A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew was unsettled by his conversation with Blanche. He did not know what to think of William’s suppositions as revealed by Tysilia: that there was a killer in the priory; that Blanche was involved in something untoward; and that he was Tysilia’s brother. But there was nothing Bartholomew could do about it for a while, because Michael had already arranged to spend the morning reviewing various scraps of evidence in the reluctant company of the other two men charged with uncovering the truth behind the deaths: the hypochondriacal Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield and the oafish Canon of Lincoln.

Bartholomew worked in the library for a while, but the questions about the killings that rattled around in his mind would not be ignored, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the collection of writings on marsh fever. He left the library, and wandered the grounds near the Steeple Gate, until Michael emerged from his meeting exasperated by Stretton’s stupidity and disheartened by Northburgh’s lack of interest in anything except his health. As Bartholomew told the monk about his encounter with Tysilia, a bell started to ring, announcing that a meal was about to be served. Michael immediately headed for the refectory.

‘But breakfast was not long ago,’ Bartholomew complained, staring after him. ‘And it is only two hours until the midday meal.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael, turning to haul him along. ‘Which is why we need a little something now, to sustain us for the rest of the morning. And when we have done that we will walk up the river, to see whether we can find the place where those three men were murdered.’

He pushed open the door to the spacious decadence of the monks’ refectory, with its polished wooden floors and beautiful oak tables, each one laden with freshly baked bread, dishes of fruit and slabs of creamy cheese.

‘Has anyone seen William yet?’ asked Michael, as the priory’s high-ranking monks took their seats and began grabbing the food that was laid out in front of them. No one bothered to waste energy in speaking when there was eating to be done, and shaken heads were the only response. As earlier, William’s seat was empty, but Henry mentioned that the hosteller often ate alone, and that he did not always want a meal halfway through the morning anyway. His voice held a note of censure that was directed towards the obese Thomas, but the sub-prior did not even glance up from his trough-sized trencher as he gorged himself on bread and honey, his massive flanks spilling over the sides of his specially constructed chair.

In the main body of the refectory the other monks followed the gluttonous example set by their seniors, and Bartholomew could see that many of them were well on their way to matching the paunches, bulges and double chins that abounded on the high table. However, the back of the hall contained the novices — Julian sat with Welles and the lad Bartholomew recalled was named Bukton — who seemed less inclined towards unbridled greed. In fact, Bartholomew thought they seemed depressed and listless, and they picked at their food in a way that he did not think was healthy in lads who should have had good appetites. From the uneasy glances they shot at the high table, the physician supposed that one of the priory officers had upset them in some way.

Julian ignored his meal, and instead fiddled lovingly with a long, sharp knife, which seemed far too ornate and dangerous for use at the dinner table. Bartholomew wondered why Prior Alan allowed him to possess such an object. Welles, however, was using a lengthy masonry nail to spear the food he wanted, so Bartholomew concluded that the Prior was not too fussy about his novices’ choice of dining equipment.

‘I suppose William may be buying eels,’ suggested Robert, rather plaintively. Although he and William openly detested each other, it seemed that when his protagonist was away, the almoner missed him. ‘He always buys eels on a Thursday — it is market day.’

‘But Mackerell also seems to be missing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I understand the priory obtains most of its eels from him.’

‘Henry purchases fish from Mackerell, too,’ said Robert, shooting an unpleasant glance at the infirmarian. ‘He chooses nasty, evil-looking specimens that no normal man would eat.’

‘I do not eat them either,’ said Henry indignantly, ruffled by the almoner’s comments. ‘Some I dry and grind to a powder, while others contain valuable oils that are excellent for certain skin conditions. And I will need more of them than ever in the next few days: Bishop Northburgh has charged me with finding a cure for his wrinkled skin. He wants to look young again.’

‘You will not succeed,’ warned Bartholomew, supposing he should not be surprised that a man like Henry — supremely confident in his own skill and abilities — should consider himself equal to such a task. ‘It is natural for a man to look like a walnut at ninety years of age.’