A Summer of Discontent (13 page)

‘De Lisle
never
bothers with prime when he is in Ely,’ observed Robert sanctimoniously. ‘I imagine he is too busy counting his money.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Hosteller William. He had washed his hair that morning, presumably because Blanche was visiting
and he wanted to make a good impression. He kept running his hands through it so that it would dry, and it sat around his
head like a giant grey puffball. ‘He does not have any. That is his problem.’

‘How is Lady Blanche this morning?’ asked Alan of his hosteller, tactfully changing the subject so that Michael would not
be obliged to hear his fellow monks denigrating their Bishop. ‘I invited her to celebrate prime in my private chapel, but
she informed me that she does not like to rise while the dew still lies on the ground.’

‘Her retinue follow her example,’ said Robert disapprovingly. He helped himself to a chunk of cheese that would have fed an
entire family of peasants. Bartholomew tried hard not to gape at him. ‘Bartholomew was the only one of our guests in the cathedral
this morning. However, I did not like the fact that he chose to sit with the town rabble, in preference to us.’

‘I did not expect that to be an issue,’ said Bartholomew, indignant at the criticism, when no one had bothered to forewarn
him. ‘I assumed the townsfolk would attend St Mary’s, or listen to your offices from the nave. I was not anticipating that
two masses would be celebrated in the same church at the same time.’

‘There is something of a rivalry between priory and city,’ explained William. ‘And Father John is always looking for opportunities
to exacerbate the problem. I saw him whispering secretly to you after he had finished howling his miserable Latin. What did
he want?’

‘He was not whispering and his request was not secret,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he was engaging in
subterfuge. He wondered whether the monks were in the habit of making inflammatory remarks to all their guests, or whether
he had been singled out for that particular honour.

‘I imagine he was telling you that the town needs more alms from us,’ said Robert angrily. ‘Well, we are poor ourselves and
cannot afford to give more.’

‘So I see,’ said Bartholomew, his eyes straying to the piles of food that were rapidly disappearing inside monastic mouths.

‘There is always something more we can do for the poor,’
said Henry softly. No one took any notice of him.

‘Or was he complaining that we have spent too much time on the octagon, when we should have been working on his miserable
parish church?’ demanded Robert, working himself into a fever of righteous indignation. ‘We are not made of money: we cannot
pay every last mason in the country to work for us, and the cathedral is more important than any parish church.’

‘Not to the people of Holy Cross,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And not to you, either, unless you happen to like shouting at prime.’

‘Father John does have a point,’ said the ever-reasonable Henry, appealing to Prior Alan. ‘We started his church thirty years
ago, and it is still nowhere near completion.’

‘We had the octagon to build and the Lady Chapel to raise,’ Alan pointed out. ‘Those were large projects that took all our
resources.’

‘But the parish church
is
more important than a lady chapel,’ argued Henry. ‘Our first duty is to our fellow men, not to erecting sumptuous buildings
that we do not need.’

‘Our first duty is to God,’ retorted Alan sharply. ‘And I have chosen to fulfil that duty by raising magnificent monuments
to glorify His name.’

Henry said no more, although Bartholomew was uncertain whether it was because he was abashed by Alan’s reprimand, or because
he could see that there was simply no point in arguing.

‘Or was Father John muttering to you because he thinks churchmen have been slaughtering townsfolk?’ asked Sub-prior Thomas
of Bartholomew in the silence that followed, his jaws still working on the remaining crusts of his bread. Bartholomew looked
around surreptitiously, certain that the fat sub-prior could not possibly have eaten an entire loaf within such a short period
of time. The crumbs on the table indicated that he had.

‘He wants me to examine some bodies for him,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Oh, that is a relief,’ said a tall monk with a bushy beard. ‘I thought you might be waiting there for me to give you the
keys to the library.’

‘Are you Symon de Banneham, the Brother Librarian?’ asked Bartholomew immediately. ‘When can I make a start? There are many
texts to read and I would like to begin as soon as possible.’

Symon blew out his cheeks and shook his head, intending to convey the impression that the request was an impossible one to
grant. ‘Not today. Come back next week.’

‘Next week?’ echoed Bartholomew in horror. ‘But I will have gone home by then.’

‘Pity,’ said Symon, pouring himself a large jug of breakfast ale and downing it faster than was wise. ‘We have some lovely
books. I am sure you would have enjoyed them.’

‘Why can you not oblige our visitor sooner, Symon?’ asked Prior Alan curiously. ‘There is no reason why he should not start
work whenever he likes. No one else is reading the books he wants to see, and the library is meant to be used by people just
like him.’

Symon shot his Prior an unpleasant look. ‘It is not convenient to deal with him today.’

‘Why not?’ pressed Alan. ‘You have no other pressing duties. And you do not need to “deal” with him anyway. Just show him
the books and he can manage the rest for himself.’

Symon gave a long-suffering sigh, but was obviously unable to think of further excuses. ‘This is a wretched nuisance, but
I suppose I might be able to fit you in tomorrow. You will have to find me, though. I am too busy to be at a specific place
at a certain time.’

‘That will not be a problem,’ said Bartholomew, deciding that he had better agree to any terms set by the unhelpful librarian
if he ever wanted to see a book. ‘I will find you.’

Symon’s eyes gleamed with triumph, and Bartholomew suspected that the librarian would make tracking him down as difficult
as possible.

‘So, you can inspect corpses today and read tomorrow,’
said Alan sweetly to Bartholomew. ‘It sounds a perfect two days for a medical man.’

‘I would rather see living patients than inspect corpses,’ said Bartholomew, determined that the monks should not consider
him a ghoul who preferred the company of blackened, stinking remains of men like Glovere to engaging in normal, healthy pursuits
like examining urine. He beckoned to Michael. ‘We should go, Brother. Father John is waiting.’

‘Why do you need Michael to accompany you?’ asked William, fluffing up his bobbed hair fastidiously.

‘Apparently, the priest believes that two of his parishioners may have died in suspicious circumstances,’ explained Bartholomew,
not certain what he should say. Since he and Michael were not yet sure whether someone had murdered Glovere for the express
purpose of compromising de Lisle, he did not want to tell the assembled monks too much: given that de Lisle was unpopular
in the priory, it would not be surprising if one of the Benedictines had decided to try to bring about the Bishop’s downfall.

Michael rose from his feast, dabbing greasy lips on a piece of linen with one hand and shoving a handful of boiled eggs and
a piece of bread into his scrip with the other. Meanwhile, his brethren began a spirited debate about the bodies that Father
John wished Bartholomew to examine.

‘John is concerned by the fact that a couple of his parishioners have had the misfortune to meet their maker recently,’ said
Almoner Robert with a smugly superior smile on his dark features. He leaned back against the wall and folded soft white hands
across his ample paunch. ‘However, someone should inform him that it is quite natural for people to die.’

‘But even
you
must admit that it is unusual for three men to drown in such rapid succession,’ replied William tartly, treating the almoner
to a scornful glance. From the way Robert glared back, Bartholomew sensed that this was not the first disagreement the two
men had engaged in.

‘Three?’ asked Henry, crossing himself in alarm. ‘I thought there were two – Glovere and Chaloner. Who is the other?’

‘That ruffian Haywarde,’ replied Robert, tearing his attention away from William and addressing Henry. ‘He is that lazy fellow
who is related to Agnes Fitzpayne. He was found dead near the Monks’ Hythe on Saturday morning.’

‘Drowned?’ asked Henry, horrified. ‘Like the other two?’

Robert nodded with gleeful satisfaction, clearly enjoying the fact that he was in possession of information that the others
lacked. Bartholomew thought him a thoroughly repellent character, and was not surprised that Michael preferred life in Cambridge
to that in his Mother House, where there were men like Robert, Thomas and William to contend with. ‘He was found floating
face-down in the water – he took his own life.’

‘But why would he do that?’ asked Henry uncertainly. ‘I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but Haywarde was too selfish
and arrogant a man to do himself any harm.’

‘I agree,’ said Robert, who seemed the kind of fellow who would always find something negative to say about someone. ‘But
that is what is being said in the town. As almoner, I am told these things, whereas you will hear little, locked in your hospital
all day.’

‘I have Julian,’ said Henry, a little bitterly, as he cast an unreadable glance towards Alan. ‘He more than compensates for
any gossip I might miss. I have never met anyone with a more spiteful tongue.’

‘I have,’ muttered William, directing another glance of rank dislike at Robert. ‘Even the reprehensible Julian could learn
some tricks from the likes of our Brother Almoner.’

‘Haywarde was a pig, and does not deserve to be buried in consecrated ground anyway,’ announced Robert sanctimoniously, apparently
unaware of William’s murmured comments. ‘Suicide or not, the potter’s field is the best place for him.’

‘That is a fine attitude for a man whose task is to care
for the poor,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Does it not touch your sense of compassion that the man felt compelled to risk his immortal
soul rather than continue to live?’

‘No,’ said Robert firmly. ‘And we paid him a perfectly fair wage, so do not listen to any seditious chatter put about by that
Leycestre. He claims the priory does not care for its labourers.’

‘We could have paid Haywarde a little more,’ said William reasonably. ‘The man had six children, and what we gave him was
barely enough to feed them all.’

‘It was, actually,’ argued Thomas, reaching for the empty ham platter and proceeding to scrape up the grease with his spoon.
‘Or it would have been, had he chosen to buy bread, rather than squandering it on ale at the Lamb.’

‘He did enjoy his ale,’ admitted Henry. ‘And his drunkenness did not make for a happy life for his wife and children. He was
altogether too ready with his fists – I cannot begin to recall the times that I have dispensed salves to heal his family’s
bruises.’

‘Too many offspring,’ proclaimed Thomas, licking the fat from his spoon with a moist red tongue. ‘That was the essence of
Haywarde’s problems.’

‘He should have thought of that before he rutted with his woman, then,’ snapped Robert nastily. ‘I have no patience with men
who breed like rabbits and then decline to accept their responsibilities. Haywarde chose to have six children, and his death
has condemned them to a slow death by starvation.’

‘I am sure no one here will allow that to happen,’ said Bartholomew, loudly enough to silence the hum of chatter that buzzed
around the refectory. He felt Michael plucking at his sleeve, encouraging him to leave before he could embroil himself in
an argument with the people whose hospitality he was receiving. Impatiently, he moved away. ‘This man was one of the monastery’s
servants, and I am certain none of you will be so callous as to allow his children to starve.’

‘That is unfair,’ snapped Robert angrily. ‘It is not our fault that Haywarde is dead, and we cannot afford to take every hungry
child into our care; we would be bankrupt in no time at all.’

‘We would have every peasant in the Fens clamouring at our doors for succour,’ agreed Thomas, who had finished the fat and
was eyeing the last of the cheese, indicating that the plight of Haywarde’s children was not something that would affect his
own appetite. ‘Robert is right.’

‘Robert is wrong,’ declared William promptly, delighted with an opportunity to show his rival in a poor light. He turned to
Alan, still raking his fingers through his peculiar hair. ‘Bartholomew has a point, Father. It would be wicked of us to ignore
this stricken family. I will donate my breakfast to Haywarde’s children from now on.’ He shot Robert an unpleasant smile,
indicating that he thought he had won some kind of point.

‘You will not, my lad,’ said Thomas fervently, looking up from his feeding. ‘That would place an obligation on the rest of
us to do the same thing, and I can assure you that I shall allow nothing to come between me and my food. I am a large man,
and I need sustenance to conduct my life in a manner that is fitting to God.’

‘I am sure God would condone a little abstinence in the name of compassion,’ said William, surveying Thomas’s girth critically.
‘And
I
shall undertake to ensure that Haywarde’s children are cared for. You can do as you will.’

Bartholomew saw the novices smiling among themselves, apparently delighted to see the fat sub-prior opposed so energetically.
It seemed that Thomas was not a popular man with the youngsters.

‘I shall look into Haywarde’s case,’ said Alan wearily; it was not the first time he had acted as peacemaker between his senior
monks. ‘However, I took it upon myself to visit the family the day he died, and the widow assured me that she would fare better
without him. I confess I was shocked, but she told me that the funds spent on Haywarde’s ale
would pay for the children’s bread. She seemed rather delighted by her change of fortune.’