A Summer of Discontent

‘It is not a waste of time,’ admonished Henry crossly. ‘They know you are close, even if they cannot understand what you are saying, and the presence of a visitor gives them comfort. That is all that matters. Now, take your psalter and go to sit next to Roger. He had bad dreams last night, and your reading may calm him.’

With very bad grace, Julian did as he was told, snatching up his book and marching down the hall to flop on to a stool by Roger’s bedside. The old man smiled a toothless grin of welcome, which Julian ignored as he began to read in a bored voice, deliberately low, so that the old man was obliged to lean forward uncomfortably in a futile attempt to catch some of the words.

‘He is a nasty youth,’ remarked Michael, watching Julian’s behaviour with distaste. ‘I do not know how you have the patience to deal with him without boxing his ears.’

‘That would not help,’ said Henry tiredly, ‘although I confess he tries my patience sometimes. He is in disgrace at the moment for putting worms in Brother Ynys’s bed.’

‘Why did he do that?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Sheer malice,’ said Henry. ‘Roger, who is not as addled as Julian believes, saw him do it and told me, but not before poor Ynys became aware of the wretched things and threw himself into a panic. I do not understand this streak of cruelty in Julian.’

‘Some people are just not very nice,’ said Michael preachily. ‘But if anyone can turn the lad into a saint, and save the town from having him set loose to follow his own devices, it is you.’

‘I am a physician, not a miracle worker,’ said Henry, although he seemed pleased by the compliment. ‘But given a choice, there are others I would change before Julian.’

‘There are?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘They must be vile!’

‘They are,’ agreed Michael fervently. ‘I would do something about that selfish Robert for a start, and that great fat Sub-prior Thomas, not to mention William.’

‘William is not a bad man,’ said Henry generously. ‘He cares about the poor and he sold his gold cross last winter, so that I could buy expensive medicine for a novice with a fever. You must have noticed that the cross he wears is made of base metal?’

‘Flaunting his good deeds,’ said Michael in disapproval. ‘Making the rest of us feel guilty for not doing something similar. But I do not want to spend a fine summer day talking about the likes of the Brother Hosteller. We have a librarian to locate.’

They took their leave of the physician and looked in the Black Hostry, where Michael had his lodgings. Northburgh and Stretton were there, lying next to each other and both snoring loudly, but there was no sign of Symon. Next, they walked along a pleasant path called Oyster Lane, heading for the beautiful chapel that had been erected for Prior Crauden, Alan’s predecessor. It was a glorious building, with long, delicate windows that allowed the light to flood inside. The stained glass was exquisite, because the glazier had abandoned the popular reds and greens in favour of blues and golds. The result was a cool, restful light that lent the chapel an appropriate atmosphere of sanctity.

But Symon was not kneeling at the altar, nor was he crouching behind it. He was also not at the prie-dieu, or sitting in the vestibule. Bartholomew was beginning to despair of ever finding the man — or of finding him so late that the sun would have set and the light would be too poor for reading. But Michael was not ready to concede defeat, and together they made their way to the almonry, checking the refectory and dormitory a second time as they did so. The dormitory rang with the snores and whistles of monks taking their naps.

On their way, they saw Sub-prior Thomas, who was walking slowly towards the infirmary and looking as though the stroll in the heat of the afternoon was not something he was enjoying.

‘Take this, will you, Brother?’ he asked breathlessly of Michael, passing a cloth-covered basket to the monk. ‘Give it to young Julian in the infirmary.’ He closed his eyes and fanned himself with one fat hand. In another man, Bartholomew would have been concerned, but in the obese Thomas the cause of his distress was obvious, and there was nothing the physician could do to alleviate it — other than to recommend a serious diet.

‘What is it?’ asked Michael, picking up a corner of the cloth to peer at the basket’s contents. ‘A few pieces of stale bread and a rind of cheese. Why would Julian want this?’

‘It is for the old men,’ explained Thomas. ‘Julian always prepares their dinner.’

‘Is this what the priory provides for them to eat?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified. ‘They have no teeth. How do you expect them to cope with this? They need food like oatmeal made with milk, or bean soup.’

‘Their meals are none of your affair,’ snapped Thomas angrily. ‘They will eat what they are given, if they are hungry. If they are not, they can go without.’