A Summer of Discontent

‘It seems very old,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Perhaps it is valuable.’

‘It may be, I suppose,’ said Michael, regarding it disparagingly. ‘It is a little gaudy for my taste. I do not like bright colours in my books. That is for men who cannot read, like Thomas.’

But when they returned to the infirmary, Thomas was sleeping, and Bartholomew would not allow Michael to wake him. Still troubled by the notion that he was responsible for the man’s condition, Michael deferred to his friend’s opinion, and wandered away to spend the evening with Prior Alan. Bartholomew offered to spend the second half of the night watching over Thomas. Reluctantly, Henry acknowledged that he could not tend Thomas all night and his elderly patients during the day, and agreed to wake the physician at two o’clock. When he took Bartholomew’s shoulder and shook it, the bell was ringing for nocturns. Henry’s eyes were heavy and he seemed grateful to be going to his own bed.

Bartholomew went into the hall and lit a candle, intending to pass the night by reading Philaretus’s De Pulsibus. The infirmary was as silent as the grave. One of the old men occasionally cried out, and Roger and Ynys were sleepless and gazed into the darkness, lost in their memories. Thomas’s sleep was unnaturally deep, but his breathing was little more than a whisper, not even enough to vibrate the mounds of fat that billowed around him. Bartholomew studied the grey, exhausted face and wondered whether the sub-prior would see another morning.

When dawn came, it was with a blaze of colour. The sky lightened gradually, then distant clouds were painted grey, orange and pink, and finally gold. Henry awoke and came hurrying to Thomas’s bedside, smiling a prayer when he saw the fat sub-prior still lived. There were lines under Henry’s eyes that suggested he had slept badly, but he was still cheerful and patient with the old men. Bartholomew offered to sit with Thomas while Henry attended prime, not at all disappointed to miss another volume competition in the cathedral.

When Henry returned, Julian and Welles were with him, carrying the dishes and baskets that contained the old men’s breakfasts. There was a large pot of warm oatmeal, enriched with cream and enough salt to make an ocean envious, the inevitable wheat-bread, some tiny cubes of boiled chicken and a bowl of candied fruits thick with honey from the priory’s beehives. Bartholomew saw Julian slide a slice of peach into his own mouth when he thought no one was looking.

‘Your own meal will be ready soon,’ he remarked, suspecting that the sickly fruits were the most popular item with the old men.

Julian treated him to a hostile sneer. ‘These are wasted on those old corpses in there! You might as well give them dung — they would never know the difference.’

‘Julian!’ exclaimed Welles, his normally smiling face dismayed. He was busy spearing chicken with the masonry nail Bartholomew had seen him use in the refectory before Thomas was taken ill, arranging the cubes in an appetising pile on one side of a platter. ‘That is a vile thing to say.’

‘But I would know the difference,’ said Henry sternly, as he ladled oatmeal into wooden bowls. ‘And if I catch you trying to feed my old friends anything unpleasant, you will have me to answer to.’

‘He would not really try to feed them dung,’ began Welles, loyally defensive of his classmate. His words petered out when he saw from the expression on Julian’s face that he might.

A loud thumping from the library above made them all glance upward.

‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Henry in astonishment. ‘Symon is at work already, and the sun has only just risen. That is unusual.’

‘I expect one of the priory’s guests has demanded to use the books, and he feels obliged to make at least some pretence at caring for them,’ said Welles.

Bartholomew was unimpressed to see that even the novices knew about and condemned the appalling state of the library, and yet Prior Alan was still not prepared to replace the man with someone competent.

‘Bishop Northburgh, actually,’ came a voice from behind them. They were all startled to see Symon framed in the doorway. ‘And I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Welles, or I shall tell the Prior about your insolence.’

‘Why does Northburgh want to use the library?’ asked Henry. ‘He is supposed to be dedicating his time to solving these murders.’

‘I imagine he wants to scour the medical texts to learn about elixirs that will make him young again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In case you fail to provide him with one.’

Henry grimaced. ‘Prior Alan should never have agreed to those terms. He has put me in an impossible situation.’

‘You should let me try a few things on him,’ offered Julian, selecting a knife used for paring fruit and fingering the blade meaningfully. ‘I am prepared to use more imaginative methods than you are.’