A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But my Arab master showed me how a pipe might be passed down the throat, passing the entrance to the lungs, to allow water to be put directly into the stomach.’

‘Really?’ asked Henry, fascinated. ‘Did you see this device in action? How long were you able to keep the patient alive?’

‘Some weeks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw two patients recover, although most do not.’

‘This is horrible,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘Medicine really is a ghoulish trade. I am surprised that vile Julian does not enjoy it thoroughly.’

‘He enjoys inflicting pain, but he does not gain the same pleasure from easing it,’ said Henry tiredly.

‘You are exhausted,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘You were awake with Roger much of last night, and you will be busy now that Thomas is ill. Sleep, and I will sit with Thomas until you wake.’

‘I could not sleep,’ said Henry. ‘But I would be grateful for an opportunity to visit the library, so that I can read about this illness that has stricken Thomas. I would hate to think that he died because there is a remedy about which I have never learned. Even my knowledge is occasionally lacking.’

‘There is no remedy for this, other than time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But searching the library for ways to keep him comfortable might prove helpful. However, you will be lucky if you can find Symon to let you in.’

‘Symon is there,’ said Michael, pointing out of the window to several monks who were milling around, pretending to be walking in the gardens or pulling weeds from the graves in the cemetery. They cast frequent and furtive glances towards the windows of the hospital, clearly intent on satiating their curiosity regarding the sub-prior’s fate. Symon was among them.

Henry sighed and turned to Alan. ‘Normally, it would be the sub-prior’s responsibility to send these ghouls back to their duties. But since he is indisposed …’

‘Of course,’ said Alan, making for the door. ‘How remiss of me. It shows how I have grown to rely on Thomas for this sort of thing. I shall order them back to work, and Symon shall open the library door for you immediately. If I send him away, the Lord only knows where he might disappear and for how long.’

Henry left with him, and moments later there were footsteps on the wooden floor in the library above. Bartholomew could hear Henry demanding specific books that he needed to consult, and Symon declaring that the priory did not possess them — although Bartholomew knew for a fact that it did. The conversation ended with Henry’s exasperated voice asking whether Symon wanted to kill one of his own brethren by declining to produce the medical texts that might save his life.

Michael went into the infirmary’s main room, where he flopped on to one of the spare beds and lay with his arms pillowing his head, staring at the ceiling. Having charged his nosy monks to be about their business, Alan retired to the table at the other end of the hall, where he sat with one hand cupping his chin as he gazed through the window to the cathedral beyond. Bartholomew drew a stool to the side of Thomas’s bed and prepared himself for a long wait.

The five old men were unsettled, and Bartholomew could hear them muttering and whispering to themselves. Roger and Ynys seemed to understand what was happening, although Bartholomew could not be sure about the other three. They were all awake and sitting up in their beds, although at least two had the dull-eyed look of senility about them. Ynys barked querulous statements in an unsteady voice, and Michael went to sit next to him, holding a thin, blue-veined hand until the old man began to relax. The others also seemed comforted by Michael’s burly presence, and peace was restored as they drifted into restless slumbers.

‘Where is that wretched Julian?’ Bartholomew heard Alan demand of Michael. ‘I told him to bring Robert to me immediately, and then to look for William. The boy is totally untrustworthy — even the most simple of tasks seems too much for him.’

It was well past noon when Julian finally appeared. The old men had been fed their dinners, and had been settled to sleep away the afternoon. Young Bukton was washing the floor with a mop, and the only sound in the room was the faint hiss of its bristles on the flagstones. Julian burst into the hall, yelling for Henry at the top of his voice, careless that the elderly monks were dozing. Henry’s other assistant, Welles, was with Julian, but his frantic attempts to silence his unpleasant classmate were ignored. Michael leapt in alarm at the sudden racket, and, anticipating more bad news, Alan rushed towards them, while Bartholomew heard the tap of Henry’s footsteps on the wooden floorboards in the library above. Moments later, the infirmarian appeared, white-faced and anxious at the sudden commotion in his usually serene realm.

‘What is it?’ he demanded, darting to Thomas’s bed. ‘Has he taken a turn for the worse?’