A Summer of Discontent

It was noon by the time they had walked back to Ely, informed Alan that they had located his missing hosteller, and dispatched Cynric and five sturdy lay-brothers to fetch him back. Michael retired to the refectory, but had barely finished his repast when de Lisle summoned him, demanding to know the details of William’s death and the implications of the discovery for the case. The Bishop was not pleased to learn that it meant little other than that the hosteller was probably not the murderer.

Symon was still missing, and it seemed no one had set eyes on him since he had visited the infirmarian early that morning. Alan was embarrassed to admit that he had no idea where his monk had gone, although Bartholomew sensed his concern did not yet stretch to actual worry. The Prior offered to open the library himself, so that Bartholomew could use it, but the physician was unable to concentrate on work, feeling as though the case was gaining momentum, and that soon something would happen that would determine its outcome. He tried reading, but his attention wandered and he kept staring across the leafy cemetery instead of at the words on the page in front of him.

He went to bed early that evening, exhausted by the day’s events and by the inadequate sleep snatched the previous two nights. He rose late, long after prime had ended, feeling refreshed but uneasy, as if he sensed that something significant would happen that day. He set out to find Symon, but then saw Welles emerging from the library. Henry had charged his assistant to hunt out Galen’s De Urinis for a lecture he planned to deliver to his apprentices later that day, so Bartholomew seized the opportunity to slip inside. He suspected that Symon would never have granted him access on the Sabbath, and decided that at least some good had come of the librarian’s continued absence.

According to Welles, no one was unduly concerned for Symon’s safety: the man was permitted a considerable degree of freedom in order to purchase new books for the library, although Welles was unable to say whether the collection was expanding as a result. However, he did know that Symon seized with alacrity every opportunity to disappear for a few days. Bartholomew regarded the novice thoughtfully, wondering whether he and Michael should walk upriver again, to see whether they could find any more corpses to add to their collection. He suggested as much to Michael, who promptly sent Cynric and Meadowman on that particular errand, while Michael himself began routine interviews of each of the priory’s monks, in the vain hope that one of them might know something pertinent that he was willing to share.

Freed from helping Michael, Bartholomew lingered in the library all morning, then helped Henry set a cordwainer’s broken leg during the afternoon. He returned to his books at about four o’clock, when the day still sizzled under an unrelenting sun. Even the restless old men were sleeping soundly, exhausted by the heat, and Bartholomew found himself still unable to concentrate as the sun heated the room to furnace levels.

At last he gave up, and wandered aimlessly around the town in search of somewhere cool. Because it was Sunday, the town was busy with people walking to and from church. Officially, labour was forbidden on the Sabbath, but exceptions were made during harvest, so the atmosphere in the city did not feel much different from other days. He saw de Lisle leaving a meeting with Michael, limping heavily, as though in pain. Moments later, Julian walked past, both hands to the small of his back as though he were trying to rub away an ache. The novice dropped his hands to his sides as soon as he became aware that he was the object of Bartholomew’s interested scrutiny, and hurried away.

Bartholomew met Eulalia, who was carrying an enormous pitcher of the weak ale called stegman, evidently intended for the men in the fields. She moved slowly, as though she had been working all day and was beginning to flag. Her face lit up when she saw Bartholomew, and her gait was suddenly more sprightly. She gave him a grin with her small white teeth, and her dark eyes sparkled with pleasure.

‘Matthew! I have not seen you for a while. You still have not collected your black resin from me. It is in my cart, waiting for you.’

‘I have been busy. But I am not busy now. Can I walk with you for a while, and carry your bucket?’

She shook her head. ‘The priory may refuse to pay me if someone reports that you have been helping. But perhaps you can come this evening, when work is over. We cannot compete with the fine fare offered by the monastery, but we have strong wine, wholesome bread, fish caught illegally from the river this very morning by Rosel, and pleasant music.’