A Summer of Discontent

Henry was just finishing his evening prayers in the chapel when Bartholomew strolled into the infirmary. He gave a grin of delight, making it clear that the physician should not expect to retire too soon, then walked with his visitor through the main hall, checking on the old men who were settling themselves down for the night as he went.

‘Goodnight, Roger,’ said Henry loudly to the most alert of the quintet. ‘The posset I gave you contained a good deal of camomile, so you should rest well tonight.’

‘I have dreams,’ explained Roger to Bartholomew, his eyes rheumy in the flickering light of the candle. He gestured around at his companions, some of whom seemed aware that they were being discussed and others not. ‘We all do. We were soldiers before we took the cowl, and sometimes the souls of the men we killed come to taunt us.’

‘They do not,’ said Henry sensibly. ‘It is only the trick of a weary mind, and I do not allow tormented souls in my infirmary, anyway.’

Roger smiled. ‘But I see them, nevertheless. It is an old man’s dream, so you will not understand.’

‘Sleep,’ said Henry softly, helping the ancient monk to slide under the covers. ‘Shall I fetch an extra blanket? The night is mild, but you can have one if you like.’

Roger shook his head, his eyes already closing as he huddled under the bedclothes. Bartholomew noticed that the blankets that covered the old men were made of soft wool, while the mattresses were feather rather than the more usual and cheaper straw. The floors had been scrubbed again that day, and the whole room smelled of fresh herbs and clean wood.

Henry moved to another of his patients, who had evidently been a giant of a man in his prime. Now he was little more than a skeleton, with massive-knuckled hands that shook uncontrollably as they plucked at his night-shirt. Henry straightened the covers and rested the back of his hand on the old man’s forehead to test his temperature.

‘Ynys fought for old King Edward at Bannockburn in 1314,’ he whispered to Bartholomew. The physician thought he saw a glimmer of pride in the old man’s sunken eyes, but was not sure how much Ynys was aware of his surroundings. ‘They all did. And they were with him in France. And now they are here with me, dreaming of the days when they were full of life and vigour.’

‘Do they know where they are?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he had imagined Ynys’s reaction.

Henry shrugged. ‘Roger does, although he is very deaf. Ynys is almost blind, and the others have failing memories. They recall the battles in which they were heroes, but they never remember Julian from one day to the next.’

‘That is probably a blessing,’ said Bartholomew.

Henry smiled. ‘I have hopes that he will change. However, I pray that it will not take too much longer. There is a limit to how long I am prepared to inflict him on my old friends.’

He walked to the central aisle and began a long prayer; his Latin whispered and echoed through the darkened hall. The old men seemed to sleep easier when he had finished, as though the familiar words had settled them. He sketched a benediction over each one, and then led Bartholomew out of the infirmary to the chambers at the far end. Henry occupied the smaller of the two, while the other was set aside for occasional visitors and Julian. The sullen novice was sleeping there now, lying with his mouth open and his breath hissing wetly past his palate. It was not an attractive sound.

Henry leaned down and retrieved something from the floor under Julian’s bed, and Bartholomew caught the glitter of metal before the infirmarian turned away.

‘What is that?’ he asked curiously, seeing from the expression on Henry’s face that the find had displeased him.

Reluctantly, Henry opened his hand to reveal a long silver nail. ‘Sharp objects,’ he explained in a whisper. ‘Julian has a morbid fascination with them, and I am always discovering them secreted away. I am afraid he may use them to harm himself.’

‘He is more likely to use them to harm someone else,’ muttered Bartholomew, eyeing the sleeping novice in distaste.

Henry beckoned Bartholomew into his own room across the corridor, and closed the door so that their voices would not disturb those who were sleeping. He produced a bottle of raspberry cordial that he said he had made himself, and gestured for Bartholomew to sit on a bench, while he perched on the edge of the bed.

‘How do you like our library?’ he asked, seeming grateful to change the subject from that of his assistant’s shortcomings. ‘We have a splendid collection of texts, although I can never find anything because of the chaos. It is very frustrating at times.’

‘Why does Alan permit Symon to be so slack in his duties? The priory’s books are a valuable asset, and I am surprised he is allowed to abuse them so flagrantly. Alan should appoint someone who knows what he is doing.’