‘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.’