A Summer of Discontent

‘Alan does not want strife in his monastery,’ said Henry tiredly. ‘If he forced Symon to resign and appointed someone else, Symon would make his successor’s life very difficult.’

‘It is a pity. Men like Symon should not be allowed near books.’

‘I agree,’ said Henry. He smiled. ‘But let us not talk about Symon or Julian. Have you uncovered any new theories pertaining to the marsh fever that cripples us at this time of year? Michael tells me you speak some Italian, and I know we have books from Salerno. Tell me what you have read in them. Doubtless most of it will be wrong, but I should like to know what they say nevertheless.’

It was easy to lose track of time when discussing medicine with an opinionated man like Henry. The Benedictine physician disagreed with almost everything Bartholomew said, which resulted in a lively conversation. Bartholomew enjoyed it, despite the adversarial nature of the debate, and so did Henry, who relished pitting his knowledge against a man whose experience and learning equalled his own. The bells were chiming for the midnight mass before they realised they should sleep if they wanted to be fit for work the following day. Reluctantly, Henry allowed Bartholomew to go to his own bed, although the physician could see that questions and ideas were still tumbling through his mind.

The discussion had done more to rouse Bartholomew than to relax him, and the heat of the night did not allow sleep to come easily. The rough blankets were prickly against his hot skin, and the breeze that whispered through the open window was steamy-warm and stank of the marshes. Insects hummed high notes around his head, and flapping at them seemed to make them more interested in him than ever. They stung, too, and it was not long before he felt as though his whole body was covered in itching lumps from their bites.

Eventually, he slept, but it was to wake thick-headed and drowsy the following morning. The heat seemed more intense than ever, as though the night had done nothing to cool it down. When he looked out of the window at the slowly lightening landscape, he saw that a thick mist hung around the river, and wisps of it curled around the cathedral, obscuring the octagon and the towers from sight. He scrubbed at his eyes and sat on the bed, wondering what the day would bring.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was blazing with particular brilliance through the library window, when Bartholomew leaned back to stretch his stiff shoulders and look out across the cool, green grass for a few moments before returning to a complex problem regarding the relationship between fevers and standing water. He had been lucky that morning, because Alan had been nearby when Bartholomew had asked Symon to unlock the library door. The librarian was loath to refuse when the Prior was there, and so Bartholomew had been left to his own devices with the books for the entire day. Michael had put his head around the door at noon, to say that he was going to visit acquaintances of Chaloner and Haywarde, but he had waved away the physician’s offer of company, claiming haughtily that he could interview peasants by himself.

Michael had not been alone in wanting to speak to those who had known the murdered men. Stretton had been ordered by Blanche to begin his enquiries. Reluctantly, the beefy canon abandoned the haven of the priory and ventured into the town to talk to anyone who admitted to knowing Glovere. It was not long before he found his way to a tavern, and was escorted back to the priory shortly after nones in no state to investigate anything for the rest of the day. Northburgh felt no such compunction to pursue his inquisitorial duties. Instead, he summoned Henry to his bedside, and quizzed him relentlessly on various symptoms and ailments, which Henry tolerated with a patience Bartholomew could never have emulated.

As Bartholomew flexed his cramped fingers and gazed across the pleasant green sward of the cemetery, he saw a familiar figure hurry along one of the paths to stand under the shade of a particularly large tree, almost directly under the window through which he was looking. It was Tysilia de Apsley, the Bishop’s wanton ‘niece’.

Knowing Tysilia’s reputation for securing lovers, Bartholomew supposed there was only one reason why she should make her way through the long grass to stand under shrubs when she could be somewhere a good deal more comfortable. The place she had chosen was a superb location for a tryst, because unless someone had spotted her making her way there, or happened to be leaning out of one of the library windows, she would never have been seen. Bartholomew smiled to himself, amused that she was already up to her old tricks. He supposed that the stern Lady Blanche was no more able to control the wilful young woman than the nuns at St Radegund’s Convent in Cambridge or the lepers of Stourbridge had been.