A Summer of Discontent

‘But they will not miraculously provide him with a youthful complexion,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And that is what he wants — not merely something that might help. He is demanding the impossible.’

‘I suspect you are right, but I shall have to do my best. Alan is determined to have the chapel Northburgh promised, so I am under some pressure to do all I can. Anyway, there is always cucumber to experiment with, and garlic if I get desperate.’ He sounded despondent.

‘Surgery is the only solution for Northburgh’s loose jowls,’ said Bartholomew flippantly. ‘You will need to take a knife to all that dangling skin and slice it off, just as Julian suggested.’

Henry regarded him aghast. ‘That is a horrible idea, Matt! It makes you sound like a surgeon! I shall stick to my poultices and pastes, if you do not mind. At least in that way I will not kill him with my remedies.’

‘Vanity has its price,’ said Bartholomew, watching Henry add the leaves to a flask of water.

‘Welles heard that there were yet more burglaries in the city last night,’ said Henry conversationally, shaking the container to mix his ingredients. ‘Agnes Fitzpayne first, and then poor Master Barbour of the Lamb Inn again. Obviously, the thieves decided they had not relieved him of everything the first time around.’

‘He announced that the thieves were unsuccessful,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Barbour’s confidential bellow when they had found Robert’s body at the Monks’ Hythe two days before. ‘He boasted that he had hidden his night’s takings under the floorboards, and that the burglars had not found them.’

‘Who heard him?’ asked Henry curiously. ‘Because whoever knew about his hiding place should be a suspect for this theft from him.’

‘Lots of people. Many of the priory’s monks, including Alan and Symon, de Lisle and his steward, Lady Blanche and her retinue, Leycestre and his seditious nephews, the gypsies …’

‘The gypsies,’ mused Henry thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that was why they were in the cathedral last night — praying for forgiveness for the thefts they had just committed, or for the success of the crimes they intended to carry out?’

‘Or possibly neither,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he intended.

Henry patted his arm with a self-effacing smile. ‘I am sorry; I should not jump to that kind of conclusion. You have been warning the townsfolk against blaming strangers for all our misfortunes ever since you arrived, and you are right. I apologise.’

Bartholomew smiled, but Henry’s comments had left a lingering doubt in his mind. Eulalia had been distinctly evasive when he had asked her about the thefts, and when she had given him a direct answer, he had not known whether to believe her. He took a deep breath and stood up.

‘You look tired,’ said Henry sympathetically, watching him. ‘Take the advice of a physician, and do not overly exert yourself today.’

‘But you seem better than you were a little earlier,’ observed Bartholomew. ‘You were lethargic and wan when we first started talking; now you have some colour and exude energy.’

‘I took a tonic of boiled red wine with poppy juice and crushed hemp leaves not long ago. I give it to patients with nervous complaints, and it always works — now I have taken a dose myself, I can see why. I cannot afford to be listless and distracted when I have patients to tend. I do not want a second death on my conscience.’

‘Hemp?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘How did you come by that? It is a powerful substance, and I seldom use it, because my patients always demand more. In large quantities it is dangerous.’

‘I bought some from a merchant who said it came from the Holy Land. But if your patients come clamouring for more, then you use too much, Matthew. A tiny pinch mixed with wine and poppy juice is the best tonic I know — but, as you say, it is only to be used infrequently and certainly not in the quantities in which Bishop Northburgh quaffs it. Perhaps you should take some now. It will allow you to fulfil your duties today without making the mistakes that often stem from over-tiredness.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not want to develop a liking for hemp.’

‘One dose will not result in a craving for more. You should try it, so that you understand why men like Northburgh praise its virtues.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew accepted a minuscule amount of Henry’s tonic, his bone-deep exhaustion making him disinclined to argue. He was surprised to find the infirmarian was right, and that it did indeed serve to dispel the sluggishness that had been dogging him since he had awoken. There was also a vague sense of well-being, which he supposed was why people tended to want more of it. He watched Henry seal the container, then replace it on a high shelf that was thick with dust. He hoped it was sufficiently high to evade the eager hands of the Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield.

‘Northburgh drinks a lot of this, you say?’ he asked.