A Summer of Discontent

‘Because Glovere’s demise may be relevant to the deaths of my two parishioners. Ely is a small town, and we have had three deaths by drowning within the last ten days. Do not tell me that is not a little odd!’

* * *

Bartholomew did not want to begin an investigation into the other two suspicious drownings without Michael present, so he asked Father John to wait while he went to fetch the monk. Michael was in the refectory, enjoying a substantial breakfast with the Prior and several other high-ranking Benedictines. Not for the brethren the grey, watery oatmeal that most people were obliged to consume: each of their tables was laden with fresh bread, smoked eels and dishes of stewed onions. The Prior and his officers, as befitted men of their superior station, also had coddled eggs and a baked ham.

‘Is it a feast day?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished by the quality and quantity of food that was being packed inside ample girths all around the refectory. No wonder Michael was so large, he thought; there seemed to be an informal competition in play to see who could eat the most. People often joked about the amount of food that was available to Benedictines, and Bartholomew had always put this down to a natural jealousy of an institution that treated its members well. However, he realised that he had been wrong to dismiss the popular claims as wild exaggerations when he saw what was being devoured by the men in black habits.

‘I must apologise for the paucity of the fare today,’ said the swarthy Almoner Robert, as he rammed a large piece of cheese into his mouth. ‘It is a Monday, and we always breakfast lightly on Mondays.’

Bartholomew studied him hard, but the intent expression on the almoner’s face convinced him that the man was perfectly serious.

‘Yes, there is almost nothing here,’ agreed Michael, casting a critical eye across the table. ‘I shall be ready for my midday meal when it comes.’

Bartholomew had no idea whether he was being facetious. Aware that Father John was waiting for him, he opened his mouth to ask Michael to accompany him, but he had hesitated and the conversation at the breakfast table suddenly took off. Bartholomew realised that besides having ample food with which to start the day, the monks also enjoyed talking, and there was none of the silence he had observed at mealtimes in other abbeys and his own College.

‘These are hard times,’ said Robert, still looking at the table in a disparaging manner. ‘We are reduced to eating much smaller portions, and I sometimes wonder how much longer we will be able to continue dispensing alms to the poor. They are always hungry.’

‘They are always hungry because they work hard,’ said Henry sharply, giving the almoner a disapproving glance. Bartholomew saw that he and Alan were the only ones who were not snatching and grabbing at the breakfast fare as if they would never see its like again. Alan seemed to possess the kind of nervous appetite that did not allow him to eat rich food, while the infirmarian took only bread and ale. They were by far the slimmest members of the community.

‘I cannot say I enjoyed prime this morning,’ said Michael, loading his knife with coddled eggs and transporting the quivering mass to his mouth. So much of the implement disappeared inside his maw that Bartholomew thought he might stab the back of his throat. ‘There was far too much noise. Can you not ask that parish priest to lower his voice?’

‘I do not attend prime, for exactly that reason,’ said Prior Alan. ‘I cannot hear myself think with all that yelling, let alone pray. I am obliged to delegate prime to Sub-prior Thomas, while I celebrate the office in my private chapel.’

‘I do not mind,’ said a vast man, whose jowls quivered with fat as they munched on his smoked eels. Bartholomew had never before seen a man of such immense proportions. He noted that the sub-prior had been provided with a sturdy seat of oak, probably so that his enormous weight would not tip the bench and precipitate the others on to the floor. His Benedictine habit was the size of a tent, yet was still stretched taut across his chest and stomach, and a series of wobbling chins cascaded down the front of it. Even the process of sitting and devouring a monstrous meal seemed too much exercise; beads of sweat broke out across his red face and oozed into the greasy strands of hair that sprouted from his neck.

‘Personally, I have always felt there is far too much mumbling at prime,’ Sub-prior Thomas went on, slicing himself a slab of ham the size of a doorstop. ‘I like a bit of noise myself. All that soft whispering gives people the impression that we are still half asleep, and prime is much more rousing when we can put a little enthusiasm into it.’