A Summer of Discontent

‘The sack looked the lighter of the two, and I thought you would come to no harm on all that soft wheat anyway.’

‘Most of it is grit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No wonder so many people in Ely have broken teeth, if they eat bread made from this rubbish.’

Michael leaned down and ran a handful of the grain through his fingers, his eyes round with surprise. ‘The lay-brothers should have been more careful with what they accepted. Alan will not be pleased when he learns that most of the tithes comprise gravel.’

‘True. And he will never know who gave it to him, either.’

‘He will if all the sacks are like this,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Let us hope that only one farmer has been so rash as to try to cheat the priory. But I do not like it in here, Matt. We should go outside to see what you have found.’

Bartholomew was grateful to be out in the sunshine. Michael’s habit was covered in chaff, and no amount of brushing seemed to remove it. Bartholomew took off his tunic and gave it a vigorous shake, disgusted by the dust that billowed from it. He was even more disgusted to see how much stuck to his body, but supposed it would come off when he had cooled down.

He sat next to Michael in the shade and watched the monk struggle to untie the thongs that fastened the sack’s neck. It was secured very tightly, and it was some time before it could be unravelled. When it was finally open, Michael up-ended it on to the ground. With a clank and a clatter, three objects rolled out. The first was a handsome silver chalice that appeared to have come from the high altar of a church.

‘Has a theft of religious vessels been reported in the city recently?’ asked Bartholomew, picking it up and polishing it on his tunic.

Michael shook his head and reached for the second object — a small pouch. He opened it, and bright coins rolled into the palm of his hand. They were gold nobles and he counted twenty of them — a total of ten marks.

‘Ten marks is what William took,’ said Bartholomew, regarding his friend soberly. ‘Or it is what Thomas told us William requisitioned from the hosteller’s fund.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘That had not escaped my attention, either.’

The third object was perhaps the most puzzling. It was a neat white package, similar — if not identical — to the one they had seen Thomas secreting away the night before.

‘Well,’ said Michael, picking it up and turning it over in his hand. ‘Is this Thomas’s property, do you think?’

‘It looks the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But does that mean Thomas took William’s money and hid them here together?’

‘Or does it mean that William took or was given this package before he decided to flee with all his belongings?’

‘Then why did he leave them behind?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I am sure ten marks would come in useful for a man on the run, especially if he does not intend to return.’

‘I do see how he can return. Stealing monastery property is not something most priors look kindly on. No, Matt. If William has gone, and his missing belongings suggest that he has, then he will not be coming back.’

‘But what about his gold? Why leave it? The barn was only a temporary hiding place, because the grain will be used by the end of the year. It is not as if he can come back for it whenever he likes.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I wish Thomas could speak! A few sentences from him would probably solve all these mysteries.’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm suddenly. ‘He may not be able to speak, but he can write! That will suffice — we shall have our answers after all!’

‘You heard Robert goading him the other day,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Thomas is virtually illiterate. I suggested he wrote down what he wanted to say as soon as we discovered he could not speak, and I tried very hard to make sense of his scrawl. I thought paralysis was causing the problem, but Henry told me that he barely knows his alphabet.’

‘I forgot about his lack of skills in that direction,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘It has always been something of a scandal, actually — that a man should rise so high in our Order and the Church without being able to spell his name. Damn it all! I thought for a moment that we might have had our solution.’

‘Not from Thomas. But perhaps we can show him these objects, and see from his reaction whether they are his or William’s.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘At least we do not have to walk along the river today. It will be too late by the time we finish with Thomas.’

‘What is in the parcel?’

Michael opened it carefully. It was tied with fine twine and sealed with a line of red wax. It was not large, perhaps the size of a small book. And once Michael had carefully removed the wrapping from the package, he saw that was exactly what it was.

‘It is a book of hours,’ he said, puzzled. ‘Is that all? I expected a letter from the King, or something far more interesting.’

Bartholomew took it from him, and flicked quickly through it to see whether any passages had been marked that might be significant. But there was nothing.