A Summer of Discontent

‘There was certainly a good deal of that,’ muttered Michael, repeating the operation with the knife. This time, several monks watched with evident fascination, probably anticipating that he would either stab himself or choke, Michael did neither, and when he spoke again, it was through a mouth full of eggs. ‘Young Julian yelled himself completely hoarse, while the altos in the choir were screeching, not singing.’

‘I am glad Julian can do something worthwhile,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Thomas mutter as he reached out and grabbed a loaf of bread. The physician expected him to cut a piece and replace the rest, but the sub-prior proceeded to tear off lumps and cram them into his mouth with the clear intention of devouring the whole thing himself. As he ate, he cast venomous glances at the back of the hall, where the novices were seated. The young men did not seem happy to be the object of the sub-prior’s hostile attention, and Bartholomew had the impression that there was no love lost between Alan’s deputy and his young charges. Julian gazed back with brazen dislike, although the others seemed more cowed than defiant.

‘De Lisle never bothers with prime when he is in Ely,’ observed Robert sanctimoniously. ‘I imagine he is too busy counting his money.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Hosteller William. He had washed his hair that morning, presumably because Blanche was visiting and he wanted to make a good impression. He kept running his hands through it so that it would dry, and it sat around his head like a giant grey puffball. ‘He does not have any. That is his problem.’

‘How is Lady Blanche this morning?’ asked Alan of his hosteller, tactfully changing the subject so that Michael would not be obliged to hear his fellow monks denigrating their Bishop. ‘I invited her to celebrate prime in my private chapel, but she informed me that she does not like to rise while the dew still lies on the ground.’

‘Her retinue follow her example,’ said Robert disapprovingly. He helped himself to a chunk of cheese that would have fed an entire family of peasants. Bartholomew tried hard not to gape at him. ‘Bartholomew was the only one of our guests in the cathedral this morning. However, I did not like the fact that he chose to sit with the town rabble, in preference to us.’

‘I did not expect that to be an issue,’ said Bartholomew, indignant at the criticism, when no one had bothered to forewarn him. ‘I assumed the townsfolk would attend St Mary’s, or listen to your offices from the nave. I was not anticipating that two masses would be celebrated in the same church at the same time.’

‘There is something of a rivalry between priory and city,’ explained William. ‘And Father John is always looking for opportunities to exacerbate the problem. I saw him whispering secretly to you after he had finished howling his miserable Latin. What did he want?’

‘He was not whispering and his request was not secret,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he was engaging in subterfuge. He wondered whether the monks were in the habit of making inflammatory remarks to all their guests, or whether he had been singled out for that particular honour.

‘I imagine he was telling you that the town needs more alms from us,’ said Robert angrily. ‘Well, we are poor ourselves and cannot afford to give more.’

‘So I see,’ said Bartholomew, his eyes straying to the piles of food that were rapidly disappearing inside monastic mouths.

‘There is always something more we can do for the poor,’ said Henry softly. No one took any notice of him.

‘Or was he complaining that we have spent too much time on the octagon, when we should have been working on his miserable parish church?’ demanded Robert, working himself into a fever of righteous indignation. ‘We are not made of money: we cannot pay every last mason in the country to work for us, and the cathedral is more important than any parish church.’

‘Not to the people of Holy Cross,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And not to you, either, unless you happen to like shouting at prime.’

‘Father John does have a point,’ said the ever-reasonable Henry, appealing to Prior Alan. ‘We started his church thirty years ago, and it is still nowhere near completion.’

‘We had the octagon to build and the Lady Chapel to raise,’ Alan pointed out. ‘Those were large projects that took all our resources.’

‘But the parish church is more important than a lady chapel,’ argued Henry. ‘Our first duty is to our fellow men, not to erecting sumptuous buildings that we do not need.’

‘Our first duty is to God,’ retorted Alan sharply. ‘And I have chosen to fulfil that duty by raising magnificent monuments to glorify His name.’

Henry said no more, although Bartholomew was uncertain whether it was because he was abashed by Alan’s reprimand, or because he could see that there was simply no point in arguing.