A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew thought about that for a while, turning over the possibilities in his mind. He remembered the glittering malice he had seen on the faces of both when they had fought in the Heyrow, and the fact that weapons had been produced. He had no doubt that the crowd Leycestre had whipped into a frenzy might have done serious harm to the gypsies had Bartholomew not intervened, and there was only so far Guido would go for the sake of appearances. Being bludgeoned to death was definitely past the limit. And Leycestre’s accusations were probably making it difficult for Guido and his clan to do his business in Ely, whether it was buying bread or securing work. It made no sense for Guido to agree to such conditions.

‘You are wrong,’ he concluded. ‘They are not accomplices. Perhaps they met by chance after all.’

‘Mmm?’ murmured Michael, shifting slightly in his sleep.

Bartholomew thought about the other crimes that had been committed in the town. Although he and Michael had not been charged to investigate them, there had been burglaries almost every night since Guido and his clan had arrived in Ely. But, as Guido had claimed, the gypsies were unlikely to be the culprits, because it would have been obvious who was responsible. Justice in England tended to be summary and swift, and many sheriffs would regard the presence of travellers in a city plagued by a sudden spate of crimes evidence enough.

Were the murders and the burglaries related? Bartholomew tried to recall what he had been told about the thefts. They all occurred in the homes of the wealthy — merchants, Bishop de Lisle and finally Barbour the landlord. Bartholomew rubbed his chin as a thought occurred to him. No poor person had been targeted, and Leycestre was constantly pointing out that the rich lived well, while the peasantry seldom knew where their next meal was coming from. Was Leycestre the burglar, stealing from the rich people he so despised?

But how could that be right? One of the most recent victims had been Agnes Fitzpayne, who was a good friend of Leycestre’s. The man would surely not steal from someone who seemed to hold the same views as he did. Or would he? Bartholomew frowned. Perhaps Agnes had agreed to claim she had been burgled for the express purpose of making Leycestre appear innocent. And Leycestre had certainly been present when Barbour had bragged about where he had hidden his money.

But Leycestre was not suddenly sporting new clothes or producing gold to buy back the land he had lost. Where were all his gains going? Bartholomew sat up straight when it occurred to him that rebellions cost money. There were weapons to be bought, and favours to be purchased from people in a position to dispense them. Messengers needed to be hired, with fast horses, to spread the word once it had started, and funds would be necessary to allow the leaders to meet in secret places and discuss tactics. Was that the reason for the burglaries? That Leycestre needed money to support his rebellion, and he had decided the rich should pay?

If that were true, then the gypsies’ arrival had been a perfect opportunity to place the blame on someone else — people who would never join the revolution, because they were not tied to the land and were free to do as they pleased. They were excellent scapegoats; they had a reputation for stealing the odd coin or hen, and they were dispensable. Because they came every year, Leycestre had waited for their arrival before he put his plan into action.

The more Bartholomew thought about his solution, the more it made sense. Triumphant that he had made some headway, even though it probably had nothing to do with the murders, he prodded Michael awake.

‘What?’ demanded the monk crossly. ‘I was sleeping.’

‘I know what Leycestre has been doing,’ declared Bartholomew, reaching for his jug of ale and taking a deep draught. ‘His rebellion is more than wishful thinking. He is preparing to make it into a reality with funds stolen from the merchants.’

Michael listened to the explanation with wide eyes, saying nothing until he had finished. ‘And you woke me to tell me this?’ he demanded. ‘I have never heard such nonsense! Where is your evidence? You do not have a scrap of it.’

‘I do not,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But it makes sense.’

‘It does not,’ snapped Michael, rubbing his eyes wearily. ‘I thought you had a headache. You would have done better to take a nap, rather than make it worse with all this false reasoning.’

‘I feel better,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘The after-effects of Henry’s tonic are not so serious after all. No wonder he keeps it locked away. If the general populace learns there is a substance that can make you happy and give you energy to work, and that the only negative is a slight headache and a little queasiness, then we would have no peace from demands for it, as Henry has discovered from Northburgh and Stretton.’