A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew stood quickly, intending to put an end to the inquisition before Thomas had a seizure. He recognised the signs that preceded a serious attack — the pallor, sweating and trouble in breathing — and he did not want Thomas to be ill because Michael was being aggressive in his questioning.

Unfortunately, Thomas misinterpreted Bartholomew’s abrupt move as a hostile gesture. He rose to his own feet quickly, but then grasped at his throat and fell backwards, where he began to writhe and gasp for breath.

‘Poison!’ yelled young Bukton immediately, also leaping up. ‘Someone put poison in his food because he was on the verge of betrayal.’

This caused great consternation. There was a rattle of pewter on wood as plates were shoved hastily away from diners. The deathly silence that had prevailed when Michael was conducting his inquisition was broken, and an alarmed chattering broke out.

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ snapped Bartholomew, struggling to keep the flailing Thomas from injuring himself. Henry knelt next to him, holding the sub-prior’s head and trying to insert a rag into his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue. ‘He has been eating the same food as all of us, and no one else is showing these symptoms.’

‘It is the wine, not the bread,’ squealed Bukton in horror. There was another clatter as goblets were hastily set back on the table, and the murmur of frightened, confused voices suddenly turned into a roar, combined with the scraping of benches on the floor as some monks came to their feet. Alan silenced it by rapping hard on the table with a horn spoon. The monks sat again and the alarmed babble began to subside.

‘What is happening, Matt?’ asked Michael nervously, hovering over the physician. His face was almost as pale as Thomas’s. ‘Has he been poisoned?’

‘He is a fat man who became overwrought with your questions,’ said Bartholomew, waiting for Henry to prise their patient’s teeth apart, so that he could drop a soothing syrup between them. ‘There is nothing sinister in this — unless you count the fact that the man was so clearly involved in something unpleasant that he had a seizure at the prospect of admitting it.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I did not know this would happen. I dislike Thomas, but I did not mean to kill him with my questions. Why must everyone insist on being dishonest with me?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, as Thomas’s frenzied jerks and convulsions gradually died down and he became flaccid. He leaned down and put his ear against the fat man’s chest. He half expected that there would be so much flesh that he would hear nothing, even though Thomas was still alive, but the heart could be heard loud and clear, beating fast and hard from its exertions. ‘But he will not be telling you anything for a while yet — if ever.’

‘Is he dead, then?’ asked Michael in a whisper, crossing himself vigorously. ‘Lord help me! I have killed him!’

‘He is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he has lost his senses. He may regain them again, but he may not. It is impossible to tell at the moment.’

Michael rubbed a hand over his face and slumped on Thomas’s oversized chair. The other monks were silent as Bartholomew, Henry and three hefty novices struggled to lift the unconscious sub-prior on to a stretcher. Then the grim procession filed out of the refectory, and headed towards the building that overlooked the graveyard.

It was some time before Bartholomew and Henry finished working on Thomas. They removed several layers of very tight undervests, appalled when they realised that some of the garments had probably not seen the laundry for several years. Then the rolls of flesh spilled out, white and loose across the bed. Bartholomew felt queasy when his probing produced the stone of a peach that had probably lain hidden in one fold since at least the previous summer.

Once Thomas’s clothes were removed, they sponged his burning limbs with cool water, then gave him drops of laudanum until his laboured breathing eased. Because the presence of a seriously sick man in their midst was distressing the infirmary’s elderly inmates, Henry instructed that Thomas should be moved to Henry’s own chamber. It was a good idea: the old men would be left in peace, while the physicians could do what needed to be done to Thomas without a horrified audience.

‘Well?’ asked Michael in a low voice, looking down at the pale, damp features of the stricken sub-prior. ‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing more we can do. He will awake — or not — when the time is right.’

‘But when might that be?’ asked Prior Alan, appalled. ‘Today? Tomorrow?’

‘It is impossible to say,’ said Henry. ‘I had a patient once who lay like this for a week, and it was a lack of water that carried him off in the end — he could not swallow and we were afraid we would drown him if we forced him to drink. Doubtless Matthew has encountered similar cases.’