A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew bought some ink from a parchment seller in anticipation of the work he planned to do on his treatise on fevers, and then Brother Henry purchased some of the weak breakfast beer that was being sold by the priory’s brewer. It was exactly how Bartholomew liked his morning ale: cool, sweet, pleasantly nutty and so clear that he could see the bottom of the jug. The ale served at Michaelhouse tended to be a brew that had been bought cheaply; it was already past its best, and invariably cloudy.

The physicians finished their ale and went to the cathedral to celebrate prime. A thin column of black-robed monastics was already winding its way into the chancel, each man pushing back his hood as he crossed from the cloister to the church proper. They walked in silence, their sandalled feet tapping softly on the flagstones. Henry nodded a farewell to Bartholomew and joined the end of the procession. The physician’s heart sank when he saw a door open in the west end of the cathedral and Father John bustle in. Prime would not be a peaceful, contemplative occasion after all.

The monks began to chant their prayers, and Bartholomew closed his eyes to listen as the rich rumble of the basses acted as a drone for the higher notes of the tenors. Then Michael’s pleasant baritone began to echo through the chancel, singing alternate lines with the rest of the monks acting as a chorus. Just when the physician began to lose himself in the beauty of the music, Father John’s mass started.

Bartholomew opened his eyes to see Michael glowering in the direction of the nave, displeased that his singing was being spoiled by the priest’s continuing battle with the priory. Bartholomew tried to concentrate on the words of the psalm, but found instead that he listened with horrified fascination to John’s bastard Latin. Most of it was entirely nonsensical, but some bore enough resemblance to the original to be amusing. John’s parishioners did not know, and probably did not care, that their priest’s mass was incomprehensible, and were present in their usual numbers.

Bartholomew spotted Leycestre standing near the back with his two nephews. Feeling that it was unreasonable for anyone to expect him to pray under such conditions, he slipped out of the chancel and made his way to the nave, intending to ask Leycestre what had happened in the Lamb Inn that had resulted in the gypsies’ undignified expulsion. Not surprisingly, given his state the night before, Leycestre looked fragile and his face was pale and unshaven.

‘I trust you arrived home safely last night?’ Bartholomew whispered.

Leycestre blinked stupidly for a moment, then rubbed his head as he understood what the physician was saying. ‘It was you who prevented that fight. I am sorry. I was the worse for ale, and should have been better mannered.’

‘Even to gypsies?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

Leycestre smiled ruefully. ‘Even to gypsies. They are thieves, and it is possible that they killed our three much-lamented townsmen, but we need their labour at this time of year, and we cannot afford to have them leave just yet.’

‘That is not the position you held last night,’ Bartholomew remarked. ‘Eulalia told me that you accused them of stealing the wages from honest local folk.’

Leycestre edged around one of the great, thick columns, so that the priest would not see him talking during the mass. ‘I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I do believe that we should have the money the landowners are willing to pay the gypsies, but it is not the gypsies’ fault that the situation is as it is.’

‘Will you apologise to them?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘It cannot have been pleasant to be accused of stealing in such a public place.’

‘I will mention to Eulalia that I may have spoken out of turn,’ said Leycestre, resentment thick in his voice. ‘But I will not apologise to her loutish brothers — especially that Guido.’

‘Was there a reason for all that drinking last night?’ Bartholomew asked curiously. ‘A large number of people were in the taverns, and they were all buying a lot more ale than usual.’

Leycestre gave him a puzzled glance, as though he could not believe the question had been asked. ‘It was a Wednesday.’

It was Bartholomew’s turn to look bemused. ‘What of it?’

Leycestre gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘We are paid on Wednesdays. It is the day before the weekly market, you see, and the landlords want us to spend all our hard-earned wages on the goods of other rich men. It is a cunning ploy.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether that was truly the reason for the choice of day, or whether it was to allow the women to make their purchases in the marketplace before the men had time to squander all their earnings in taverns. If the previous night was anything to go by, such a policy might be well justified.

‘Market days are always interesting occasions,’ Leycestre went on. ‘They are excellent opportunities to discuss the heavy yoke of labourers with men who feel empathy with us.’