He ignored Michael’s look of warning, and pushed his way past her to leave. Deschalers stepped into his path.
‘You seem more shaken by this affair than the others, Bartholomew,’ he said, waving a hand to where Michael and Julianna watched in anticipation of a confrontation. ‘Even more than old Dame Pelagia. Therefore I will overlook your rudeness. But bear in mind that you owe my niece your life; perhaps she will require a favour in return one day.’
Outside, in the street, Bartholomew waited for Michael with his temper barely under control. Typical merchant, he thought with disgust, seizing every opportunity to turn it to some kind of advantage! His blood ran cold when he considered the kind of return favours Julianna was likely to demand. After a few moments, Michael joined him. Dame Pelagia had been persuaded to take some refreshment with Deschalers and Julianna, while Michael and Bartholomew went alone to perform the unpleasant task of informing Stanmore of the deaths of Egil and Jurnet.
‘You might have been more gracious,’ complained Michael as they walked to Stanmore’s premises next door. ‘You cannot just barge into the houses of the most influential people in the town and yell at them.’
‘I did not yell!’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And I do not care whether they are influential or not. That Julianna is positively gloating about how she killed Egil!’
‘Then let her gloat,’ said Michael pragmatically. ‘She will learn in time that such an attitude is unbecoming, and it cannot harm Egil now.’
Bartholomew took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, and walked through the gates into Stanmore’s yard. The clothier stood in the middle of it, shouting orders to a group of sweating apprentices who were struggling to fit more bales of black cloth onto the top of an already teetering pile. He saw Bartholomew coming towards him and gestured for the weary boys to take a break. Gratefully, they clattered off towards the kitchens in search of food. One hesitated, and watched them uncertainly before following the others. He looked vaguely familiar, but Bartholomew was often in Stanmore’s yard and he had doubtless seen him there before. He thrust it from his mind, and tried to concentrate on finding the right words to break the news about Egil and Jurnet to his brother-in-law.
‘Always hungry,’ said Stanmore, shaking his head indulgently as he watched his apprentices go. ‘Although they have been somewhat listless of late. Perhaps you might have a look at them when you have a moment, Matt. But you are back early – you told Edith that you might be gone for a week. I hope you were not so foolish as to travel the road at night. The Round Church was burgled two nights ago – inside the town itself and right under the noses of the Sheriff’s patrols! These outlaws have grown bold indeed. I trust you took the proper precautions when you travelled–’
‘Your suspicions about the Bishop’s message were right,’ said Bartholomew in a quiet voice, breaking into Stanmore’s tirade. ‘The whole thing was a ploy to get Michael and me out into the Fens and ambush us.’
Stanmore stared at him with his mouth open and Bartholomew continued. ‘Jurnet was killed in the fight and Egil died on the way home.’
He waited. He would not have blamed Stanmore if he had raged and sworn. One of the traits Bartholomew most admired in his relative was the care he took of the people who worked for him, and Bartholomew would have been beside himself if someone had taken Cynric and returned to say that he was dead. Stanmore, however, neither raged nor swore. He took Bartholomew and Michael firmly by the elbows and led them towards the house. Although he did not live there, it was handsomely furnished, and the solar on the upper floor that he used as an office was a pleasant, although cluttered, room. He gestured that they were to sit by the fire and ordered a maid to bring mulled wine.
‘And some bread,’ called Michael opportunistically as the maid left. ‘And perhaps a little cheese and a bit of bacon for a starving and exhausted monk.’
Stanmore sat opposite them and folded his arms. ‘You look dreadful,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I am sorry, Oswald,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Father Paul warned me that the Bishop’s summons was odd; then you and Edith voiced doubts; then Harling expressed fears. But we paid no heed to any of you, and now Egil and Jurnet are dead.’
Oswald reached out to touch him lightly on the knee. ‘I am sure you are not to blame,’ he said gently. ‘Now, put aside your remorse and tell me what occurred.’
Michael began to speak before Bartholomew could collect himself, and gave a reasonably accurate account of the events of the previous two days, omitting reference to his grandmother and to Julianna’s evident satisfaction at having killed Egil. When he had finished, Stanmore sat back and sipped his mulled wine.
‘Smugglers, you say,’ he said, setting down the cup and frowning thoughtfully. ‘It is common knowledge that there are smugglers in the Fens – there have been for years – but I had no idea that they were at the abbey itself.’
‘You know of these smugglers?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘What exactly have you heard?’
‘Not much,’ said Stanmore with a regretful shrug. ‘Goods are brought from France and the Low Countries to the Wash, and then dispersed around the country via the Fens. It is, by all accounts, an easy matter to use the channels there to keep out of the sight of the men who collect the King’s taxes on imported goods. It is nothing new, however, as I said, although I imagine there has been more smuggling this year than last because the mild weather has kept the waterways from freezing. And, of course, taxes are high to finance the King’s wars in France, so contrabanding is a lucrative business.’
‘I thought hostilities with France had ended because of the plague,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from the cup he held in both hands in an attempt to warm them.
Michael and Stanmore looked at him pityingly. ‘The King still has debts to pay and his soldiers’ wages to find,’ said Stanmore.
‘And he still needs to keep his spy network in place,’ continued Michael. ‘Spies are expensive. Then there are officials to bribe, enemies to be deposed and friends to be bought. And although fighting might have temporarily ceased in France, Brittany is still a hotbed of violence and looting.’
‘Sheriff Tulyet told me that bands of Englishmen roam Brittany at the King’s command, ambushing traders, attacking villages and plundering religious houses,’ said Stanmore, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Brittany is an unsafe place to be.’
‘Sounds like the Fens,’ remarked Bartholomew, looking down at the dark wine in his cup.
‘It is curious,’ mused Michael, ‘but Master Deschalers seemed surprised when we told him about the smugglers. Have you not discussed this with the other merchants?’
‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, as though it was obvious. ‘He knows as much as I do – or possibly more, since most of his goods come from the Wash via the river. Most of mine come from the south, and I use the roads not the waterways.’
‘Then why did he deny that he was aware there is smuggling in the Fens?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely he would guess that we would discuss the matter with you, and that you would reveal he knew all about it.’
Stanmore shrugged. ‘Perhaps he thought you would accuse him of being involved if he acknowledged what he knew.’
‘Now that I rethink his actual words, Deschalers did not deny that he was aware of smuggling in the Fens, Matt,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘What he said was that he did not know there was smuggling
‘Do you think it is likely that he is involved in it?’ asked Bartholomew of Stanmore.
Stanmore scratched his head. ‘I really could not say. And anyway, he is a fellow tradesman. It would be very wrong of me to besmirch his reputation with unfounded suspicions.’
‘Your reticence does you credit, Sir Oswald,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘Now, tell us what you suspect, if you please.’
Stanmore leaned back in his chair, and blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, Deschalers has been selling lemons recently. It is possible they came via these smuggling routes. But I have no evidence to support such a claim, and I would rather you did not tell him it was I who put the idea into your heads.’
Bartholomew sensed immediately that he and Michael had stumbled into a trade war. No matter how Stanmore stressed that his relations with his powerful neighbours – Mortimer, Cheney and Deschalers – were friendly, Bartholomew was not fooled. He had spent his childhood in Stanmore’s house, and knew only too well
