‘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.’