‘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 alclass="underline" 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.