A Summer of Discontent

Michael turned to face him, his expression sombre. ‘I would not have let you come had I known what de Lisle wanted me to do. But it is not too late. Leave now, and take Cynric and Meadowman with you. You will be back in Cambridge before nightfall.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The horses are tired and Cynric is already showing Meadowman the taverns. It will be far too late by the time I find them. Besides, how can I leave you here alone?’

‘I am in my own priory, Matt. I am surrounded by friends.’

‘Hardly!’ snorted Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Prior Alan seems decent enough, but the almoner does not like you and neither does the hosteller. You are not among friends here.’

Michael smiled and slapped him on the shoulders. ‘Then allow me to introduce you to Henry de Wykes, the priory’s physician. He is a good and honest man, and there is hardly a soul in the town who does not like him. He is a little immodest, perhaps, but that is no great fault when you compare him to the rest of my brethren here.’

The hospital was a substantial building adjoining the Black Hostry. It boasted a large, airy central hall, its own chapel, and a pair of chambers for treating patients and preparing medicines. Another two rooms at the opposite end of the hall served as living quarters for the infirmarian and his assistants. The library occupied the rooms on the floor above. The building overlooked gardens on two sides, the cathedral on the third, and, rather disconcertingly for a place dedicated to the sick, the monks’ graveyard on the fourth.

There were two entrances to the infirmary. One was via a covered walkway known as the Dark Cloister, which allowed the monks to reach it from the chapter house without exposing themselves to the elements; the other was through a small door in the north wall, which was reached by walking through the monks’ cemetery. Michael chose the latter, strolling along a path that was almost obliterated by long meadow grass, and opening a small, round-headed gate that led directly into the hospital’s main hall.

Bartholomew followed him inside and looked around, admiring the carvings on the arches that had been executed by Norman masons two hundred years before, and the dark strength of the oak beams that supported the ceiling. The floor comprised smooth slabs of stone that had been scrubbed almost white, while large windows allowed the light to flood into the sickroom. A row of beds ran down each of the walls, so that about twenty men could be accommodated at a time. However, the priory’s infirmary was not only a place for monks who were ill; it was also home to elderly brethren who were too ancient or infirm to look after themselves. Bartholomew glanced down the hall, and saw that there were currently five such inmates, each tucked neatly under covers that were crisp and clean.

Michael walked between the rows of beds, to where voices could be heard in one of the chambers that stood at the far end of the hall. He knocked briskly on a door that was half closed, before pushing it open. An older monk was evidently teaching two novices some aspect of medicine, because he was holding a flask of urine to the light, and was in the process of matching its colour to examples given in Theophilus’s De Urinis. The monk was too engrossed in his explanation to notice that his charges were bored and restless.

‘I hope that is wine you are regarding with such loving attention, Brother Henry,’ called Michael, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame.

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Henry in delight, immediately abandoning his teaching. He was a sturdy man in his fifties, who was burned a deep nut-brown by the sun. His forearms were sinewy and knotted, indicating that the large hospital garden they had passed on their way in, with its neat rows of herbs and vegetables, was probably tended by him personally and that he was no stranger to hard work. He had twinkling blue eyes, wiry grey hair and a large gap between his two front teeth.

‘Good morning,’ said Michael, taking the proffered hand and shaking it warmly. ‘Why are you keeping these young fellows inside, when the rest of the priory is busy making ready for the impending arrival of Lady Blanche?’

‘He wanted to show us this urine,’ said one of the novices resentfully. He was a sulky-faced youth, with an unprepossessing smattering of white-headed spots around his mouth. ‘Its colour is unusual, apparently.’

‘It is,’ said Bartholomew, who had noticed the orange hue from across the room. ‘If you were to use Theophilus’s guidelines, you would diagnose whoever produced this as having a disease of the kidneys.’

‘Precisely!’ exclaimed Henry eagerly. He turned to his charges, who remained unimpressed. ‘You see? Urine is a valuable tool for us physicians. It tells us a great deal about our patients and should never be disregarded or forgotten.’

‘But I do not want to be a physician,’ objected the youth. ‘I am only working here because Prior Alan ordered me to.’