A Summer of Discontent

For the first time, Bartholomew regarded Henry with the eyes of a physician, and was angry with himself for not being more observant sooner. Henry had been an amiable and placid fellow, seldom roused to anger, even when he had lads like Julian in his care. But now he was distraught and unstable. Henry had lied when he said his use of hemp was rare: Bartholomew recognised now that Henry was an habitual user, and that the sudden depletion of his supply was largely responsible for the emotionally ravaged figure who stood in front of them now. He saw that Henry might well injure himself in his current state. He stepped towards him, but Ynys was ready with his sword and barred the way.

‘I am doomed!’ cried Henry. ‘I have committed grave sins.’

‘Wait!’ called Michael, as the infirmarian turned and darted out of the hall.

‘Leave him,’ ordered Roger, brandishing his weapon as Michael started to follow.

‘He needs help,’ shouted Bartholomew, trying to dodge past Ynys. Ynys, however, had not forgotten his military training, and came towards the physician with a series of hacking blows. The old man’s face was strangely elated, and Bartholomew imagined that he saw himself young again, about to fell one of the King’s enemies in Scotland or France.

Just when Bartholomew thought he might be struck, Ynys faltered, grabbing at his hip, and his ecstatic expression changed to one of agony. He groaned, then slumped to the ground, where he began to whimper feebly. Bartholomew kicked away the sword, and was about to go to the old man’s assistance when he heard a yell from Michael. Roger had him pinned against a wall and looked determined to make an end of him. Bartholomew leapt towards them, grabbed Roger’s arm and spun him around so that the weapon clattered from his ancient hand. Then he hesitated. He was a physician, and had never struck an elderly patient before. Michael had no such qualms, however. He gave Roger a shove that sent him stumbling on to the bed, then raced after Henry, dragging Bartholomew with him.

Outside, Henry was moving unsteadily in the direction of the cathedral. Bartholomew and Michael followed, with Michael wheezing and growing more breathless at every step. A group of young monks scattered as Henry barrelled through the middle of them. One of them was Welles, and another was Bukton.

‘Stop him!’ yelled Michael to Henry’s assistant as he drew closer. His bulk was already slowing him down, and he was red-faced and gasping. ‘Henry murdered your almoner.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Welles indignantly. ‘Henry is no killer.’

‘He is,’ shouted Michael. ‘Why else would he be running from me?’

Bukton snatched at Michael’s sleeve as he ran past, pulling the monk off balance. ‘Henry is not your culprit,’ he cried. ‘Leave him alone.’

‘We have all the evidence we need,’ said Michael, trying to extricate himself. ‘Let me go! You are interfering with the course of justice.’

‘I do not care,’ said Bukton, maintaining his grip. ‘Henry is a good man, and I will not let you hang him.’

‘Nor I,’ determined Welles.

Bartholomew edged around the group, eluding Welles’s eager hands, and ran on. Welles detached himself from his friends and chased after him, leaving Bukton to wrestle with the outraged Michael.

‘Where is Henry going?’ Bartholomew yelled over his shoulder to Michael.

‘The cathedral,’ gasped Michael, trying to push Bukton away. Normally, he would have used fists, but it was hard to strike a lad who was trying to protect a man like Henry. Bukton was permitted to take liberties that Michael would never have permitted in Cambridge. ‘For sanctuary at the High Altar. Once he is there, we will not be able to touch him.’

Henry was making good time, and was heading for the cloister door. Bartholomew forced himself to run harder, determined to catch the kindly killer before he could reach it. Welles, however, was a good sprinter, and was gaining on Bartholomew. The physician felt a sharp tug as the young monk grabbed his shirt. He stumbled, losing valuable moments.

Welles leapt on him, trying to restrain him. Bartholomew struggled free and dashed on, leaving Welles gasping for breath on the grass, but by now Henry had disappeared inside the cathedral. Bartholomew dashed to the door and hauled it open, listening for footsteps that would tell him which way Henry had gone. He heard them in the south aisle — away from the High Altar, not towards it — and glanced behind to see Welles sprinting quickly towards him. In the distance he saw Michael ploughing forward, dragging Bukton along, as he made his more stately pursuit.