A Summer of Discontent

‘It is too warm for running. Besides, I did not think there was any hurry.’

‘Well, I have had enough of this,’ said Michael irritably. ‘We will go to the Quay, to see whether any of the bargemen there have seen Mackerell today, and then I am going to bed.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Bartholomew, deciding not to mention the incident outside the Lamb while Michael was in such a bellicose frame of mind. The monk would assume Bartholomew had gone looking for Eulalia, blithely abandoning him to a lonely sojourn in a deserted vineyard. Since Bartholomew was not in the mood for an argument, he elected to tell Michael about the gypsies’ altercation with Leycestre later, preferably after the monk had eaten and was in good humour.

They walked the short distance to the Quay, listening to the sounds of the night — the rumble of voices from the taverns, the barking of a dog and the faint hiss of reeds in the wind. The air had the distinct tang of salt in it, overlain with a powerful fishy odour. Gulls paddled silently in the river’s shallows, ducking and pecking at the water as they ate their fill of the refuse that had been dumped there. When Bartholomew and Michael reached the Quay, a tiny prick of light implied that someone was working late near the barges. Michael strolled up to it.

‘Has anyone seen Mackerell?’ he asked.

What happened next was a blur. One of the figures turned slowly, then swung out viciously with what appeared to be a hammer. Michael jerked backwards, so that it missed his face, but he lost his balance and, after a few moments of violently whirling arms, toppled backward to land heavily among a pile of crates. With an almighty clatter, the crates fell and crashed around him, while the monk covered his head with his hands.

Bartholomew darted to his aid, but found himself confronted by three men, who seemed convinced that he was in their way. They rushed him in a body before he could reach into his medicine bag and draw one of the knives he carried. All four went thudding to the ground, and Bartholomew laid blindly about him with his fists, not really able to see and only knowing that anyone near him was not a friend. He grazed his knuckles several times, although whether his blows landed on a person or on the sacks of grain over which they struggled he could not tell.

The first of his assailants broke free and ran. The others followed, and Bartholomew leapt spectacularly on to the back of one in an attempt to prevent him from escaping. The man was larger than Bartholomew had anticipated; all at once he started spinning around, so that the physician lost his grip and went flying to land on Michael. He heard a hammering of receding footsteps as the last of them fled.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Bartholomew, climbing off the monk and peering into the darkness. There was little point in giving chase: he could not see, and he did not know the area well enough to guess where the three men might have gone.

‘No thanks to you,’ muttered Michael ungraciously, reaching out and using Bartholomew to haul himself to his feet. His weight was enormous, and the physician almost fell a second time. ‘You should have landed on those bags of wheat or the crates. You did not have to aim for me. You are heavy, Matt!’

‘I needed something soft to fall on,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at the monk’s vehemence. ‘But did you see their faces? They were not the gypsies, because I saw them only a few moments ago, heading in the opposite direction.’

‘They could have doubled back,’ said Michael. ‘Are you sure it was not them?’

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But Rosel has a cut head, and I do not think any of our attackers were swathed in bandages.’

‘He could have taken it off since you last saw him,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And then they could have followed you here. There are three brothers, and three men attacked us.’

‘But these people fought us because we disturbed them at something,’ Bartholomew reasoned. ‘They were not lying in wait for us.’

‘They did not really fight, either,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘They pushed and struggled. No weapons were drawn, or you would have been a dead man. And they had all been drinking.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘How do you know that?’

Michael tapped his nose. ‘The smell, Matt. They had beer on their breath. They may not have been drunk, but they had certainly enjoyed a jug of ale.’

‘That does not help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Virtually every man in the city seems to have been in a tavern this evening. I even saw Almoner Robert and Symon the librarian in a secluded alcove of the Bell. Mackerell, you and I are probably the only ones to have abstained tonight.’