A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 11

‘And she just sat up and shook herself?’ asked Michael, half amazed and half amused by Tysilia’s reaction to her brush with death when Bartholomew gave him details of the miraculous escape as they sat in the refectory at sunset. An early evening meal had already been served, but Michael had managed to inveigle himself something extra from the kitchens. ‘She did not complain of a headache or start to weep from fright?’

‘She said she was hungry, and was bored by de Lisle’s exclamations of delight and relief.’

‘And the gargoyle had fallen in such a way as to leave her completely unharmed?’

‘More or less. De Lisle thinks St Etheldreda intervened. But what shall we do about Leycestre? Shall we lie in wait and catch him red-handed as he relieves Alan of the monastic silver tonight?’

‘Given our performance in the Bone House, I am not sure that is wise,’ said Michael. ‘And Leycestre’s crimes are irrelevant to us anyway. It is the killer I want to catch, not a man with a penchant for other people’s property.’

‘But it is still possible they are one and the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘John said Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde all expressed no interest in Leycestre’s rebellion, and it occurred to him that Leycestre had murdered them.’

‘But he has no evidence,’ Michael pointed out. ‘John is a frightened man who realises that he cannot follow his conscience and the law at the same time. He is afraid of everyone. And how do you know he has not already told Leycestre that you have guessed what he intends to do tonight?’

‘I think John will be halfway to Lincoln by now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was so terrified by his discussion with me that he will snatch the advantage he has been given and run away.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael. ‘He will have warned Leycestre, and there will be no theft from Prior Alan or anyone else.’ He gave a sudden chuckle and changed the subject. ‘De Lisle is a popular man at the moment. He took all that treasure to his house and displayed it for the merchants to identify and collect. It had all been returned to its owners in less than an hour.’

‘Was everyone’s property there?’

‘Almost. Agnes Fitzpayne had listed various items that were not recovered.’

‘I told you,’ said Bartholomew triumphantly. ‘There was nothing for her to claim, because nothing was stolen from her. And the fact that she was the only “victim” whose property did not reappear affirms it.’

‘She was not the only one, though,’ said Michael. ‘A certain number of coins also remain missing, although all the jewellery was accounted for.’

‘You should know where they went,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that de Lisle would be very pleased with his unexpected windfall. No one would accuse him of keeping a small profit for himself when he had been to such pains to return the bulk of it to its rightful owners.

‘I have had enough of the rebels and their petty crimes,’ said Michael, obviously not wanting to hear that de Lisle was less than honest. ‘But while you were busy pulling Tysilia from under pigs by her legs, I was also busy. I happen to know that Symon the librarian is currently lurking in his favourite hiding place – the latrines. He thinks he will avoid an awkward interrogation from me regarding the state of his back.’

‘Then we should talk to him immediately,’ said Bartholomew, taking the monk’s sleeve and tugging it to make him finish his meal and leave. ‘He is an elusive fellow, and if you have him pinned down, we should take the opportunity to speak to him before he disappears again.’

‘He is an unpleasant piece of work,’ said Michael, shaking Bartholomew off and returning to his food. ‘I was thinking that if we left it long enough, the killer might come and relieve us of the bother of talking to the man.’

‘I thought we were going to talk to him because he has a bad back, and we think he might be the one you hit with a spade.’

Michael shook his head. ‘The killer is a clever man, and the only thing Symon is clever at doing is eluding people who want to see him. He blusters and brags, but when you press him it is obvious that he is nothing but hot air, and his knowledge is superficial and often erroneous.’

‘But we should talk to him anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should at least learn how he came by his ailment. And do not forget he is one of our main suspects for the death of Thomas.’

Seeing that Bartholomew would not let matters rest until they had interrogated the elusive librarian, Michael sighed and stood, wiping the crumbs from his mouth as he followed the physician out of the refectory and into the soft gloom of a late summer evening. They walked to the latrines, looking at the monks who were still out for signs of limps or twinges. They passed Henry who emerged from his infirmary. He stretched both arms above his head, then clutched his back to give it a vigorous massage.

‘How are you?’ he asked of Bartholomew. ‘What did you think of my tonic?’

‘It worked well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I think it would be dangerous if taken too often.’

Henry nodded. ‘I keep it only for emergencies. You will not take another dose, then? To see you through this unpleasant investigation?’

‘He will not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘I do not want him exhausting me with excessive energy.’

As they talked, Prior Alan strolled towards them with a distinctly uneven gait, and informed Bartholomew and Henry that his hip always ached when he spent too much time climbing on scaffolding – which he said he had been doing that day to oversee the work on Holy Cross Church. Henry offered him a poultice, and they disappeared inside the hospital together.

‘I wonder if his climbs on scaffolding extend to pushing gargoyles on bishops’ nieces,’ muttered Bartholomew as they went on their way.

‘No one tried to kill Tysilia, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘De Lisle was distraught, and was making unfounded accusations in his grief.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Of course, it would have been difficult for Blanche to extricate herself from that indictment, given that she publicly threatened to kill Tysilia – the day we found Robert, remember? – and that she had a grudge against de Lisle because of Glovere.’

‘Do you think de Lisle arranged to have the stone pushed himself, so he would be able to accuse Blanche of dirty tricks?’

Michael seriously considered the possibility. ‘If so, then the pusher would have had to be a man he trusted, because he would not have wanted the pig to land on him by mistake. But Ralph was with you, and so I do not think that a likely scenario, Matt.’

‘Is Ralph the only man he would depend on for such a thing?’

‘Yes, I think so. But, unlikely though it sounds, de Lisle loves Tysilia and I do not believe he would risk harming her.’

‘De Lisle is certain it was not an accident. It seems that the north-west transept was actually reasonably safe, but rumours were circulated that it was not. I asked Henry about it, and he thinks the rumours originated with John and Leycestre. Leycestre is obviously good at spreading tales that benefit him.’

‘But it was not safe,’ Michael pointed out. ‘There were bits of broken stone all over the floor, and a pig dropped on Tysilia’s head.’

‘Then they were pushed deliberately, to maintain the illusion of instability. It was not so much the building that fell anyway – it was the scaffolding that was supposed to be shoring it up.’

‘But why did Alan, who is an excellent engineer, say nothing to contradict these rumours?’

‘Because he hopes some wealthy pilgrim will be so appalled by the state of the cathedral that he will donate funds for its restoration. He said as much when we first arrived. Alan seems as dishonest as Robert where money for his engineering is concerned.’

‘He is obsessed with it,’ agreed Michael. ‘But here we are, at the latrines. This is a pleasant way to pass an evening. Why did I allow you to drag me from a perfectly good meal for this?’

‘To catch your killer, Brother. And speaking of killers, if you look towards the Prior’s House, you will see Agnes Fitzpayne meeting Alan. I wager you anything you choose that her presence here is the first stage in the plan to rob the priory. The theft is under way.’

‘Is it my imagination, or is she limping?’ asked Michael, peering through the gloom of dusk to where Bartholomew pointed.

‘She is limping,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But she is wearing her best clothes for her assignation with Prior Alan, and it is possible that her shoes pinch. There is Welles. He is limping, too.’

‘So he is,’ said Michael. ‘But he was not doing so earlier. The more I look around me, the more I realise that many folk walk in a way that is extremely odd. I have never noticed it before, but people really do have distinctive gaits.’

Bartholomew saw that Michael was right, and was aware of a slight throb in his own back, probably as a result of pulling William from the water the previous day.

‘What will you do about that gold thread we found in William’s cross?’ asked Bartholomew, squinting up to where the first stars were beginning to gleam in a sky that was just turning from light to dark blue. ‘Will you question Guido about it?’

‘Yes, of course. But whoever killed William battered him over the head – no blades were inserted in his neck. This makes me suspect – rightly or wrongly – that William’s killer is different to the others’. So, Guido can wait until tomorrow. Today, I want to catch the neck-stabber.’

‘Guido may not be here tomorrow,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He will have taken the money offered by Leycestre and left.’

‘Then I will follow him. The clan owns a number of carts – his tracks will not be hard to find.’

‘I am not so sure about that. Leycestre is unlikely to pay someone to disappear who will be easily found. Once Guido leaves Ely, you may never see him again.’

‘That may be true elsewhere, but not here,’ said Michael confidently. ‘There are a limited number of paths through the Fens, and people with heavy carts can hardly load them all on to boats. They will not go far.’

Bartholomew thought he was wrong, but saw there was little point in arguing. He began to walk along the line of latrines, opening each door to see whether anyone was hiding inside. One or two people were there on perfectly legitimate business, but their outraged objections died in their throats when Michael leaned into the stalls to enquire whether they wished to make a complaint. The expression on his face made it clear that the best thing they could do would be to close the door and ignore whatever happened outside.

When they had reached the last stall, and there was no sign of Symon, Bartholomew began to think that the slippery librarian had eluded them yet again. But when he shoved the door open as far as it would go, it met with resistance, and when he pushed against it harder still, there was a small grunt of pain.

‘Come out, Symon,’ ordered Michael. ‘I do not like latrines at the best of times, and I am not impressed that my search for you has led me here yet again. I am not in a good mood, and you would be wise to pander to my wishes.’

Reluctantly, Symon sidled from the stall, looking this way and that as though he imagined he might be able to run if the questions became too awkward. Michael grabbed him firmly by the arm and dragged him away. When he reached a place where the air suited him better, Michael stopped, but did not release his prey.

‘You have a bad back,’ he began without preamble. ‘Would you care to tell us how you came by it?’

‘No,’ said Symon shortly.

‘Then I suggest you reconsider, unless you want to spend all your time in the latrines for the next year. I am an influential man, and if I make a recommendation to Prior Alan that these buildings are filthy and need to be cleaned daily, he will comply with my suggestion regarding who is the best-suited man for the task.’

Symon blanched. Even his affinity with the latrines did not stretch that far, and he evidently knew Michael was the kind of man to carry out his threat. He began to bluster. ‘I do not know how I came by my ailment. It just happened.’

‘You did not engage in a fight of any kind or attack someone?’ prompted Michael.

Symon regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Are you mad? Of course I did not fight anyone! That kind of behaviour is for novices and men who are paid by the Bishop to chase criminals. I am a librarian!’ He drew himself up to his full height and regarded Michael with disdain.

‘Then how do you account for your bad back?’ pressed Michael, unmoved. ‘These things do not “just happen”. You have to do something to aggravate them. Is that not true, Matt?’

‘When you hide in the latrines, do you sit?’ asked Bartholomew, deciding not to answer. Backaches were difficult complaints to diagnose, and came about as a result of a wide variety of causes. He had treated many patients who claimed that a sudden pain in the back had started for no apparent reason.

‘That is a highly personal question,’ said Symon, clinging to the last vestiges of his dignity. ‘But yes, I do. Sitting allows me to rest my legs, whereas standing means I tend to lean against the walls.’ He shuddered. ‘And no one should do that in there.’

‘Then your backache may be explained by your sitting too long in one position,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is not much space for moving in those stalls. I recommend you either stand more often or find another hiding place.’

‘Thank you,’ said Symon stiffly. ‘I shall do that.’

‘What have you been doing for the last two days?’ demanded Michael scowling at Bartholomew for allowing the librarian to wriggle from the hook. ‘Did you not hear that we wanted a word with you?’

Symon’s expression hardened. ‘I have duties to fulfil, and cannot abandon them just because you have decided to ask me questions. For your information, I went to visit the nuns at Denny Abbey yesterday, because they are selling a copy of Matthew Paris’s Chronica Majora.’

‘You already have at least three copies of that,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why do you want another?’

Symon glowered at Bartholomew, who assumed the librarian had not known about the existence of duplicates. ‘This one was illustrated,’ he growled. ‘My readers prefer books with pictures. But suffice to say that I was engaged with priory business, and that I have only recently returned.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, clearly not believing a word. ‘What were you doing at midnight on Friday? Were you here, trying to avoid leaning on the walls, or were you out and about? Near the Bone House, for example?’

‘I certainly was not,’ said Symon indignantly. ‘And I was in my library on Friday night, cleaning up the mess your friend left with his reading. Henry may have heard me from the infirmary, so you can ask him.’

‘We will ask him,’ said Michael, releasing the librarian’s arm. ‘And if he does not support your claim, we will be back to talk to you again. Do not think that you will evade me: I know this priory as well as you do, and there is nowhere you can go that I will not find you.’

Symon scuttled away as fast as he could when released from Michael’s interrogation, leaving the monk staring thoughtfully after him. Michael and Bartholomew began to walk back up the hill together, away from the odorous latrines. Michael professed himself unconvinced by Symon’s story, and said he was going to ask Henry about the library’s creaking floorboards. Meanwhile, the physician was concerned about the sudden presence of Agnes Fitzpayne in the monastery, and intended to do something about it. Prior Alan had been kind to him, and he did not want to repay the man’s hospitality by allowing a theft to take place that might see some of the cathedral-priory’s treasures permanently lost. He decided to ask his book-bearer to help him catch the thieves.

Cynric was more than willing to assist, claiming that he was bored in Ely with nothing to do other than help the cooks in the kitchen or wander the town’s taverns. Meadowman was with him, and also readily agreed to a little thief-taking.

‘What is the plan?’ asked Cynric keenly, walking next to Bartholomew as they headed towards the Prior’s House. ‘Agnes Fitzpayne is already inside, you say?’

‘I do not know the details,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I only know that it is already in action.’

‘Not their plan,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘Ours. What do you intend to do?’

Bartholomew regarded his book-bearer uneasily. ‘How can we have a plan? We do not know what is going to happen.’

Cynric sighed in exasperation. ‘But you have to have some idea as to what you want us to do! We cannot stand in a row outside Alan’s house and wait for Leycestre to walk past. Obviously our presence there would warn him that something was amiss.’

‘We will hide, then,’ determined Bartholomew. ‘You can take the trees in the garden opposite Alan’s house, Meadowman can stay near the end of the refectory, and I will find somewhere to disappear near the Prior’s Great Hall.’

‘And what are we looking for, exactly?’ asked Cynric. ‘Do you anticipate that Leycestre and his nephews will slip into the monastery unnoticed, creep up to Alan’s solar, and help Agnes demand all his money? Now? Before all the monks have gone to bed?’

‘Most of them have,’ said Meadowman pedantically. ‘I can see their lights in the dormitory and most of the precinct is deserted.’

Cynric sighed, ‘But a few have not – Symon, Alan and Henry, to name but three. My point remains.’

‘I suppose an evening crime would be a new venture for them,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Previously, they have entered and left their victims’ property in the depths of the night. I do not know why Agnes asked for an interview with the Prior, but I am certain it is all part of their plot.’

‘Perhaps she is aware that the rebels have been exposed, and she is asking Alan for his forgiveness while she still can,’ suggested Meadowman charitably.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘They will be angry and desperate. They have worked hard and taken a lot of chances to burgle those houses over these last three weeks, but today saw them lose every last penny when their hoard was discovered in the transept. Leycestre has already bribed the gypsies to leave before tomorrow – to take the blame for the theft he plans to commit – so they have no choice but to act tonight.’

‘But I thought you said that all the treasure Leycestre stole has been recovered,’ Meadowman pointed out, always one to see flaws in the details. ‘How will he pay the gypsies for their part of the bargain?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, becoming exasperated with the fact that the servants seemed more inclined to talk than to act. ‘Perhaps they have already received their reward. Or perhaps he plans to pay them with some of whatever he takes tonight.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Cynric, apparently deciding the time was ripe for action. ‘It is now dark, so I suppose they will be making their move soon. It is a pity for them that the night is clear and that there is a moon. Stay still and quiet, and be aware that they may carry weapons.’

They took up their posts, and Bartholomew watched the night settle cool and dark across the Fenland town. He was anticipating a lengthy wait, and was just moving into a comfortable position against the sun-warmed wall when he saw the familiar shape of Leycestre moving through the shadows created by the moonlight. The man was walking quickly towards the Prior’s House from the direction of the vineyard. He was not alone; Brother Symon was with him, still limping from his aching back, and Leycestre’s nephews were in their customary vanguard position. Bartholomew watched them in surprise. Surely Leycestre had not persuaded the librarian to rally to his cause?

The four men ducked among the trees of the Prior’s garden, dangerously close to where Bartholomew knew Cynric was hiding. The physician was not unduly concerned. His wily book-bearer would not be caught by the likes of the rebel leader and the librarian.

Within a few moments, Agnes Fitzpayne emerged from the Prior’s solar and stood speaking with Alan outside. Immediately, Symon left his hiding place and walked towards them, his casual saunter making it appear as though he had just happened to be passing. Bartholomew eased a little closer, so that he could hear what was being said.

‘Good evening, Mistress Fitzpayne,’ said Symon pleasantly. ‘What brings you here?’

‘I came to warn Prior Alan that some misguided people intend to break into the priory and rob it tonight,’ she replied. ‘They will be looking for gold and silver. I suggested that everything of value should be locked somewhere safe.’

‘This is grave news,’ said Symon, sounding concerned. ‘But it was good of you to warn us.’ He turned to Alan. ‘I am sure her fears are valid, Father, because a number of houses have been burgled recently. We should secure all our treasure in a place they will not think to look.’

‘But where?’ asked Alan worriedly. ‘My chapel is the obvious place, but there are no good locks on the doors – and I do not want to be responsible for the violent fight between monks and thieves that will surely ensue if I leave guards with it.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Symon, rather too quickly. ‘Bloodshed must be avoided at all costs.’

‘I would rather we just put the treasure somewhere they will not think of looking,’ Alan went on. ‘It would avoid a lot of unpleasantness – I have no grudge against desperate people, and do not want to antagonise our peasants by being forced to hang the leaders of this silly rebellion.’

‘What about the library?’ suggested Symon, as if the idea had just occurred to him. ‘It has strong locks, and only you and I have the keys.’

Alan’s worry evaporated. ‘That is an excellent idea! No one would ever think of raiding the library. We shall leave one or two paltry items lying around to pacify these thieves, so they will leave peacefully, but the valuable items we shall hide away.’

‘Good,’ said Symon, sounding pleased. ‘I shall make an immediate start in moving it.’

‘I will see Mistress Fitzpayne safely to the gate, then come to help you,’ said Alan. ‘It is best that only you and I know about this if we want to avoid trouble.’

Symon bowed to his Prior, then headed for the chapel. Alan offered his arm to Agnes and walked away with her.

‘Shall I fetch Brother Michael?’ came a low voice at Bartholomew’s elbow. The physician jumped in alarm, horrified that Cynric could sneak up behind him and take him unawares when he thought he was being watchful. He nodded, and the Welshman disappeared silently into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Symon emerged from the Prior’s chapel staggering under a substantial armful of silver candlesticks, jewelled patens and heavy gold crosses. The moonlight illuminated him quite clearly, almost as clearly as if it were day. He could barely walk, but somehow managed to reach the library without dropping anything. Bartholomew followed cautiously, aware that he was not the only one dogging Symon’s footsteps: Leycestre and his nephews had also left their hiding places, and intercepted the librarian near the infirmary. Fortunately, they were too intent on the treasure they anticipated would soon be theirs to notice Bartholomew behind them.

While the thieves made their way around the east end of the hospital to reach the library door via the cemetery, the physician ducked into the Dark Cloister and trotted quickly through the infirmary hall, aiming to slip through the back door, where he could creep through the bushes without being seen. The old men were dozing, but Henry watched his antics in bemusement.

‘What are you doing?’ he whispered, so as not to disturb his sleeping patients.

‘Leycestre and his nephews are about to make off with the priory’s silver,’ Bartholomew explained, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Symon is helping them.’

‘Symon?’ whispered Henry, aghast. ‘You are mistaken!’

‘Come and see for yourself,’ Bartholomew invited. ‘There is no mistake.’

Henry followed him through the rear door, then through the undergrowth that extended as far as the library entrance – near where Tysilia had met William. The infirmarian said nothing, but Bartholomew sensed his unease and distaste at what they were doing. Obviously Henry had not had much cause in the past to scramble among bushes in the dark to spy on his colleagues.

‘Give it to me now,’ Leycestre was saying to Symon. ‘There is no point in taking it all up the stairs, only to carry it down again later.’

‘True,’ agreed Symon. ‘But take half: I will have to put some in the library, or Alan will wonder what I am doing with it.’

There were clanks as the treasure exchanged hands, and moments later one of the nephews could be seen running away with it, aiming for the vineyard.

‘I do not believe this,’ whispered Henry, his voice cracked with distress. ‘That is Symon, and I have just seen him pass the Lancaster Chalice – one of our most prized possessions – to Leycestre’s nephew!’

‘Here comes Alan,’ said Bartholomew, as the Prior staggered towards them, laden down under a substantial chest.

‘Do not tell me he is involved, too!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘He always seemed relatively honest.’

‘Another trip each should see most of the treasure secure,’ panted Alan, all but dropping the chest at Symon’s feet. ‘This is probably the most valuable thing, because it contains all our gold pieces and some precious stones. Some of them are worth a small fortune. Be sure to hide it well. Pile some books around it, so it is properly disguised.’

They disappeared up the library stairs together, the chest between them, and moments later came the sound of tomes being shifted around. Bartholomew also heard a cry of dismay from Alan, as he saw for the first time the state of the library; this was followed by Symon’s loudly defensive claims that the mess was temporary. Leycestre and his remaining nephew stood patiently in the shadows, and did not move until Alan and Symon had left for the Prior’s House to collect the last of the treasure, and had returned with it. Then Alan bade Symon a breathless good night, informing him that he had warned the guards to be on the alert for intruders without being specific.

‘Not that it will do much good,’ he added ruefully. ‘The guards tonight are lay-brothers – townsfolk – whose sympathies lie with the people they believe are being oppressed. That is another reason why it would be better for everyone if this plan to rob us were thwarted, and did not result in a physical confrontation. The guards might well fight on the side of the thieves.’

‘I will make sure this door is locked,’ said Symon. ‘Go to your bed, Father. The priory’s treasure will be safe with me.’

‘It will not!’ Michael’s loud voice and the sudden flare of light as torches were lit made everyone jump. The flames immediately revealed Leycestre and his remaining nephew, who turned to melt away into the bushes but found themselves facing the tip of Cynric’s sword. They regarded each other in alarm, and Leycestre turned accusingly to Symon, who was gazing around him in open-mouthed horror.

‘You betrayed us, Symon! You promised to help, and now you have betrayed us!’

‘He has done nothing of the sort,’ said Michael tartly. ‘He is every bit as guilty of this dreadful crime as you are.’

‘This is not how it seems,’ began Symon, appealing to Alan with a sickly smile. ‘It is all a terrible misunderstanding.’

‘You were assisting these men to steal our treasure?’ asked Alan, bewildered and trying to make sense of the scene that was unfolding before him.

Symon glanced around surreptitiously, apparently considering possible escape routes. His eyes lingered on the dark cemetery, but Bartholomew and Henry climbed from among the undergrowth and blocked his path, and Meadowman and the imposing presence of Michael guarded the only other possible way out. The librarian’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

‘They made me do it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I did not want to.’

‘Yes, we made him,’ said Leycestre harshly. ‘We promised him a share of any treasure he helped us steal, and so placed him under indescribable pressure as he was forced to choose between loyalty to his priory and his natural greed. As you can see, greed won the day.’

‘It was not like that,’ said Symon unsteadily. ‘I would have given my share back to the priory.’

‘Then why steal it at all?’ asked Alan, as unconvinced by Symon’s desperate lies as everyone else who heard them.

‘Because of you,’ said Symon, taking a step closer to Alan and still smiling ingratiatingly. ‘The Bishop is unpopular in the town, and men like him will be the first to go when the rebellion gets under way. Then you will be elected Bishop, and we will all be very much happier.’

‘And I suppose you imagine you will be elected Prior in my place,’ said Alan coolly. ‘You will not. I would never appoint a man who spends half of his time devising ways to shirk his duties and the other half putting his ideas into practice. I had no idea you had allowed our precious library to sink to such an appalling state. What will our visitors think when they see it?’

‘They do not think anything,’ said Henry softly. ‘They are seldom permitted past its portals – and now you know why.’

‘And what do you think will happen to a cathedral-priory if this rebellion ever gains momentum?’ asked Michael of Symon in disgust. ‘It will not only be landowners like de Lisle who will suffer, but our monastery, too. You would never have been appointed Prior, because there would be no priory for you to rule.’

‘We have no grudge against the Benedictines,’ began Leycestre uneasily, trying to salvage what he could from the mess he had created.

Michael rounded on him. ‘Do you not? That is not what you told me the first day I arrived in this miserable city, and I suggest that you have not been entirely honest with Symon about who will be safe and who will be attacked.’

‘You promised me that the priory would not be harmed,’ said Symon, taking a menacing step towards Leycestre, when the expression on the rebel’s face proved that Michael was right. ‘You promised that I would be Prior, and that Alan would be deposed because he would be held responsible for losing the treasure.’

‘That sounds more like the truth,’ said Alan bitterly. ‘You did not intend to rid yourself of me by making me Bishop. You intended to have me disgraced.’

Symon glared at him. ‘This is your fault.’

‘Mine?’ asked Alan, startled. ‘Why?’

‘I came to confess my role in this two days ago, and to warn you. But you were too busy dealing with your precious cathedral to have time for me. In fact, no one was available to hear my confession, so I decided to continue after all.’

‘I was available,’ said Henry. ‘My doors are never closed to a monk in need, as you know.’

‘And you cannot blame Prior Alan for your crime, just because he was out when you happened to want him,’ Michael pointed out. ‘You could have followed your own conscience with this: you do not need a confessor to tell you what is right and what is wrong.’

‘This is a sorry mess,’ said Henry, looking in disgust at the faces of the men who stood in a circle around the library door. ‘I have never seen such treachery and lies. I am ashamed of and disappointed with you all.’

‘It is a sorry mess,’ agreed Michael. He looked at Alan. ‘What do you want us to do, Father? Your librarian is a thief and a conspirator, while these others are plotting to rise up against the King himself.’

‘Put them in the prison,’ said Alan tiredly. ‘I shall give the matter some thought and decide tomorrow what shall be done with them. I knew Leycestre and his kinsmen held rebellious beliefs, but I did not know they ran to burglary and the despoiling of monasteries, and I certainly did not imagine that one of my monks would stoop to consorting with them.’

‘And arranging for others to be blamed,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Leycestre’s agreement with Guido. ‘Leycestre even apologised for fighting with the gypsies in the Heyrow, because he realised he needed them to remain in Ely long enough to play their part in his plot.’

Leycestre said nothing, knowing that any excuse would not be believed, and might even incriminate him further. His nephew was less sanguine about the accusations that were being levied.

‘Yes, we did intend to have the gypsies blamed,’ he declared defiantly. ‘But their fate is irrelevant in the scheme of things, and God is on our side. Father John said so.’

‘Did he now?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And I suppose John allowed you to keep your stolen goods in the cathedral, too, in a place where no one would think to look?’

‘It was John who convinced me to take up the battle against oppression,’ said Leycestre wearily. ‘He is an inspiration to us all.’

‘John?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But he ran away at the first sign of trouble, and claimed he would only choose which side to support once the outcome was already decided.’

‘John would never say that,’ said Leycestre. ‘He said God will help us when we finally lift the yoke from the shoulders of the people.’

‘You will not be lifting any yokes,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Take them away, Cynric. I am weary of all this treasonous talk.’

When Cynric and Meadowman had gone, prodding their prisoners forward with the tips of their swords, Henry looked at Alan with sombre eyes. Bartholomew knew how the infirmarian felt. It was not pleasant to know that a monk had been responsible for attempting to strip the priory of its sacred vessels and crosses, and it was worse to think that the man had also conspired to have Alan deposed. While Alan might not be an ideal Prior, and often put his architectural projects above his other responsibilities, he had dedicated most of his life to the Church, and he deserved better than Symon.

‘There is far too much evil in this world,’ Henry sighed. ‘Everywhere I turn it is staring me in the face. It is bad enough in the town, but I thought matters would be better here, in the sacred confines of a priory.’

‘There will be sin where there are people,’ said Alan pragmatically. ‘And it will always be so.’

‘I thought things would change after the Death,’ Henry went on. ‘The city saw God’s displeasure when He sent a terrible pestilence, and I heard many confessions during those black times. But as soon as the disease loosened its hold, people went back to their old ways.’

‘As I said,’ replied Alan wearily. ‘It will always be so. But this is no place to be. Come to my solar for a cup of wine, and we shall pray for the souls of these misguided people.’

Bartholomew declined, not wanting to talk any more about it, while Henry claimed that his patients needed him in the infirmary. Michael went, however, never one to refuse the offer of a goblet of wine. Since one of Leycestre’s nephews had escaped with a decent portion of the monastic silver, Bartholomew decided to track him down before it was lost for good. He met Cynric and Meadowman near the prison. Meadowman was carrying a heavy sack.

‘That looks like the treasure that went missing,’ said Bartholomew, realising that he had been too slow and that the servants had already acted.

Cynric nodded. ‘The other lad made off with it. He is in a cell, and this sack is about to be returned to the Prior.’

Bartholomew was amazed. ‘Not much passes you, does it! The Prior owes you a casket of wine for your work tonight.’

Cynric grinned. ‘Then just make sure he pays up. We have locked Symon in one cell, and Leycestre and his boys in the other. They were blaming each other for their predicament, and I did not want them to murder each other during the night.’

‘They cannot escape?’ confirmed Bartholomew.

‘The doors are locked with a key and bolted from the outside.’

‘Then you should deliver your treasure to Alan. I am sure he will be suitably grateful.’

Cynric and Meadowman walked away, leaving Bartholomew aimless and certainly not ready for bed. He saw the servants leave the Prior’s solar a short while later, and the glitter of a coin that Cynric was tossing in the air. Alan had evidently paid them well for their troubles. They headed for the Steeple Gate, then crossed the road towards the taverns.

Bartholomew was half tempted to join them, but did not feel like sitting in a humid inn drinking copious quantities of ale. He wanted to do something active that would dispel the restlessness that was dogging him. He left the priory through the Steeple Gate, and began to walk towards the marketplace without much thought as to where he was going. The night had brought cooler air, and the fierce heat of the day had eased. Had he not been unsettled by the business with the burglars, he might have enjoyed the stroll in the velvety darkness of night from the cathedral to the quayside, past houses where candles gleamed in the windows and delicious smells still emanated from the kitchens.

More people thronged the streets than he had expected so long past dusk on a Sunday, and there was an atmosphere of anticipation. Some people were running, while others were chattering in excitement. Bartholomew wondered whether the news had already spread that their main rabble rouser was in the Prior’s cells. He recognised the bulky form of Master Barbour of the Lamb, and went to talk to him.

‘I trust your stolen gold was returned safely to you,’ he said.

‘Most of it,’ said Barbour with a grimace. ‘The thieves had already spent about a quarter, but better most back than none. The Bishop shall have my prayers for finding it, even if he did do so at the expense of a gargoyle landing on his niece’s head.’

Bartholomew smiled, thinking that de Lisle had done well if he had taken that sort of percentage for himself. He nodded to the noisy streets. ‘What has happened to make people leave their homes so late?’

‘The Bishop’s house was set alight,’ said Barbour disapprovingly. ‘That was an evil deed.’

‘Was there any damage? Was anyone hurt?’

‘No,’ said Barbour. ‘The alarm was raised by the gypsy folk before the blaze took hold, and there is only a scorch mark to show for her efforts. As you can see, the excitement is over and most people have gone home now.’

‘Whose efforts?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Tysilia’s?’

‘There are some who say they saw Lady Blanche,’ said Barbour, puzzlement creasing his face. ‘But she does not seem like the kind of woman who would sneak around at night and set light to people’s homes.’

‘She thinks de Lisle did exactly that to her cottages at Colne,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But she does not think he did it himself,’ Barbour pointed out. ‘She thinks he arranged for someone else – Ralph, probably – to do it for him. Anyway, that is what people are saying. But I must be back to my tavern, or I shall miss the pleasure of discussing this with my regular customers. They will be all but ready for their beds by now. Few linger in taverns too late when there is the harvest to be gathered at daybreak.’

‘Except on Wednesdays, presumably,’ remarked Bartholomew, ‘when the men are paid. A good deal of late-night drinking takes place then.’

Barbour grinned. ‘Wednesdays are different.’

Bemused by the story about the fire, Bartholomew watched him hurry away. He knew Blanche harboured a strong dislike for the Bishop, but he still could not see her setting light to his house personally. It seemed altogether an odd story. He turned to be on his way, but one of the buckles on his shoe had worked loose, so he stepped to one side and knelt to adjust it.

Moments later, he looked up to see Guido approaching, walking briskly as though he had business to attend. He wore his yellow hat, despite the fact that the evening was warm and that it must be uncomfortably hot. Straightening quickly, Bartholomew intercepted him and wished him goodnight. Guido glared at him.

‘For some who never work, maybe,’ he said, shoving past the physician to continue walking down the hill towards the Quay. ‘Some of us are too busy to waste time looking at whether an evening is pretty.’

‘Why are you busy?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you plan to leave tonight after all?’

Guido rounded on him suddenly, seizing a handful of his shirt and almost lifting him off his feet. ‘Stay away from my sister!’

Releasing Bartholomew with such abruptness that the physician stumbled, the scowling gypsy king went on his way. Bartholomew watched him go thoughtfully. The brief encounter had told him all he had wanted to learn from the man: Guido’s hat was not as pristine as it had been. It was slightly muddy, and a peculiar bunching at one side indicated that a thread had been caught on something sharp and been pulled out. He wondered whether the local sheriff would consider it evidence enough to charge Guido with William’s murder.

Bartholomew felt a surge of disappointment with the gypsy clan. It was easy to blame crimes and mishaps on strangers. He did not like Guido, but he had hoped the man’s claims of innocence were genuine, and that he would not prove the bigoted accusations of narrow-minded townsfolk correct. The physician sighed, and wondered what to do. On the one hand, he wanted nothing more to do with the city’s turmoils, but on the other, he suspected that Guido would not be an easy man to apprehend once he had left Ely, despite Michael’s claims to the contrary. The monk would want to question Guido about William’s death now that there was the evidence of the gold thread to consider.

He stared after the gypsy, noting again that the man was not walking for the pleasure of exercise, but striding along purposefully. What had he meant when he said he was busy? Was he planning his departure that night, when he would disappear into the maze of ditches and dykes and islets with his people, never to be seen in the area again? After a few moments of hesitation, Bartholomew decided on a course of action: he would follow Guido to see where he went, and then he would drag Cynric from his revels if it appeared that the gypsy king intended to evade justice.

Taking a deep breath, not entirely convinced that he was doing the right thing, the physician followed Guido at a discreet distance, edging in and out of doorways to avoid being spotted – not that it was necessary, for Guido never once looked behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bartholomew was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘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.