A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 10

Julian was outraged when Bartholomew demanded to inspect his back in the infirmary, and steadfastly refused to allow him, even when Henry added his voice to the argument. Bartholomew was on the verge of marching him directly to Michael for interrogation when the young monk relented, hauling up his habit to reveal silken hose and a fine linen undervest that Bartholomew suspected were well outside the proscribed regulations for novices. He inspected the young man’s skin, but could see no abrasion, and was not sure whether a slight discoloration above the belt-line was bruising, or simply where Julian had been less than assiduous with his washing.

The evidence was inconclusive. Bartholomew reasoned that Michael’s blow would not necessarily have caused a visible bruise, although it might still be painful. He was left not knowing whether Julian’s reluctance to be examined stemmed from the fact that he did not want to be caught wearing clothes he ought not to have owned, whether he was merely exercising his right not to be manhandled by any physician who happened to demand to do so, or whether he had not known whether the spade had left a mark and did not want anyone else to find out either.

‘Now what?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration, as Julian marched away with a gait that was half-swagger and half-limp.

‘It looks as though you will have to speak to Bishop de Lisle and Symon,’ said Henry, watching Julian go. ‘I do not envy you that task. De Lisle is not the kind of man who appreciates being a suspect for murder, and neither will Symon be.’

Bartholomew sat on the edge of Henry’s workbench, not knowing what to do next. Henry was right that de Lisle would not prove an easy man to interview, while the unhelpful Symon would object to being asked questions on principle. Meanwhile, what was Bartholomew to think about the gypsies being in the cathedral at an hour when most honest people were in bed? Had they been helping the killer, waiting for him to complete whatever grisly business he carried out in the Bone House?

‘I am mixing a compound of camomile and borage for Bishop Northburgh’s wrinkles,’ said Henry, pointing to piles of freshly picked leaves on his table, along with a mound of garlic. ‘Both are known to be good for the skin.’

‘But they will not miraculously provide him with a youthful complexion,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And that is what he wants – not merely something that might help. He is demanding the impossible.’

‘I suspect you are right, but I shall have to do my best. Alan is determined to have the chapel Northburgh promised, so I am under some pressure to do all I can. Anyway, there is always cucumber to experiment with, and garlic if I get desperate.’ He sounded despondent.

‘Surgery is the only solution for Northburgh’s loose jowls,’ said Bartholomew flippantly. ‘You will need to take a knife to all that dangling skin and slice it off, just as Julian suggested.’

Henry regarded him aghast. ‘That is a horrible idea, Matt! It makes you sound like a surgeon! I shall stick to my poultices and pastes, if you do not mind. At least in that way I will not kill him with my remedies.’

‘Vanity has its price,’ said Bartholomew, watching Henry add the leaves to a flask of water.

‘Welles heard that there were yet more burglaries in the city last night,’ said Henry conversationally, shaking the container to mix his ingredients. ‘Agnes Fitzpayne first, and then poor Master Barbour of the Lamb Inn again. Obviously, the thieves decided they had not relieved him of everything the first time around.’

‘He announced that the thieves were unsuccessful,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Barbour’s confidential bellow when they had found Robert’s body at the Monks’ Hythe two days before. ‘He boasted that he had hidden his night’s takings under the floorboards, and that the burglars had not found them.’

‘Who heard him?’ asked Henry curiously. ‘Because whoever knew about his hiding place should be a suspect for this theft from him.’

‘Lots of people. Many of the priory’s monks, including Alan and Symon, de Lisle and his steward, Lady Blanche and her retinue, Leycestre and his seditious nephews, the gypsies …’

‘The gypsies,’ mused Henry thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that was why they were in the cathedral last night – praying for forgiveness for the thefts they had just committed, or for the success of the crimes they intended to carry out?’

‘Or possibly neither,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he intended.

Henry patted his arm with a self-effacing smile. ‘I am sorry; I should not jump to that kind of conclusion. You have been warning the townsfolk against blaming strangers for all our misfortunes ever since you arrived, and you are right. I apologise.’

Bartholomew smiled, but Henry’s comments had left a lingering doubt in his mind. Eulalia had been distinctly evasive when he had asked her about the thefts, and when she had given him a direct answer, he had not known whether to believe her. He took a deep breath and stood up.

‘You look tired,’ said Henry sympathetically, watching him. ‘Take the advice of a physician, and do not overly exert yourself today.’

‘But you seem better than you were a little earlier,’ observed Bartholomew. ‘You were lethargic and wan when we first started talking; now you have some colour and exude energy.’

‘I took a tonic of boiled red wine with poppy juice and crushed hemp leaves not long ago. I give it to patients with nervous complaints, and it always works – now I have taken a dose myself, I can see why. I cannot afford to be listless and distracted when I have patients to tend. I do not want a second death on my conscience.’

‘Hemp?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘How did you come by that? It is a powerful substance, and I seldom use it, because my patients always demand more. In large quantities it is dangerous.’

‘I bought some from a merchant who said it came from the Holy Land. But if your patients come clamouring for more, then you use too much, Matthew. A tiny pinch mixed with wine and poppy juice is the best tonic I know – but, as you say, it is only to be used infrequently and certainly not in the quantities in which Bishop Northburgh quaffs it. Perhaps you should take some now. It will allow you to fulfil your duties today without making the mistakes that often stem from over-tiredness.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not want to develop a liking for hemp.’

‘One dose will not result in a craving for more. You should try it, so that you understand why men like Northburgh praise its virtues.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew accepted a minuscule amount of Henry’s tonic, his bone-deep exhaustion making him disinclined to argue. He was surprised to find the infirmarian was right, and that it did indeed serve to dispel the sluggishness that had been dogging him since he had awoken. There was also a vague sense of well-being, which he supposed was why people tended to want more of it. He watched Henry seal the container, then replace it on a high shelf that was thick with dust. He hoped it was sufficiently high to evade the eager hands of the Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield.

‘Northburgh drinks a lot of this, you say?’ he asked.

Henry nodded. ‘I have advised him to reduce the amount, but he will not listen. He has been dosing Stretton with it, too. He has his own supply, but I do not want him to fix greedy eyes on my little stash as well. I am obliged to hide it, as you can see.’

‘No wonder their investigations have been so lax,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly understanding a good deal about the behaviour of the visiting clerics. ‘It explains why they were so mild tempered yesterday, when they spoke to Michael in the refectory. They are both drugged to stupidity.’

‘Hardly that,’ said Henry, smiling at the exaggeration. ‘But I imagine it accounts for Northburgh’s swings of mood between bonhomie and aggressive rudeness.’

‘It probably works well for shocks,’ predicted Bartholomew, a little thickly. ‘I usually carry wine for that, although Michael finished mine last night after our encounter with the killer in the Bone House. He has developed an annoying partiality for my medicinal claret.’

Henry laughed. ‘He is a large man with large appetites. Let him have his brew, if it makes him happy. But speaking of wine, I must refill your wineskin. I used what you gave me for Ynys’s medicine, and you were right: good stuff is more soothing than a raw brew.’ He reached for a large stone jug that stood in the corner.

‘Did someone mention wine?’ came a querulous voice from the infirmary hall. It was Roger.

Henry smiled at Bartholomew, as he poured a measure of deep red claret into the physician’s battered wineskin. ‘It is miraculous how words like “wine” and “dinner” seem to cure deafness. The others are the same. See how they are looking more lively now that they think they may be in for a cup of something special? But here is your flask. You must promise that you will not attempt to tackle this killer singlehanded again: I do not want Michael to drink all the priory’s best sack after the shocks of repeated encounters with murderers in the Bone House.’

Bartholomew took the container. The contents smelled strong and fruity, and he felt like taking a sip there and then. But he decided he had better not drink wine with the hemp he had taken, or he would be no good to Michael or anyone else. He put it in his bag, fumbling with the buckles and ties, and noting, but not really caring, that it took longer than usual to complete this minor task.

When he had finished, Henry was standing at his workbench with a chopping knife in his hands and a large pile of garlic in front of him. ‘I cannot trust Julian to do this,’ he said, looking down at his handiwork. ‘He is incapable of cutting it to my satisfaction. Garlic should be chopped so fine that the pieces are all but invisible.’

‘I always use a pestle and mortar,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that chopping garlic was for cooks, not physicians. ‘It is much quicker. But I must go. We have a lot to do today.’

He stumbled as he misread the height of the threshold, and Henry laughed softly. ‘That floating sensation will pass in a few moments, and then you will feel the beneficial effects of the tonic. Remind me to give you some before you leave for Cambridge. It is excellent for soothing ragged tempers, and I recall hearing that there are one or two Fellows of Michaelhouse who would be better company if they were calmer.’

Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenward. ‘That is certainly true.’

When Bartholomew reported to Michael that there had been a spate of complaints for backache that morning, the monk immediately decided they should speak to the sufferers, starting with Symon. He gave Bartholomew a rueful smile as they left the refectory together.

‘I think it would be better to leave the Bishop until we have no other leads to follow. I am sure neither of us wants to travel along that line of enquiry except as a last resort.’

‘Perhaps not even then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is enough evidence to imply that de Lisle had some kind of hand in Glovere’s death, and if we find he also has a bruised back, then the case is more or less closed.’

‘But I do not think the man with whom we fought last night was de Lisle,’ said Michael. ‘It did not feel like de Lisle, and I do not think he was tall enough.’

‘That is wishful thinking,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I recall thinking that it could have been just about anyone – it was too dark to see, and I do not think I ever saw him standing straight anyway. He was either climbing the ladder or grubbing about on the floor with us.’

‘I do not like the way Symon’s name keeps cropping up,’ said Michael thoughtfully, deftly ending a discussion that made him uncomfortable. ‘He was one of the people in the infirmary when Thomas died, by his own admission he was in the vineyard with Robert, and now he is claiming a sudden and suspicious back injury.’

‘We do not know how he came by his backache,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is a common complaint, and one that is easy to develop – so it may be wholly irrelevant to this case. But it is certainly time that we had a serious discussion with him – his duties as librarian seem to afford him considerable freedom, both in terms of time and in allowing him to wander.’

‘You mean he probably had the opportunity to kill Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde, too,’ surmised Michael. ‘We shall bear that in mind.’

Predictably, Symon was nowhere to be found. Bartholomew and Michael scoured the monastery for him, but the elusive librarian seemed to have disappeared into thin air, just like William and Mackerell. Michael kicked at the Steeple Gate in frustration.

‘I am growing tired of this!’ he shouted. ‘What is happening here? Is there a secret chamber somewhere, where people wanted for questioning can hide without fear of being discovered?’

‘If so, then we shall find it. We will search the priory, from top to bottom.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Why do you have so much energy all of a sudden? Do you know something you have not told me? Or did you sneak away last night with the lovely Eulalia after our encounter with Death?’

‘Neither. Henry gave me a tonic. Once the dizziness wears off, it really does make you feel as though you have had a good night’s sleep. I can see why people want to keep taking it, once they have started.’

‘I have heard of medicines like that,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Once the physician or apothecary is certain that his patient cannot manage without it, he increases the price. Well, you can tell Henry he can keep that sort of potion to himself. I want no fights in Cambridge because tired students can no longer afford the medicine that allows them to work.’

He stalked across the yard, and addressed a group of young monks who had been watching his display of temper with uneasy curiosity. One of them was Welles, Henry’s assistant, who tried to back away before Michael reached him. The monk was having none of that. He put on a surprising spurt of speed, and had the alarmed youngster by the cowl before he could take more than two steps.

‘Oh, no, you do not!’ he growled. ‘You will remain here and help me. First, I want to talk to Symon. He sleeps in the dormitory with you novices, so you must know where he is.’

‘But I do not,’ squeaked Welles in alarm. ‘He is a senior monk and does not tell the likes of me his business.’ With a shock, Bartholomew saw a glint of silver in the novice’s fingers, and stepped forward quickly to knock it from his hand. A long, thin masonry nail tinkled to the floor.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘Just a nail,’ bleated Welles, his eyes flicking from Bartholomew to Michael and then back again. ‘I found it in the octagon when the builders were working, and I always carry it with me. Prior Alan said we were not allowed knives as long as Julian was with us, but you have to have something sharp to use at mealtimes. I already had it in my hand when you grabbed me – I did not draw it to use as a weapon.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly, making it clear that he did not know what to believe. ‘But I am not here to discuss you. I want Symon.’

‘But I really do not know where he is,’ protested Welles. ‘I have not seen him since last night.’

‘Last night?’ pounced Michael. ‘What are you telling me? That he did not sleep in his bed, and that you have not seen him this morning?’

Welles nodded unhappily.

‘And where do you think he might be?’ said Michael. ‘Does he have a woman, or a particular friend in Ely to whom he may have gone?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Welles, not seeming particularly surprised by the question, despite the fact that Symon was a monk. ‘He does not have any friends.’

‘That I can believe,’ said Michael. ‘Did he say anything to you last night before he left?’

‘No,’ said Welles. ‘Only that he was going to confess his sins before it was too late.’

‘What sins?’ demanded Michael. ‘His disgraceful treatment of books? His lies?’

‘I suppose so. I do not know. Ask his confessor – Prior Alan.’

‘I will,’ said Michael grimly. He released Welles and headed towards the Prior’s House without further ado. Bartholomew considered stopping him, but could see that the monk’s temper was up and that nothing could prevent him from following the trail that had opened up before him. Michael strode across the yard, stamped up the stairs that led to the Prior’s solar and burst in without knocking. He was slightly disconcerted to see that de Lisle was there, too, but not disconcerted enough to abandon his attack.

‘Symon made a confession last night,’ he snapped, addressing Alan. ‘What did he say?’

‘I cannot tell you that,’ said Alan in surprise. ‘And you know better than to ask.’

‘He is missing,’ said Michael angrily. ‘He was last seen going to confession, and was apparently feeling guilty about his sins. That does not sound like the Symon I know, who is of the opinion that he does not have any. So, I conclude that something happened to make him see the error of his ways, and I need to know what he told you.’

‘I am bound by the seal of confession,’ said Alan calmly. ‘As well you know. But, as it happens, there is nothing for me to tell. He may well have intended to come to see me last night, but he would not have been able to do so. I was out.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael immediately, forgetting himself in his desire for answers.

‘That is none of your affair,’ said Alan, angry at the impertinence of the question. ‘But I can assure you that it is irrelevant to your investigation. You asked about Symon’s confession, and I am telling you that he did not make one to me.’

‘So who else might he have seen, then?’ pressed Michael.

‘William, Robert and Thomas were also permitted to hear the monks’ confessions, but none of them were available, for obvious reasons. Symon would have had to wait for me.’

‘Well, if he does come, send for me immediately,’ instructed Michael. ‘It is imperative that I speak to him as soon as possible.’

‘Am I to understand by your frustration and bad temper that this investigation is not proceeding as you would like?’ asked de Lisle mildly. ‘I hear that you almost had this killer last night, and I am disappointed by your failure.’

‘So am I,’ said Michael tartly.

De Lisle sighed, and then stood, wincing as he did so and pressing both hands to his lower spine. ‘It has been several days since I charged you to exonerate me from the crimes of which I have been accused. Not only have you failed to do that, but there are now five corpses fresh in the ground, and at least two people missing – three, if you count Symon. I hope you will do better today.’

‘Do you have an aching back?’ asked Michael coolly, goaded into incaution by the Bishop’s admonition. ‘Matt has a way with aching backs. Perhaps you should let him examine it, and see what he can do for you.’

‘No, thank you,’ said de Lisle shortly. ‘I have been plagued by backache for years, and physicians do nothing but make it worse. I would rather treat it myself with a poultice of ground snails and arsenic. That usually works.’

‘I imagine it numbs the area,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But while it will ease the pain in the short term, you should not use it for long. It can result in slow poisoning.’

‘That is what Henry said,’ grumbled de Lisle. ‘But it is only an excuse for him to get his hands on me and demand a high fee for a consultation, a horoscope and expensive medicines that will do me no good at all.’

‘What is wrong with your back, exactly?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am not a physician, so I do not know,’ snapped de Lisle, impatient with the discussion. ‘But I spent a lot of time sitting yesterday, and I suppose that must have aggravated it. I shall have to walk today, or ride.’

‘Ride,’ recommended Michael sulkily. ‘Walking is for peasants.’

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael tiredly, as he started to walk towards the river with Bartholomew a few moments later, in the hope of discovering the scene of the murders. ‘Symon is missing, having apparently been about to confess his sins to Alan. That is suspicious in itself.’

‘Something must have happened to make him want to see a confessor “before it was too late” to quote Welles,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Symon is arrogant, and not the kind of man to admit he has faults, unless something happened to make him believe otherwise.’

‘What has he been doing and where is he now? His pains must be fairly serious, if he emerged from his hiding place to seek Henry’s help.’

‘Meanwhile, we also have de Lisle with a bad back that he declines to allow me to inspect.’

‘And what was Alan doing yesterday that he refuses to tell us about? Playing in the Bone House with blood and soil? Lord, Matt! We have been here for seven days now, and the only reason my list of suspects has decreased is because some of them are dead. Give me that wine you have in your bag. I need a drink!’

‘That is for medical emergencies,’ said Bartholomew, moving away as the monk lunged. ‘It is not for you to drink whenever you feel like it.’

It was a glorious day, with larks flinging themselves up from the grassy fields and flying high into the sky, their twittering songs sweet and piercing. It was a shame such a day had to be blighted by death and suspicion. Bartholomew and Michael walked in silence, thinking about the murders, and how they had changed the priory and the town within the course of a few days.

When they reached the river near the Monks’ Hythe, Bartholomew shed his leggings to wade across it, so that they could examine both banks simultaneously. He enjoyed the sensation of the cool water on his skin, and Michael eyed him enviously before removing his sandals so that he could dabble his fat, white feet at the water’s edge. He declined to go any deeper, claiming he could not swim.

The day grew steadily hotter, so that walking became uncomfortable. Bartholomew took to paddling along in the shallows, storing his shoes among some reeds to be collected on their return journey. Michael’s complaints grew more and more frequent, and he began to make unsubtle demands for the medicinal wineskin in Bartholomew’s bag. The physician remained unmoved, arguing that wine would only make the monk more thirsty, and that he would do better to drink some water from one of the many small brooks they passed. Bartholomew did not recommend the river on the grounds that it had already been through Cambridge, and he knew exactly what had been dumped in it there.

When they neared Chettisham, some two miles distant, Michael waved to Bartholomew that they had gone far enough. The physician agreed, knowing that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde would not have been killed too far away: it would not have been easy to make them walk far as prisoners, and the killer would hardly have carried them, knowing that they would fetch up in Ely anyway. He followed Michael into a tavern called the Swan for a glass of cool ale, before beginning the return journey.

The tavern was dark after the glare of the sun, and Bartholomew could barely see where he was walking, even though its door and windows shutters were thrown open to allow the air to circulate. He stumbled to a table like a blind man, and listened in growing alarm to the extensive list of food that Michael was ordering from the taverner. When his eyes grew used to the gloom, he looked around him.

It was a large establishment for a remote location, with thick stone walls and a paved floor. It was virtually empty: the day was fine and there was work to be done in the fields. Two elderly men sat at a table near the empty hearth, staring at the ale in their cups with rheumy eyes. At another table, this one tucked in a corner, were Richard de Leycestre and Guido. Bartholomew gazed at them in surprise, wondering not only what had brought them together, but why they were so far from Ely when they should have been working. Once Michael had finished ordering his repast, he too watched the muttered conversation in the shadows, drawing his cowl over his head so that he would not be recognised. Bartholomew took Michael’s wide-brimmed hat and wore it low, so that it hid his face.

The gypsy and the farmer seemed to be arguing, so intent on their own business that they were unaware of the interest they had attracted from the tavern’s latest arrivals. Guido’s gold hat bobbed furiously as he made some point or other, while Leycestre stabbed the table with a forefinger as he spoke. It was not an easy discussion. Eventually, Guido stood, glared at Leycestre and stalked towards the door, clearly furious. A few moments later, Leycestre also took his leave. Unlike Guido, who had headed straight to the door without taking the precaution of looking around him, Leycestre was circumspect. He saw two figures hunched over their ale with cowls and hats hiding their faces, and stared at them for some time, evidently unsure whether it would be safer just to leave or to approach them and find out who they were.

Apparently, he decided it would be better to know, and he tipped his hat in greeting as he edged closer to their table. Michael flipped back his cowl and beamed at him, enjoying the expression of horror that crossed the labourer’s face when he recognised the Bishop’s agent. Leycestre regained control of himself quickly.

‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What brings you all the way out here? We do not usually have monks and priory guests in this small village.’

‘It is a good place to meet fellow rebels, then, is it?’ asked Michael, drawing his own conclusions about the meeting he had just witnessed.

Leycestre laughed nervously. ‘Guido and I were just enjoying a drink. We have known each other for many years.’

‘It did not look as though either of you was enjoying it to me,’ said Bartholomew, flinging the hat on to the table. ‘And I was under the impression that you disliked each other – you have accused his clan of burgling town houses and killing Ely’s citizens.’

‘That is because they are probably guilty,’ snapped Leycestre, nettled. ‘But it does not mean that I cannot share his table when we both happen to arrive for a much-needed ale.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes. ‘You met by chance? You did not arrange to do so because you imagined it would be well away from anyone who might know you?’

‘We met by accident,’ replied Leycestre shortly. ‘Why would I want to rendezvous with a man like Guido, anyway? What could he possibly have that would interest me?’

‘You tell me,’ said Michael, regarding the man intently. ‘And why are you here, anyway, when there are crops to be harvested?’

‘Every man is permitted to take a few moments away from his labours,’ said Leycestre stiffly. ‘Even the priory realises that we cannot work all day with nothing in our stomachs.’

‘But ale is not the best thing to put in it,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am not bound to the priory, so I am not obliged to answer your questions,’ snapped Leycestre. ‘I was merely taking a break from harvesting, and I happened to meet someone I know. There is nothing wrong or sinister in that. But I cannot spend all day lounging in taverns, like fat monks and wealthy physicians. I have work to do.’

He stalked away angrily, slamming the door behind him so hard that jugs rattled on the shelves and the two elderly men jumped in alarm. If Leycestre’s intention had been to convince Bartholomew and Michael that his meeting had been innocent, then he had failed miserably. Both were now sure that the ill-matched pair had been discussing something of great significance.

‘I suppose he was plotting his insurrection,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is all he talks about, and it seems to be the thing that is most important in his life. Still, he usually does so only when his nephews can act as sentinels. I wonder where they are.’

‘It is probably difficult for three strong men to leave the fields in the middle of the day,’ said Michael. ‘While Leycestre might slip away unnoticed, the whole trio certainly could not.’

‘Was he trying to convert Guido to his cause, do you think? Guido is a traveller. He would be an excellent person to spread the news that discontent is brewing and that other peasants should be ready to act.’

‘Guido is not the kind of man to engage in that sort of thing. Why should he? He is not tied to a landlord: this is not his fight, and I cannot see why he should become involved.’

‘Then what were they discussing?’ asked Bartholomew irritably. His head was aching, and he felt sick, as though he had had too much to drink the night before. He wondered whether it was the after-effects of Henry’s tonic and assumed that there would have to be a down-side to such a marvellous potion.

‘I do not know,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as the first of the food arrived. ‘But it looked more like an argument than a discussion to me.’

‘Perhaps they were debating who to murder next,’ said Bartholomew, eating a piece of chicken without enthusiasm. He was more interested in the ale, although Michael claimed it was too weak.

‘Did Leycestre look as though he was limping to you?’ asked Michael. ‘Go to the window and watch him. You are a physician, and are good at observing such things.’

Bartholomew obliged, watching the burly farmer walk towards the river. There was a distinct unevenness to his gait. He returned to Michael and reported his observations. ‘I suppose he could always walk like that,’ he concluded. ‘It was not a limp so much as a stiffness. Perhaps working in the fields does not agree with him.’

‘Or perhaps he is suffering from a spade blow to the back.’

‘Our list of suspects for last night’s débâcle includes everyone in the priory and everyone in the town. We cannot go on like this, Brother: we have to narrow it down.’

‘But not by excluding Leycestre,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He was not on innocent business here in Chettisham.’

The landlord continued to bring dishes of meat, bread and pastries until Michael declared himself replete. Then he sat back with a sigh of pleasure, and made himself comfortable on the bench, leaning his back against the wall, and using his hat as a headrest as he prepared to take a nap.

‘Guido and Leycestre,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Men who dislike each other. They had a public fight in the Heyrow when Leycestre ordered Guido expelled from the Lamb, and Leycestre has been accusing the gypsies of all manner of crimes ever since we arrived.’

‘Could they have committed the murders together?’ asked Michael, sounding as if he did not care what Bartholomew thought, as long as it did not interfere with the doze he planned to take.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their dislike of each other is too public. You would need to trust someone absolutely if you were going to use him as an accomplice to murder.’

‘Perhaps their antipathy is a ruse,’ suggested Michael with a shrug. His eyes were closed and his voice was slurred, as if his mind was already elsewhere. ‘Perhaps Leycestre blames the gypsies so that people will not suspect that they are partners in crime.’

Bartholomew thought about that for a while, turning over the possibilities in his mind. He remembered the glittering malice he had seen on the faces of both when they had fought in the Heyrow, and the fact that weapons had been produced. He had no doubt that the crowd Leycestre had whipped into a frenzy might have done serious harm to the gypsies had Bartholomew not intervened, and there was only so far Guido would go for the sake of appearances. Being bludgeoned to death was definitely past the limit. And Leycestre’s accusations were probably making it difficult for Guido and his clan to do his business in Ely, whether it was buying bread or securing work. It made no sense for Guido to agree to such conditions.

‘You are wrong,’ he concluded. ‘They are not accomplices. Perhaps they met by chance after all.’

‘Mmm?’ murmured Michael, shifting slightly in his sleep.

Bartholomew thought about the other crimes that had been committed in the town. Although he and Michael had not been charged to investigate them, there had been burglaries almost every night since Guido and his clan had arrived in Ely. But, as Guido had claimed, the gypsies were unlikely to be the culprits, because it would have been obvious who was responsible. Justice in England tended to be summary and swift, and many sheriffs would regard the presence of travellers in a city plagued by a sudden spate of crimes evidence enough.

Were the murders and the burglaries related? Bartholomew tried to recall what he had been told about the thefts. They all occurred in the homes of the wealthy – merchants, Bishop de Lisle and finally Barbour the landlord. Bartholomew rubbed his chin as a thought occurred to him. No poor person had been targeted, and Leycestre was constantly pointing out that the rich lived well, while the peasantry seldom knew where their next meal was coming from. Was Leycestre the burglar, stealing from the rich people he so despised?

But how could that be right? One of the most recent victims had been Agnes Fitzpayne, who was a good friend of Leycestre’s. The man would surely not steal from someone who seemed to hold the same views as he did. Or would he? Bartholomew frowned. Perhaps Agnes had agreed to claim she had been burgled for the express purpose of making Leycestre appear innocent. And Leycestre had certainly been present when Barbour had bragged about where he had hidden his money.

But Leycestre was not suddenly sporting new clothes or producing gold to buy back the land he had lost. Where were all his gains going? Bartholomew sat up straight when it occurred to him that rebellions cost money. There were weapons to be bought, and favours to be purchased from people in a position to dispense them. Messengers needed to be hired, with fast horses, to spread the word once it had started, and funds would be necessary to allow the leaders to meet in secret places and discuss tactics. Was that the reason for the burglaries? That Leycestre needed money to support his rebellion, and he had decided the rich should pay?

If that were true, then the gypsies’ arrival had been a perfect opportunity to place the blame on someone else – people who would never join the revolution, because they were not tied to the land and were free to do as they pleased. They were excellent scapegoats; they had a reputation for stealing the odd coin or hen, and they were dispensable. Because they came every year, Leycestre had waited for their arrival before he put his plan into action.

The more Bartholomew thought about his solution, the more it made sense. Triumphant that he had made some headway, even though it probably had nothing to do with the murders, he prodded Michael awake.

‘What?’ demanded the monk crossly. ‘I was sleeping.’

‘I know what Leycestre has been doing,’ declared Bartholomew, reaching for his jug of ale and taking a deep draught. ‘His rebellion is more than wishful thinking. He is preparing to make it into a reality with funds stolen from the merchants.’

Michael listened to the explanation with wide eyes, saying nothing until he had finished. ‘And you woke me to tell me this?’ he demanded. ‘I have never heard such nonsense! Where is your evidence? You do not have a scrap of it.’

‘I do not,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But it makes sense.’

‘It does not,’ snapped Michael, rubbing his eyes wearily. ‘I thought you had a headache. You would have done better to take a nap, rather than make it worse with all this false reasoning.’

‘I feel better,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘The after-effects of Henry’s tonic are not so serious after all. No wonder he keeps it locked away. If the general populace learns there is a substance that can make you happy and give you energy to work, and that the only negative is a slight headache and a little queasiness, then we would have no peace from demands for it, as Henry has discovered from Northburgh and Stretton.’

‘Leycestre is not a burglar,’ said Michael, eating a crust of bread he had missed earlier. ‘He is too old for that sort of thing.’

‘It was you who pointed out that he was walking stiffly this morning. It is probably because he had to climb the outside of the Lamb to reach Barbour’s attic, and he is not used to it.’

‘Well, even if you are right, this speculation does not help us. The burglaries and the murders have nothing to do with each other.’

But Bartholomew was certain he had solved at least one of the mysteries that besieged the little Fenland city. He finished his ale and followed Michael outside the inn to the bright sunshine.

The walk back to Ely was brutally hot. The sun was as fierce as Bartholomew had ever known it, and he was reminded of his travels in southern Italy and France, where the sun burned all the greenness out of the landscape. The river looked cool and inviting – if he did not think about what might be floating in it – and they had walked only a short distance before he removed his shirt and waded into the shallows to dive into the cool blackness of the deeper water.

Michael watched enviously from the bank, while Bartholomew urged him to jump in, expounding the virtues of a cool dip on a hot day. Michael demurred, and sat miserably in his heavy habit and wide black hat. His face was red, and he complained that the heat was making his skin itch. Eventually, the temptation became too great, and the monk removed his habit to reveal voluminous underclothes and monstrous white limbs. It was not a pleasant sight, and Bartholomew was glad they were not inflicting it on any passers-by.

Michael wallowed around like a vast sea creature, scowling and looking as if he were not enjoying the experience at all. He grumbled about the mud under his feet, and did not like the smell of the peaty water. After a while, when he had cooled down, he claimed he had had enough and was going home. He headed for a patch of sedge.

‘You will never get out that way,’ Bartholomew warned. ‘It will be too boggy.’

Michael ignored him, then gave a sudden howl of alarm, splashing furiously in an attempt to push away from whatever had startled him. Water slapped into his mouth, and he began to choke, which increased his agitation. Afraid that the monk might have hurt himself on a sharp stone or a stick, Bartholomew went to his assistance. But it was not sticks and stones that had unnerved the monk.

Among the reeds, bobbing obscenely in the waves that Michael created, was a dead white hand. Bartholomew parted the stems to look at its owner, before turning to face Michael, who was treading water and gasping like a drowning man.

‘It is William,’ Bartholomew said softly, gesturing to the distinctive bob of grey hair, now sadly soiled and bedraggled. ‘His body must have been caught in the vegetation, rather than washing downstream like the others’.’

Michael began to gag. His face was bright red, and he snatched at Bartholomew in panic when the physician went to his aid. It was not easy to haul him to the safety of the shore, and both were panting and exhausted by the time they had scrambled up the bank.

‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Michael, rubbing himself down with his habit. Water gushed from his massive underclothes, and ran down the flabby white flesh of his legs. ‘I shall never swim in a river again. It is vile to share it with corpses – especially bloated and stinking ones like that.’

‘William has not been dead that long,’ said Bartholomew, pushing his way through the undergrowth that fringed the water to reach the body from the shore. He found it, and hauled it backward until it lay on the grass like a landed fish.

‘How long?’ demanded Michael, rubbing his habit across his hair, so that the thin locks stood in needle-sharp spikes across his head.

‘I do not know. No more than three days – he went missing on Wednesday night, if you recall, and it is now Saturday.’

‘And how did he die?’ asked Michael. ‘Is there a cut in his neck?’

‘No.’ Bartholomew knelt to examine the hosteller. ‘But there is a serious dent in his head.’

‘What are you saying? Was William murdered by the man who killed the others, or not?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, turning the body as he assessed it in more detail. ‘The method was not the same, but that does not tell us anything conclusive. From the damage to his hands, it seems that he struggled with his attacker. We saw the same thing on Robert, remember?’

Michael nodded. ‘Robert knew there was a killer on the loose and fought with whoever grabbed him. Perhaps William was so afraid that he decided to leave the priory before he went the same way – he ran away, but the murderer found him anyway.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where are his possessions?’

‘The killer stole them, I imagine,’ said Michael, as though it were obvious. ‘If you have murdered someone, you may as well recompense yourself for your pains and make off with a couple of saddlebags of good robes and gold coins.’

‘So, now we are looking for someone with a bruised back, who is wearing finest quality Benedictine robes and has a lot of money to spare,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘He should not be too difficult to track down.’

Michael ignored him, and nodded instead to the dead man’s hands. ‘His nails are broken, and there are cuts on his arms. I assume the killer will also have scratches on him.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘These are injuries caused while William tried to defend himself; there is nothing to indicate that he managed to inflict any harm on his assailant. The cuts show where he fended off a knife or another blade of some kind, and the broken fingernails could have been caused by his clawing at anything in his desperation to escape, even the ground.’

‘But then his nails would be full of mud. And they are not.’

‘He has also been in the river for an undetermined amount of time, and it may have been washed away.’

‘His death was definitely a result of this blow to his head? There are no other fatal injuries? He did not drown?’

‘I cannot really tell,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If I lean hard against his chest, some bubbles seep from his mouth, suggesting he breathed water into his lungs, but it is irrelevant anyway. What is important is that we know he fought against his attacker, and that at some point he was hit on the head – or perhaps he fell. He probably drowned while he was unconscious – his death was a result of the tussle, regardless.’

‘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.

Bartholomew went to find Michael, to tell him about Leycestre’s offer to Guido, but the monk had gone in search of the elusive Symon, determined to interrogate him about his backache. Bartholomew scoured the priory for them with no success, then wandered through the town again. Finally, hot and tired, he retired to the cathedral, intending to sit alone for a while in its cool, stone interior.

As soon as he had entered the great building, he realised he should have sought sanctuary in it sooner. It was calm and silent, and a far cry from the hectic bustle of the town and the atmosphere of unease and distrust that pervaded the priory. Father John was conducting a short mass at his altar, but because there were no monks with whom to compete, he did little more than whisper his prayers. Bartholomew found a pillar at the rear of the church, and sat with his back to it, relishing the chill from the stone that seeped through his clothes.

John finished his mass, and Bartholomew was surprised to see Leycestre emerge from the shadows of the aisle and approach the priest. Agnes Fitzpayne was there, too, and Bartholomew grew more certain that his suppositions had been right and that the ‘burglary’ of her house had been fictitious, expressly designed to deflect suspicion from Leycestre and his nephews. The trio spoke in low, urgent voices for a few moments, before leaving to go their separate ways. Bartholomew had the feeling that Leycestre was spending most of his time organising his rebellion, because he certainly had not been in the fields much that day, nor the previous one.

John stumbled over Bartholomew’s legs when he hurried past, then cast a furtive glance up the nave, presumably to assess whether Bartholomew could have observed his meeting with Leycestre.

‘What are you doing here?’ the priest demanded, staring down at the physician who sat comfortably at the base of his column. ‘It is not nice to lurk in dark corners and startle honest men.’

‘Not so honest,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw you with Leycestre and Agnes Fitzpayne, plotting how you will overthrow the landlords. You told me you would wait to see which side won before pinning your colours to a mast, but you seem to be very close to Leycestre.’

John glanced around him in alarm. ‘I am advising him to caution, not encouraging him to engage in treasonous acts.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who knew perfectly well that John had been agreeing with Leycestre, not remonstrating with him. ‘But you should be careful, Father. I do not think this rebellion will succeed, no matter how many houses Leycestre has robbed to ensure its success.’

John clapped his hands across his face, and Bartholomew knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all his reasoning had been correct. The priest gave a groan, and when he looked at Bartholomew again, his expression was haggard.

‘I do not want to be mixed up in this, but how can I stop? All my parishioners are poor, and the landowners have made their lives even harder since the Death. Leycestre is right in that the wealthy will never listen to the peasants, and he is right when he says something must be done. But I am no rebel, and violence is abhorrent to me. What shall I do?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, who could see the priest’s quandary and was glad he had not been placed in such a position himself. ‘But you should beware of involving yourself with men who break the law. It is one thing to be executed for treason over a cause you believe is just, and another altogether to be hanged for a common crime like theft.’

‘I told Leycestre there were other ways,’ said John miserably. ‘I told him that King Edward would hear the voice of his people, and that we should allow more time to pass before he took such desperate action. He would not listen.’

‘Fanatics rarely do.’

‘What will you do with this knowledge?’ asked John nervously. ‘Will you tell the Bishop and Prior Alan? Or will you give me until sunset to leave with my few belongings? I know what they do to traitors, and I do not want to be an example for other would-be rebels. You would not wish the execution of a priest on your conscience, would you?’

‘I think you will find that de Lisle and Alan already have some inkling of Leycestre’s plans, although I doubt they also know about the burglaries. You must do what you think is right, but I will not tell the priory or the Bishop of your involvement, if that is what you want.’

‘And what do you demand for your silence?’ asked John tiredly. ‘I have no money – anything I have goes to feed the poor these days. I could say a mass for you at St Etheldreda’s tomb before I leave.’

‘I would like some information,’ said Bartholomew, gazing up at the priest. ‘Does Leycestre intend to break into the priory tonight?’

John nodded unhappily. ‘And now I am a traitor to both sides! If Leycestre ever learns I told you this, he will kill me.’

‘Is he the kind of man who kills, then?’ asked Bartholomew, very interested in this revelation. ‘Is Leycestre the murderer who has been taking the lives of his fellow citizens?’

‘I do not know,’ said John in a whisper. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘Really, I do not! The possibility has crossed my mind, because he is so determined that his rebellion will be a success, and the men who have died are folk who were not interested in joining him.’

‘Chaloner, Glovere and Haywarde were against the rebellion?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘They just did not care one way or the other. And because of their apathy, I thought Leycestre might have decided they were better out of the way. But then monks died, and now I am not so sure.’ He saw Bartholomew look sceptical, and he raised his hands in earnest entreaty. ‘Please, believe me! I really do not know the identity of this killer.’

Bartholomew decided the priest was probably telling the truth, and supposed that Leycestre and his cronies did not confide in him because he was nervous and the kind of person to fall at the first hurdle – which was exactly what he had done. He charged John to say nothing to Leycestre about the fact that his plan to raid the priory had been anticipated. The priest nodded acquiescence, then informed Bartholomew that he was planning to leave Ely anyway, and that he would do better in another city.

‘But you have been here for years,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that the priest had made plans to abandon the people he professed to love, even before he knew his part in Leycestre’s rebellion had been discovered.

‘It is time for a change,’ said John quietly. ‘I shall be on the road by this evening and will not return.’ He said farewell and then was gone, hurrying through the shadows towards the door, which he fled through without bothering to close it behind him. The sound of children playing nearby drifted in, along with the agitated bark of a dog, which was probably part of their game and wished it were not. Bartholomew stared at the gate for a long time before he uncoiled himself from the foot of his column and stood up.

Bartholomew walked slowly around the cathedral, thinking about what he had learned, and wondering when the legacy of the Death would loosen its grip on his country. The life of a peasant had not been easy before the plague, and there had been a shortage of land that had meant bread was expensive. But it was ten times harder after the Great Pestilence had swept through England, and now it seemed as though it would precipitate a rebellion that would plunge huge tracts of the country into a state of anarchy. Men like John saw that the cause was just, and were torn between siding with the people for whom they cared and staying on the right side of the law, while men like Leycestre were preparing for a war without considering the fact that their actions could make matters worse.

The sun was beginning to dip red in the afternoon sky when Bartholomew realised that he had been walking in circles for at least an hour, round and round inside the cathedral. He was at the rear again, near the pillar where he had met John, when he decided he had better stop and do something more productive than analysing his country’s economic problems.

He glanced to one side, and saw that the transept was still in its chaotic state of disrepair, with the rope hanging between two stools to warn people to stay out. It seemed to Bartholomew that the ground was more littered with smashed flagstones and broken masonry than ever, and he noted that the angel, which had clung precariously to the beam high on the roof above, was now a pile of painted rubble on the floor. Only the angel’s eyes were identifiable, gazing sightlessly upward as though admonishing the builders for giving her a niche that was not sound. The scaffolding that clung to the wall looked more unstable than the building it was supposed to support, and Bartholomew was surprised that the whole lot had not already crashed to the ground.

He was about to leave through the west door, when he saw two familiar figures walking slowly towards him. Tysilia and de Lisle were strolling arm in arm through the cathedral that was the centre of his See. Bartholomew had seldom seen a greater look of contentment on the haughty features of the Bishop, although Tysilia seemed bored with her father’s company. Ralph was behind them, dogging their footsteps like a faithful, if reluctant, hound. Quickly Bartholomew moved behind one of the thick Norman columns. He did not want to meet Tysilia and have another conversation that revolved around Brother Michael’s physical virtues in front of the Bishop. He listened carefully to their approaching footsteps, ready to edge further around the column if they came towards him.

‘What is this?’ he heard Tysilia ask, as she passed the ruinous transept.

‘A broken angel,’ came de Lisle’s voice, tenderly patient. ‘She must have fallen from the roof. This entire section is not as strong as the rest of the cathedral. One day it will tumble to the ground.’

Tysilia clapped her hands in childlike delight. ‘Can I come to see it? I have never seen a church fall down.’

‘I imagine few people have,’ said de Lisle, reaching out to touch her hair in a rare sign of paternal affection. ‘But I hope it will not happen for a while, because then the monks will insist on rebuilding it immediately, and they should finish the parish church of Holy Cross first.’

‘But it will be much more fun to build a big church than a little one,’ said Tysilia. ‘I like large things. Like Brother Michael.’

‘Michael?’ asked de Lisle, somewhat startled. ‘Do you mean my agent?’

‘I do not know what he does in his spare time,’ said Tysilia warmly. ‘But he is a charming man and he has a fine physique.’

‘Are we talking about the same fellow?’ asked de Lisle, his voice wary. ‘You mean Brother Michael from Michaelhouse in Cambridge?’

‘That is the one,’ said Tysilia dreamily. ‘He is a perfect specimen.’

‘I have always considered him rather fat, personally,’ said de Lisle. ‘But he has served me well in the past, although he is not doing a very good job as regards these murders.’

‘Poor William,’ said Tysilia. ‘He was my brother, you know?’

Bartholomew saw de Lisle stare at her. ‘He was not,’ he said eventually. ‘And I can assure you that I have a very good reason to know.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Tysilia merrily. ‘He said we were brother and sister because we both have black hair and dark eyes. It is a family resplendence, he said.’

‘Resemblance,’ said de Lisle fondly. ‘But William did not have black hair – he had that puffy grey stuff that looked like a big piece of fungus, and eyes that were more pale than dark.’

‘That is what I told him,’ said Tysilia. ‘But he told me that hair and eyes change colour when a person ages.’

‘He was lying,’ said de Lisle. ‘But you and I both have dark eyes.’

‘You cannot be my brother,’ said Tysilia, pushing him playfully. ‘You are far too old. In fact, you are so old that I would not even consider you as a bedfellow, and I do not usually mind a little maternity.’

‘Maturity,’ corrected de Lisle. ‘They are not words you should muddle, my dearest one.’

He broke away from Tysilia when one of his clerks hurried towards him, holding some piece of parchment that had to be signed. De Lisle was not the kind of man who signed documents without reading them first, and Tysilia grew restless with the enforced wait. While the clerk and Ralph chatted, and de Lisle read his parchment, she wandered away to look at the damaged transept. Before anyone noticed what she was doing, she had stepped across the rope barrier and was poking around among the smashed statues on the floor.

With a sigh of annoyance, Bartholomew abandoned his hiding place and walked towards her. Much as he found her dim wits irritating, he could not stand by and see her in danger. He called her name, ordering her to leave the transept and move towards him. At the sound of his voice, de Lisle turned in alarm.

‘Tysilia!’ he cried, dropping his parchment and racing towards her. ‘The physician is right. Come out of there at once!’

Tysilia half turned. ‘But there are interesting things here,’ she objected, stooping to lift a piece of painted wood to show them. ‘Pretty things.’

‘Come out!’ de Lisle shouted. ‘At once. That rope is to stop people from entering that area, and you are not supposed to step over it.’

With a petulant pout, Tysilia started to slouch towards him. Then there was a rumble, a sharp crack and suddenly the whole of the north-west transept was full of falling stone and rising dust.

‘Tysilia!’ howled de Lisle, trying to run towards her but forced back by the veil of falling masonry and wood. Ralph darted forward to seize his Bishop’s arm and prevent him from doing anything rash, but de Lisle was not a stupid man. He could see there was little point in dashing among the large clumps of debris that crashed in front of him.

After a few moments, the roar of falling rubble ceased and the cathedral was silent. De Lisle gave another wail, and tugged away from Ralph to rush towards his daughter. Bartholomew glanced up, afraid that he would be hit, too, but there was little more left to fall. He realised they had just witnessed the largest collapse so far, although most of the debris seemed to stem from the unstable scaffolding rather than the building itself. However, gaping holes had appeared in the roof, so that the golden sunlight of late afternoon caught the swirling dust and made patterns with it. Of Tysilia there was no sign.

‘Here,’ said Ralph, pulling ineffectually at a heavy slab of oak. ‘She is under this.’

Bartholomew saw that one of the ugliest gargoyles he had ever seen had fallen virtually whole on top of the hapless Tysilia. It looked as though the artist had intended it to be a pig, but had lost interest halfway through. He turned his attention to Tysilia’s body. Most of her was unscathed: it was only her head that had been caught under the carving.

‘It has destroyed her clever mind,’ Bartholomew heard the clerk mutter facetiously to Ralph. ‘What a pity she will be giving no more of her erudite opinions on the mysteries of the universe.’

‘Crushed by a pig,’ said Ralph, who was fighting to adopt a suitably sombre expression. ‘What a way to go!’

Bartholomew crouched to examine her, although he knew she could not have survived under the tremendous weight of the gargoyle. De Lisle, however, pushed him away, kneeling next to her with tears running down his face.

‘Tysilia!’ he wept. ‘How could the saints have allowed this to happen?’

‘Perhaps one of them arranged it,’ murmured Ralph to the clerk. ‘St Etheldreda probably does not like being asked to deliver monks into the amorous clutches of women like that.’

‘Let me examine her,’ said Bartholomew, trying to ease his way past de Lisle. ‘I may be able to do something.’

‘You cannot,’ said de Lisle, stricken. ‘It is clear she is beyond any earthly help, and I do not want her poked at.’

‘But we should be sure–’ began Bartholomew.

‘No,’ whispered de Lisle, taking one of the lifeless hands in his and pressing it to his cheek. Bartholomew began to feel sorry for him. ‘Someone will pay for this.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘It was an accident. She should not have wandered where she knew she was not supposed to be.’

‘Someone caused this to fall deliberately,’ fumed de Lisle, grief giving way to anger. ‘The roof was unstable, but it was not that bad. Someone pushed something.’

Bartholomew was sure he was wrong, but there was a gallery running around the top of the transept, and so he supposed it was possible that someone had climbed up to it to launch a murderous attack on Tysilia, although he could not imagine who or why.

‘Blanche,’ snarled de Lisle, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Blanche is responsible for this, to pay me back for Glovere.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘Murder is a grave sin at any time, but it would be even more so in a cathedral.’

‘Blanche and her retinue are witches and warlocks,’ ranted de Lisle. ‘I will have them burned for heresy.’

Bartholomew stepped back as the Bishop came to his feet fast, launching into a diatribe of hatred against the enemy he imagined to have killed the one person for whom he felt affection. As he moved away from the distraught Bishop, something yellow caught Bartholomew’s eye. It was a coin. He picked it up, then spotted another. Ralph saw what he was doing, and within a few moments they had amassed a veritable treasure trove, including a number of coins and a selection of jewellery. De Lisle watched with a lack of interest, more concerned with the inert form of Tysilia.

‘I know what these are,’ said Ralph, gazing down at their hoard. ‘They are items stolen during those burglaries in the town – there is the Bishop’s ring and here is his silver plate. The thief has been storing them here, in the cathedral.’

‘How ingenious,’ said the clerk. ‘Stolen property would be perfectly safe in this part of the building, because everyone is afraid that the whole thing will come down at the slightest touch.’

‘I keep telling you that it is not that unstable,’ said de Lisle testily. ‘Alan is an excellent engineer, and he said the place would last for years yet. It is a little wobbly, but it is not about to tumble around our ears at any moment.’

‘Tysilia would disagree,’ muttered the clerk, staring at the dusty white legs that poked from under the gargoyle.

‘But I have noticed fresh falls myself,’ argued Bartholomew, not sure that he believed de Lisle. ‘That angel, for example.’

But even as he pointed at the carving, he could see fresh marks on it, where it had apparently been chiselled away from its holding. He stared at it in confusion. De Lisle watched him.

‘It seems to me that someone wanted people to believe the transept was dangerous so that they would stay out,’ de Lisle surmised. ‘And everyone was to stay out because here are the proceeds from those thefts.’

‘Leycestre,’ murmured Bartholomew to himself. ‘So that is what he and John were discussing so furtively. No wonder John knew about the burglaries – it may even have been his idea to use the cathedral as a storeroom.’

‘What?’ demanded de Lisle. ‘What are you muttering about?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of his promise to John. He supposed he would be justified in breaking it, given that John had kept a substantial part of the truth from him, but he did not want to see the priest suffer the kind of fate that might well be in store for Leycestre.

‘Gather this treasure together,’ de Lisle instructed his clerk and steward. He sighed impatiently when he saw them glance nervously at the ceiling. ‘I have told you it is safe. Someone deliberately caused the fall you just saw, and it will not happen again.’

‘It might,’ said Ralph fearfully. ‘Someone will not want us taking all this treasure.’

‘No one is up there,’ said de Lisle in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘When you have collected it you can take it to my house, where we will arrange for the victims of these thefts to reclaim what is rightfully theirs.’

‘What, all of it?’ asked Ralph in horror.

De Lisle thought for a moment. ‘Well, we will remove a little something as our reward for finding it. I shall need funds now that I have to pay for a requiem mass.’ He looked back at the crumpled form beneath the statue. ‘My fallen angel!’

‘I think that is a pig, actually,’ said Ralph, turning his head to inspect the gargoyle.

‘I meant Tysilia,’ said de Lisle in a strangled voice. ‘My poor Tysilia!’

‘Yes?’ came a muffled voice from the ground.

Ralph and the clerk backed away in alarm, while de Lisle and Bartholomew gazed at Tysilia’s body in astonishment. De Lisle crossed himself quickly.

‘It is a miracle!’ the Bishop whispered, awed. ‘St Etheldreda has brought her back to us. I just hope she still has a head to claim as her own – life could be difficult without one, and the saints often forget this sort of detail when they perform their miracles.’

‘She has managed without a brain so far,’ muttered Bartholomew, kneeling to examine her. ‘And she was not dead in the first place: this statue has fallen in such a way that I think she is unscathed.’

‘But you told me she was dead!’ shouted de Lisle accusingly. ‘You are a physician, so I believed you.’

‘I did no such thing,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘You would not let me near her.’

He felt under the stone, then took Tysilia’s feet and hauled her in an undignified manner from beneath the pig. When he released her, she sat up, her hair a dusty mess around her face and her clothes in ruins. She took a deep breath and shook her head, as though to clear it. Ralph and the clerk took a hasty step backward, as though they imagined she might shake it from her shoulders and they did not want to be nearby when it happened.

‘That was not nice,’ she declared. ‘It was quite dark for a few moments, as though I was in my bed asleep. But of course I was not, was I?’

‘Tysilia!’ exclaimed de Lisle in delight, leaning forward to give her a heartfelt embrace.

‘I am hungry,’ she said, fending him off. ‘And I do not like this church. What do you say to a visit to a tavern? There are lots of very nice young men in taverns.’

‘Whatever you say,’ said de Lisle fondly, helping her to her feet and taking her hand to lead her away from the rubble.

‘I thought we were rid of her for a moment,’ said Ralph, sounding deeply disappointed. ‘But St Etheldreda stepped in and saved her, just as the Bishop said. It just goes to show that even saints can make mistakes sometimes.’