A Summer of Discontent

‘So what were that trio doing among the reeds to have warranted all that belligerence?’ asked Michael, walking to where the three men had been working, and peering into the inky darkness of the river. There was nothing to see. One of them had dropped the torch he had been using and it still burned. Bartholomew picked it up and looked around carefully, but there was nothing to suggest why they had been so reluctant to be caught.

‘This may sound ridiculous, but when the first one lunged at me, I half supposed that we had stumbled on Mackerell’s murder taking place,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Why did you think that?’

‘Because so many people know we are meeting him — the pot-boy at the Mermaid, Tysilia, William and the Bishop — that I wondered whether someone might try to reach him first and ensure that he follows in the footsteps of Glovere and the others: floating face-down in the river with a fatal slit in the back of his neck.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You will probably find that Mackerell had no intention of meeting us in the first place. Why should he? He will be safer hiding in the Fens.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I would not like to think that Mackerell lies dead because we spoke to him.’

‘He is not dead, Brother. If I raise this torch, you can see clear across to the other side of the river. There is no corpse floating here.’

‘I have no idea what is going on in this town, Matt,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But I intend to find out. No one gets the better of the Senior Proctor and his trusted associate. We shall solve this mess, Matt. You mark my words!’

Chapter 6

Thursdays were market day in Ely, and work started early. The hum of voices, the rattle of carts along the streets and the whinnying of horses could be heard long before it was light, and Bartholomew had the sense that the city had barely slept the night before. He certainly felt as though he had not: old Roger in the infirmary had had a difficult night, and Bartholomew and Brother Henry had managed to sleep only in fits and starts. By the time the first glimmerings of dawn appeared, the infirmarian looked as heavy-eyed and weary as Bartholomew felt. With dawn came peaceful sleep for Roger, and the two physicians left Julian watching over him while they went for some fresh air. They strolled around the marketplace, watching the frenetic activity taking place in the half-light as stall owners struggled to raise bright awnings over their shops and arrange their offerings in a way that they hoped would prove irresistible to buyers.

Bartholomew looked around him. There were butchers’ stalls with colourfully plumaged waterfowl hanging by their feet, and bloody hunks of meat already beginning to attract flies as well as paying customers. Hares were common at the Cambridge market, but they were rare in the Fens, and there was not one to be seen. There was plenty of fish, though, displayed in neat, glistening rows: the shiny black-skinned eels that were so famous in the area, trout and a grotesquely large pike hanging across one counter, its ugly head dangling just above the mud of the street.

Bakers and pie-sellers provided more sweetly fragrant wares, and baskets of loaves of all qualities and shapes were carefully stacked, along with cakes and pastries for those able to afford more than the basic necessities of life.

Food was not all that was for sale. Ely was a thriving city, and boasted its own pottery and a lucrative rope-making industry. Pots with a beautiful blue glaze were displayed by one proud craftsman, while others sold the unglazed, functional utensils that were present in every kitchen — large jugs for milk, great cauldrons for stews, and dishes for serving meat and fish. The rope-makers’ stalls were piled with huge coils of cord in every thickness imaginable; some of extra strength were used by builders for their pulleys, while others were silky and delicate and were used to lace shirts and bodices.

There was livestock, too. Squealing pigs, frightened calves and milling sheep were locked in pens at one end of the marketplace, while flocks of geese, ducks and squawking chickens weaved in and out of the legs of the busy stall holders. Loud human voices added to the general noise and confusion. In one corner, spices from distant and little-known lands were on sale, and the exotic aroma of cinnamon and cloves almost, but not quite, dispelled the overpowering smell of warm manure from the animals. Dogs sniffed the soft mat of rotting straw and dung underfoot, occasionally excavating something they deemed edible.