Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Read online

  ‘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 Micha
el 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.’

  ‘She would,’ said Henry. ‘Haywarde cannot have been an easy man to live with.’

  ‘A brute,’ agreed Thomas wholeheartedly, gnawing the remnants of cheese from a rind. ‘And I, for one, am glad he is dead. He will not be mourned in the town for a moment.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him, astonished to hear such sentiments from a monk.

  ‘Our visiting physician should be about his business,’ said Robert, watching his reaction critically and showing that he thought it high time the outspoken interloper was gone.

  ‘True,’ said Thomas. ‘There are three bodies awaiting his attention, after all.’

  ‘Three,’ mused William thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps Father John is right to be concerned.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Robert, regarding the hosteller with open hatred. ‘I have already pointed out that it is not unusual for men to die.’

  ‘To die, no,’ said William smoothly. ‘But it is unusual for three to drown within such a short time. You should beware, Robert, because I have a hunch that it will only be a matter of time before a monk is found face-down in the river.’

  ‘That was unpleasant,’ said Bartholomew, as he followed Michael out of the refectory towards the Steeple Gate, where he could see the priest still waiting. ‘Was William threatening Robert?’

  ‘Lord knows,’ sighed Michael. ‘It would not surprise me. Robert and William have loathed each other for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘Neither of them are especially appealing characters,’ remarked Bartholomew, trying to determine whether he was more repelled by the superior, unreadable William or the vicious-tongued Robert. And the sub-prior was not much better, either. ‘I cannot say that I am impressed with your Benedictine brethren, Michael.’

  ‘Not those particular ones. But Henry is a kindly soul, and so is Alan.’

  ‘I am not so sure about Alan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He seems gentle and good, but he permits this silly feud with Father John, and he does nothing to curb the excesses of his monks. Robert, William and Thomas would benefit if he did not allow them so much freedom.’

  ‘Alan really is a good man, but thwarted ambition has made him careless.’

  ‘You mean because he should have been Bishop and the Pope selected de Lisle instead?’

  Michael rummaged in his scrip and presented Bartholomew with the food he had taken. ‘You should not poke around with corpses on an empty stomach, Matt. I should have grabbed you some ham, too, but that greedy Thomas wolfed most of it before I could act.’

  Bartholomew took the offering, a little warily: Michael was not a man who readily parted with food, and the physician wondered whether there was something wrong with it. ‘Are you not hungry?’

  ‘Breakfast is always a tawdry affair on Mondays,’ said Michael carelessly. He is probably full, thought Bartholomew. ‘But I shall survive until we find a tavern, and you need sustenance, since you are about to meddle in de Lisle’s affairs on my behalf. How did you persuade the priest to let you examine the others?’

  ‘He asked me. But these other two deaths put a different complexion on matters, do you not think? They mean that unless de Lisle also murdered them, then he is unlikely to have killed Glovere.’

  Michael gave a grim smile. ‘You are underestimating de Lisle, Matt. He is quite capable of deducing that the presence of two other corpses might exonerate him from the murder of the first. And you are assuming that these corpses are all related in some way. Robert is right: the waters in the Fens can be dangerous, and it is not unusual for men to die while fishing or fowling or cutting reeds.’

  ‘I suppose there is only one way to find out,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, watching with heavy resignation as Father John came to lead them to the corpses.

  The two bodies lay in St Mary’s Church, an attractive building with a spire, which overlooked the village green. John explained that the monks refused to allow corpses in the cathedral while they awaited burial, and so the parishioners of Holy Cross were obliged to pay St Mary’s to store them until a requiem mass could be arranged. The priest of St Mary’s was well satisfied with the
arrangement, and John informed Bartholomew and Michael that the twopence per day for each body went directly into the man’s own purse.

  ‘The monks should provide that twopence,’ John muttered bitterly. ‘Why should my parishioners pay, just because the priory refuses to allow them proper use of our parish church?’

  ‘But it is primarily the priory’s cathedral,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And it is the seat of the Bishop of Ely. Thomas de Lisle will not want to be falling over corpses each time he enters his own church, either.’

  ‘You make it sound as though we have dozens of them,’ said John accusingly. ‘There are only two. Prior Alan put Glovere in the Bone House.’

  ‘Why not store the others there, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

  John explained patiently, ‘Since Glovere is a retainer of Lady Blanche he is technically not my parishioner, and I refused to find the twopence for him. Rather than pay himself, Alan made the Bone House available. But I could not avoid financing Chaloner and Haywarde.’

  ‘The River Ouse can be dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why do you think the deaths of these two men are anything more than tragic accidents?’

  ‘I do not, actually,’ admitted John. ‘The river is dangerous, and these fellows liked a drink. But there is a rumour that they killed themselves, and if that is true, then I cannot bury them in consecrated ground.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ swore Michael, backing away as John opened the door to the Church of St Mary. ‘This place smells almost as foul as Glovere in the Bone House.’

  ‘It is summer, Brother,’ said John. ‘Of course there will be some odour.’

  ‘No wonder you pay for the privilege of storing your dead here,’ said Michael, removing his pomander from his scrip and shoving it against his nose and mouth. ‘It is the only way you would ever persuade a priest to allow you to do it.’

  The bodies lay in open coffins in the Lady Chapel, covered with grimy blankets that were liberally scattered with horse hairs. Under each coffin, Bartholomew saw that the floor had been stained by water dripping from the bodies; he had noted a similar phenomenon on the floor around Glovere. Since neither John nor Michael made a move to help, he went over to the first corpse. He presumed it was Chaloner, who he knew had died a couple of days after Glovere, because the face was blackened and there was a whitish mass in the eyes and mouth, indicating that flies had been at work. It would not be long before Chaloner had a cloud of insects buzzing around him, just as Glovere had done.