A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew knelt next to her and examined Rosel’s head in the faint light that filtered through the open windows of the tavern. It was only a scalp wound, which bled vigorously although there was little serious damage. He applied a goose-grease salve, and delighted Rosel by wrapping the boy’s head in a bandage made from strips of white linen. Once the blood had been removed and he had an impressive dressing to show for his discomfort, Rosel made a miraculous recovery, and pulled away from Eulalia’s anxious embrace to join his brothers.

‘Goran is right,’ Eulalia said, watching the three of them stagger unsteadily towards their camp. ‘We would not have bested that crowd. Leycestre’s blood was up, and he had encouraged his cronies to do us harm.’

‘He thinks you are responsible for the burglaries,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And the murders,’ added Eulalia ruefully. ‘But I can assure you that we are not. Guido may seem like a fighter, but he is a coward at heart.’

‘Is he a thief?’

She gave him a grin full of teeth that gleamed white in the moonlight. ‘Who is not?’

‘A good many people, I hope,’ replied Bartholomew, rather primly.

‘Then your understanding of human nature is sadly flawed. There is not a living soul — saints excluded — who has not taken an apple from someone else’s tree or “borrowed” some unwanted thing that he has no intention of returning. Guido is no different from anyone else.’

Bartholomew stared at her, not sure what she was saying with her philosophical commentary. ‘So, did he commit these burglaries or not?’ he asked.

She smiled and shook her head, so that he did not know whether her answer was that of course he had, or whether the notion of burglary was so ludicrous that she could not even bring herself to reply to such a charge.

‘Do you know Lady Blanche?’ he asked at last, seeing he would gain no more information on that matter — at least, none that he was able to interpret.

‘Of course I do,’ she replied casually. ‘She dines with us most Sundays on hedgehogs and acorns. What a ridiculous question, Matthew! How would we know such a person?’

‘Because I saw her with you yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, hoping that an honest approach would be more likely to gain honest answers.

She gazed at him. ‘Do you mean in the Mermaid Inn? Are you talking about the person with the hood who was with us? That was Goran.’

‘Then why did he look as though he was trying to disguise himself?’ pressed Bartholomew, unconvinced.

‘Because of men like Leycestre,’ said Eulalia, her voice suddenly harsh. ‘Like me, Goran is tired of being accused of things he did not do.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew gently. He sensed he was wrong to question Eulalia about her brothers’ affairs: he was only making her think that everyone in the town believed the accusations, even those who attempted to befriend them.

‘You have not collected your black resin yet,’ she said, smiling at him in the moonlight, her irritation apparently forgotten. ‘Will you come for it now?’

Bartholomew gazed at the invitation in her dark eyes, and was already walking down the Heyrow with her when it occurred to him that Michael would be wondering why he had not returned.

‘Damn!’ he muttered, stopping in his tracks. ‘Michael is waiting for me.’

‘Let him wait,’ suggested Eulalia. ‘He does not look like the kind of man who would stand in the way of a friend’s enjoyment.’

‘He is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But there is a killer on the loose and a bishop who will grow more dangerous the longer he is cornered. I had better go.’

‘Please yourself,’ she said, clearly disappointed. ‘But remember that you are always welcome at our fire.’

‘Your brothers might not be so hospitable,’ said Bartholomew ruefully, glancing down the dark road to where the trio lurched homewards. ‘Guido dislikes me.’

‘He will do as I ask,’ said Eulalia confidently. ‘He needs me a good deal more than I need him. I might have been king if he had not been my elder.’

‘Can women be kings?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that rough men like Guido and Goran might be prepared to accept the rule of a woman.

‘Of course,’ she replied, as surprised by the question as he was by the answer. ‘I told you that “king” is a poor translation of the word. But they will wonder what we are up to, if I linger here much longer. Do not wait too long before taking me up on my offer.’

‘Black resin?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Black resin,’ she agreed as she walked away.

Bartholomew retraced his steps along the darkened streets, swearing under his breath as he tripped and stumbled over potholes and other irregularities. He had been some time, and hoped Mackerell had appeared in his absence and that Michael had the man safely ensconced in the Prior’s cells. But Mackerell had not arrived, and Michael was fretting by the gate.

‘I was beginning to worry about you, too,’ the monk complained angrily, when Bartholomew reached him. ‘What have you been doing? It only takes a few moments to run to the Mermaid and back.’