A Summer of Discontent

‘I am sure Henry does not know that his patients are being fed inferior fare,’ mused Michael. ‘But Julian is the kind of lad who would see old men starved in their beds.’

‘The ancients give nothing back to the priory, so why should they have the best of everything?’ demanded Thomas, still fanning himself vigorously. ‘And they had a decent meal this morning, anyway. If we give too much away, there will not be enough left for those of us who work.’

‘I do not think you need to worry on that score,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘No one at your table is likely to starve — only the poor old men who are no longer able to feed themselves at the communal trough are in danger of that.’

‘There is no need to be abusive,’ said Thomas indignantly. ‘But it is too hot to stand around here arguing with you. I have important business to attend to.’

‘Like dozing in the dormitory,’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the man wobble away. He walked carefully, as though his ankles pained him. Bartholomew was sure they did.

‘I will ensure Henry hears about this,’ determined Michael. ‘Those old men will have their oatmeal or bean soup from now on, do not worry, Matt. But let us search the almonry for Symon. Unless he is so desperate to avoid you that he is in the vineyard, squatting among the vines, there is nowhere else he can be.’

The spiteful Robert was leaving his domain as they approached. He had spent the morning outside, on some unspecified business he claimed would benefit the priory, and his naturally dark skin was more swarthy than ever. He saw that Michael carried a basket, and plucked away the cover to reveal its meagre contents.

‘What are you doing with this?’ he asked curiously. ‘You, of all people, know that the kitchens are always open. The cooks will provide you with fresh bread and new cheese.’

‘This was intended for the inmates of the infirmary,’ Michael explained. ‘Thomas gave it to us.’

Robert’s expression became grim. ‘That glutton! He volunteered for the task of fetching the ancients’ food about a month ago, and I wondered what had made him so generous. He is eating it himself, and passing them scraps instead!’

‘Why should he do that, when you have just said the kitchens are always open?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Henry told Prior Alan that Thomas’s size was dangerous for his health,’ explained Robert. ‘He is allowed to eat all he likes at mealtimes, but Henry recommended that he have nothing in between. This is Thomas’s way of avenging himself on Henry and grabbing himself extra food at the same time. But I will arrange for the old men to have something better than this. The poor can have it instead.’ He snatched the basket away from Michael.

‘It is hardly nourishing fare for them, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They need more than stale bread and the rinds of cheeses, too. And anyway, there is nowhere near enough in that basket to feed the crowd I saw gathering at the Steeple Gate earlier.’

‘I have been cutting down on the amount I dispense,’ said Robert. ‘You see, the more food I give away, the more people come to receive it. Ergo, the less food I give away, the fewer recipients will come. It is simple logic.’

‘But there are people who rely on the priory for their daily bread,’ argued Bartholomew, becoming angry with the insensitive almoner. ‘If they do not come, it is probably because they are too weak from hunger to do battle for a handful of scraps.’

‘That is not my problem,’ said Robert dismissively. ‘I shall distribute this now. Thank you, Michael. It will save me a trip to the kitchen slops.’ He took the basket to the Steeple Gate, and opened it. The crowd outside surged forward eagerly, although murmurs of disappointment were soon audible.

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, as disgusted as was the physician. ‘Let us see whether Symon is lurking in the almonry.’

They entered Robert’s neat domain, with its piles of old clothes waiting distribution and its neatly stacked scrolls telling of the amounts given to the poor, and Bartholomew’s heart sank: Symon was not there. However, knowing that the almoner was currently busy dealing with the poor, Michael decided it was a good opportunity to poke around, to see what he could discover to the detriment of a man he did not like. He was not the only one with such an idea, and he leapt back with a yelp of alarm when he bumped against a wall hanging and it swore at him.

‘William!’ exclaimed Michael in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as you, I imagine,’ said the hosteller coolly, easing himself out from behind the tapestry with some irritation. He patted his bobbed hair into place where it had been ruffled. ‘I want to know whether Robert has been keeping accurate records of the goods he gives to the poor.’