A Summer of Discontent

As they walked, the final wisps of mist disappeared as the summer sun bathed the marshes in a clean, golden light. The bogs responded by releasing a malodorous stench of baked, rotting vegetation, so strong that it verged on the unbreathable.

‘No wonder so many Ely folk complain of agues in July and August,’ said Bartholomew, taking a deep breath and coughing as the stinking odour caught in his throat. ‘This fetid air must hold all manner of contagions.’

The woman agreed. ‘We visit Ely most summers, and I have never known an area reek so.’

‘How big is your clan?’

She shot him another suspicious glance. ‘There are twenty-one of us, including seven children. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I have not set foot outside Cambridge since last summer, and it is good to meet new people,’ replied Bartholomew with a smile. ‘Did you say your three companions are your brothers?’

She jerked a thumb at the man with the gold hat. ‘He is Guido. He will become king soon.’

‘King?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly, hoping he was not about to be regaled with details of some treasonous plot. There was always someone declaring he had a better right to the English throne than Edward III, but few lived to press their claims for any length of time.

The woman smiled for the first time. ‘It is not a word that translates well. He will become the leader of the clan when our current king dies.’

‘You sound as though you think that will not be long.’

She nodded sadly. ‘Our uncle is becoming more frail every day, and I do not think he will see the harvest completed. Then Guido will take his place.’

Bartholomew glanced at Guido, thinking that the surly giant who glowered resentfully at him would make no kind of ‘king’ for anyone, and especially not for a group of itinerants who needed to secure the goodwill of the people they met. Guido seemed belligerent and loutish; Bartholomew imagined the clan would do better under the rule of the more pleasant and intelligent woman who walked at his side.

‘The others are Goran and Rosel,’ she continued. ‘Rosel is slow-witted, but, to my people, that means he is blessed.’

‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘Why is that?’

‘He has dreams sometimes, which we believe is the way the spirits of our ancestors communicate with us. They have chosen him to voice their thoughts, and that makes him special.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Bartholomew, becoming more interested in the gypsies’ customs.

‘Eulalia.’ She smiled again when she saw the understanding in his face. ‘Yes, I was named for the saint in whose city I was born.’

They continued to talk as they neared Ely. Michael’s staff was still at the ready, and the three brothers were tense and wary, evidently trusting the monk no more than he did them. Cynric began to relax, though, and leaned back comfortably in his saddle with his eyes almost closed. To anyone who did not know him, he appeared half asleep, but Bartholomew knew he would snap into alertness at the first sign of danger — long before anyone else had anticipated the need for action. Next to him, Meadowman had followed Bartholomew’s example and was leading his horse, relieved not to be sitting on it.

Michael took the lead when they reached a shiny, flat expanse of water that had invaded the causeway. His horse objected to putting its feet into the rainbow sheen on its surface, and disliked the sensation of its hoofs sinking into the soft mud. It balked and shied, and only Michael’s superior horsemanship kept the party moving.

Finally, they were on firm ground again — or at least ground that was not under water — and the causeway stretched ahead of them, a great black snake of rutted peat that slashed northwards. Ahead of them stood the bridge that controlled access from the south to the Fens’ most affluent and powerful city. It was manned by soldiers in the pay of the Prior, whose word was law in the area; they were under orders to admit only desirable visitors to his domain. However, because Ely was surrounded by marshes and waterways, anyone with a boat could easily gain entry, and although guards regularly patrolled, there was little they could do to bar unwanted guests.

As they approached the bridge, Bartholomew had a clear view all around him for the first time since leaving Cambridge. There was little to see to the south, west or east, but to the north lay Ely. The massive cathedral, aptly called ‘the ship of the Fens’ by local people, rose out of the bogs ahead. Its crenellated towers, distinguished central octagon and elegant pinnacles pierced the skyline, dominating the countryside around it. It looked to Bartholomew to be floating, as if it were not standing on a small island, but was suspended somehow above the meres and the reeds. He had been to Ely several times before, but this first glimpse of the magnificent Norman cathedral never failed to astound him.