A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 5

Michael was right: Symon had secured himself in one of the wooden cubicles that formed the priory’s latrines. He claimed he had only just arrived, but Julian, who happened to be passing, announced with malicious glee that he had seen the librarian entering the place long before terce. Symon was slightly green around the gills, indicating that Julian was probably telling the truth, and that the librarian had indeed been hiding for several hours. Bartholomew thought the state of the library must be dire indeed to induce the man to resort to such extreme measures.

As it transpired, it was all Bartholomew could do not to exclaim aloud in horror when he entered the library and saw the careless stacks of texts, placed where leaks from the window would surely damage the parchment, and the overloaded shelves that were thick with dust and neglect. Some shelves had collapsed under the weight, precipitating their contents on to the floor in chaotic mounds, while fragments of parchment scattered everywhere suggested that mice were allowed to enjoy the abused volumes, even if scholars were not. Books were precious and expensive, and how anyone could violate one was completely beyond the physician; it was beyond Michael, too: he surveyed the scene with large round eyes, then left without a word.

Symon’s unique way of arranging the books with no regard for their content meant that medical texts rubbed shoulders with Arabic lexicons, and religious tracts were liberally sprinkled among collections of wills. Books with soft leather covers or scrolls, which did not stand neatly on shelves, were relegated to the floor, where they stood in unsteady, top-heavy pillars. Triumphantly Symon produced a copy of Theophilus’s De Urinis, which chance had placed on the top of one of his unstable piles, and then quickly slunk away before Bartholomew could ask him to find anything else.

Once he had steeled himself to the distressing sight of crushed, ripped, gnawed and broken books, Bartholomew began to enjoy having the freedom of the library, delighting in the fact that every pile he excavated contained all manner of treasures that he had not anticipated. He spent the rest of the day refreshing his memory with parts of De Regimine Acutorum, then graduated to Honien ben Ishak’s commentary on Galen, Isagoge in Artem Parvam. It was a pleasure to read with no interruptions from students or summonses from patients, although a drawback as far as his treatise was concerned meant that the experience of having a stretch of time to himself led him to explore secondary issues that he would normally have been forced to ignore. He decided he should make more time for leisurely reading, and determined to revisit the cathedral-priory and its treasure-store of knowledge at some point in the future – assuming, of course, that he would be welcome and had not played a role in the downfall of a bishop.

The library was an airy room, located above the main hall of the infirmary. Its thick, oaken window shutters were designed to seal the room’s valuable contents from the ravages of the weather – although one or two of them had rotted and needed replacing – but Symon had thrown them all open, so that sun poured through the glassless openings and bathed everything in light. Desks with benches attached to them were placed in each bay window, affording the reader a degree of privacy, as well as permitting him to work in the maximum amount of daylight. Bartholomew, who was used to his shady room in Michaelhouse, found the light too bright, and its reflection on the yellow-white parchment of the pages was vivid enough to dazzle him. He found he was obliged to look up fairly frequently, to rest his eyes.

The desk Symon had cleared for him – by taking one hand and sweeping its contents to join the chaos on the floor – overlooked the monks’ cemetery. The cemetery was a pleasant place, given its purpose, and comprised an elongated rectangle that backed on to a garden at one end and was bordered by the cathedral and various priory buildings on the other sides. Shielded from the worst of the Fenland winds, it was a comfortable haven for several exotic bushes and trees. Someone had planted posies of flowers here and there, some bright in the sun and others sheltered by the waving branches of willow and yew trees. The graves were mostly lumps in the smooth grass, although one or two monks had warranted something more elaborate, and there were a few stone crosses and carved slabs.

Bartholomew remained in the library until long after the sun had set, and did not leave until it was so dark that he could barely make out the shape of the book he was reading, let alone the words on the page. Disaster almost occurred when he heard the soft sound of the key turning in the lock, but he bounded across the floor and hammered until Symon returned to undo it again. Apparently, the librarian had forgotten about his visitor, and had only remembered that he needed to secure his domain when he was ready to go to bed. Bartholomew coolly suggested that in future he might like to ensure that it was empty before locking the door, but Symon was unrepentant, and informed Bartholomew that he should not have been there after dark anyway.

Symon followed Bartholomew down the stairs, so close that the physician felt Symon would dearly liked to have pushed him in order to prevent another invasion the following day, and then locked the outer door with a key of gigantic proportions.

‘I would like to start work as early as possible tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, deciding he had better make that clear before he and Symon parted, unless he wanted to waste part of the next day exploring the latrines, too. ‘A week is not long when a library is as richly endowed as yours.’

‘You cannot come before prime,’ warned Symon sharply. ‘That would be ungodly.’

‘It would also be too dark,’ said Bartholomew dryly, seeing that Symon did not venture into his domain very often if he was unaware of such a basic fact. ‘Immediately after would be good.’

‘We shall see,’ replied Symon, giving the door handle a vigorous shake to ensure it was properly secured. Without further ado, he strode away into the night, a tall, upright figure with a military strut and a lot of vigorous and unnecessary arm-swinging.

Bartholomew watched him go, and then turned to head for his own bed. It felt too late to venture into the town alone, and he imagined that Michael would be more interested in the priory’s endless supplies of wine than in talking to him. But the physician did not feel like sleeping; his mind was buzzing with questions and ideas from the reading that he had completed, and he felt restless and alert.

Henry was just finishing his evening prayers in the chapel when Bartholomew strolled into the infirmary. He gave a grin of delight, making it clear that the physician should not expect to retire too soon, then walked with his visitor through the main hall, checking on the old men who were settling themselves down for the night as he went.

‘Goodnight, Roger,’ said Henry loudly to the most alert of the quintet. ‘The posset I gave you contained a good deal of camomile, so you should rest well tonight.’

‘I have dreams,’ explained Roger to Bartholomew, his eyes rheumy in the flickering light of the candle. He gestured around at his companions, some of whom seemed aware that they were being discussed and others not. ‘We all do. We were soldiers before we took the cowl, and sometimes the souls of the men we killed come to taunt us.’

‘They do not,’ said Henry sensibly. ‘It is only the trick of a weary mind, and I do not allow tormented souls in my infirmary, anyway.’

Roger smiled. ‘But I see them, nevertheless. It is an old man’s dream, so you will not understand.’

‘Sleep,’ said Henry softly, helping the ancient monk to slide under the covers. ‘Shall I fetch an extra blanket? The night is mild, but you can have one if you like.’

Roger shook his head, his eyes already closing as he huddled under the bedclothes. Bartholomew noticed that the blankets that covered the old men were made of soft wool, while the mattresses were feather rather than the more usual and cheaper straw. The floors had been scrubbed again that day, and the whole room smelled of fresh herbs and clean wood.

Henry moved to another of his patients, who had evidently been a giant of a man in his prime. Now he was little more than a skeleton, with massive-knuckled hands that shook uncontrollably as they plucked at his night-shirt. Henry straightened the covers and rested the back of his hand on the old man’s forehead to test his temperature.

‘Ynys fought for old King Edward at Bannockburn in 1314,’ he whispered to Bartholomew. The physician thought he saw a glimmer of pride in the old man’s sunken eyes, but was not sure how much Ynys was aware of his surroundings. ‘They all did. And they were with him in France. And now they are here with me, dreaming of the days when they were full of life and vigour.’

‘Do they know where they are?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he had imagined Ynys’s reaction.

Henry shrugged. ‘Roger does, although he is very deaf. Ynys is almost blind, and the others have failing memories. They recall the battles in which they were heroes, but they never remember Julian from one day to the next.’

‘That is probably a blessing,’ said Bartholomew.

Henry smiled. ‘I have hopes that he will change. However, I pray that it will not take too much longer. There is a limit to how long I am prepared to inflict him on my old friends.’

He walked to the central aisle and began a long prayer; his Latin whispered and echoed through the darkened hall. The old men seemed to sleep easier when he had finished, as though the familiar words had settled them. He sketched a benediction over each one, and then led Bartholomew out of the infirmary to the chambers at the far end. Henry occupied the smaller of the two, while the other was set aside for occasional visitors and Julian. The sullen novice was sleeping there now, lying with his mouth open and his breath hissing wetly past his palate. It was not an attractive sound.

Henry leaned down and retrieved something from the floor under Julian’s bed, and Bartholomew caught the glitter of metal before the infirmarian turned away.

‘What is that?’ he asked curiously, seeing from the expression on Henry’s face that the find had displeased him.

Reluctantly, Henry opened his hand to reveal a long silver nail. ‘Sharp objects,’ he explained in a whisper. ‘Julian has a morbid fascination with them, and I am always discovering them secreted away. I am afraid he may use them to harm himself.’

‘He is more likely to use them to harm someone else,’ muttered Bartholomew, eyeing the sleeping novice in distaste.

Henry beckoned Bartholomew into his own room across the corridor, and closed the door so that their voices would not disturb those who were sleeping. He produced a bottle of raspberry cordial that he said he had made himself, and gestured for Bartholomew to sit on a bench, while he perched on the edge of the bed.

‘How do you like our library?’ he asked, seeming grateful to change the subject from that of his assistant’s shortcomings. ‘We have a splendid collection of texts, although I can never find anything because of the chaos. It is very frustrating at times.’

‘Why does Alan permit Symon to be so slack in his duties? The priory’s books are a valuable asset, and I am surprised he is allowed to abuse them so flagrantly. Alan should appoint someone who knows what he is doing.’

‘Alan does not want strife in his monastery,’ said Henry tiredly. ‘If he forced Symon to resign and appointed someone else, Symon would make his successor’s life very difficult.’

‘It is a pity. Men like Symon should not be allowed near books.’

‘I agree,’ said Henry. He smiled. ‘But let us not talk about Symon or Julian. Have you uncovered any new theories pertaining to the marsh fever that cripples us at this time of year? Michael tells me you speak some Italian, and I know we have books from Salerno. Tell me what you have read in them. Doubtless most of it will be wrong, but I should like to know what they say nevertheless.’

It was easy to lose track of time when discussing medicine with an opinionated man like Henry. The Benedictine physician disagreed with almost everything Bartholomew said, which resulted in a lively conversation. Bartholomew enjoyed it, despite the adversarial nature of the debate, and so did Henry, who relished pitting his knowledge against a man whose experience and learning equalled his own. The bells were chiming for the midnight mass before they realised they should sleep if they wanted to be fit for work the following day. Reluctantly, Henry allowed Bartholomew to go to his own bed, although the physician could see that questions and ideas were still tumbling through his mind.

The discussion had done more to rouse Bartholomew than to relax him, and the heat of the night did not allow sleep to come easily. The rough blankets were prickly against his hot skin, and the breeze that whispered through the open window was steamy-warm and stank of the marshes. Insects hummed high notes around his head, and flapping at them seemed to make them more interested in him than ever. They stung, too, and it was not long before he felt as though his whole body was covered in itching lumps from their bites.

Eventually, he slept, but it was to wake thick-headed and drowsy the following morning. The heat seemed more intense than ever, as though the night had done nothing to cool it down. When he looked out of the window at the slowly lightening landscape, he saw that a thick mist hung around the river, and wisps of it curled around the cathedral, obscuring the octagon and the towers from sight. He scrubbed at his eyes and sat on the bed, wondering what the day would bring.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was blazing with particular brilliance through the library window, when Bartholomew leaned back to stretch his stiff shoulders and look out across the cool, green grass for a few moments before returning to a complex problem regarding the relationship between fevers and standing water. He had been lucky that morning, because Alan had been nearby when Bartholomew had asked Symon to unlock the library door. The librarian was loath to refuse when the Prior was there, and so Bartholomew had been left to his own devices with the books for the entire day. Michael had put his head around the door at noon, to say that he was going to visit acquaintances of Chaloner and Haywarde, but he had waved away the physician’s offer of company, claiming haughtily that he could interview peasants by himself.

Michael had not been alone in wanting to speak to those who had known the murdered men. Stretton had been ordered by Blanche to begin his enquiries. Reluctantly, the beefy canon abandoned the haven of the priory and ventured into the town to talk to anyone who admitted to knowing Glovere. It was not long before he found his way to a tavern, and was escorted back to the priory shortly after nones in no state to investigate anything for the rest of the day. Northburgh felt no such compunction to pursue his inquisitorial duties. Instead, he summoned Henry to his bedside, and quizzed him relentlessly on various symptoms and ailments, which Henry tolerated with a patience Bartholomew could never have emulated.

As Bartholomew flexed his cramped fingers and gazed across the pleasant green sward of the cemetery, he saw a familiar figure hurry along one of the paths to stand under the shade of a particularly large tree, almost directly under the window through which he was looking. It was Tysilia de Apsley, the Bishop’s wanton ‘niece’.

Knowing Tysilia’s reputation for securing lovers, Bartholomew supposed there was only one reason why she should make her way through the long grass to stand under shrubs when she could be somewhere a good deal more comfortable. The place she had chosen was a superb location for a tryst, because unless someone had spotted her making her way there, or happened to be leaning out of one of the library windows, she would never have been seen. Bartholomew smiled to himself, amused that she was already up to her old tricks. He supposed that the stern Lady Blanche was no more able to control the wilful young woman than the nuns at St Radegund’s Convent in Cambridge or the lepers of Stourbridge had been.

Bartholomew was about to resume his reading when a flicker of movement among the bushes on the opposite side of the cemetery caught his eye. He watched in fascination as the branches parted and the priory’s hosteller emerged, looking around him in a way that Bartholomew could only describe as furtive. William fluffed up his hair and ran nervous hands down his habit, to brush away twigs or grass, before gazing around slowly to ensure that he was alone. Then Bartholomew saw him take a circuitous route through the graves until he reached the tree under which Tysilia had taken refuge. Moments later, there came the hum of a muttered conversation.

Because both Tysilia and William had taken some care not to be seen, Bartholomew concluded that their meeting did not have the blessing of Lady Blanche or the Prior. He predicted that William was in for a good time, while Tysilia would be able to add a Benedictine to her list of conquests – assuming that she had not already notched up some of them already. He was surprised that William had succumbed to Tysilia’s charms; he had imagined the hosteller to have more self control than that. But whatever their intentions, it was none of Bartholomew’s affair. He gave his back a quick rub and turned back to his book, quickly losing himself in its subject matter and forgetting whatever was happening below his window. His work was interrupted by a voice that was raised in irritation.

‘But I am acting normally! It is you who is acting oddly. How could you not, with that hair?’

This was followed by an urgent whisper by William, apparently ordering Tysilia to keep her voice down. Bartholomew leaned forward, and glanced over the sill. He could see the top of Tysilia’s head, although William was concealed by leaves.

‘And I will not be quiet!’ Tysilia’s furious voice went on. ‘Why should I?’

William gave a heavy sigh and spoke in a loud voice himself, exasperation apparently winning over the need for silence. ‘Because you do not want anyone to hear us here together, and neither do I. Think of your reputation.’

‘My reproduction has nothing to do with you!’ replied Tysilia indignantly. ‘I can look after myself.’

‘Then think of mine,’ snapped William. ‘My reputation, that is. What do you think people will say if they see us together like this?’

‘Why should they think anything amiss?’ demanded Tysilia petulantly. ‘It is not as if we are doing anything wrong. We are only talking.’

‘That is beside the point,’ said William, and Bartholomew could hear the frustration in his voice. ‘No one will believe we are here innocently.’

‘Then I will just tell them that we are,’ announced Tysilia, as if that would solve everything. ‘They will believe me. Who are we talking about, anyway? Who knows we are here? I told no one we were meeting. Did you?’

‘No,’ sighed William wearily. ‘Of course not. I was speaking hypothetically.’

‘Speaking hypocritically is not nice,’ said Tysilia firmly. ‘Lady Blanche told me so. And if you intend to speak that way to me, I shall leave.’

‘I was not being hypocritical,’ said William, sounding bewildered. Bartholomew smiled. He had engaged in similar conversations with Tysilia himself, and he knew how frustrating the woman’s slow wits and ignorance could be. He imagined that William was already regretting meeting her. ‘But never mind that. Tell me what you have discovered.’

‘Discovered about what?’ asked Tysilia, sounding baffled in her turn.

‘About what we discussed. About Glovere’s death.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘I remember now. No.’

‘No, what?’ snapped William, sounding agitated. His voice was now louder than Tysilia’s, all pretence at whispering abandoned.

‘No, I have discovered nothing about Glovere’s death,’ said Tysilia slowly, enunciating every word as though she were speaking to a dim-witted child. ‘I even asked Lady Blanche whether she had killed him, but she said she had not.’

‘You did what?’ exploded William. Bartholomew started to laugh, moving backwards so that he would not be heard, although he suspected that they were both far too engrossed in each other to detect any sounds of mirth from above.

It was Tysilia’s turn to sound aggravated. ‘You told me to learn anything I could about Glovere’s death, so I asked people about it. How am I supposed to find things out unless I ask? And, as I have just told you, I demanded of Blanche whether she had killed Glovere herself, just as you told me she might have done, but she said she had not. So, she is innocent after all.’

Bartholomew heard a groan. The physician knew how William felt. Conversations with Tysilia did tend to make one wonder whether one was dreaming.

‘I asked you to be discreet and to listen,’ said William tiredly. ‘I did not mean you to interrogate Blanche. You cannot begin to imagine the harm you have done. Now she will know that I suspect her, and she will be on her guard. She may even decide that I should go the same way as the servant she so despised.’

‘But I did not tell her it was you who told me to ask,’ protested Tysilia, with a pout in her voice. ‘And I was discreet. I took care to lower my voice when I put my question.’

‘Well, that is a relief,’ said William heavily. ‘And how did she respond to your clever probing?’

‘Oh, she was a little annoyed,’ said Tysilia cheerfully. ‘She asked me who had put such an idea into my head, and I told her it had occurred to me all by myself, with no prompting from anyone. Then she told me I should never ask such a question again, and that I should leave the matter of Glovere well alone unless I wanted to end up in Abraham’s bosom.’

‘She said that?’ asked William in alarm.

‘Yes. I told her I knew no one called Abraham, but that if I met him I would take care that he did not embrace me. What did she mean, do you think?’

‘She meant that your clumsy enquiries could result in your death,’ said William flatly.

‘Oh,’ said Tysilia. There was silence as she mulled over this piece of information. When she spoke again, it sounded as though Blanche’s words and William’s translation had finally shaken her thick-skinned resilience. ‘She was threatening to kill me?’

‘I do not know,’ said William. ‘If she killed Glovere, then yes, she may well have been threatening to throw you in the river, too. If she did not, then she may simply have been warning you not to meddle in matters that might prove dangerous.’

‘Well, that is all right then,’ said Tysilia, sounding relieved. ‘Blanche told me she did not kill Glovere, and so she cannot have been threatening to kill me.’ Bartholomew could hear that she was pleased with her logic.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. What had possessed William to use the doubtful and dangerous talents of a woman like Tysilia as his spy in Blanche’s household? And what had possessed Tysilia to agree to such an arrangement? Did William have evidence that Blanche had murdered Glovere and arranged for the Bishop to be accused of the crime, or was the hosteller merely speculating? Blanche had been at her estates in Huntingdon when Glovere had died. Was her absence deliberate, so that no one would think she was responsible for the death of her own steward? Glovere had not been one of her most prized servants by all accounts, and it was possible that she was delighted to be rid of him and strike a blow against her enemy the Bishop at the same time.

And what about the presence of Blanche with the gypsies in the Mermaid Inn the day before? Was the King’s kinswoman more deeply embroiled in Glovere’s murder than they had thought, and had she engaged the travellers to help her? Were William’s suspicions justified? Bartholomew knew Michael did not believe that it had been Blanche wrapped in Goran’s cloak, but Bartholomew knew what he had seen.

There was something distasteful in listening to others’ conversation, even though it involved a discussion about the murder Michael had been charged to solve. So, when Tysilia started to regale William with ghoulishly intimate details of Blanche’s private life, Bartholomew turned his attention back to his book, trying to ignore the embarrassing revelations that were being made below. Suddenly, there was an angry yelp from Tysilia, a sharp rustling of leaves and then silence. Bartholomew surmised that William had slapped one hand over her mouth and had dragged her deeper into the undergrowth. Puzzled, he peered across the cemetery to see what had alarmed them.

Michael, looking inordinately large in his flowing black robe, was ambling among the tombstones. His casual stance suggested that he was merely taking the air, although Bartholomew knew the monk was not the kind of man to indulge in exercise without good reason. Occasionally he went for a walk when the weather was fine, but he complained bitterly if any distance was covered. Left to his own devices, Michael was far more likely to remain in his room, to work on University business or to enjoy the food and drink he invariably had stashed there.

So, what was he doing in the cemetery, looking as though he were taking a stroll? Fascinated, Bartholomew watched him saunter right past the tree where William and Tysilia were hiding, then cut across the grass to a box-like monument against the south wall of the cathedral. Carefully selecting the side that was hidden from casual observers – unless they happened to be hiding in the trees opposite or watching from the library window – he settled himself on a convenient ledge and turned his face towards the sun.

‘Oh, look!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia sigh. ‘It is that handsome Brother Michael!’

William’s reaction to this description was much the same as Bartholomew’s. ‘Where? I can only see the Michael who lives in Cambridge.’

‘That is the one,’ Tysilia said wistfully. ‘He is the most attractive man I have seen in this city. I wonder why I did not notice his charms before. I have only recently become aware of the fact that he is worthy of my affections.’

‘Michael?’ asked William, sounding as incredulous as Bartholomew felt. ‘Are you jesting with me?’

‘Why would I jest about such a thing,’ said Tysilia, sounding genuinely puzzled. ‘Michael is all a woman could ask for in a man, and I intend to have him.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ whispered William in alarm. ‘He will hear you.’

‘I do not mind,’ said Tysilia dreamily. ‘I would like him to know that I am fond of him.’

‘Then you can reveal your unlikely infatuation at your peril, but not now. We do not want him to know we are here, having this secret meeting, do we?’

‘No,’ admitted Tysilia. ‘Because then it would no longer be a secret, and that would be a pity. But I wonder why he is here. I hope he is not meeting another lover. I would not like that at all.’

Bartholomew also had no idea why the monk should choose to bask in the rays of the late afternoon sun while hiding behind a mortuary monument, until he spotted yet another figure walking among the graves. The physician grinned, wondering whether he would see half the priory and its guests emerging to engage in ‘secret’ assignations in the cemetery, if he watched long enough. This time, it was de Lisle.

The Bishop was a man imbued with plenty of energy, and he walked briskly and purposefully to the place where Michael waited. At the last moment, he stopped and spun around, gazing back the way he had come, looking for signs that he had been followed. Apparently satisfied that he had not, he quickly stepped behind Michael’s mausoleum; pushing himself close to the monk, he leaned out around the wall and looked back a second time. Cynric, Bartholomew thought, would have been horrified at such a poor display of stealth. His book now completely forgotten, Bartholomew watched with interest.

‘That is my uncle!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia whisper loudly. ‘He is the Bishop of Ely, you know.’

‘What was that?’ demanded de Lisle immediately, gazing intently in her direction. ‘Did you hear a voice, Brother?’

‘A bird,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘Do not worry, my lord. No one else will be in the cemetery at this hour. My brethren are already massing outside the refectory to wait for the dinner bell, while Lady Blanche and her household are down by the river, where it is cooler.’

‘Well?’ demanded the Bishop. He made no attempt to keep his voice down as he addressed Michael. Bartholomew wondered whether de Lisle was as devious a plotter as he would have everyone believe, if he did not know that it was safer to speak quietly when meeting agents in graveyards – just because he thought he had not been followed did not mean that he could not be heard. ‘What have you learned so far about Glovere?’

Bartholomew wondered what he should do, aware that anything Michael said would also be heard by the hosteller and Tysilia. If Michael felt the need to meet de Lisle in the cemetery, rather than openly at his house or in the cathedral, then the monk clearly wanted privacy. While he felt no particular allegiance to de Lisle, and cared little whether the Bishop revealed his innermost secrets while William and Tysilia listened, Bartholomew did not want the discussion to incriminate Michael. He picked up a small inkpot, and fingered it thoughtfully, seriously considering hurling it at Michael to warn the monk that he and de Lisle were not alone.

‘I have learned very little, I am afraid,’ replied Michael. ‘A fellow named Mackerell spun some story about water-spirits snatching the souls of the three dead men.’

The Bishop nodded. ‘Superstition is rife in the Fens, despite my attempts to try to teach otherwise. I am not surprised that ghosts have been blamed – but better them than me, I say!’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘Mackerell has agreed to meet me by the back door of the priory tonight, where he has promised to reveal all.’

‘What could a man like Mackerell know?’ demanded de Lisle disparagingly. ‘He is a mere fisherman.’

‘He is a mere fisherman who gave the impression he knew something that frightened him,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We should not dismiss him without hearing his story.’

Bartholomew’s grip on the inkpot loosened. The Bishop and his agent were not discussing anything incriminating or dangerous. He wondered why they had decided to meet in secret. Perhaps it was force of habit that encouraged them to be circumspect, even when there was no need.

‘Very well,’ said de Lisle, although he did not sound convinced. ‘You have more experience in these matters than I do, and I shall bow to your superior knowledge. What else have you learned?’

‘I spoke to Haywarde’s family today,’ said Michael. ‘And I also ascertained that Chaloner and Glovere had no kin – at least, no kin that would acknowledge them.’

‘No family would ever admit to owning Glovere,’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia whisper to William. ‘He always smelled of horse dung, you see.’

‘What?’ William whispered back, evidently more interested in the conversation between Michael and de Lisle than in listening to Tysilia’s deranged ramblings.

‘I think he rubbed it in his hair,’ explained Tysilia helpfully.

‘Be quiet,’ ordered William. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them.’

‘And?’ asked de Lisle of Michael. ‘What did the kinsmen of the unhappy Haywarde tell you?’

‘Nothing,’ Michael admitted. ‘I was hoping to find some connection between him and the other two victims, but nothing was forthcoming. I thought they might be involved in the rebellion that seems to be fermenting in the town.’

‘Leycestre and his silly nephews,’ spat de Lisle in disgust. ‘Nothing they discuss can be of sufficient importance to warrant murder.’

‘Not everyone is as sanguine as you are,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Seditious talk may be considered treasonous.’

‘What salacious talk is this?’ demanded Tysilia in a hoarse whisper, sounding very interested.

De Lisle glanced sharply towards the tree in which she hid. ‘Are you sure you can hear nothing, Brother? That sounded like a voice to me.’

‘It was probably squirrels,’ said Michael complacently. ‘There are a lot of them around at this time of year, looking for nuts.’

‘What about Northburgh and Stretton?’ asked de Lisle, after a searching gaze revealed nothing amiss. Bartholomew could almost hear William holding his breath. ‘Have they learned anything?’

‘Hardly!’ snorted Michael in disgust. ‘Stretton had to ask me how to begin his enquiries, while Northburgh declines to leave the priory lest he contract some peasant ailment.’

‘This is not good,’ said de Lisle worriedly. ‘My name will never be cleared as long as that pair is supposed to be uncovering the evidence. Everyone will merely assume I could not be proven guilty, rather than that I am innocent.’

‘But you have me,’ declared Michael, a little peevishly. ‘I will uncover the truth.’

De Lisle regarded him uneasily. ‘I know. But this investigation is proceeding a good deal more slowly than it should. I dislike being accused of murder: it is not good for a bishop to be seen as the kind of man who commits earthly sins.’

‘I imagine not,’ said Michael. ‘But this is not an easy case to solve, because there is very little for me to work on. I cannot see any link between these three men, except for the fact that they were all killed by the same unusual method. We may have to resort to using a tethered goat to draw the killer out – perhaps dangle some other malcontent in order to force him to strike.’

‘As long as I am not the goat, you can do what you like,’ said de Lisle. ‘But do not linger over this, Michael. You have always been my faithful servant, and I am in your debt for the loyalty you have shown me in the past. But now my very life is in your hands. Prove me innocent of these charges, and I shall see you rewarded in ways that even you cannot imagine.’

Michael inclined his head in acknowledgement and the Bishop took his leave. Bartholomew was unable to prevent himself from laughing aloud when de Lisle strode quickly away without making the slightest pretence of keeping himself hidden, and then almost collided with Sub-prior Thomas and Almoner Robert, who just happened to be passing the end of the cemetery.

‘Watch where you are going,’ Bartholomew heard de Lisle snap.

‘Why, my Lord Bishop!’ exclaimed Robert in surprise, an unreadable expression on his foxy face. ‘What brings you to our humble cemetery? It seems an odd place for a man like you to haunt.’

‘I haunt wherever I like,’ said de Lisle haughtily. ‘I am the Bishop of Ely, and this is my See. And what I was doing in the cemetery is none of your affair.’

‘It is often used as a place for meetings we would rather no one else knew about,’ said Thomas, giving de Lisle a knowing nudge in the ribs. The Bishop spluttered in indignant outrage, but Thomas was unperturbed and his salacious grin merely grew wider. ‘I have caught many a young novice here among the graves with the kitchen maids.’

‘Well, I can assure you that you will find no kitchen maid here,’ said de Lisle, giving the two monks an icy glare before strutting away, his bearing arrogant and determined.

Exchanging an amused smile, Thomas and Robert watched him go, then resumed their walk. When they had gone, Michael followed the route his Bishop had taken, before ducking quickly around the corner and heading in the direction of the Black Hostry, where a bell was ringing to announce that a meal was ready for any Benedictine guests who might be hungry. Bartholomew was sure Michael was hungry.

Moments later, Tysilia emerged from the trees, brushing leaves from her clothes. She gave William a conspiratorial grin, and announced in a loud voice that she hoped to hear from him very soon. Then she scampered away among the graves. As she reached the place where de Lisle had met the two monks a few moments before, someone appeared out of nowhere and all but sent her flying.

‘Be careful!’ she cried angrily, when she had regained her balance. ‘You cannot take up all the path, you know. You must leave some of it for others.’

‘I was not even on the path,’ replied a bemused Thomas defensively. ‘I was walking on the grass. Turf is easier on my ankles, you see, so I always tread on it, rather than the beaten earth of a trackway.’

‘That is because you are fat,’ declared Tysilia uncompromisingly. Bartholomew winced, recalling that the young woman had an unendearing habit of saying exactly what was in her mind.

She dashed on, leaving a startled Thomas gazing after her. Slowly, a grin of understanding spread across the sub-prior’s porcine features, and Bartholomew could hear his delighted laughter. Clearly, Thomas had drawn his own conclusions about the sudden appearance of a young woman making her escape from the cemetery moments after the Bishop had left. Bartholomew heard an amused cackle from the tree below, as William also realised what the sub-prior had assumed.

William was the last to leave. He walked briskly among the graves, then peered around the corner to ensure that no one was watching, before turning towards the cathedral. And then the graveyard was silent and empty again. Bartholomew set down his pen and wondered what to make of it all.

The dinner served at the monastery that evening was excellent. It surpassed anything Michaelhouse was likely to produce, except perhaps at feasts or other special occasions. Considering that it was just a normal day, Bartholomew could not begin to imagine what was on offer when the priory had cause to celebrate. There was a pike in pear-flavoured jelly, the inevitable locally caught eels, a dish of turnips that had been roasted slowly in butter, and a bowl of thick pea pottage. In addition, there was bread made from the finest white flour, which was soft and delicious to eat with the creamy cheese from the priory’s own dairy. Bartholomew ate his fill, and then retired to the infirmary to talk to Henry.

As sunset approached, Michael came to find him to ask if he wanted to take an evening stroll, carefully not mentioning the fact that it was almost time for their meeting with Mackerell. The monk was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Bartholomew assumed he had followed his own repast with a pleasant nap.

‘What have you been doing today?’ Bartholomew asked, as they walked towards the vineyards and the priory’s back gate. ‘Did you have a useful meeting with de Lisle?’

Michael smiled. ‘I am glad you were not too engrossed in your studies to have missed that.’

‘You mean you wanted me to eavesdrop on it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because I hoped he might say something important, and I wanted you to hear. But in the event, he said nothing of interest at all.’

‘Perhaps he knew the discussion was not quite as private as it appeared,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘No. We have met in the cemetery before. And although he is aware that you are working in the library, it would not have occurred to him that you might overhear anything he said.’

‘But it did, Brother,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He knew that someone might be spying on him, and kept gazing at the undergrowth below my window.’

‘Then you should not have made all that noise. You were giggling and whispering to yourself like some half-mad crone. I was lucky he believed me when I said the racket was caused by birds or squirrels.’

‘That was not me. William and Tysilia were already in the midst of their own meeting when you arrived. It was Tysilia you heard chattering.’

‘Was it indeed?’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Then it is just as well de Lisle said nothing incriminating. That William is a cold man, and I would not like him to be after the Bishop’s blood. What were they talking about?’

‘William has apparently charged Tysilia to discover whether Blanche was responsible for Glovere’s murder. Needless to say, she was not a wise choice of accomplice.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘Did she march up to Blanche and demand to know whether she killed her own steward?’ He chortled at the notion.

‘Yes, actually. It is difficult to gauge Blanche’s reaction from Tysilia’s description of it, but she warned Tysilia that to probe further might be dangerous. However, it is not clear whether the harm would come from Blanche or someone else.’

‘I wonder why William is meddling in this,’ mused Michael. ‘What can he have to gain from discovering who murdered Glovere?’

‘A good deal. If he proves de Lisle guilty, he will be able to demand a high price for his silence. If he proves de Lisle innocent, then he will earn the Bishop’s undying gratitude.’

‘If he thinks that, then he is a fool. De Lisle will not take kindly to being blackmailed, and he gives his undying gratitude to those he trusts, not to those who interfere in his affairs. But this is all very revealing.’

‘It is?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

Michael nodded. ‘It means that William may have discovered something I have not.’ He rubbed his hands in sudden glee. ‘Now this is more like it! I was afraid I might be obliged to deal with some mindless butcher, who kills because the fancy takes him. Such a person might prove impossible to find – unless he grows so bold that he reveals himself by accident. But now I learn that no less a person than the hosteller – one of the priory’s most important officers – is recruiting spies and asking questions.’

‘I do not know why you consider that good news, Brother. William may be asking questions because he is the culprit, and his enquiries are merely to allow him to gloat as people speculate about his identity.’

‘He will not outwit me,’ boasted Michael. ‘A clever man will have a certain method in his actions, which a man who kills by instinct will not. Patterns are revealing clues for us: we will be able to use them to trap him.’

Bartholomew laughed softly. ‘A few moments after you left, Sub-prior Thomas doubled back on himself and bumped into Tysilia. I saw from his face that he thought she was the reason why the Bishop was in the cemetery.’

Michael’s green eyes grew huge and round. ‘Really?’ he chuckled. ‘It is not common knowledge that de Lisle has a “niece”, and no one is likely to believe him if he conveniently produces one now. And no one will accept that it was William she was meeting, either. That sly, treacherous dog will never own up to meeting his doxy in the bushes.’

‘There is nothing to suggest she is his doxy, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They stood chastely side by side, and the only physical contact was when William dragged her out of sight when you arrived. Anyway, Tysilia has set her heart on you.’

Michael glanced sharply at him. ‘What are you talking about? She barely knows me, and I can assure you that I have done nothing to encourage her attentions.’

‘Perhaps not, but it is you she admires. She was telling William how handsome and manly you are.’

‘Then she has better taste than I credited her with,’ said Michael, not sounding at all surprised that he had secured her devotions. ‘However, she will be disappointed to learn that I am unavailable. She will just have to resort to William, or someone equally inferior.’

‘She is a determined woman,’ warned Bartholomew, smiling. ‘You may find yourself powerless to resist her wiles.’

‘But I am a determined man. Still, I am more interested in her relationship with William than her perfectly understandable attraction to me. That suggests a plot, sure enough.’

‘We will see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Mackerell can throw some light on the matter. Come on, Brother. The sun is beginning to set and our fishy friend will be waiting.’

They had almost reached the priory’s back gate, beyond the neat rows of vines, when Bartholomew spotted someone walking ahead of them. Normally, seeing another person in an area populated by about a hundred monks and their servants would not have been cause for comment, but there was something about the way this figure moved that set warning bells jangling in Bartholomew’s mind. He grabbed Michael’s arm and dragged him to one side. The vines were not tall, so the two scholars were obliged to crouch in undignified positions.

‘It is Sub-prior Thomas,’ whispered Michael, parting the foliage like a curtain and peering out. ‘You were right to suggest we keep out of sight, because he is moving in a way that says he is up to no good at all. I wonder what he is doing.’

‘Whatever it is, he must consider it important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These vineyards represent a hard walk for a man of his girth, and I cannot imagine he is doing this for fun.’

Thomas stood gasping for breath, fanning his cascading chins furiously in a vain attempt to cool himself down. Even from a distance, Bartholomew could see the rivulets of sweat that coursed down the man’s face and made dark patches on his habit.

They did not have to wait long to find out what had enticed Thomas to leave the luxury and comparative cool of the monastery buildings. Another figure emerged from the direction of the back gate. The person walked briskly towards Thomas, and they embarked on a hurried conversation, during which a neat white parcel was passed to the sub-prior.

‘Who is that?’ whispered Michael urgently, trying to push leaves out of the way. ‘Can you see?’

Bartholomew eased himself forward. ‘No. But it is someone who feels obliged to wear his hood pulled over his face. That in itself suggests something unusual, given the warmth of the evening. Should we try to get closer?’

‘Well, there is not much point in spying if you cannot see or hear what is going on, is there?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Hurry up, or they will have finished their business before we reach them.’

On hands and knees, Bartholomew and Michael edged towards the fat sub-prior’s trysting place. Crawling among the vines was such a ludicrously incommodious situation for a University Doctor and a Senior Proctor to put themselves in that Bartholomew started to laugh, thinking that he had not crawled around on all fours in the undergrowth since he was a child. Michael chortled, too, but his mirth was cut short by a litany of vicious curses when he put his hand on a thorn.

As they inched closer they tried to ensure they kept their heads low, so that they would not be visible above the stumpy bushes. Eventually, Bartholomew judged that they were within hearing distance, and risked a quick glance above the leaves. Neither Thomas nor the man he was meeting were where he expected them to be.

‘Have you lost something?’ asked Thomas coldly, the proximity of his voice making both Bartholomew and Michael jump violently. The physician was amazed that the obese sub-prior had been able to move so quickly and with so much stealth. His progress through the vineyard just a few moments before had indicated that he was incapable of speed or silence. Now he towered above the kneeling scholars, his large face flushed red from effort, anger and heat. He was still breathing hard, and the top half of his habit was soaked in perspiration. Bartholomew supposed that although Sub-prior Thomas could move with haste when necessary, the man’s body was neither accustomed to nor happy with sudden spurts of activity. It was a physique that would reward its owner with a seizure if obliged to do it too often.

‘My ring,’ said Michael, thinking quickly and waving a hand sadly bereft of the baubles with which Benedictines usually liked to adorn themselves. ‘I am so thin that it fell from my finger and Matt is helping me to look for it.’

‘What were you doing here in the first place?’ demanded Thomas, evidently unconvinced by such a flagrantly feeble excuse. ‘I sincerely hope you were not following me.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Michael innocently, using Bartholomew to haul himself up from his knees. ‘I am too busy to spend my valuable time stalking my fellow brethren through the bushes.’

‘It is my understanding that you would go to any lengths to help de Lisle remove himself from this spike upon which he is impaled,’ said Thomas accusingly. ‘It would not surprise me if you intended to have one of us blamed for Glovere’s death, merely to allow the Bishop to go free.’

‘That is unfair,’ objected Bartholomew, also standing and brushing dry soil from his hands. ‘Michael has devoted his entire life at Cambridge to ensuring that justice is done.’

‘Justice as he sees it,’ said Thomas nastily.

‘But that is what justice is, is it not?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘It is someone’s idea of fairness, be that person a proctor, a judge, or even a sub-prior.’

‘I have no time to debate philosophical issues with you,’ said Thomas. ‘If I had wanted a university training, I would have gone to Oxford.’

‘That would not have rendered you any less ignorant,’ retorted Michael rudely. ‘But since you feel the need to question me, I shall question you: what are you doing here, when it is approaching the time for compline?’

‘That is none of your concern,’ replied Thomas icily. ‘However, I shall tell you, because I do not want to find my innocent actions turned into something sinister in order to allow de Lisle to blame me for the murder he committed.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael when Thomas paused, evidently casting around for an excuse he felt the monk would believe.

‘I was taking bread to one of the town’s children.’ Michael’s eyebrows shot up, but Thomas either did not notice or did not care. ‘I meet him here often of an evening, when I give him food for his family. I do not make my actions public, because my acts of charity are between God and I.’

‘You mean “God and me”,’ interjected Bartholomew.

‘And did he give you anything in return?’ asked Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s grammatical pedantry and thinking about the white package that was safely packed away inside the sub-prior’s scrip. Its outline could be seen, square and bulky, against the leather.

‘Of course not,’ said Thomas indignantly. ‘What could a shepherd boy give me, other than his gratitude?’ He poked at something on the ground with his foot. ‘But here is your ring, Brother. It seems not to have rolled very far.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, leaning down to retrieve it from the dirt. ‘I knew it would be here somewhere.’

‘I shall wish you both good evening, then,’ said Thomas, taking a deep breath as he contemplated the long incline that led towards the monastery buildings. ‘I do not want to be late for compline because I have been dallying with you. Do not stay out here too long. It is not unknown for wolves to frequent these parts after dark, and I would not like to think of anything untoward happening to you.’ He turned and began to huff his way up the hill.

‘Was he threatening us?’ mused Michael, replacing the ring as he stared thoughtfully after the sub-prior’s wobbling progress. ‘It sounded like a threat.’

‘It was ambiguous,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I have no idea what he meant.’

‘Wolves indeed!’ muttered Michael. ‘There have been no wolves here since the Conqueror’s days. What did you make of his reason for being here?’

‘I did not see the person he met properly,’ replied Bartholomew, watching the sub-prior gradually lose speed. He was all but crawling when he crested the brow of the hill and disappeared down the other side. ‘But it was no boy – unless it was a very big one.’

‘A man, then?’ asked Michael.

‘It could have been a woman. And there is another thing, too.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, nodding slowly as he anticipated what the physician was going to say. ‘Thomas carried no bread with him, to give to a child or anyone else.’

‘But this “boy” gave him something,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it was certainly not bread.’

The daylight had all but gone by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached the gate where they had agreed to meet Mackerell. It was a pleasant evening, with a breeze that carried the scent of the sea that lay to the north. They propped open the gate, so that Mackerell would be able to enter, and then found a comfortable spot in which to wait. They leaned their backs against the wall of the great tithe barn, stretched their legs in front of them, and relaxed. They could see the gate from where they sat, and knew they would spot Mackerell when he came.

‘Prior Alan agreed to my request for Mackerell to spend a few days in his prison,’ said Michael. ‘The man must be desperate, if he considers that foul place preferable to home.’

‘He considers it safer,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He said nothing about it being more comfortable. I wonder whether he really does have something to tell us or whether he is playing games.’

‘I have been wondering that, too,’ said Michael. ‘The appearance of that dog – just when Mackerell’s tongue seemed to be loosening – was rather too opportune for my liking.’

‘I agree. In fact, I wonder whether he really left a message for us at all: that pot-boy may have been lying. I find it strange that Mackerell should be wary of us one moment, and then agree to meet us in dark and lonely places the next. And not only did he tell us exactly where to meet him, but he gave the message to that slack-tongued pot-boy, who, by his own admission, will tell anyone anything for a few pennies.’

Michael gazed into the twilight gloom. ‘I have been thinking about your claim that Blanche was with the gypsies yesterday.’

‘Yes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you accept that I could be right?’

‘No, but I have been reconsidering the fact that the fourth gypsy declined to lower his hood the whole time he was in the tavern. It was hot in there, and wearing a thick hood like that cannot have been comfortable. So, the question is: who was he hiding from?’

Bartholomew blew out his cheeks. ‘We seem to be making this unnecessarily complex, Brother. Why would Goran – if indeed it was Goran – go into a public place like the Mermaid, if he were trying to hide from someone? However, I am sure it was Blanche I saw. But it probably has no relevance to our case, anyway, so we should not waste our time by speculating about it.’

‘If you are right, then it is relevant,’ argued Michael. ‘Blanche is here purely and simply to bring about the downfall of the man she hates. If she was dressed in rough clothes and lurking in seedy taverns with low company, then you can be sure that she was doing so to damage de Lisle in some way. But you are not right, and so all we can conclude is that Goran was probably up to no good.’

Bartholomew changed the subject, seeing they would not reach agreement on the matter. ‘Where is Mackerell? It is dark already, and the dew is coming through.’

Michael shifted uncomfortably. ‘True. I do not want to return to the priory with a wet seat. Then my brethren would really wonder what I had been doing!’

‘We should look for him,’ said Bartholomew, standing and offering Michael his hand. The monk grasped it, and Bartholomew only just remembered in time that Michael was very heavy, and that he needed to brace himself if he did not want to be pulled off his feet.

‘I hope he is all right,’ said Michael, growing anxious.

‘He is probably in a tavern,’ said Bartholomew, unconcerned because he had suspected the fisherman would not appear anyway. ‘I will check the Mermaid. You stay here, in case he comes.’

But Mackerell was not in the Mermaid, and the pot-boy assured Bartholomew that he had not been seen since the previous day. Because he was out and felt like walking, Bartholomew glanced into the Lamb, the Bell and the White Hart, too, but there was no Mackerell enjoying his ale. Puzzled, but not yet worried, Bartholomew started to walk back to the priory, half expecting the man to have rendezvoused with Michael in his absence.

He was still on the Heyrow, deciding whether to return to the vineyard by walking through the priory grounds or by way of the town, when the door to the Lamb flew open and Guido the gypsy tumbled out. He was closely followed by his two brothers, all landing in a tangle of arms and legs in the street. Moments later, the door opened again and Eulalia emerged. A hand in the small of her back precipitated her outside faster than she intended, and she turned to glower at the person who had manhandled her. Bartholomew glimpsed Leycestre hurriedly closing the door, apparently unnerved by the glare of cool loathing shot his way by the travelling woman.

‘What is going on?’ asked Bartholomew, hurrying towards her.

‘For some reason, Leycestre has taken against us this year,’ said Eulalia, turning awkwardly and brushing her back. ‘He has not been like this before. I cannot imagine what has changed him.’

‘He accused us of taking wages that rightfully belong to Ely folk,’ growled Guido as he hauled himself to his feet. His words were slurred, and Bartholomew supposed that he had been ejected before a drunken brawl could ensue. ‘We have taken no wages from anyone: they cannot harvest their grain without our help and we are paid because they need us.’

‘It is true,’ said Eulalia to Bartholomew. ‘We are hired as additional labour, not to replace local people. Usually, the folk here are delighted to see us, and always make us welcome. But it is different this year.’ She turned angrily on Guido. ‘And you did not help matters! We do not want to earn a reputation for brawling, or we will not be welcome here next year, either. You should not have risen to Leycestre’s baiting.’

The door swung open again, and Bartholomew turned to see Leycestre framed in the light. There were others behind him, and some carried weapons. With a shock, Bartholomew realised that Leycestre’s relentless claims that the gypsies were responsible for all manner of wrongs had finally come to fruition, and he now had a small army at his back.

‘I suggested you leave days ago,’ Leycestre said venomously, moving towards Guido. In the dim light, Bartholomew saw the dispossessed farmer’s eyes were hot with anger, and the sweet smell of Ely’s bona cervisia around him indicated that the gypsies were not the only ones who had been drinking.

‘We have a right to be here,’ objected Guido indignantly. ‘We come every year.’

‘Not any more,’ hissed Leycestre. ‘We have no room for liars and thieves in Ely.’

‘You should leave then,’ snarled Guido.

Eulalia put a warning hand on her brother’s arm. ‘We will be retiring to our beds now,’ she said to Leycestre in a low, reasonable voice. ‘We want no trouble.’

‘Not so fast,’ shouted Leycestre, making a grab for the slack-jawed Rosel as the lad made to follow his sister. Rosel should not have been given beer, because it made him unsteady on his legs. Leycestre’s lunge did the rest, and Rosel took a tumble into the hard-baked mud of the street. There was an unpleasant crack as his skull hit a stone, followed by a frightened wail as the boy saw bright blood spilling through his fingers. Eulalia gave a cry of alarm, and rushed to her brother’s side. Leycestre misinterpreted her sudden move as an attack, and his hand came up fast. In it there was a dagger.

The altercation might have ended in more bloodshed if Bartholomew had not stepped forward and knocked the dagger from Leycestre’s hand, so that it went skittering across the ground. For an instant, Leycestre’s expression was murderous, but then the fury dulled and he had the grace to appear sheepish. Even in his drink-excited state, Leycestre knew that there was no excuse for drawing a weapon on an unarmed woman who was doing nothing more threatening than kneeling next to her sobbing kinsman. Without a word, he strode away down the Heyrow. Someone retrieved the knife, and the small crowd quickly melted away into the darkness, as shamefaced as their leader.

‘Thank you,’ said Eulalia unsteadily, cradling Rosel’s head in her lap. ‘I think they might have killed us had you not been here.’

‘They could have tried!’ growled Guido belligerently, his own dagger in his hand now that the crowd had dispersed. ‘But they would not have bested me!’

‘I do not know about that,’ said Goran uncertainly. ‘There were an awful lot of them and only four of us. I, for one, am grateful the physician stepped in when he did.’

Guido’s angry red eyes shifted to his brother, and he took a firmer grip on his knife. ‘We do not need outsiders meddling in our affairs …’

‘Help me, Guido,’ snapped Eulalia. ‘Do not stand there bragging like some great oaf when your brother lies bleeding.’

Bartholomew knelt next to her and examined Rosel’s head in the faint light that filtered through the open windows of the tavern. It was only a scalp wound, which bled vigorously although there was little serious damage. He applied a goose-grease salve, and delighted Rosel by wrapping the boy’s head in a bandage made from strips of white linen. Once the blood had been removed and he had an impressive dressing to show for his discomfort, Rosel made a miraculous recovery, and pulled away from Eulalia’s anxious embrace to join his brothers.

‘Goran is right,’ Eulalia said, watching the three of them stagger unsteadily towards their camp. ‘We would not have bested that crowd. Leycestre’s blood was up, and he had encouraged his cronies to do us harm.’

‘He thinks you are responsible for the burglaries,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And the murders,’ added Eulalia ruefully. ‘But I can assure you that we are not. Guido may seem like a fighter, but he is a coward at heart.’

‘Is he a thief?’

She gave him a grin full of teeth that gleamed white in the moonlight. ‘Who is not?’

‘A good many people, I hope,’ replied Bartholomew, rather primly.

‘Then your understanding of human nature is sadly flawed. There is not a living soul – saints excluded – who has not taken an apple from someone else’s tree or “borrowed” some unwanted thing that he has no intention of returning. Guido is no different from anyone else.’

Bartholomew stared at her, not sure what she was saying with her philosophical commentary. ‘So, did he commit these burglaries or not?’ he asked.

She smiled and shook her head, so that he did not know whether her answer was that of course he had, or whether the notion of burglary was so ludicrous that she could not even bring herself to reply to such a charge.

‘Do you know Lady Blanche?’ he asked at last, seeing he would gain no more information on that matter – at least, none that he was able to interpret.

‘Of course I do,’ she replied casually. ‘She dines with us most Sundays on hedgehogs and acorns. What a ridiculous question, Matthew! How would we know such a person?’

‘Because I saw her with you yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, hoping that an honest approach would be more likely to gain honest answers.

She gazed at him. ‘Do you mean in the Mermaid Inn? Are you talking about the person with the hood who was with us? That was Goran.’

‘Then why did he look as though he was trying to disguise himself?’ pressed Bartholomew, unconvinced.

‘Because of men like Leycestre,’ said Eulalia, her voice suddenly harsh. ‘Like me, Goran is tired of being accused of things he did not do.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew gently. He sensed he was wrong to question Eulalia about her brothers’ affairs: he was only making her think that everyone in the town believed the accusations, even those who attempted to befriend them.

‘You have not collected your black resin yet,’ she said, smiling at him in the moonlight, her irritation apparently forgotten. ‘Will you come for it now?’

Bartholomew gazed at the invitation in her dark eyes, and was already walking down the Heyrow with her when it occurred to him that Michael would be wondering why he had not returned.

‘Damn!’ he muttered, stopping in his tracks. ‘Michael is waiting for me.’

‘Let him wait,’ suggested Eulalia. ‘He does not look like the kind of man who would stand in the way of a friend’s enjoyment.’

‘He is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But there is a killer on the loose and a bishop who will grow more dangerous the longer he is cornered. I had better go.’

‘Please yourself,’ she said, clearly disappointed. ‘But remember that you are always welcome at our fire.’

‘Your brothers might not be so hospitable,’ said Bartholomew ruefully, glancing down the dark road to where the trio lurched homewards. ‘Guido dislikes me.’

‘He will do as I ask,’ said Eulalia confidently. ‘He needs me a good deal more than I need him. I might have been king if he had not been my elder.’

‘Can women be kings?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that rough men like Guido and Goran might be prepared to accept the rule of a woman.

‘Of course,’ she replied, as surprised by the question as he was by the answer. ‘I told you that “king” is a poor translation of the word. But they will wonder what we are up to, if I linger here much longer. Do not wait too long before taking me up on my offer.’

‘Black resin?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Black resin,’ she agreed as she walked away.

Bartholomew retraced his steps along the darkened streets, swearing under his breath as he tripped and stumbled over potholes and other irregularities. He had been some time, and hoped Mackerell had appeared in his absence and that Michael had the man safely ensconced in the Prior’s cells. But Mackerell had not arrived, and Michael was fretting by the gate.

‘I was beginning to worry about you, too,’ the monk complained angrily, when Bartholomew reached him. ‘What have you been doing? It only takes a few moments to run to the Mermaid and back.’

‘It is too warm for running. Besides, I did not think there was any hurry.’

‘Well, I have had enough of this,’ said Michael irritably. ‘We will go to the Quay, to see whether any of the bargemen there have seen Mackerell today, and then I am going to bed.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Bartholomew, deciding not to mention the incident outside the Lamb while Michael was in such a bellicose frame of mind. The monk would assume Bartholomew had gone looking for Eulalia, blithely abandoning him to a lonely sojourn in a deserted vineyard. Since Bartholomew was not in the mood for an argument, he elected to tell Michael about the gypsies’ altercation with Leycestre later, preferably after the monk had eaten and was in good humour.

They walked the short distance to the Quay, listening to the sounds of the night – the rumble of voices from the taverns, the barking of a dog and the faint hiss of reeds in the wind. The air had the distinct tang of salt in it, overlain with a powerful fishy odour. Gulls paddled silently in the river’s shallows, ducking and pecking at the water as they ate their fill of the refuse that had been dumped there. When Bartholomew and Michael reached the Quay, a tiny prick of light implied that someone was working late near the barges. Michael strolled up to it.

‘Has anyone seen Mackerell?’ he asked.

What happened next was a blur. One of the figures turned slowly, then swung out viciously with what appeared to be a hammer. Michael jerked backwards, so that it missed his face, but he lost his balance and, after a few moments of violently whirling arms, toppled backward to land heavily among a pile of crates. With an almighty clatter, the crates fell and crashed around him, while the monk covered his head with his hands.

Bartholomew darted to his aid, but found himself confronted by three men, who seemed convinced that he was in their way. They rushed him in a body before he could reach into his medicine bag and draw one of the knives he carried. All four went thudding to the ground, and Bartholomew laid blindly about him with his fists, not really able to see and only knowing that anyone near him was not a friend. He grazed his knuckles several times, although whether his blows landed on a person or on the sacks of grain over which they struggled he could not tell.

The first of his assailants broke free and ran. The others followed, and Bartholomew leapt spectacularly on to the back of one in an attempt to prevent him from escaping. The man was larger than Bartholomew had anticipated; all at once he started spinning around, so that the physician lost his grip and went flying to land on Michael. He heard a hammering of receding footsteps as the last of them fled.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Bartholomew, climbing off the monk and peering into the darkness. There was little point in giving chase: he could not see, and he did not know the area well enough to guess where the three men might have gone.

‘No thanks to you,’ muttered Michael ungraciously, reaching out and using Bartholomew to haul himself to his feet. His weight was enormous, and the physician almost fell a second time. ‘You should have landed on those bags of wheat or the crates. You did not have to aim for me. You are heavy, Matt!’

‘I needed something soft to fall on,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at the monk’s vehemence. ‘But did you see their faces? They were not the gypsies, because I saw them only a few moments ago, heading in the opposite direction.’

‘They could have doubled back,’ said Michael. ‘Are you sure it was not them?’

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But Rosel has a cut head, and I do not think any of our attackers were swathed in bandages.’

‘He could have taken it off since you last saw him,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And then they could have followed you here. There are three brothers, and three men attacked us.’

‘But these people fought us because we disturbed them at something,’ Bartholomew reasoned. ‘They were not lying in wait for us.’

‘They did not really fight, either,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘They pushed and struggled. No weapons were drawn, or you would have been a dead man. And they had all been drinking.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘How do you know that?’

Michael tapped his nose. ‘The smell, Matt. They had beer on their breath. They may not have been drunk, but they had certainly enjoyed a jug of ale.’

‘That does not help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Virtually every man in the city seems to have been in a tavern this evening. I even saw Almoner Robert and Symon the librarian in a secluded alcove of the Bell. Mackerell, you and I are probably the only ones to have abstained tonight.’

‘So what were that trio doing among the reeds to have warranted all that belligerence?’ asked Michael, walking to where the three men had been working, and peering into the inky darkness of the river. There was nothing to see. One of them had dropped the torch he had been using and it still burned. Bartholomew picked it up and looked around carefully, but there was nothing to suggest why they had been so reluctant to be caught.

‘This may sound ridiculous, but when the first one lunged at me, I half supposed that we had stumbled on Mackerell’s murder taking place,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Why did you think that?’

‘Because so many people know we are meeting him – the pot-boy at the Mermaid, Tysilia, William and the Bishop – that I wondered whether someone might try to reach him first and ensure that he follows in the footsteps of Glovere and the others: floating face-down in the river with a fatal slit in the back of his neck.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You will probably find that Mackerell had no intention of meeting us in the first place. Why should he? He will be safer hiding in the Fens.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I would not like to think that Mackerell lies dead because we spoke to him.’

‘He is not dead, Brother. If I raise this torch, you can see clear across to the other side of the river. There is no corpse floating here.’

‘I have no idea what is going on in this town, Matt,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But I intend to find out. No one gets the better of the Senior Proctor and his trusted associate. We shall solve this mess, Matt. You mark my words!’