A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew slammed the door hard, and looked for something to block it. The bolt was wholly inadequate, and was ridiculously delicate, obviously intended only to keep the gate from blowing in the wind and not to prevent access to people from the priory side of the cathedral. Bartholomew shot it closed, wishing there was a bar he could use to barricade it further. But there was nothing to hand in the vast emptiness of the cathedral. He heard a crash when Welles reached the door and thumped into it with his shoulder. The metal bolt bowed dangerously, and Bartholomew saw it would only be a few moments before Welles broke it and came in.

The physician started to trot down the south aisle, looking for Henry among the shadows. There was nothing. He stopped running and listened, but could only hear the crashes and thumps Welles made as he pounded on the door. Bartholomew jogged on, not understanding why Henry should choose the opposite direction from the place where he would be safe from pursuit. He ran harder then there was a booming sound and the door flew open against the wall. Welles uttered a yell of victory when he spotted the physician.

Bartholomew reached the end of the nave and skidded to a halt, gazing wildly around him. Then he heard a sharp crack and a patter, as some loose masonry fell to the ground in the crumbling north-west transept. Henry was climbing the scaffolding.

‘No!’ he cried, suddenly realising why Henry had not aimed straight for the sanctuary. ‘Henry! There is no need for this!’

He darted forward. Voices echoing loudly in the aisle indicated that Michael and Bukton had arrived, too, and were coming towards him. Bartholomew rushed to the transept and looked up. A figure on the scaffolding was making its way higher and higher, aiming for the roof. Bartholomew started to climb after him, intending to bring Henry down. But with a triumphant cry, Welles reached him and grabbed one leg. Bartholomew found himself unable to move up or down.

‘Henry!’ he shouted, trying to kick free of the determined novice. ‘You do not need to do this. Come down and talk to Michael.’

He could feel vibrations of movement through the scaffolding as Henry continued to ascend, and struggled to free himself. But with a monumental display of desperate strength, Welles swung all his weight on Bartholomew’s foot and the physician lost his grip. He slipped to the floor, where Welles pinned him down. Bartholomew gazed up at the roof, disconcerted by the towering framework above him, which seemed to be swaying.

‘It is going to fall!’ he heard Michael yell. ‘Matt, get out of there!’

Welles decided Michael was right. He released Bartholomew and scrambled away, and Bartholomew saw the entire structure begin to topple. He leapt to his feet, and ran with his head down, aware of falling spars, plaster and pieces of timber clattering all around him. He had only just cleared the transept when there was a tremendous crash, and the scaffolding came tumbling to the ground in a mess of broken planks, crushed stones and coils of rope. Dust billowed, making it difficult to see.

Michael surged forward, peering into the mess. ‘Henry!’ he shouted. ‘Henry!’

But there was no reply.

Michael rounded on Welles, who was visibly shaken. ‘Look what you have done! If you had not tried to stop us, we would have been able to catch him, and this would not have happened!’

‘You would have hanged him,’ said Welles, his eyes filling with tears when he realised that Henry was unlikely to have survived the fall. ‘And he is a decent, kind man. I do not care what you say you have discovered.’

‘He murdered people,’ said Michael, trying to make them see reason. ‘And then your interference allowed him to kill himself. I thought he came here for sanctuary, but the kind of sanctuary he had in mind was his own death.’

‘If he did all that, then he only harmed wicked people,’ said Welles loyally, white faced as a tear coursed its way down his dusty cheek. ‘He loved the rest of us. He was patient with our faults, and he was gentle. He was the only man in the priory who tried to help that horrible Julian.’

‘Julian is dead in the infirmary,’ said Michael harshly.

‘Then not before time,’ said Bukton, defiant but shaken. ‘If Julian had had no Henry to care for him, he would have been dead a lot sooner. I do not care what you say, you will never persuade me that Henry was not a saint.’

‘I liked him myself,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘It is not pleasant to know that a man I have known and admired for years could do such terrible things.’

‘He did not do terrible things,’ wept Welles. ‘He did things that made the priory better and made the town better.’

‘All right,’ conceded Michael. ‘But he broke the law.’

‘Then the law is wrong,’ declared Bukton uncompromisingly. ‘The townsfolk have a point when they claim the laws of the land are unjust. The law would have hanged Henry.’