A Summer of Discontent

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.

The altercation might have ended in more bloodshed if Bartholomew had not stepped forward and knocked the dagger from Leycestre’s hand, so that it went skittering across the ground. For an instant, Leycestre’s expression was murderous, but then the fury dulled and he had the grace to appear sheepish. Even in his drink-excited state, Leycestre knew that there was no excuse for drawing a weapon on an unarmed woman who was doing nothing more threatening than kneeling next to her sobbing kinsman. Without a word, he strode away down the Heyrow. Someone retrieved the knife, and the small crowd quickly melted away into the darkness, as shamefaced as their leader.

‘Thank you,’ said Eulalia unsteadily, cradling Rosel’s head in her lap. ‘I think they might have killed us had you not been here.’

‘They could have tried!’ growled Guido belligerently, his own dagger in his hand now that the crowd had dispersed. ‘But they would not have bested me!’

‘I do not know about that,’ said Goran uncertainly. ‘There were an awful lot of them and only four of us. I, for one, am grateful the physician stepped in when he did.’

Guido’s angry red eyes shifted to his brother, and he took a firmer grip on his knife. ‘We do not need outsiders meddling in our affairs …’

‘Help me, Guido,’ snapped Eulalia. ‘Do not stand there bragging like some great oaf when your brother lies bleeding.’