A Summer of Discontent

On hands and knees, Bartholomew and Michael edged towards the fat sub-prior’s trysting place. Crawling among the vines was such a ludicrously incommodious situation for a University Doctor and a Senior Proctor to put themselves in that Bartholomew started to laugh, thinking that he had not crawled around on all fours in the undergrowth since he was a child. Michael chortled, too, but his mirth was cut short by a litany of vicious curses when he put his hand on a thorn.

As they inched closer they tried to ensure they kept their heads low, so that they would not be visible above the stumpy bushes. Eventually, Bartholomew judged that they were within hearing distance, and risked a quick glance above the leaves. Neither Thomas nor the man he was meeting were where he expected them to be.

‘Have you lost something?’ asked Thomas coldly, the proximity of his voice making both Bartholomew and Michael jump violently. The physician was amazed that the obese sub-prior had been able to move so quickly and with so much stealth. His progress through the vineyard just a few moments before had indicated that he was incapable of speed or silence. Now he towered above the kneeling scholars, his large face flushed red from effort, anger and heat. He was still breathing hard, and the top half of his habit was soaked in perspiration. Bartholomew supposed that although Sub-prior Thomas could move with haste when necessary, the man’s body was neither accustomed to nor happy with sudden spurts of activity. It was a physique that would reward its owner with a seizure if obliged to do it too often.

‘My ring,’ said Michael, thinking quickly and waving a hand sadly bereft of the baubles with which Benedictines usually liked to adorn themselves. ‘I am so thin that it fell from my finger and Matt is helping me to look for it.’

‘What were you doing here in the first place?’ demanded Thomas, evidently unconvinced by such a flagrantly feeble excuse. ‘I sincerely hope you were not following me.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Michael innocently, using Bartholomew to haul himself up from his knees. ‘I am too busy to spend my valuable time stalking my fellow brethren through the bushes.’

‘It is my understanding that you would go to any lengths to help de Lisle remove himself from this spike upon which he is impaled,’ said Thomas accusingly. ‘It would not surprise me if you intended to have one of us blamed for Glovere’s death, merely to allow the Bishop to go free.’

‘That is unfair,’ objected Bartholomew, also standing and brushing dry soil from his hands. ‘Michael has devoted his entire life at Cambridge to ensuring that justice is done.’

‘Justice as he sees it,’ said Thomas nastily.

‘But that is what justice is, is it not?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘It is someone’s idea of fairness, be that person a proctor, a judge, or even a sub-prior.’

‘I have no time to debate philosophical issues with you,’ said Thomas. ‘If I had wanted a university training, I would have gone to Oxford.’

‘That would not have rendered you any less ignorant,’ retorted Michael rudely. ‘But since you feel the need to question me, I shall question you: what are you doing here, when it is approaching the time for compline?’

‘That is none of your concern,’ replied Thomas icily. ‘However, I shall tell you, because I do not want to find my innocent actions turned into something sinister in order to allow de Lisle to blame me for the murder he committed.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael when Thomas paused, evidently casting around for an excuse he felt the monk would believe.

‘I was taking bread to one of the town’s children.’ Michael’s eyebrows shot up, but Thomas either did not notice or did not care. ‘I meet him here often of an evening, when I give him food for his family. I do not make my actions public, because my acts of charity are between God and I.’

‘You mean “God and me”,’ interjected Bartholomew.

‘And did he give you anything in return?’ asked Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s grammatical pedantry and thinking about the white package that was safely packed away inside the sub-prior’s scrip. Its outline could be seen, square and bulky, against the leather.

‘Of course not,’ said Thomas indignantly. ‘What could a shepherd boy give me, other than his gratitude?’ He poked at something on the ground with his foot. ‘But here is your ring, Brother. It seems not to have rolled very far.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, leaning down to retrieve it from the dirt. ‘I knew it would be here somewhere.’

‘I shall wish you both good evening, then,’ said Thomas, taking a deep breath as he contemplated the long incline that led towards the monastery buildings. ‘I do not want to be late for compline because I have been dallying with you. Do not stay out here too long. It is not unknown for wolves to frequent these parts after dark, and I would not like to think of anything untoward happening to you.’ He turned and began to huff his way up the hill.