Bartholomew regarded her in horror. ‘You mean Goran climbed into his room and shoved a pillow over his face or some such thing? I thought you told me your people were not killers!’
‘We are not,’ she said indignantly. ‘But we believe in natural justice. Ralph killed Guido, and Guido’s spirit would not rest easy while Ralph lived. You heard the curses my brother screamed with his dying breath. They were strong words, and the clan does not want them travelling with us when we leave. You were lucky that Goran distinctly recalls Guido biting the coins after he had drained your wine, or you would have died to appease our brother’s restless ghost.’
They were silent for a while, looking through the darkness to the trees that surrounded the gypsy camp. Dawn was still some way off, and the Fens were silent and still. A light mist curled out of the marshes, adding an eerie whiteness to the night. An owl hooted, and some creature gave a short, shrill screech. Bartholomew understood why men like Mackerell, and even Michael, thought the Fens different from the civilised world, and why the notion of water-spirits did not seem so far-fetched there.
‘You were right about Guido killing William,’ said Eulalia eventually. ‘He seemed almost proud of the fact.’
‘Thank you for helping me,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the strength finally beginning to return to his legs. He started to stand, but Eulalia rested a hand on his chest.
‘Do not go yet.’ She went to the fire and came back with a steaming bowl.
‘What is it?’ The contents of the dish were mysterious and unidentifiable in the darkness, but Bartholomew detected herbs in it that he had not smelled since he had been in the southernmost parts of France many years before. For a moment, he felt he was there again, walking in the forests that tumbled down to little coves hiding secret beaches. It was a land of oranges and browns and emerald greens, with air that was always fragrant with flowers, earthy shrubs and the sea.
‘Those are herbs I collected and dried myself on our travels,’ she replied with a grin, her teeth white in the gloom. ‘And duck from the priory’s fields. Eat it. It will restore your strength.’
It was delicious, and Bartholomew felt a pang of regret that he would probably never again travel to distant places where the spices and flavours of the foods and wines were so different from those in England.
‘Now we are even, you and I,’ she said, watching him in the darkness. ‘You helped us in the Heyrow, and I have saved you. Neither is in the other’s debt.’
‘I will always be in your debt. You risked a good deal to save me.’
‘I did not! I merely told the truth. But what I said to you in that horrible tavern is right: we have not been made welcome in Ely this year, and it is time to move on to a place where the inhabitants might see us as something other than a band of vagabonds.’
‘Even so, they should watch their ducks,’ said Bartholomew.
She laughed, a pleasant, low sound that was a welcome change after all the misery and pain he had witnessed that night. ‘We will take Guido with us and bury him in a secret place among the marshes, where the water-spirits will guard him.’
‘Make sure he does not float,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking that the basket might act like a raft, and bear Guido Moses-like on all manner of journeys. ‘You do not want him sailing into Ely in a year’s time.’
She gazed at him uncomfortably. ‘What do you suggest? We cannot take him with us in this heat. And I do not want him buried in Ely. St Etheldreda might not like him near her after what he has done.’
‘Punch holes in the basket and weigh it down with stones. It will not take long, then you can be sure that he will stay where you leave him.’
‘Will you help me? I do not want my first command as king to be such a ghoulish one. My people are superstitious, and that might be seen as a bad omen.’
‘You are king?’ he asked, surprised.
‘The clan told me that I had been chosen as Guido’s successor when Goran returned from … dealing with Ralph. I thought they would elect him, but they wanted me instead.’
‘Then they are a wise people,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you will be a wise leader.’
‘I know,’ she said simply. ‘But filling my brother’s coffin with stones is a distasteful task that should be completed quickly, before we have time to think about it. We should do it now while it is still dark.’
Stones were not a commodity that was in great supply in the Fens. Any rock that had littered the landscape had long since been gathered by local people for building; the rest had been imported at great expense. There were scraps of flint, but it would take a great many of them to make the coffin sufficiently heavy. They were beginning to think that they might have to fell a tree when Bartholomew’s eyes lit on the sacks of grain that had given him such an uncomfortable journey.
‘No,’ said Eulalia. ‘That wheat is valuable to us.’
‘It looks like the cereal that was paid to the priory in tithes,’ said Bartholomew, patting one of the sacks. It had a hard, dense feel, just like the one he had fallen on in the granary, which had split to reveal that it contained mostly grit. ‘Symon probably arranged for Leycestre to steal it from the barn near the Broad Lane gate.’
‘He did,’ said Eulalia with a grin. ‘Father John said the priory always demands the best grain from its tenants, and so this should be some of the finest in the area.’
‘Unfortunately, you will find it is mostly sand,’ said Bartholomew.
She gazed at him for a moment, then took a knife from her belt and slit one of the sacks. The top third or so contained a beautiful golden wheat, but the rest was full of gravel. She stared at it in dismay, before her eyes crinkled with laughter.
‘We were cheated by a priest!’
‘He is a priest who stole from the priory, and who is not averse to looking the other way while murder is committed. You should not be surprised.’
‘I suppose not. But help me with this. The priory’s gravel shall give Guido a decent grave.’
For the next hour, she and Bartholomew worked together, packing the gravel around Guido’s corpse. Because the basket was too short, Guido’s legs were bent, and he lay on one side, as if curled in sleep. He seemed curiously peaceful, devoid of the scowl that had marred his swarthy features in life. Bartholomew had seen some terrifying grimaces on the faces of poison victims, and was glad Eulalia’s brother had been spared that indignity.
When they had finished, Eulalia sealed the coffin and nodded in satisfaction. Then she rummaged in one of the carts and emerged with a small bottle.
‘Here is your black resin. I said I would keep it for you.’
Bartholomew took it from her and examined it in the faint light of the dying fire. ‘I will think of you when I use it.’
‘Come with us,’ she said suddenly. ‘You have travelled in the past, and I know you want to do so again. I saw your face when you tasted the herbs that were grown under the Mediterranean sun. You longed to go back there. And life as the consort of a gypsy king can be very pleasant.’
‘I am sure it is. But my life is here, with my students and my teaching.’
She smiled sadly and touched his face lightly with her fingers. ‘Pity.’
Much later, when dawn came and the sun cast pale shadows across the dark countryside, they still lay together in the tall grass, talking in low voices about their lives and their dreams. When the clan began to harness the horses and kick out the embers of the fire, Bartholomew slipped away, but did not return to the priory. He watched them pack the last of their belongings and heave Guido’s coffin on to a cart. The last he ever saw of Eulalia was as she took the reins to lead her people out of the Fen glade and towards the road that led north.