘Go and load the cart with the others. You, too, Eulalia.’

Brother and sister exchanged a glance, then Goran released Bartholomew and started to move towards the window. Eulalia was
still hesitating when Guido began to advance on the physician with his wicked little knife. Bartholomew backed away, but stopped
when there was a deafening bellow of pain and Guido doubled over. The weapon clattered to the floor.

Bartholomew looked at Eulalia, wondering whether she had taken a dagger to her brother when his back was to her, but she was
still standing dazed and helpless, and her hands were empty. She appeared to be as puzzled by Guido’s roar as everyone else.
Guido crawled to a corner, and retched noisily. Eulalia and Goran gazed at each other in alarm, while Rosel leaned through
the window and began an eerie keening. Eulalia moved to Guido’s side.

‘What is happening?’ she cried in confusion. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Have you put a curse on him?’ Goran asked of Bartholomew, appalled.

‘No!’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I do not know any.’

‘He has killed me,’ gasped Guido, pointing an accusing finger at Bartholomew and pushing Eulalia away from him. ‘He has filled
me with poison.’

Everyone stared at the empty wineskin that lay on the floor. * * *

The small pantry erupted into pandemonium. Rosel’s keening wails grew louder, almost drowning Guido’s groans of agony as he
writhed on the floor. The cousins pushed into the room, too, so that there was barely space to move, and began talking in
agitated, frightened voices.

‘Do something!’ Eulalia cried in anguish, her pleas adding to the mayhem. She gazed up at Bartholomew. ‘Help him.’

Bartholomew tried, without success, to force the stricken man to lie still for long enough to be examined. He leaned close
to Guido’s mouth to smell his breath. The wine was there, along with something else: he was fairly sure it was a salt distilled
from quicksilver or something similar. He was also certain that there was nothing he could do. Guido was already vomiting
blood, from where the poison had eaten its way into his innards.

‘I cannot help him,’ he said, sitting back and turning to Eulalia. ‘There is no cure for the poison he has taken. It is too
late.’

Rosel scampered across the floor and snatched up Guido’s knife, pointing it unsteadily in Bartholomew’s direction. Tears streamed
down a face that was twisted with despair and fear. ‘If you do not make him well again, I will kill you,’ he whispered in
his childish voice.

‘But there is nothing I can do,’ said Bartholomew desperately. ‘If I could help him, I would.’

‘Guido was right!’ Goran yelled, advancing on the physician with his fists at the ready. ‘You are a liar! You are refusing
to help him because we are different from you. Eulalia was wrong to think you are a good man.’

‘No, I—’ began Bartholomew.

‘Kill him!’ wept Guido weakly, clutching at his stomach. ‘Give my soul the peace that vengeance knows. He has poisoned me.’

‘I have not,’ said Bartholomew, scrambling to his feet and backing away when he saw that Goran intended to fulfil his brother’s
last wishes with his bare hands. ‘I never carry poisons in my bag, for exactly this reason. I do not know
what has happened. But my wineskin is innocent. I—’

‘Do not let him talk his way out of it,’ whispered Guido. His face was now a ghastly greenish white, and his chin stained
with vomit. ‘Kill him, Goran, or I swear by all I hold holy that I will return and haunt you until your dying day.’

He began to convulse, heaving and shuddering as though possessed, while the clan gathered around him and tried to hold him
still.

‘Help him,’ ordered Eulalia, turning to Bartholomew. Her face had lost the frightened, bewildered look, and was hard and determined.
It also held an expression that made Bartholomew very uneasy. For the first time, he was the object of her fury. ‘The poison
came from you, so you must know how to counteract it.’

‘It did not!’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘And there is no cure. All I can do is give him a potion that may dull his pain – although
I doubt it will work well with mercurial salts – and advise you to fetch him a confessor as soon as you can.’

‘Kill him, Eulalia,’ hissed Guido between gritted teeth. ‘Kill him, or I will send you mad with fear. I will curse you and
all your children, and you will never know happiness again.’

Eulalia said something to her clan in a language Bartholomew could not understand, then snatched the knife from Rosel, and
darted towards Bartholomew. He backed away, but Goran was ready for him and the physician felt himself bound by a pair of
sturdy arms. Others rushed to help, and Bartholomew was wrestled to the ground, so that he could not move. An empty grain
sack was pulled over his head, which turned his world completely black and muffled all sounds. He tried to shout, but the
breath he took drew chaff into his lungs and almost suffocated him. He felt hands pulling at his limbs and tried to struggle
free. But it was to no avail. He was helpless.

T
IME LOST ALL MEANING FOR BARTHOLOMEW. IT COULD
have been an hour or a good deal longer that he was bound hand and foot, with the sack pulled so tightly over his head that
he could scarcely breathe, let alone hear or see. He felt himself bundled through the window, then dumped among the wheat
that was being loaded on to the cart in the yard. A couple of sacks were placed on top of him, so that he would be invisible
to anyone who happened to notice the procession of gypsies in the night.

They rattled along at a cracking pace, with the sacks lurching from side to side and threatening to topple. Bartholomew wondered
whether the clan intended to travel to London with him trussed up like a Yuletide chicken, and was not sure that he would
survive the journey. He could not feel his legs, and he was becoming dizzy and disoriented from the lack of air. He had no
idea what they planned to do with him, but suspected that the murder of a clansman was regarded as a serious offence, and
that they intended to dispense their own justice. He expected to be taken to some remote place deep in the marshes, where
they would slit his throat and dump his body in one of the deeper bogs, where it would never be found.

Just when he was beginning to think that they merely intended him to suffocate slowly over a period of several hours, he felt
someone fiddle with the knots that held the sack in place. When it was removed, he saw a blaze of firelight. He began to cough,
gulping fresh air into his lungs and feeling his eyes burn at the sudden brightness. When he could see properly, he glanced
around him. He knew he was somewhere in the Fens: he could smell the marshes,
and could hear reeds hissing softly in the gentle night breeze. He was in a small clearing, where the clan had made a camp
for themselves. Some people were sleeping, huddled forms in the long grass covered with brightly coloured blankets, while
others sat around the fire and talked in low voices. Eulalia was standing over him, her face creased with concern.

‘Are you all right?’

He nodded, biting back an angrier and more truthful response. But he decided there was nothing to be gained from rudeness,
and the last thing he wanted was the sack back in its place. ‘Where are we?’

She began sawing at the ropes that bound him. ‘At our camp. Do not worry; you are safe.’

‘I do not feel safe,’ he muttered, rubbing his arms as he glanced over at several burly cousins who seemed to be honing the
blades of their knives or oiling the strings on their bows. Blood was beginning to flow back into his limbs, and the sensation
was not a pleasant one. He knew he would not be able to run far should they attack. ‘Where is Guido?’

‘Dead,’ said Eulalia, nodding to a large wicker chest on the ground nearby. It was the kind of box that was used to store
clothes. Bartholomew supposed that coffins were not items that the clan carried as a matter of course, and that they used
whatever came to hand as and when the need arose. The basket did not look long enough to hold Guido, and the physician did
not like to imagine how they had prised him into it.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, looking away.

‘He did not die easily, so it was fortunate that his suffering did not last too long.’

‘I could not have saved him, but I might have been able to alleviate some of the pain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should have
let me help.’

‘But then you would never have proved your innocence to my people,’ she replied. ‘It was better for you that you did not try.’

‘I do not understand. You asked for my assistance …’

‘At first, yes. But when I saw that Guido was dying, I decided it would be best if you went nowhere near him. The kind of
curses he was uttering are taken seriously by my people. The only way I saw to prevent one of them from killing you there
and then was to suggest that we deal with you later. I said we should not leave blood and a body in the tavern.’

‘Very practical,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around him uneasily. ‘How long do I have before they claim bloodstains in the
Fens do not matter?’

She smiled. ‘I have already told you that you have nothing to fear.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You thought I poisoned him. Why are you helping me?’

She shook her head. ‘You are not the kind of man to commit murder. However, de Lisle paid Guido two groats for pretending
to be Blanche.’

‘De Lisle?’ asked Bartholomew, not seeing at all where her logic was taking him. ‘What does he have to do with Guido’s death?’

‘Well, it was Ralph who actually gave Guido the coins, but they came from de Lisle’s coffers.’

‘Are you saying that Ralph killed Guido?’ asked Bartholomew. His head throbbed from tiredness and tension, and he was finding
it difficult to concentrate. ‘But how? He was not in the Mermaid tavern, and Guido drank from
my
wineskin, not one provided by Ralph or de Lisle.’

‘Think,’ said Eulalia. ‘What did Guido put in his mouth, other than wine?’

‘The coins!’ said Bartholomew, understanding at last. ‘He bit the coins de Lisle paid him.’

In an age when forgers and coin-clippers were commonplace, only a fool did not inspect his money carefully before accepting
it. Ralph and de Lisle would know that Guido would place any money given to him in his mouth. But a compound of mercuric salts
– which Bartholomew thought
was what had killed Guido – was an odd poison to employ. Still, Bartholomew supposed that they were unlikely to be spoiled
for choice in Ely, and might well use any potion they happened to lay their hands on.

‘But
why
should de Lisle and Ralph want Guido dead?’

‘So that he would not tell anyone about Goran pretending to be Blanche,’ said Eulalia, as though it were obvious. ‘It would
not look good for my brother to reappear in the future and claim that de Lisle had paid him to set fire to his own house.’

‘But surely the whole clan was aware of the plan,’ objected Bartholomew, unconvinced. ‘And, as you say, it was Goran who pretended
to be Blanche, but
he
was not poisoned.’

‘It was Guido with whom Ralph negotiated. He will assume that Guido’s fate will serve to silence the rest of us.’

‘And you are prepared to ride away from Ely, knowing that de Lisle or Ralph took the life of your king?’ asked Bartholomew
doubtfully.

Eulalia gave her enigmatic smile. ‘I have not left your side since Guido died, so
I
have taken no revenge. However, the night is dark, and who knows where Goran may have gone?’

Bartholomew felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. ‘I hope he has not gone after de Lisle!’

‘Personally, I doubt that de Lisle knew anything about the poisoned coins. I think Ralph was using his own initiative.’

‘Then we must stop Goran,’ said Bartholomew, trying to stand. His legs were like rubber, and he collapsed back on to the grain
sacks. He gestured urgently to the men sitting around the fire. ‘Send one of them after him. De Lisle will not look the other
way while your brother murders his most loyal servant, and Ralph will fight. Ralph might end up killing Goran!’

She rested her hand on his knee, and pointed to where Goran’s burly shape could be seen huddled on the far side of the clearing.
‘It is already too late. Goran returned just before I released you, to tell the clan that the balance has been redressed.
Ralph died in his sleep.’

Bartholomew regarded her in horror. ‘You mean Goran climbed into his room and shoved a pillow over his face or some such thing?
I thought you told me your people were not killers!’

‘We are not,’ she said indignantly. ‘But we believe in natural justice. Ralph killed Guido, and Guido’s spirit would not rest
easy while Ralph lived. You heard the curses my brother screamed with his dying breath. They were strong words, and the clan
does not want them travelling with us when we leave. You were lucky that Goran distinctly recalls Guido biting the coins
after
he had drained your wine, or
you
would have died to appease our brother’s restless ghost.’

They were silent for a while, looking through the darkness to the trees that surrounded the gypsy camp. Dawn was still some
way off, and the Fens were silent and still. A light mist curled out of the marshes, adding an eerie whiteness to the night.
An owl hooted, and some creature gave a short, shrill screech. Bartholomew understood why men like Mackerell, and even Michael,
thought the Fens different from the civilised world, and why the notion of water-spirits did not seem so far-fetched there.

‘You were right about Guido killing William,’ said Eulalia eventually. ‘He seemed almost proud of the fact.’

‘Thank you for helping me,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the strength finally beginning to return to his legs. He started to
stand, but Eulalia rested a hand on his chest.

‘Do not go yet.’ She went to the fire and came back with a steaming bowl.

‘What is it?’ The contents of the dish were mysterious and unidentifiable in the darkness, but Bartholomew detected herbs
in it that he had not smelled since he had been in the southernmost parts of France many years before. For a moment, he felt
he was there again, walking in the forests that tumbled down to little coves hiding secret beaches. It was a land of oranges
and browns and emerald greens, with air that was always fragrant with flowers, earthy shrubs and the sea.

‘Those are herbs I collected and dried myself on our travels,’ she replied with a grin, her teeth white in the gloom. ‘And
duck from the priory’s fields. Eat it. It will restore your strength.’

It was delicious, and Bartholomew felt a pang of regret that he would probably never again travel to distant places where
the spices and flavours of the foods and wines were so different from those in England.

‘Now we are even, you and I,’ she said, watching him in the darkness. ‘You helped us in the Heyrow, and I have saved you.
Neither is in the other’s debt.’

‘I will always be in your debt. You risked a good deal to save me.’

‘I did not! I merely told the truth. But what I said to you in that horrible tavern is right: we have not been made welcome
in Ely this year, and it is time to move on to a place where the inhabitants might see us as something other than a band of
vagabonds.’

‘Even so, they should watch their ducks,’ said Bartholomew.

She laughed, a pleasant, low sound that was a welcome change after all the misery and pain he had witnessed that night. ‘We
will take Guido with us and bury him in a secret place among the marshes, where the water-spirits will guard him.’

‘Make sure he does not float,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking that the basket might act like a raft, and bear Guido Moses-like
on all manner of journeys. ‘You do not want him sailing into Ely in a year’s time.’

She gazed at him uncomfortably. ‘What do you suggest? We cannot take him with us in this heat. And I do not want him buried
in Ely. St Etheldreda might not like him near her after what he has done.’

‘Punch holes in the basket and weigh it down with stones. It will not take long, then you can be sure that he will stay where
you leave him.’

‘Will you help me? I do not want my first command as
king to be such a ghoulish one. My people are superstitious, and that might be seen as a bad omen.’

‘You are king?’ he asked, surprised.

‘The clan told me that I had been chosen as Guido’s successor when Goran returned from … dealing with Ralph. I thought
they would elect him, but they wanted me instead.’

‘Then they are a wise people,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you will be a wise leader.’

‘I know,’ she said simply. ‘But filling my brother’s coffin with stones is a distasteful task that should be completed quickly,
before we have time to think about it. We should do it now while it is still dark.’

Stones were not a commodity that was in great supply in the Fens. Any rock that had littered the landscape had long since
been gathered by local people for building; the rest had been imported at great expense. There were scraps of flint, but it
would take a great many of them to make the coffin sufficiently heavy. They were beginning to think that they might have to
fell a tree when Bartholomew’s eyes lit on the sacks of grain that had given him such an uncomfortable journey.

‘No,’ said Eulalia. ‘That wheat is valuable to us.’

‘It looks like the cereal that was paid to the priory in tithes,’ said Bartholomew, patting one of the sacks. It had a hard,
dense feel, just like the one he had fallen on in the granary, which had split to reveal that it contained mostly grit. ‘Symon
probably arranged for Leycestre to steal it from the barn near the Broad Lane gate.’

‘He did,’ said Eulalia with a grin. ‘Father John said the priory always demands the best grain from its tenants, and so this
should be some of the finest in the area.’

‘Unfortunately, you will find it is mostly sand,’ said Bartholomew.

She gazed at him for a moment, then took a knife from her belt and slit one of the sacks. The top third or so contained a
beautiful golden wheat, but the rest was full of gravel. She stared at it in dismay, before her eyes crinkled
with laughter.

‘We were cheated by a priest!’

‘He is a priest who stole from the priory, and who is not averse to looking the other way while murder is committed. You should
not be surprised.’

‘I suppose not. But help me with this. The priory’s gravel shall give Guido a decent grave.’

For the next hour, she and Bartholomew worked together, packing the gravel around Guido’s corpse. Because the basket was too
short, Guido’s legs were bent, and he lay on one side, as if curled in sleep. He seemed curiously peaceful, devoid of the
scowl that had marred his swarthy features in life. Bartholomew had seen some terrifying grimaces on the faces of poison victims,
and was glad Eulalia’s brother had been spared that indignity.

When they had finished, Eulalia sealed the coffin and nodded in satisfaction. Then she rummaged in one of the carts and emerged
with a small bottle.