Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Read online

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘I was looking forward to a few quiet days among books. Now I learn that the librarian is a man who would rather his collection was never used, and that my friend is to investigate a murder for which his Bishop stands accused. What kind of place is this?’

  Bukton was offended by the criticism. ‘You have just caught us on a bad day.’

  ‘I should say!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the young man speed away as he went to help his elders ready the Outer Hostry for Lady Blanche and her followers. He turned to Michael. ‘No wonder you like Cambridge, Brother. It is a haven of peace compared to this.’

  ‘As he said, you are not seeing us at our best,’ replied Michael, also unwilling to see his priory regarded in an unfavourable light. ‘But I can take you to the infirmary, where you can settle yourself for your stay, and then we can go to view the body of the man whom my Bishop murdered.’

  ‘Is accused of murdering,’ corrected Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Brother. One slip like that in front of the wrong people might see de Lisle condemned.’

  Michael said nothing, and Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, alarmed that Michael, like so many others, had accepted as fact the Bishop’s guilt. The monk’s task, therefore, would not be to prove de Lisle’s innocence, but to ensure that he escaped the charges. The physician felt a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach, aware that his friend was about to begin something that could lead him on to dangerous ground. Michael was a clever man, and his inventively cunning mind often surprised Bartholomew, but, nevertheless, the physician wished neither of them had come to Ely in the first place.

  ‘We have been here for an hour, and we are already embroiled in something sinister,’ he grumbled, following Michael along the well-kept path that led from the Prior’s House in the direction of the infirmary.

  Michael turned to face him, his expression sombre. ‘I would not have let you come had I known what de Lisle wanted me to do. But it is not too late. Leave now, and take Cynric and Meadowman with you. You will be back in Cambridge before nightfall.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The horses are tired and Cynric is already showing Meadowman the taverns. It will be far too late by the time I find them. Besides, how can I leave you here alone?’

  ‘I am in my own priory, Matt. I am surrounded by friends.’

  ‘Hardly!’ snorted Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Prior Alan seems decent enough, but the almoner does not like you and neither does the hosteller. You are not among friends here.’

  Michael smiled and slapped him on the shoulders. ‘Then allow me to introduce you to Henry de Wykes, the priory’s physician. He is a good and honest man, and there is hardly a soul in the town who does not like him. He is a little immodest, perhaps, but that is no great fault when you compare him to the rest of my brethren here.’

  The hospital was a substantial building adjoining the Black Hostry. It boasted a large, airy central hall, its own chapel, and a pair of chambers for treating patients and preparing medicines. Another two rooms at the opposite end of the hall served as living quarters for the infirmarian and his assistants. The library occupied the rooms on the floor above. The building overlooked gardens on two sides, the cathedral on the third, and, rather disconcertingly for a place dedicated to the sick, the monks’ graveyard on the fourth.

  There were two entrances to the infirmary. One was via a covered walkway known as the Dark Cloister, which allowed the monks to reach it from the chapter house without exposing themselves to the elements; the other was through a small door in the north wall, which was reached by walking through the monks’ cemetery. Michael chose the latter, strolling along a path that was almost obliterated by long meadow grass, and opening a small, round-headed gate that led directly into the hospital’s main hall.

  Bartholomew followed him inside and looked around, admiring the carvings on the arches that had been executed by Norman masons two hundred years before, and the dark strength of the oak beams that supported the ceiling. The floor comprised smooth slabs of stone that had been scrubbed almost white, while large windows allowed the light to flood into the sickroom. A row of beds ran down each of the walls, so that about twenty men could be accommodated at a time. However, the priory’s infirmary was not only a place for monks who were ill; it was also home to elderly brethren who were too ancient or infirm to look after themselves. Bartholomew glanced down the hall, and saw that there were currently five such inmates, each tucked neatly under covers that were crisp and clean.

  Michael walked between the rows of beds, to where voices could be heard in one of the chambers that stood at the far end of the hall. He knocked briskly on a door that was half closed, before pushing it open. An older monk was evidently teaching two novices some aspect of medicine, because he was holding a flask of urine to the light, and was in the process of matching its colour to examples given in Theophilus’s De Urinis. The monk was too engrossed in his explanation to notice that his charges were bored and restless.

  ‘I hope that is wine you are regarding with such loving attention, Brother Henry,’ called Michael, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame.

  ‘Michael!’ exclaimed Henry in delight, immediately abandoning his teaching. He was a sturdy man in his fifties, who was burned a deep nut-brown by the sun. His forearms were sinewy and knotted, indicating that the large hospital garden they had passed on their way in, with its neat rows of herbs and vegetables, was probably tended by him personally and that he was no stranger to hard work. He had twinkling blue eyes, wiry grey hair and a large gap between his two front teeth.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Michael, taking the proffered hand and shaking it warmly. ‘Why are you keeping these young fellows inside, when the rest of the priory is busy making ready for the impending arrival of Lady Blanche?’

  ‘He wanted to show us this urine,’ said one of the novices resentfully. He was a sulky-faced youth, with an unprepossessing smattering of white-headed spots around his mouth. ‘Its colour is unusual, apparently.’

  ‘It is,’ said Bartholomew, who had noticed the orange hue from across the room. ‘If you were to use Theophilus’s guidelines, you would diagnose whoever produced this as having a disease of the kidneys.’

  ‘Precisely!’ exclaimed Henry eagerly. He turned to his charges, who remained unimpressed. ‘You see? Urine is a valuable tool for us physicians. It tells us a great deal about our patients and should never be disregarded or forgotten.’

  ‘But I do not want to be a physician,’ objected the youth. ‘I am only working here because Prior Alan ordered me to.’

  ‘Then you should not have tied the cockerel and the cat together, Julian,’ said the other youngster, regarding the spotty-faced lad with cool dislike. ‘It was a vile thing to do. I cannot imagine what possessed you.’

  Julian’s sigh suggested he was bored by the discussion. He placed his elbows on the table, plumped his pox-ravaged face into his hands, and stared ahead of him in silent disgruntlement.

  ‘I thought we had agreed to say no more about that unfortunate incident, Welles,’ said Henry admonishingly to the other lad. Unlike Julian, Welles had a pleasant face, with fair curls and a mouth that looked far too ready for laughter to belong to a novice. ‘Julian has apologised to the Prior for committing an act of such cruelty, and we are all hoping he learns some compassion by working with the sick.’

  Julian said nothing, but cast Henry a glance so full of malice that Bartholomew saw the physician would have his work cut out for him if he thought he could instil a modicum of kindness in a youth who was clearly one of those to whom the suffering of others meant little. It was clever of Alan to send Julian to the hospital, where he might be moved by the plight of the inmates, but Bartholomew suspected the plan would not work. He did not usually jump to such rapid conclusions, but there was something hard and cruel about Julian that was obvious and unattractive, even to strangers.

  ‘What particular ailment would you predict,
judging from the colour of this urine?’ asked Henry of Bartholomew, bringing the topic of conversation back to medicine.

  ‘I would not make a diagnosis on the basis of the urine alone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I would want to speak to the patient—’

  ‘To make his horoscope,’ agreed Henry, nodding eagerly.

  ‘No,’ replied Bartholomew, a little tartly. He did not believe that the stars told him much about a person’s state of health, and he certainly did not base his diagnoses on the movements of the celestial bodies, although many physicians did precisely that and charged handsomely for the privilege. ‘I would ask him whether he had experienced pain in his stomach or back, what he had eaten recently, whether he drank water from the river or ale that was cloudy—’

  ‘What does ale or the river have to do with his urine?’ asked Welles, intrigued.

  ‘In this case, probably nothing,’ said Bartholomew, holding the flask near his nose to smell it. The two novices exchanged a look of disgust. ‘I would say, however, that whoever produced this should not be quite so greedy with the asparagus, and that next time he should use a different dye to prove his point. Theophilus said that redness in the urine is caused by blood, but this is orange and was caused by the addition of some kind of plant extract.’

  Henry gave a shout of excited laughter, and clapped his hands in delight. ‘Excellent! Excellent! That is indeed my urine, and I did add a little saffron to make it a different hue. I wanted to show these boys that the colour of urine is vital knowledge for a physician. I see now I should have used a little pig’s blood instead. I am not usually so careless, but none of us is perfect.’

  ‘Did you really eat asparagus?’ asked Michael distastefully. ‘Why?’

  Henry laughed again. ‘Not everyone loathes vegetables, Michael. And your friend is right: asparagus does produce a distinctive odour in the urine. You should have smelled the latrines this morning! He would have known at once what we all ate last night.’

  ‘There is very little about urine that Matt does not know,’ said Michael drolly. ‘I knew you would like him. And that is just as well, because he will be staying here with you for the next week, since Blanche is going to hog all the beds in the priory guesthouse.’

  ‘Lady Blanche is generous to the priory, so we are obliged to give her the entire Outer Hostry when she visits,’ Henry explained. ‘But this time I stand to benefit – by having a fellow physician to entertain. I am sure I shall teach him a great deal.’

  ‘Oh, good!’ muttered Julian facetiously to Welles. ‘Now there will be endless discussions about piss and how to puncture pustules every time we move.’

  ‘I am glad I do not have to sleep here, like you do,’ replied Welles in an undertone. ‘Listening to them would give me nightmares.’

  ‘Matt is from Michaelhouse,’ said Michael to Henry, pretending not to hear their complaints. ‘He has some strange notions about medicine, so you should find a lot to talk about.’

  ‘We will,’ said Henry, grasping Bartholomew’s hand in welcome. He turned to Michael. ‘But what brings you to Ely, my friend? Have you come to rest from your onerous duties in Cambridge?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Michael. ‘De Lisle sent for me because he is accused of murder.’

  Henry’s brown hands flew to his mouth in horror. ‘No! Do not tell me that you have agreed to investigate on his behalf? Oh, Michael! How could you do such a thing?’

  ‘I am his agent,’ replied Michael irritably, growing tired of hearing this. ‘I have no choice but to do what he asks.’

  ‘I admire de Lisle,’ said Henry sincerely. ‘He was not afraid to visit the sick during the Great Pestilence, and he gives fabulous sermons – but powerful men have powerful enemies. Let de Lisle clear his own name. He is innocent, so it should not be difficult.’

  ‘You believe de Lisle is innocent?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering why he was so surprised to hear this from a monk.

  ‘Of course,’ said Henry, as though it were obvious. ‘He is proud and arrogant, but he has a gentle heart. This charge has been invented to harm him by someone who is strong and resourceful, and Michael should not become embroiled in it. De Lisle can always petition for the Archbishop’s support if matters grow too hot for him, but Michael has no such luxury. Do not accept this commission, Brother. Go home.’

  Michael smiled gently. ‘I cannot. But I am no longer the youth you protected when I first came to Ely, Henry. I can look after myself, and I have good friends in you and Matt.’

  Shaking his head in disapproval, Henry turned to his apprentices. ‘Tidy this room, and then you can join your friends preparing to receive Lady Blanche. Meanwhile, Michael and I have much to talk about. It has been months since I last saw him.’

  ‘Free at last!’ mumbled Julian, leaping to his feet. ‘These duties are like a sentence of death. Who wants to spend all day wiping up old men’s drool, and helping them to the garderobe every few moments? I would rather work in the kitchens.’

  ‘I am sure you would,’ said Henry tartly. ‘There are dead animals and sharp knives in the kitchens, and I imagine it would suit you very well. But you have been committed to my care to learn how to care for the sick, and I shall do everything in my power to ensure that you do.’

  Julian cast him another dark look, and then began to help Welles with the tidying, although Bartholomew noted that he left the more unpleasant messes for his classmate.

  ‘Julian does not seem to appreciate what you are trying to teach him,’ he remarked, as he followed Henry through the infirmary towards the other end of the hall, where the physician had a small bedchamber that also served as an office.

  Henry agreed. ‘I fear he will never be a physician. I do not think there is a single shred of compassion or kindness in him. Alan gave him to me as a last resort: if he fails here, he will be released from the priory, but I do not think that will be a good thing.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘It seems to me that he has no business being in a monastery.’

  ‘I do not like to think of a cruel and vicious lad like that loose in the town,’ said Henry. ‘At least while he is here we can control him. He would commit all manner of harm without someone like me to watch him.’

  He gave a cheerful wave to an old man who occupied one of the beds. The inmate waved back, revealing a battery of pink gums. The other four were either asleep or did not seem to be aware of anything around them. All were ancient, some perhaps as much as ninety years, and Bartholomew supposed that life as monks had been kind to them. It was not a bad way to end their days, although he personally did not relish the prospect of lying in a bed while he slowly lost all his faculties.

  ‘Roger is deaf,’ explained Henry as they walked. ‘Two of the others are blind, and most have lost their wits. They are our permanent residents. Usually, we have half a dozen monks who are recovering from being bled, but the Prior has suspended bleeding for this month.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is it because he is aware of new evidence from French and Italian medical faculties that indicates bleeding is not always healthy?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Henry stiffly, indicating that he disapproved of such notions. ‘It is because Blanche is coming, and we will be too busy to have monks resting in the infirmary. But I believe bleeding is a very healthy thing to do. You only need to compare the monks, who are bled regularly, to the townsfolk, who are not, to see the difference.’

  ‘That is because the monks’ food is better than that of the townsfolk,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And they probably have more sleep, better beds, cleaner water—’

  Henry grinned in delight, and slapped Bartholomew’s shoulders. ‘You are quite wrong, but I can see we shall enjoy some lively debates on the subject. It is always refreshing to converse with another medical man. And I anticipate we shall learn a great deal from each other.’

  ‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not want to be present when you do it. Julian and Welles ar
e right: you can keep your pustules and your flasks of urine to yourselves!’

  Michael found it impossible to drag Bartholomew away from Henry once the two physicians had started to talk. Seeing he would be unable to prise them apart until they had been granted at least some time to exchange opinions, he left them to their own devices, while he wandered around the priory renewing acquaintances and listening to the latest gossip. When the afternoon faded to early evening, and the sun was more saffron than the hot silver-gold of midday, he brought his socialising to an end and turned his mind to the Bishop’s problem.

  Daylight in August lasted from about five-thirty in the morning until around eight o’clock at night, and Michael sensed there was probably a little more than two hours of good light left in which to inspect bodies. Since he had no desire to do it in the dark, he hurried towards the infirmary, intending to remove Bartholomew from his discussion with Henry and complete the unpleasant task of corpse-inspecting as soon as possible. Briefly, he entertained the notion of going alone, but, despite his blustering confidence when he had spoken to Bartholomew earlier that day, he knew he would miss vital clues that would be obvious at a mere glance to his friend. Reluctant though he was to involve him in the enquiry, Michael knew he needed the physician’s help.

  ‘Perhaps I should come, too,’ offered Henry uneasily. ‘I have little experience with corpses – as a physician I prefer to deal with the living – but I may be able to help.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael immediately. ‘I do not want both my friends involved in this. And anyway, although you know nothing about corpses, Matt is very good with them. He peels away their secrets as one might the layers of an onion.’

  ‘Hardly,’ began Bartholomew in protest, not liking the way Michael made him sound so sinister. Although he had discovered that he and Henry disagreed about many aspects of medicine, he liked the man and wanted to make a good impression on him. This description of his skill with corpses would be unlikely to raise him in anyone’s estimation.