A Summer of Discontent

‘I thought we had already been through this,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Everyone claims they do not know where he is.’

‘Brother Henry said it was not unusual for William to miss these additional meals,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not surprising: breakfast and the midday feast are amply sufficient for the needs of most normal men.’

‘True,’ agreed Henry immediately. ‘I do not believe that eating so much is healthy. It is why so many of us are large.’ His gaze fell on Thomas.

‘We will discuss the medical shortcomings of our dining system another time,’ snapped Alan. ‘What I want to know now is where my hosteller is. Robert! You and he seem to watch each other like hawks, waiting for the other to make a mistake that you can report it to me, so you must know of his whereabouts. Where is he?’

‘He is probably in the Outer Hostry,’ said Robert sullenly, no more happy with this public criticism than Thomas had been. ‘He dines with the guests on occasion.’

‘Go and find him,’ Alan ordered. ‘Tell him that I want to see him immediately, and I do not care what he is doing. Bring him here at once.’

‘Me?’ asked Robert in surprise. ‘But I am eating. Send a servant.’

‘You go,’ said Alan, the ice in his voice making it clear that Robert would be wise to do what he was told. Wordlessly, the spiteful almoner left.

Thomas heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief, apparently believing that the search for William meant that he was safe from further interrogation. He was mistaken: Michael rounded on him again, just as the sub-prior was in the act of raising a honey-drenched slice of bread to his large lips.

‘Who else?’ Michael demanded of him. ‘You implied that there was more than one person who might know more than he is telling.’

‘Robert,’ said Thomas, as soon as the door had closed and he was certain the almoner would not be able to hear. Bartholomew did not know whether Thomas was telling the truth, or merely picking on someone he did not like and who was no longer in the room to defend himself. ‘He and William are the only ones whose habits and behaviour have been a little suspect of late.’

Alan sighed, and looked into the main body of the refectory for a suitable messenger. His gaze lit on Julian, who was watching the scene with unabashed delight, his spotty jaw dangling open to reveal a pink tongue. ‘Go after Robert and bring him back. And then you can search for William.’

‘Me?’ asked Julian in surprise, echoing Robert’s sentiments. ‘But I have work to do in the infirmary. Ask Brother Henry.’

‘He must clean the shelves and wash all the bottles in my storeroom today,’ explained Henry to Alan. ‘It is his punishment for hiding Brother Ynys’s crutches last night.’

‘I wanted to see if he could walk without them,’ pouted Julian. ‘It was a medical experiment.’

‘It was malicious teasing,’ said Henry coolly. ‘And your additional duties today will warn you not to do it again. It is a tedious task and will take you many hours.’

‘I do not care whether he is obliged to labour all night,’ said Alan testily. ‘Do as I tell you, boy. Fetch Robert back to answer the charge Sub-prior Thomas has laid against him.’

Reluctantly, because he knew he would miss what promised to be the most interesting meal for a very long time, Julian left, while Michael turned his angry glare on Thomas yet again. The sub-prior was sweating heavily, and his twitching jowls were beaded with perspiration. He pushed his trencher away from him, his appetite clearly ruined. Bartholomew thought a little abstinence would do him good, although he did not like the increasing pallor of the sub-prior’s face.

‘While we are waiting for Robert and William to appear, we will talk about you, Thomas,’ said Michael unrelentingly. ‘What were you doing in the orchard last night?’

Thomas swallowed, then glanced at the door. Bartholomew wondered whether the man imagined he could reach it and escape the uncomfortable interrogation, although he was deluding himself if he thought he could move his bulk faster than Michael, or even than some of the other monks who sat quietly eating but with their ears firmly trained on the happenings at high table. The novices made no pretence at disinterest, however. They sat in open-mouthed fascination, riveted to the drama unfolding before them, and Bartholomew saw they relished the opportunity to watch bullying seniors publicly castigated.

‘I was meeting a friend,’ Thomas offered in a strangled voice. Bartholomew exchanged another look of concern with Henry, and then laid a warning hand on Michael’s arm.

‘I know that,’ said Michael, pushing Bartholomew’s hand away impatiently. ‘I am not a fool. I saw you meet someone, and I saw him pass you a package. Who were you meeting? What was in the package? And where is that package now?’

‘I-’ began Thomas, swallowing again, then pressing a hand to his head. His face was now drained of colour. ‘It is hot in here. Can we open a window?’