A Summer of Discontent (30 page)

‘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?’

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.’

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?’

Julian was breathless, and his face was flushed with excitement. He faltered when he saw the vast form of Thomas motionless
on the bed, and took a sharp intake of breath when he realised why Henry had asked such a question.

‘What happened to him?’ he asked with fiendish fascination. ‘He was fit and hearty the last time I saw him – before I was
dispatched like a servant to fetch Robert and William.’

‘The sub-prior was taken ill,’ replied Henry shortly.

‘Oh,’ said Julian, sounding disappointed at such a mundane answer. ‘Is that all? No one tried to kill him? He was not stabbed
or struck with some heavy object.’

Henry gazed at him, and Bartholomew saw dislike creep across the infirmarian’s usually placid expression. Julian’s unsavoury
interest in the macabre had gone too far.

‘Why should you be interested in such things?’ Henry asked, distaste clear in his voice. ‘Here is a man ill and in need of
help that you might be able to provide – I taught you about seizures last week – but you ask about sharp knives and blunt
instruments.’

‘Your obsession with weapons and their application is unseemly, Julian,’ reprimanded Alan. ‘I have warned you about your unnatural
love of violence before, and if you persist, I shall have no choice but to ask you to leave this priory and make your own
way in the world outside.’

‘Then I will join the Knights Hospitallers,’ declared Julian defiantly. With barely concealed loathing he stared at his Prior.
‘They will find a place for a man like me, who is prepared to fight and kill for what he believes.’

‘No!’ cried Henry in alarm, appealing to Alan. ‘Do not let him go to an Order of soldier-monks. He would be uncontrollable,
and would commit all manner of atrocities in the name of God. Give me a few more weeks to work with him.’

Alan regarded Julian coldly. ‘You are lucky to have a friend like Henry, although I can see from your sneering that you do
not appreciate him. But I sent you to fetch Robert and William some time ago. Where are they? Why have you not carried out
my orders?’

‘William has gone!’ said Julian, his voice ringing through the infirmary. Roger and Ynys twisted uneasily in their beds as
Julian’s shout penetrated their confused dreams. Meanwhile, Julian’s gloating gaze passed from Alan to Henry, and then to
Michael. ‘He is not here.’

‘Do not yell,’ snapped Alan sharply. ‘This is not a tavern. It is a cathedral-priory and a place sacred to God. And what do
you mean by “gone”?’

‘He is not in the guest halls, the chapter house or any of the outbuildings,’ said Julian, enunciating each word slowly, as
though Alan were a half-wit who needed to be addressed
like a child. Bartholomew felt a strong urge to box the lad’s ears, and thought Henry was a saint that he had so far kept
his hands to himself. ‘So, I went to see if he was in his cell, but some of his belongings are missing.’

‘You mean someone has stolen them?’ asked Alan in confusion.

‘No, I mean that someone has carefully removed items from his cell – his spare habit and his cloak have gone.’

‘So he has left the priory?’ asked Alan aghast. ‘But how? When?’

Bukton stepped forward and cleared his throat nervously, still holding the mop. ‘I saw Brother William leave the priory near
dusk last night, but I assumed he was just taking some short trip on the priory’s behalf. He rode Odin, the black gelding.’

‘He may well have taken a short trip,’ Alan pointed out hopefully. ‘He probably returned later. I want to know where he is
now.’

Bukton shook his head. ‘Odin was not in his stall this morning when I fed the other horses. I assumed William had left him
somewhere else, or perhaps he had thrown a shoe and was with the blacksmith. But now it seems that Odin’s absence and William’s
disappearance are connected.’