A Summer of Discontent

They walked briskly to the back of the cathedral, where the rope had been stretched between two stools as a frail barrier to prevent people from entering the north-west transept. Fresh rubble on the floor indicated that there had been another recent fall. Bartholomew glanced up and saw that an angel he had observed a few days before was leaning at an even more precarious angle, and that one or two gargoyles looked as though the merest breath would be sufficient to send them crashing to the ground below. Even as they watched, a shower of plaster and a few larger flakes drifted downwards, like a sudden flurry of snow.

‘Come on, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, pulling the monk away. ‘It is not safe here.’

‘You are right!’ said Michael, casting a nervous glance back to St Etheldreda’s shrine.

* * *

Bartholomew wanted to talk to Henry, Symon, Welles, Julian and the old men, to see whether anyone could recall any small detail about the death of Thomas that might allow them to trace the killer. However, Michael declined to do anything until he had eaten, claiming that the near encounter with Tysilia had unsettled him, and that he needed food to calm his nerves. It was still early, and the brethren milled around the refectory door, waiting for it to open. Looking critically at them, Bartholomew decided that a missed meal would do many of them a lot of good: Benedictines were a contemplative Order, and sitting around thinking about God did little for their waistlines. Because Ely was a wealthy cathedral-priory with a large number of servants and lay-brothers, few of the brethren were obliged to work in the fields, except as penance, and the effects of lack of exercise and a surfeit of rich food was very apparent.

Delicious smells emanated from behind the doors — freshly baked bread, roasted parsnips, fish (because it was Friday) and the obligatory pea pottage. These rich aromas mingled pleasantly with the scents of summer, and mown grass, flowers and warm earth reminded Bartholomew of the abbey school he had attended in Peterborough.

Henry was not among the men who thronged impatiently outside the refectory. The novices were there, however, and Julian, Welles and Bukton stood chatting together nearby. Julian informed Bartholomew that the infirmarian was taking his meal with Roger, because the old man had expressed a desire for company.

‘I do not suppose it crossed your mind to dine with him?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

Julian shook his head vehemently. ‘It did not! I prefer eating here, with men of my own age. I have no wish to feed with dribbling ancients, who ask me to slice up their peas every few moments. But it occurred to Henry, and he offered my services to Roger. I was not pleased, I can tell you!’

‘I am sure you were not,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘So what are you doing here, if you are supposed to be with Roger?’

‘Roger said he would prefer Henry to me, actually,’ said Julian, looking away, uninterested by the discussion. ‘I cannot imagine why. All Henry wants to talk about is medicine, and what a good thing it is to make people well again. Boring!’

‘Brother Henry is the best man in the priory,’ declared Welles hotly, fists clenching. ‘He is kind and sweet-tempered, and you have no right to say unpleasant things about him!’

‘I agree,’ said Bukton, equally angry. ‘Henry cured me when I had marsh ague last year. He is like a father to us novices, so just watch what you say about him.’

Sensibly, Julian said no more on the matter. Bartholomew suspected that if he had, he might well have been punched. In a priory full of unkind men, the gentle Henry provided a much-needed haven and he was loved for it. Bartholomew glanced at Michael and saw that he entirely concurred with the novices’ sentiments, and that he also owed a debt of gratitude to the man who had befriended him in his youth.

‘I saw you two slipping into the infirmary after breakfast this morning,’ Michael remarked casually to Julian and Welles.

‘So?’ demanded Julian insolently. ‘We work in the infirmary — unfortunately. We are supposed to be there.’

‘They dallied in the refectory after breakfast,’ said Bukton helpfully. ‘In the end, Prior Alan made them go to work.’

Julian shot him an unpleasant look for his tale-telling, then turned to Michael. ‘I did not kill Thomas, if that is what you are thinking. I did not even go into the chamber where he was resting. I went straight to the workshop and started my chores.’

Bartholomew glanced at the faces of Julian’s fellow novices and saw a gamut of emotions there. Some seemed impressed that Julian should be under suspicion for removing a much-detested member of the community; others appeared to be uneasy at the thought that Julian might commit such a crime.

‘I did not kill him, either,’ said Welles, worried that Julian’s denial might result in the accusation passing to him. ‘I did not stay in the hospital — I collected a basket and then left through the other door to buy fruit in the marketplace.’