A Summer of Discontent (21 page)

‘This was intended for the inmates of the infirmary,’ Michael explained. ‘Thomas gave it to us.’

Robert’s expression became grim. ‘That glutton! He volunteered for the task of fetching the ancients’ food about a month ago,
and I wondered what had made him so generous. He is eating it himself, and passing them scraps instead!’

‘Why should he do that, when you have just said the kitchens are always open?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Henry told Prior Alan that Thomas’s size was dangerous for his health,’ explained Robert. ‘He is allowed to eat all he likes
at mealtimes, but Henry recommended that he have nothing in between. This is Thomas’s way of avenging himself on Henry and
grabbing himself extra food at the same time. But I will arrange for the old men to have something better than this. The poor
can have it instead.’ He snatched the basket away from Michael.

‘It is hardly nourishing fare for them, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They need more than stale bread and the rinds of
cheeses, too. And anyway, there is nowhere near enough in that basket to feed the crowd I saw gathering at the Steeple Gate
earlier.’

‘I have been cutting down on the amount I dispense,’ said Robert. ‘You see, the more food I give away, the more people come
to receive it.
Ergo
, the less food I give away, the fewer recipients will come. It is simple logic.’

‘But there are people who rely on the priory for their daily bread,’ argued Bartholomew, becoming angry with the insensitive
almoner. ‘If they do not come, it is probably because they are too weak from hunger to do battle for a handful of scraps.’

‘That is not my problem,’ said Robert dismissively. ‘I shall distribute this now. Thank you, Michael. It will save me a trip
to the kitchen slops.’ He took the basket to the Steeple Gate, and opened it. The crowd outside surged forward eagerly, although
murmurs of disappointment were soon audible.

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, as disgusted as was the physician. ‘Let us see whether Symon is lurking in the almonry.’

They entered Robert’s neat domain, with its piles of old clothes waiting distribution and its neatly stacked scrolls telling
of the amounts given to the poor, and Bartholomew’s heart sank: Symon was not there. However, knowing that the almoner was
currently busy dealing with the poor, Michael decided it was a good opportunity to poke around, to see what he could discover
to the detriment of a man he did not like. He was not the only one with such an idea, and he leapt back with a yelp of alarm
when he bumped against a wall hanging and it swore at him.

‘William!’ exclaimed Michael in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as you, I imagine,’ said the hosteller coolly, easing himself out from behind the tapestry with some irritation.
He patted his bobbed hair into place where it had been ruffled. ‘I want to know whether Robert has been keeping accurate records
of the goods he gives to the poor.’

‘He has not,’ said Michael, leaning over the ledger that lay open on Robert’s table. The last entry was for the current day,
which gave a list of the items that Robert was supposed to be distributing at that precise moment. ‘It says that the poor
were given two score loaves, twenty smoked eels and a barrel of ale. In addition, they are supposed to receive five blankets
and various summer vests.’

‘And what has he given them?’ asked William eagerly.

‘A few crusts of bread and a bit of stale cheese.’

William shook his head in disgust. ‘I knew it! He has been cheating the poor and the priory ever since he was made almoner
last year. Look at this.’

He tugged open a chest, and even Michael released a gasp of astonishment when he saw the number of coins inside.

‘He is provided with a specific number of pennies to deliver to the poor each week,’ explained William. ‘I have
suspected for some time that he has been hoarding them for himself. As you can see, I was right: he has amassed a veritable
fortune.’

‘I wonder what he plans to do with it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He can hardly start spending it on new clothes or fine wines –
even Alan would start to wonder where the money was coming from.’

William grimaced. ‘I think he is preparing himself for every eventuality in his future. The poor are restless, and the cathedral-priory
is a focus for their discontent. And there is a strong possibility that I will be appointed Prior in the not too distant future.
Robert will not stay here as my inferior.’

‘Why do you see that happening?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Has Alan said anything about retiring or moving to another House?’

‘No,’ said William. ‘But de Lisle is in deep trouble, and Alan may become Bishop in his stead before too long. When that happens,
I shall be made Prior. I am clearly the best man for the post, and I cannot conceive that it should go to anyone else.’

‘I am sure you cannot,’ said Michael, amused by the man’s naked ambition and confidence. ‘But do you think Robert also sees
your advancement in the offing? I would have thought he would see himself as Prior.’

William sneered. ‘For all his faults – and they are legion – he is not a complete fool. He knows the brethren will elect me,
not him.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Then I hope, for everyone’s sake, that this nasty affair with de Lisle is resolved as quickly as possible.
But unfortunately – especially for the poor – we can do nothing about this dishonest behaviour of Robert’s for now.’

William gazed at him aghast. ‘Why ever not? We have all the evidence we need to prove that the man is a thief. If we let him
continue to deprive the poor of what is rightfully theirs, then we are as guilty as he is of shameful behaviour.’

‘But if we go to Alan with this “evidence”, Robert is certain to claim that he is saving the money for some secret project
that will benefit the poor,’ explained Michael patiently. ‘He will deny any dishonesty and we will be unable to prove otherwise.’

‘But he will be lying!’ protested William, furious.

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘But you know Alan is always loath to believe ill of people. I would like to see Robert fall from grace
as much as you would, but it must be done with subtlety, when we are certain he will be unable to worm his way out of trouble
with falsehoods.’

‘Subtlety!’ snapped William in disbelief. ‘I just want to see a liar and a thief brought to justice. I shall tell Alan myself,
if you will not. Right now.’

‘You would be wiser to wait,’ warned Michael. ‘Now is not the time.’

William put his hands on his hips. ‘And while we wait for a politically opportune moment the poor starve. How many people
shall we allow him to kill, Michael? How many hungry children do you want to see crying at our gates?’

‘It cannot be that bad,’ objected Michael uncomfortably.

‘But it is,’ insisted William. He gestured around at the contents of the almonry. ‘Robert has the power to relieve all that
suffering, but he would rather line his own pockets. He told me the number of poor had decreased this year. Now I understand
that they have decreased because they have despaired of receiving succour from us. He has driven them from our doors by ensuring
that there is never enough for everyone.’

William was whipping himself into a frenzy of outrage, and Michael touched him gently on the arm, to calm him. ‘Robert is
a wicked man, and we will see him punished for this. But telling Alan now will not bring that about. We must—’

William made a moue of utter disgust. Pushing away from Michael, he stalked furiously across the room and into the grounds
outside, slamming the door behind him.

‘I do not think he agreed with you,’ said Bartholomew mildly.

‘He did,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘He knows perfectly well that telling Alan about this will do no good, because Alan will never
believe anything unpleasant about any of his officers. He will no more accept that Robert is stealing the alms for the poor
than he would accept that William is a sly power-monger who wants to be Prior himself, or that Thomas is an illiterate dictator
who has no business being in charge of novices. William’s anger was not directed at me – but at his frustration with Alan.’

‘William is not a bad man,’ said Bartholomew, leaning on the windowsill to watch the hosteller storm towards the cathedral.
It seemed Michael had predicted correctly, because William was not going immediately to the Prior’s House as he had threatened.
‘He is not someone I would choose as a friend, but he has compassion, and he is able to see beyond his own selfish interests
– which is more than I can say for most of your brethren.’

‘Except Henry, of course.’

‘Even Henry has his moments. He is a kind man and a decent physician, but there is a core of arrogance in him that means he
is unable to accept that he is occasionally wrong.’

‘I suppose you have been enlightening him with some of your controversial theories. You cannot say people are arrogant, Matt,
just because they are not prepared to abandon their years of experience and learning to embrace your novel, and sometimes
peculiar, ideas.’

‘You should know me better than that,’ said Bartholomew, a little offended. ‘My assessment of Henry has nothing to do with
the fact that we disagree about many fundamental aspects of medicine. He thinks his gentleness and compassion will eventually
rub off on Julian – but he is overestimating his ability to influence people. He could keep company with Julian for a lifetime
and it would make no difference. The boy is irredeemable.’

‘You cannot criticise Henry for trying, though,’ Michael pointed out reasonably.

‘I am not. I am merely giving you an example of his arrogance in predicting that he will bring about a favourable outcome.
Another example would be his assumption that he is a superb physician because dozens of people come to seek his medical advice
each day. The reality is that he has lots of patients because he is the only physician available. His expertise, skill or
even his success rates have nothing to do with it.’

Michael gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I do not think this priory is a good place for you, Matt. You are already losing your
powers of judgement. You see goodness in the reprehensible William and imagine faults in poor, dear Henry.’

‘What shall we do about Symon?’ Bartholomew asked, seeing that he and Michael were unlikely to agree and changing the subject.
‘Has he left the city, do you think? Just to avoid lending me a book?’

‘There is one more place we can look, although it is not somewhere I would linger, personally.’

‘Where?’

‘The latrines,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps Symon has taken one of his books and is spending the afternoon in a place where he
can be guaranteed solitude.’

M
ICHAEL WAS RIGHT
: S
YMON HAD SECURED HIMSELF IN
one of the wooden cubicles that formed the priory’s latrines. He claimed he had only just arrived, but Julian, who happened
to be passing, announced with malicious glee that he had seen the librarian entering the place long before terce. Symon was
slightly green around the gills, indicating that Julian was probably telling the truth, and that the librarian had indeed
been hiding for several hours. Bartholomew thought the state of the library must be dire indeed to induce the man to resort
to such extreme measures.

As it transpired, it was all Bartholomew could do not to exclaim aloud in horror when he entered the library and saw the careless
stacks of texts, placed where leaks from the window would surely damage the parchment, and the overloaded shelves that were
thick with dust and neglect. Some shelves had collapsed under the weight, precipitating their contents on to the floor in
chaotic mounds, while fragments of parchment scattered everywhere suggested that mice were allowed to enjoy the abused volumes,
even if scholars were not. Books were precious and expensive, and how anyone could violate one was completely beyond the physician;
it was beyond Michael, too: he surveyed the scene with large round eyes, then left without a word.

Symon’s unique way of arranging the books with no regard for their content meant that medical texts rubbed shoulders with
Arabic lexicons, and religious tracts were liberally sprinkled among collections of wills. Books with soft leather covers
or scrolls, which did not stand neatly on shelves, were relegated to the floor, where they stood in
unsteady, top-heavy pillars. Triumphantly Symon produced a copy of Theophilus’s
De Urinis
, which chance had placed on the top of one of his unstable piles, and then quickly slunk away before Bartholomew could ask
him to find anything else.

Once he had steeled himself to the distressing sight of crushed, ripped, gnawed and broken books, Bartholomew began to enjoy
having the freedom of the library, delighting in the fact that every pile he excavated contained all manner of treasures that
he had not anticipated. He spent the rest of the day refreshing his memory with parts of
De Regimine Acutorum
, then graduated to Honien ben Ishak’s commentary on Galen,
Isagoge in Artem Parvam
. It was a pleasure to read with no interruptions from students or summonses from patients, although a drawback as far as
his treatise was concerned meant that the experience of having a stretch of time to himself led him to explore secondary issues
that he would normally have been forced to ignore. He decided he should make more time for leisurely reading, and determined
to revisit the cathedral-priory and its treasure-store of knowledge at some point in the future – assuming, of course, that
he would be welcome and had not played a role in the downfall of a bishop.

The library was an airy room, located above the main hall of the infirmary. Its thick, oaken window shutters were designed
to seal the room’s valuable contents from the ravages of the weather – although one or two of them had rotted and needed replacing
– but Symon had thrown them all open, so that sun poured through the glassless openings and bathed everything in light. Desks
with benches attached to them were placed in each bay window, affording the reader a degree of privacy, as well as permitting
him to work in the maximum amount of daylight. Bartholomew, who was used to his shady room in Michaelhouse, found the light
too bright, and its reflection on the yellow-white parchment of the pages was vivid enough to dazzle him. He found he was
obliged to look up fairly frequently, to rest his eyes.

The desk Symon had cleared for him – by taking one hand and sweeping its contents to join the chaos on the floor – overlooked
the monks’ cemetery. The cemetery was a pleasant place, given its purpose, and comprised an elongated rectangle that backed
on to a garden at one end and was bordered by the cathedral and various priory buildings on the other sides. Shielded from
the worst of the Fenland winds, it was a comfortable haven for several exotic bushes and trees. Someone had planted posies
of flowers here and there, some bright in the sun and others sheltered by the waving branches of willow and yew trees. The
graves were mostly lumps in the smooth grass, although one or two monks had warranted something more elaborate, and there
were a few stone crosses and carved slabs.

Bartholomew remained in the library until long after the sun had set, and did not leave until it was so dark that he could
barely make out the shape of the book he was reading, let alone the words on the page. Disaster almost occurred when he heard
the soft sound of the key turning in the lock, but he bounded across the floor and hammered until Symon returned to undo it
again. Apparently, the librarian had forgotten about his visitor, and had only remembered that he needed to secure his domain
when he was ready to go to bed. Bartholomew coolly suggested that in future he might like to ensure that it was empty before
locking the door, but Symon was unrepentant, and informed Bartholomew that he should not have been there after dark anyway.

Symon followed Bartholomew down the stairs, so close that the physician felt Symon would dearly liked to have pushed him in
order to prevent another invasion the following day, and then locked the outer door with a key of gigantic proportions.

‘I would like to start work as early as possible tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, deciding he had better make that clear before
he and Symon parted, unless he wanted to waste part of the next day exploring the latrines, too. ‘A week is not
long when a library is as richly endowed as yours.’

‘You cannot come before prime,’ warned Symon sharply. ‘That would be ungodly.’

‘It would also be too dark,’ said Bartholomew dryly, seeing that Symon did not venture into his domain very often if he was
unaware of such a basic fact. ‘Immediately after would be good.’

‘We shall see,’ replied Symon, giving the door handle a vigorous shake to ensure it was properly secured. Without further
ado, he strode away into the night, a tall, upright figure with a military strut and a lot of vigorous and unnecessary arm-swinging.

Bartholomew watched him go, and then turned to head for his own bed. It felt too late to venture into the town alone, and
he imagined that Michael would be more interested in the priory’s endless supplies of wine than in talking to him. But the
physician did not feel like sleeping; his mind was buzzing with questions and ideas from the reading that he had completed,
and he felt restless and alert.

Henry was just finishing his evening prayers in the chapel when Bartholomew strolled into the infirmary. He gave a grin of
delight, making it clear that the physician should not expect to retire too soon, then walked with his visitor through the
main hall, checking on the old men who were settling themselves down for the night as he went.

‘Goodnight, Roger,’ said Henry loudly to the most alert of the quintet. ‘The posset I gave you contained a good deal of camomile,
so you should rest well tonight.’

‘I have dreams,’ explained Roger to Bartholomew, his eyes rheumy in the flickering light of the candle. He gestured around
at his companions, some of whom seemed aware that they were being discussed and others not. ‘We all do. We were soldiers before
we took the cowl, and sometimes the souls of the men we killed come to taunt us.’

‘They do not,’ said Henry sensibly. ‘It is only the trick of a weary mind, and I do not allow tormented souls in my infirmary,
anyway.’

Roger smiled. ‘But I see them, nevertheless. It is an old man’s dream, so you will not understand.’

‘Sleep,’ said Henry softly, helping the ancient monk to slide under the covers. ‘Shall I fetch an extra blanket? The night
is mild, but you can have one if you like.’

Roger shook his head, his eyes already closing as he huddled under the bedclothes. Bartholomew noticed that the blankets that
covered the old men were made of soft wool, while the mattresses were feather rather than the more usual and cheaper straw.
The floors had been scrubbed again that day, and the whole room smelled of fresh herbs and clean wood.

Henry moved to another of his patients, who had evidently been a giant of a man in his prime. Now he was little more than
a skeleton, with massive-knuckled hands that shook uncontrollably as they plucked at his night-shirt. Henry straightened the
covers and rested the back of his hand on the old man’s forehead to test his temperature.

‘Ynys fought for old King Edward at Bannockburn in 1314,’ he whispered to Bartholomew. The physician thought he saw a glimmer
of pride in the old man’s sunken eyes, but was not sure how much Ynys was aware of his surroundings. ‘They all did. And they
were with him in France. And now they are here with me, dreaming of the days when they were full of life and vigour.’

‘Do they know where they are?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he had imagined Ynys’s reaction.

Henry shrugged. ‘Roger does, although he is very deaf. Ynys is almost blind, and the others have failing memories. They recall
the battles in which they were heroes, but they never remember Julian from one day to the next.’

‘That is probably a blessing,’ said Bartholomew.

Henry smiled. ‘I have hopes that he will change. However, I pray that it will not take too much longer. There is a limit to
how long I am prepared to inflict him on my old friends.’

He walked to the central aisle and began a long prayer; his Latin whispered and echoed through the darkened hall.
The old men seemed to sleep easier when he had finished, as though the familiar words had settled them. He sketched a benediction
over each one, and then led Bartholomew out of the infirmary to the chambers at the far end. Henry occupied the smaller of
the two, while the other was set aside for occasional visitors and Julian. The sullen novice was sleeping there now, lying
with his mouth open and his breath hissing wetly past his palate. It was not an attractive sound.

Henry leaned down and retrieved something from the floor under Julian’s bed, and Bartholomew caught the glitter of metal before
the infirmarian turned away.

‘What is that?’ he asked curiously, seeing from the expression on Henry’s face that the find had displeased him.

Reluctantly, Henry opened his hand to reveal a long silver nail. ‘Sharp objects,’ he explained in a whisper. ‘Julian has a
morbid fascination with them, and I am always discovering them secreted away. I am afraid he may use them to harm himself.’

‘He is more likely to use them to harm someone else,’ muttered Bartholomew, eyeing the sleeping novice in distaste.

Henry beckoned Bartholomew into his own room across the corridor, and closed the door so that their voices would not disturb
those who were sleeping. He produced a bottle of raspberry cordial that he said he had made himself, and gestured for Bartholomew
to sit on a bench, while he perched on the edge of the bed.

‘How do you like our library?’ he asked, seeming grateful to change the subject from that of his assistant’s shortcomings.
‘We have a splendid collection of texts, although I can never find anything because of the chaos. It is very frustrating at
times.’

‘Why does Alan permit Symon to be so slack in his duties? The priory’s books are a valuable asset, and I am surprised he is
allowed to abuse them so flagrantly. Alan should appoint someone who knows what he is doing.’

‘Alan does not want strife in his monastery,’ said Henry tiredly. ‘If he forced Symon to resign and appointed someone else,
Symon would make his successor’s life very difficult.’

‘It is a pity. Men like Symon should not be allowed near books.’

‘I agree,’ said Henry. He smiled. ‘But let us not talk about Symon or Julian. Have you uncovered any new theories pertaining
to the marsh fever that cripples us at this time of year? Michael tells me you speak some Italian, and I know we have books
from Salerno. Tell me what you have read in them. Doubtless most of it will be wrong, but I should like to know what they
say nevertheless.’

It was easy to lose track of time when discussing medicine with an opinionated man like Henry. The Benedictine physician disagreed
with almost everything Bartholomew said, which resulted in a lively conversation. Bartholomew enjoyed it, despite the adversarial
nature of the debate, and so did Henry, who relished pitting his knowledge against a man whose experience and learning equalled
his own. The bells were chiming for the midnight mass before they realised they should sleep if they wanted to be fit for
work the following day. Reluctantly, Henry allowed Bartholomew to go to his own bed, although the physician could see that
questions and ideas were still tumbling through his mind.

The discussion had done more to rouse Bartholomew than to relax him, and the heat of the night did not allow sleep to come
easily. The rough blankets were prickly against his hot skin, and the breeze that whispered through the open window was steamy-warm
and stank of the marshes. Insects hummed high notes around his head, and flapping at them seemed to make them more interested
in him than ever. They stung, too, and it was not long before he felt as though his whole body was covered in itching lumps
from their bites.

Eventually, he slept, but it was to wake thick-headed and drowsy the following morning. The heat seemed more
intense than ever, as though the night had done nothing to cool it down. When he looked out of the window at the slowly lightening
landscape, he saw that a thick mist hung around the river, and wisps of it curled around the cathedral, obscuring the octagon
and the towers from sight. He scrubbed at his eyes and sat on the bed, wondering what the day would bring.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was blazing with particular brilliance through the library window, when Bartholomew leaned
back to stretch his stiff shoulders and look out across the cool, green grass for a few moments before returning to a complex
problem regarding the relationship between fevers and standing water. He had been lucky that morning, because Alan had been
nearby when Bartholomew had asked Symon to unlock the library door. The librarian was loath to refuse when the Prior was there,
and so Bartholomew had been left to his own devices with the books for the entire day. Michael had put his head around the
door at noon, to say that he was going to visit acquaintances of Chaloner and Haywarde, but he had waved away the physician’s
offer of company, claiming haughtily that he could interview peasants by himself.