The desk Symon had cleared for him – by taking one hand and sweeping its contents to join the chaos on the floor – overlooked the monks’ cemetery. The cemetery was a pleasant place, given its purpose, and comprised an elongated rectangle that backed on to a garden at one end and was bordered by the cathedral and various priory buildings on the other sides. Shielded from the worst of the Fenland winds, it was a comfortable haven for several exotic bushes and trees. Someone had planted posies of flowers here and there, some bright in the sun and others sheltered by the waving branches of willow and yew trees. The graves were mostly lumps in the smooth grass, although one or two monks had warranted something more elaborate, and there were a few stone crosses and carved slabs.
Bartholomew remained in the library until long after the sun had set, and did not leave until it was so dark that he could barely make out the shape of the book he was reading, let alone the words on the page. Disaster almost occurred when he heard the soft sound of the key turning in the lock, but he bounded across the floor and hammered until Symon returned to undo it again. Apparently, the librarian had forgotten about his visitor, and had only remembered that he needed to secure his domain when he was ready to go to bed. Bartholomew coolly suggested that in future he might like to ensure that it was empty before locking the door, but Symon was unrepentant, and informed Bartholomew that he should not have been there after dark anyway.
Symon followed Bartholomew down the stairs, so close that the physician felt Symon would dearly liked to have pushed him in order to prevent another invasion the following day, and then locked the outer door with a key of gigantic proportions.
‘I would like to start work as early as possible tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, deciding he had better make that clear before he and Symon parted, unless he wanted to waste part of the next day exploring the latrines, too. ‘A week is not long when a library is as richly endowed as yours.’
‘You cannot come before prime,’ warned Symon sharply. ‘That would be ungodly.’
‘It would also be too dark,’ said Bartholomew dryly, seeing that Symon did not venture into his domain very often if he was unaware of such a basic fact. ‘Immediately after would be good.’
‘We shall see,’ replied Symon, giving the door handle a vigorous shake to ensure it was properly secured. Without further ado, he strode away into the night, a tall, upright figure with a military strut and a lot of vigorous and unnecessary arm-swinging.
Bartholomew watched him go, and then turned to head for his own bed. It felt too late to venture into the town alone, and he imagined that Michael would be more interested in the priory’s endless supplies of wine than in talking to him. But the physician did not feel like sleeping; his mind was buzzing with questions and ideas from the reading that he had completed, and he felt restless and alert.
Henry was just finishing his evening prayers in the chapel when Bartholomew strolled into the infirmary. He gave a grin of delight, making it clear that the physician should not expect to retire too soon, then walked with his visitor through the main hall, checking on the old men who were settling themselves down for the night as he went.
‘Goodnight, Roger,’ said Henry loudly to the most alert of the quintet. ‘The posset I gave you contained a good deal of camomile, so you should rest well tonight.’
‘I have dreams,’ explained Roger to Bartholomew, his eyes rheumy in the flickering light of the candle. He gestured around at his companions, some of whom seemed aware that they were being discussed and others not. ‘We all do. We were soldiers before we took the cowl, and sometimes the souls of the men we killed come to taunt us.’
‘They do not,’ said Henry sensibly. ‘It is only the trick of a weary mind, and I do not allow tormented souls in my infirmary, anyway.’
Roger smiled. ‘But I see them, nevertheless. It is an old man’s dream, so you will not understand.’
‘Sleep,’ said Henry softly, helping the ancient monk to slide under the covers. ‘Shall I fetch an extra blanket? The night is mild, but you can have one if you like.’
Roger shook his head, his eyes already closing as he huddled under the bedclothes. Bartholomew noticed that the blankets that covered the old men were made of soft wool, while the mattresses were feather rather than the more usual and cheaper straw. The floors had been scrubbed again that day, and the whole room smelled of fresh herbs and clean wood.
Henry moved to another of his patients, who had evidently been a giant of a man in his prime. Now he was little more than a skeleton, with massive-knuckled hands that shook uncontrollably as they plucked at his night-shirt. Henry straightened the covers and rested the back of his hand on the old man’s forehead to test his temperature.
‘Ynys fought for old King Edward at Bannockburn in 1314,’ he whispered to Bartholomew. The physician thought he saw a glimmer of pride in the old man’s sunken eyes, but was not sure how much Ynys was aware of his surroundings. ‘They all did. And they were with him in France. And now they are here with me, dreaming of the days when they were full of life and vigour.’
‘Do they know where they are?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he had imagined Ynys’s reaction.
Henry shrugged. ‘Roger does, although he is very deaf. Ynys is almost blind, and the others have failing memories. They recall the battles in which they were heroes, but they never remember Julian from one day to the next.’
‘That is probably a blessing,’ said Bartholomew.
Henry smiled. ‘I have hopes that he will change. However, I pray that it will not take too much longer. There is a limit to how long I am prepared to inflict him on my old friends.’
He walked to the central aisle and began a long prayer; his Latin whispered and echoed through the darkened hall. The old men seemed to sleep easier when he had finished, as though the familiar words had settled them. He sketched a benediction over each one, and then led Bartholomew out of the infirmary to the chambers at the far end. Henry occupied the smaller of the two, while the other was set aside for occasional visitors and Julian. The sullen novice was sleeping there now, lying with his mouth open and his breath hissing wetly past his palate. It was not an attractive sound.
Henry leaned down and retrieved something from the floor under Julian’s bed, and Bartholomew caught the glitter of metal before the infirmarian turned away.
‘What is that?’ he asked curiously, seeing from the expression on Henry’s face that the find had displeased him.
Reluctantly, Henry opened his hand to reveal a long silver nail. ‘Sharp objects,’ he explained in a whisper. ‘Julian has a morbid fascination with them, and I am always discovering them secreted away. I am afraid he may use them to harm himself.’
‘He is more likely to use them to harm someone else,’ muttered Bartholomew, eyeing the sleeping novice in distaste.
Henry beckoned Bartholomew into his own room across the corridor, and closed the door so that their voices would not disturb those who were sleeping. He produced a bottle of raspberry cordial that he said he had made himself, and gestured for Bartholomew to sit on a bench, while he perched on the edge of the bed.