A Summer of Discontent (3 page)

‘That is a lie!’ Gold-Hat shouted furiously. ‘We heard you coming, so we hid in the undergrowth to wait for you to pass. Then
your servants spotted us and immediately drew their weapons.’

‘That is
not
what happened!’ exclaimed Michael, astonished. ‘We were riding along in all innocence, when you started loosing crossbow
bolts at us.’

‘You fired first,’ said the woman firmly. ‘We are not robbers.’

‘You look like robbers,’ said Meadowman bluntly. He inspected their clothes with the uneasy, disparaging curiosity of an untravelled
man encountering something with which he was unfamiliar.

‘I will not stand here and listen to this—’ began Gold-Hat angrily, and rather rashly, given that Cynric’s dagger still hovered
dangerously close to his neck. The woman silenced him with a wave of her hand – although the prod of Cynric’s weapon may also
have had something to do with the sudden cessation of furious words – and turned to Michael, addressing him in a controlled
and reasonable tone of voice.

‘We are respectable folk, who have come to Ely to hire out our services for the harvest. The priory owns a great deal of land
and casual labour is always in demand at this time of year. We are not outlaws.’ She looked Michael up
and down as if she thought the same could not be said for him.

‘Do
I
look like the kind of man to rob fellow travellers?’ demanded Michael, tapping his chest to indicate his Benedictine habit.
‘I am a monk!’

‘Why do you imagine that exonerates you?’ asked the woman in what seemed to be genuine confusion. ‘In my experience, there
are few folk more adept at stealing from the poor than men of the Church.’

‘That is certainly true,’ muttered Cynric, sheathing his weapon. Gold-Hat immediately moved away from him, rubbing his neck
where the blade had nicked it and glowering at the Welshman in a way that indicated he would be only too willing to restart
the fight.

‘No harm has been done,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Michael bristle with indignation. Arguing about who was or who was
not a robber in the middle of the Fens was a pointless exercise, and the longer they lingered, the greater were the chances
that they might all fall victim to a real band of brigands. ‘There was a misunderstanding: few people can hide successfully
from Cynric, and he mistook your caution for hostile intent. I suggest we acknowledge that we were lucky no one was hurt,
and go our separate ways.’

‘Very well,’ said the woman stiffly. ‘I suppose my brothers and I can agree to overlook this incident. As I said, we are honest
folk, and only want to go about our lawful business.’

‘And what “lawful business” would see you skulking all the way out here?’ demanded Michael tartly. ‘The priory has no fields
to be harvested so far from Ely.’

‘We are only a mile or two from the city,’ protested Gold-Hat, still rubbing his throat. ‘And we are not obliged to explain
ourselves to you anyway.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Four people in the Fens with a crossbow? It seems to me that you were thinking to fill tonight’s
cooking pot with one of my Prior’s ducks. Or perhaps a fish.’

Gold-Hat pursed his lips, but said nothing, and Bartholomew suspected that Michael was right. There had been no need for people
with honest intentions to hide in the undergrowth, and doubtless it had been Michael’s Benedictine habit that had prompted
them to make themselves scarce. Had the sharp-eyed Cynric not been with them, Bartholomew and Michael probably would have
passed by without noticing anything amiss, and the encounter would never have taken place.

‘Walk with us to Ely,’ the physician suggested pleasantly, determined to avoid any further confrontation. The Fens were full
of fish and fowl, and he was sure the Prior would not miss the few that ended up in the stomachs of hungry people. However,
he saw that Michael could hardly leave the gypsies where they were, knowing that they fully intended to steal from his monastery.

The woman regarded him soberly for a moment, then nodded reluctant agreement, apparently accepting this was the only way to
terminate the encounter without either side losing face. She turned to stride along the causeway, indicating with a nod of
her head that her companions were to follow. Bartholomew took the reins of his horse and walked with her, more to ensure she
did not antagonise Michael than for the want of further conversation with her. Meanwhile, Cynric placed himself tactfully
between the three brothers and Michael, leaving the monk to mutter and grumble with Meadowman at the rear.

‘Where are you from?’ Bartholomew asked the woman, thinking it would be more pleasant to talk than to stride along in a strained
silence. ‘Spain?’

She glanced at him, as if trying to determine his motive for asking such a question. ‘I was born in Barcelona,’ she replied
brusquely. ‘You will not know it; it is a long way away.’

‘I spent a winter there once,’ he replied, thinking back to when he had been a student and had travelled much of the continent
in the service of his Arab master, learning the
skills that would make him a physician. ‘It is a pretty place, with a fine cathedral dedicated to St Eulalia.’

She gazed at him in surprise, and then said thoughtfully, ‘I see from your robes that you are a physician, so I suppose you
may have travelled a little. But, although I was born in Spain, my clan do not stay in one city for long. I have moved from
place to place all my life.’

‘Do you like that?’ Bartholomew asked, certain that he would not. While life at Michaelhouse could be bleak, and Cambridge
was often violent and always dirty, he liked having a room that he could call home. He recalled from his travels that he had
loved the summer months, when he had wandered through exciting and exotic places, but that the enjoyment had palled considerably
once winter had come. Sleeping in the open was no fun when there was snow in the air and hungry wolves howled all night.

She shrugged. ‘It is all I know.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him, where her brothers slouched three-abreast more closely than was comfortable. The slack-jawed
lad seemed contented enough, but the other two were sullen and brooding, and clearly resented being deprived of their illicit
dinner. Behind Cynric, Michael rode with his stout wooden staff clutched firmly in one meaty hand, as though he did not trust
the would-be robbers to refrain from further mischief.

As they walked, the final wisps of mist disappeared as the summer sun bathed the marshes in a clean, golden light. The bogs
responded by releasing a malodorous stench of baked, rotting vegetation, so strong that it verged on the unbreathable.

‘No wonder so many Ely folk complain of agues in July and August,’ said Bartholomew, taking a deep breath and coughing as
the stinking odour caught in his throat. ‘This fetid air must hold all manner of contagions.’

The woman agreed. ‘We visit Ely most summers, and I have never known an area reek so.’

‘How big is your clan?’

She shot him another suspicious glance. ‘There are twenty-one of us, including seven children. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I have not set foot outside Cambridge since last summer, and it is good to meet new people,’ replied Bartholomew
with a smile. ‘Did you say your three companions are your brothers?’

She jerked a thumb at the man with the gold hat. ‘He is Guido. He will become king soon.’

‘King?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly, hoping he was not about to be regaled with details of some treasonous plot. There was
always someone declaring he had a better right to the English throne than Edward III, but few lived to press their claims
for any length of time.

The woman smiled for the first time. ‘It is not a word that translates well. He will become the leader of the clan when our
current king dies.’

‘You sound as though you think that will not be long.’

She nodded sadly. ‘Our uncle is becoming more frail every day, and I do not think he will see the harvest completed. Then
Guido will take his place.’

Bartholomew glanced at Guido, thinking that the surly giant who glowered resentfully at him would make no kind of ‘king’ for
anyone, and especially not for a group of itinerants who needed to secure the goodwill of the people they met. Guido seemed
belligerent and loutish; Bartholomew imagined the clan would do better under the rule of the more pleasant and intelligent
woman who walked at his side.

‘The others are Goran and Rosel,’ she continued. ‘Rosel is slow-witted, but, to my people, that means he is blessed.’

‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘Why is that?’

‘He has dreams sometimes, which we believe is the way the spirits of our ancestors communicate with us. They have chosen him
to voice their thoughts, and that makes him special.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Bartholomew, becoming more interested in the gypsies’ customs.

‘Eulalia.’ She smiled again when she saw the understanding in his face. ‘Yes, I was named for the saint in whose city I was
born.’

They continued to talk as they neared Ely. Michael’s staff was still at the ready, and the three brothers were tense and wary,
evidently trusting the monk no more than he did them. Cynric began to relax, though, and leaned back comfortably in his saddle
with his eyes almost closed. To anyone who did not know him, he appeared half asleep, but Bartholomew knew he would snap into
alertness at the first sign of danger – long before anyone else had anticipated the need for action. Next to him, Meadowman
had followed Bartholomew’s example and was leading his horse, relieved not to be sitting on it.

Michael took the lead when they reached a shiny, flat expanse of water that had invaded the causeway. His horse objected to
putting its feet into the rainbow sheen on its surface, and disliked the sensation of its hoofs sinking into the soft mud.
It balked and shied, and only Michael’s superior horsemanship kept the party moving.

Finally, they were on firm ground again – or at least ground that was not under water – and the causeway stretched ahead of
them, a great black snake of rutted peat that slashed northwards. Ahead of them stood the bridge that controlled access from
the south to the Fens’ most affluent and powerful city. It was manned by soldiers in the pay of the Prior, whose word was
law in the area; they were under orders to admit only desirable visitors to his domain. However, because Ely was surrounded
by marshes and waterways, anyone with a boat could easily gain entry, and although guards regularly patrolled, there was little
they could do to bar unwanted guests.

As they approached the bridge, Bartholomew had a clear view all around him for the first time since leaving Cambridge. There
was little to see to the south, west or east, but to the north lay Ely. The massive cathedral, aptly called ‘the ship of the
Fens’ by local people, rose out of the bogs
ahead. Its crenellated towers, distinguished central octagon and elegant pinnacles pierced the skyline, dominating the countryside
around it. It looked to Bartholomew to be floating, as if it were not standing on a small island, but was suspended somehow
above the meres and the reeds. He had been to Ely several times before, but this first glimpse of the magnificent Norman cathedral
never failed to astound him.

‘Ely
is
a splendid place,’ said Michael, reining in his horse to allow them time to admire the scene in front of them. Ely was his
Mother House, and he was justifiably proud of it. ‘It is the finest Benedictine cathedral-priory in the country.’

‘Peterborough is also splendid,’ said Bartholomew, who had been educated there before completing his education at Oxford and
then Paris. ‘But the surrounding countryside is not so distinctive.’

‘Barcelona is more impressive than either of them,’ stated Eulalia uncompromisingly.

‘Ely’s setting is its one sorry feature,’ said Michael, ignoring her. ‘I cannot imagine why St Etheldreda’s followers did
not grab her corpse and move it somewhere more conducive to pleasant living. They must have been deranged, wanting to continue
to live in a place like this.’ He cast a disgusted glance around him.

‘It allowed them to live unmolested,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘If the causeway were not here, Ely would be difficult to reach.
The monks wanted isolation for their religious meditations, and the Isle of Ely provides just that.’

‘But it puts us so far from the King’s court and influential institutions like the University in Cambridge,’ complained Michael.
‘When I first came here, as a young novice, I very nearly turned around and headed for Westminster instead. I was not impressed
by the Fens. Then I saw the cathedral, and the wealth of the priory buildings, and I decided to stay. Given that I am now
indispensable to the Bishop, I am confident I made the right decision.’

‘Why has de Lisle summoned you?’ asked Bartholomew, falling back to walk with him while the gypsies moved ahead. He saw that
some kind of muttered argument was in progress – evidently, Guido was objecting to the fact that Eulalia had agreed to return
to Ely, rather than continue to try to catch something for the cooking pot. ‘You have not told me.’

‘That is because I do not know myself,’ said Michael. ‘Two days ago I received a message asking me to visit Ely as soon as
possible. The summons sounded important, but not urgent, and I decided to wait until you were ready, so that we could travel
together. Then, late last night, I received another message ordering me to come at once.’

‘So you packed my bags, hired horses and I was obliged to leave for Ely a day sooner than I had intended,’ said Bartholomew,
not without rancour: he had not been pleased to return to Michaelhouse after a long night with a querulous patient to learn
that the monk had taken control of his travel plans. ‘Despite the fact that today is Sunday – our day of rest.’

‘It makes no sense for us both to make such a dangerous journey alone,’ said Michael, unrepentant. ‘Your students were delighted
to be rid of you for a few days anyway, and you will have longer to work on that interminable treatise on fevers. You should
thank me, not complain.’