‘Then we shall have to agree to disagree on this. I do not want to argue with you, but I have never heard a more ludicrous suggestion in all my days.’ Michael pushed open the door to the infirmary chapel and changed the subject. ‘I saw you enjoyed meeting Eulalia again. I am surprised you noticed anything when your attention was so securely riveted on her.’
‘I did enjoy speaking to her,’ admitted Bartholomew, looking around him. The chapel was empty, but he walked to the altar and peered behind it, just to ensure that Symon was not hiding there. ‘I should have stayed with her longer. It would have been much more pleasant than wasting time chasing this silly librarian.’
‘She is an attractive woman,’ said Michael, regarding his friend slyly. ‘And she likes you.’
‘Probably because I am one of the few people who does not believe that she spends her evenings climbing through people’s windows in order to burgle their houses. She knows a great deal about the curative properties of wild plants. She is fascinating to talk to.’
‘I am sure she is, although I think you could have devised a more interesting topic of conversation with which to charm her than weeds.’
‘She initiated it,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘And she said she would give me some black resin from the pine trees of Scotland. She has invited me to visit her and collect it.’
‘Black resin!’ said Michael caustically. ‘I do not know how you can contain yourself with all the excitement.’
‘She gathered it herself when she was in the north,’ Bartholomew went on, ignoring his friend’s facetiousness and following him out of the chapel and into the hospital’s main hall. ‘It is difficult to come by in England, but is a very good remedy for fluid in the lungs. I can think of a number of my patients who will benefit from a tincture made from black resin.’
‘Henry?’ called Michael. ‘Where are you?’
‘Did you mention black resin?’ asked the priory’s infirmarian excitedly, appearing from his workroom at the end of the hall. The sullen Julian was behind him. ‘Do you have some? Will there be any to spare for a syrup to ease old Brother Ynys’s cough?’
‘I have been promised some,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What else do you use in such a mixture? I always find that–’
‘Have you seen Symon?’ interrupted Michael hastily. ‘Matt is keen to begin his reading, but Symon has disappeared with the library key.’
Henry’s mouth hardened. ‘That wretched man! He is always running away when we have visitors who want to read our books. It is because he does not know where to find any of the tomes in his care, and he is afraid that Alan will deprive him of his post if he is shown to be incompetent.’
‘He is incompetent!’ muttered Julian.
‘I have not seen him recently,’ Henry continued. ‘But I shall demand the key from him if I do, and send Julian to find you.’
‘It is too hot for me to be chasing people,’ complained Julian resentfully. ‘I should not even be here, anyway. It is the time when us brethren are supposed to be enjoying a period of rest.’
Henry sighed. ‘I have already explained to you that our day does not follow the same pattern as that of everyone else. We have patients to consider, and they are often uncomfortable and restless at this time of day. It would not do to sleep while they need us.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Julian insolently. ‘You order me to read to them, but two cannot hear and the other three are too addled in their wits even to know that I am there. It is a waste of time!’
‘It is not a waste of time,’ admonished Henry crossly. ‘They know you are close, even if they cannot understand what you are saying, and the presence of a visitor gives them comfort. That is all that matters. Now, take your psalter and go to sit next to Roger. He had bad dreams last night, and your reading may calm him.’
With very bad grace, Julian did as he was told, snatching up his book and marching down the hall to flop on to a stool by Roger’s bedside. The old man smiled a toothless grin of welcome, which Julian ignored as he began to read in a bored voice, deliberately low, so that the old man was obliged to lean forward uncomfortably in a futile attempt to catch some of the words.
‘He is a nasty youth,’ remarked Michael, watching Julian’s behaviour with distaste. ‘I do not know how you have the patience to deal with him without boxing his ears.’
‘That would not help,’ said Henry tiredly, ‘although I confess he tries my patience sometimes. He is in disgrace at the moment for putting worms in Brother Ynys’s bed.’
‘Why did he do that?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Sheer malice,’ said Henry. ‘Roger, who is not as addled as Julian believes, saw him do it and told me, but not before poor Ynys became aware of the wretched things and threw himself into a panic. I do not understand this streak of cruelty in Julian.’
‘Some people are just not very nice,’ said Michael preachily. ‘But if anyone can turn the lad into a saint, and save the town from having him set loose to follow his own devices, it is you.’
‘I am a physician, not a miracle worker,’ said Henry, although he seemed pleased by the compliment. ‘But given a choice, there are others I would change before Julian.’
‘There are?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘They must be vile!’
‘They are,’ agreed Michael fervently. ‘I would do something about that selfish Robert for a start, and that great fat Sub-prior Thomas, not to mention William.’
‘William is not a bad man,’ said Henry generously. ‘He cares about the poor and he sold his gold cross last winter, so that I could buy expensive medicine for a novice with a fever. You must have noticed that the cross he wears is made of base metal?’
‘Flaunting his good deeds,’ said Michael in disapproval. ‘Making the rest of us feel guilty for not doing something similar. But I do not want to spend a fine summer day talking about the likes of the Brother Hosteller. We have a librarian to locate.’
They took their leave of the physician and looked in the Black Hostry, where Michael had his lodgings. Northburgh and Stretton were there, lying next to each other and both snoring loudly, but there was no sign of Symon. Next, they walked along a pleasant path called Oyster Lane, heading for the beautiful chapel that had been erected for Prior Crauden, Alan’s predecessor. It was a glorious building, with long, delicate windows that allowed the light to flood inside. The stained glass was exquisite, because the glazier had abandoned the popular reds and greens in favour of blues and golds. The result was a cool, restful light that lent the chapel an appropriate atmosphere of sanctity.
But Symon was not kneeling at the altar, nor was he crouching behind it. He was also not at the prie-dieu, or sitting in the vestibule. Bartholomew was beginning to despair of ever finding the man – or of finding him so late that the sun would have set and the light would be too poor for reading. But Michael was not ready to concede defeat, and together they made their way to the almonry, checking the refectory and dormitory a second time as they did so. The dormitory rang with the snores and whistles of monks taking their naps.
On their way, they saw Sub-prior Thomas, who was walking slowly towards the infirmary and looking as though the stroll in the heat of the afternoon was not something he was enjoying.
‘Take this, will you, Brother?’ he asked breathlessly of Michael, passing a cloth-covered basket to the monk. ‘Give it to young Julian in the infirmary.’ He closed his eyes and fanned himself with one fat hand. In another man, Bartholomew would have been concerned, but in the obese Thomas the cause of his distress was obvious, and there was nothing the physician could do to alleviate it – other than to recommend a serious diet.
‘What is it?’ asked Michael, picking up a corner of the cloth to peer at the basket’s contents. ‘A few pieces of stale bread and a rind of cheese. Why would Julian want this?’
‘It is for the old men,’ explained Thomas. ‘Julian always prepares their dinner.’