Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

The three men were heavy-set fellows who sported closely cropped hair and a week’s growth of beard that made them appear disreputable. One of them stared at Cynric, his eyes wide with childlike terror, and Bartholomew saw that although he possessed the strong body of man, his mind was that of an infant. The woman moved closer to him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder to silence the beginnings of a fearful whimper. She was tall and, although Bartholomew would not have described her as pretty, there was a certain attractiveness in the strength of her dark features.

‘There is no need for further violence,’ she said in French that held traces of the language of the south. ‘You can see we are unarmed. Just take what you want and let us be on our way. We have no wish to do battle with robbers.’

Michael gaped at her. ‘It may have escaped your notice, madam, but you were shooting at us , not the other way around.’

The man who was still perilously close to the tip of Cynric’s knife turned angry eyes on the monk. He was the largest of the three, and had a hard-bitten look about him, as if he was used to settling matters with his fists. He wore a peculiar gold-coloured cap that was newer and of a much higher quality than his other clothes. Bartholomew wondered whether he had stolen it, since it seemed at odds with the rest of his clothing.

‘That is a lie!’ Gold-Hat shouted furiously. ‘We heard you coming, so we hid in the undergrowth to wait for you to pass. Then your servants spotted us and immediately drew their weapons.’

‘That is not what happened!’ exclaimed Michael, astonished. ‘We were riding along in all innocence, when you started loosing crossbow bolts at us.’

‘You fired first,’ said the woman firmly. ‘We are not robbers.’

‘You look like robbers,’ said Meadowman bluntly. He inspected their clothes with the uneasy, disparaging curiosity of an untravelled man encountering something with which he was unfamiliar.

‘I will not stand here and listen to this–’ began Gold-Hat angrily, and rather rashly, given that Cynric’s dagger still hovered dangerously close to his neck. The woman silenced him with a wave of her hand – although the prod of Cynric’s weapon may also have had something to do with the sudden cessation of furious words – and turned to Michael, addressing him in a controlled and reasonable tone of voice.

‘We are respectable folk, who have come to Ely to hire out our services for the harvest. The priory owns a great deal of land and casual labour is always in demand at this time of year. We are not outlaws.’ She looked Michael up and down as if she thought the same could not be said for him.

‘Do I look like the kind of man to rob fellow travellers?’ demanded Michael, tapping his chest to indicate his Benedictine habit. ‘I am a monk!’

‘Why do you imagine that exonerates you?’ asked the woman in what seemed to be genuine confusion. ‘In my experience, there are few folk more adept at stealing from the poor than men of the Church.’

‘That is certainly true,’ muttered Cynric, sheathing his weapon. Gold-Hat immediately moved away from him, rubbing his neck where the blade had nicked it and glowering at the Welshman in a way that indicated he would be only too willing to restart the fight.

‘No harm has been done,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Michael bristle with indignation. Arguing about who was or who was not a robber in the middle of the Fens was a pointless exercise, and the longer they lingered, the greater were the chances that they might all fall victim to a real band of brigands. ‘There was a misunderstanding: few people can hide successfully from Cynric, and he mistook your caution for hostile intent. I suggest we acknowledge that we were lucky no one was hurt, and go our separate ways.’

‘Very well,’ said the woman stiffly. ‘I suppose my brothers and I can agree to overlook this incident. As I said, we are honest folk, and only want to go about our lawful business.’

‘And what “lawful business” would see you skulking all the way out here?’ demanded Michael tartly. ‘The priory has no fields to be harvested so far from Ely.’

‘We are only a mile or two from the city,’ protested Gold-Hat, still rubbing his throat. ‘And we are not obliged to explain ourselves to you anyway.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Four people in the Fens with a crossbow? It seems to me that you were thinking to fill tonight’s cooking pot with one of my Prior’s ducks. Or perhaps a fish.’

Gold-Hat pursed his lips, but said nothing, and Bartholomew suspected that Michael was right. There had been no need for people with honest intentions to hide in the undergrowth, and doubtless it had been Michael’s Benedictine habit that had prompted them to make themselves scarce. Had the sharp-eyed Cynric not been with them, Bartholomew and Michael probably would have passed by without noticing anything amiss, and the encounter would never have taken place.

‘Walk with us to Ely,’ the physician suggested pleasantly, determined to avoid any further confrontation. The Fens were full of fish and fowl, and he was sure the Prior would not miss the few that ended up in the stomachs of hungry people. However, he saw that Michael could hardly leave the gypsies where they were, knowing that they fully intended to steal from his monastery.

The woman regarded him soberly for a moment, then nodded reluctant agreement, apparently accepting this was the only way to terminate the encounter without either side losing face. She turned to stride along the causeway, indicating with a nod of her head that her companions were to follow. Bartholomew took the reins of his horse and walked with her, more to ensure she did not antagonise Michael than for the want of further conversation with her. Meanwhile, Cynric placed himself tactfully between the three brothers and Michael, leaving the monk to mutter and grumble with Meadowman at the rear.

‘Where are you from?’ Bartholomew asked the woman, thinking it would be more pleasant to talk than to stride along in a strained silence. ‘Spain?’

She glanced at him, as if trying to determine his motive for asking such a question. ‘I was born in Barcelona,’ she replied brusquely. ‘You will not know it; it is a long way away.’

‘I spent a winter there once,’ he replied, thinking back to when he had been a student and had travelled much of the continent in the service of his Arab master, learning the skills that would make him a physician. ‘It is a pretty place, with a fine cathedral dedicated to St Eulalia.’

She gazed at him in surprise, and then said thoughtfully, ‘I see from your robes that you are a physician, so I suppose you may have travelled a little. But, although I was born in Spain, my clan do not stay in one city for long. I have moved from place to place all my life.’

‘Do you like that?’ Bartholomew asked, certain that he would not. While life at Michaelhouse could be bleak, and Cambridge was often violent and always dirty, he liked having a room that he could call home. He recalled from his travels that he had loved the summer months, when he had wandered through exciting and exotic places, but that the enjoyment had palled considerably once winter had come. Sleeping in the open was no fun when there was snow in the air and hungry wolves howled all night.

She shrugged. ‘It is all I know.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him, where her brothers slouched three-abreast more closely than was comfortable. The slack-jawed lad seemed contented enough, but the other two were sullen and brooding, and clearly resented being deprived of their illicit dinner. Behind Cynric, Michael rode with his stout wooden staff clutched firmly in one meaty hand, as though he did not trust the would-be robbers to refrain from further mischief.