A Summer of Discontent

‘I admire de Lisle,’ said Henry sincerely. ‘He was not afraid to visit the sick during the Great Pestilence, and he gives fabulous sermons — but powerful men have powerful enemies. Let de Lisle clear his own name. He is innocent, so it should not be difficult.’

‘You believe de Lisle is innocent?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering why he was so surprised to hear this from a monk.

‘Of course,’ said Henry, as though it were obvious. ‘He is proud and arrogant, but he has a gentle heart. This charge has been invented to harm him by someone who is strong and resourceful, and Michael should not become embroiled in it. De Lisle can always petition for the Archbishop’s support if matters grow too hot for him, but Michael has no such luxury. Do not accept this commission, Brother. Go home.’

Michael smiled gently. ‘I cannot. But I am no longer the youth you protected when I first came to Ely, Henry. I can look after myself, and I have good friends in you and Matt.’

Shaking his head in disapproval, Henry turned to his apprentices. ‘Tidy this room, and then you can join your friends preparing to receive Lady Blanche. Meanwhile, Michael and I have much to talk about. It has been months since I last saw him.’

‘Free at last!’ mumbled Julian, leaping to his feet. ‘These duties are like a sentence of death. Who wants to spend all day wiping up old men’s drool, and helping them to the garderobe every few moments? I would rather work in the kitchens.’

‘I am sure you would,’ said Henry tartly. ‘There are dead animals and sharp knives in the kitchens, and I imagine it would suit you very well. But you have been committed to my care to learn how to care for the sick, and I shall do everything in my power to ensure that you do.’

Julian cast him another dark look, and then began to help Welles with the tidying, although Bartholomew noted that he left the more unpleasant messes for his classmate.

‘Julian does not seem to appreciate what you are trying to teach him,’ he remarked, as he followed Henry through the infirmary towards the other end of the hall, where the physician had a small bedchamber that also served as an office.

Henry agreed. ‘I fear he will never be a physician. I do not think there is a single shred of compassion or kindness in him. Alan gave him to me as a last resort: if he fails here, he will be released from the priory, but I do not think that will be a good thing.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘It seems to me that he has no business being in a monastery.’

‘I do not like to think of a cruel and vicious lad like that loose in the town,’ said Henry. ‘At least while he is here we can control him. He would commit all manner of harm without someone like me to watch him.’

He gave a cheerful wave to an old man who occupied one of the beds. The inmate waved back, revealing a battery of pink gums. The other four were either asleep or did not seem to be aware of anything around them. All were ancient, some perhaps as much as ninety years, and Bartholomew supposed that life as monks had been kind to them. It was not a bad way to end their days, although he personally did not relish the prospect of lying in a bed while he slowly lost all his faculties.

‘Roger is deaf,’ explained Henry as they walked. ‘Two of the others are blind, and most have lost their wits. They are our permanent residents. Usually, we have half a dozen monks who are recovering from being bled, but the Prior has suspended bleeding for this month.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is it because he is aware of new evidence from French and Italian medical faculties that indicates bleeding is not always healthy?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Henry stiffly, indicating that he disapproved of such notions. ‘It is because Blanche is coming, and we will be too busy to have monks resting in the infirmary. But I believe bleeding is a very healthy thing to do. You only need to compare the monks, who are bled regularly, to the townsfolk, who are not, to see the difference.’

‘That is because the monks’ food is better than that of the townsfolk,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And they probably have more sleep, better beds, cleaner water-’

Henry grinned in delight, and slapped Bartholomew’s shoulders. ‘You are quite wrong, but I can see we shall enjoy some lively debates on the subject. It is always refreshing to converse with another medical man. And I anticipate we shall learn a great deal from each other.’

‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not want to be present when you do it. Julian and Welles are right: you can keep your pustules and your flasks of urine to yourselves!’