‘I came to see Thomas, actually,’ he said, reaching out for another fruit, but having second thoughts when Henry wielded a ladle at him in a rather menacing fashion. ‘Is he still with us?’
‘As you see,’ said Henry, gesturing to the monstrous mound of flesh in the chamber at the far end of the hall. ‘He needs all our prayers, but it is best that we restrict visitors for now. Do you want to pray for him in the chapel?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Symon, sounding disappointed. Bartholomew was unsure if the librarian was sorry that he was not allowed to pass the time of day with the ailing sub-prior, or sorry that Thomas was still in the land of the living. He found himself speculating on why Symon should wish the obese Thomas dead, when an illiterate sub-prior and a secretive and elusive librarian would probably have had little cause for contact.
Another bang from upstairs made the librarian wince, although he made no move to leave.
Henry picked up a tray containing five small dishes of the honeyed fruit and a basket of bread. ‘You should see to your books, Brother,’ he recommended as a third crash rattled the bottles on his shelves.
Symon nodded reluctantly. Still casting curious backward glances at the sub-prior on his sickbed, he left and Bartholomew heard his footsteps ascending the wooden stairs that led to his domain. Henry heaved a sigh of relief that his voyeuristic guest had gone, then smiled when Bartholomew took another tray containing jugs of breakfast ale.
‘I imagine Symon will not be the only one to come here today, anxious to see for himself the miserable state of our poor sub-prior. Thomas is not a kind man, and few monks who were novices here have cause to remember him fondly.’
‘So Michael mentioned. And Bukton told me that little has changed since then. Thomas is still unpopular with the priory’s youngsters.’
‘Sometimes grave sicknesses change men’s lives,’ said Henry, walking into the infirmary to supervise Julian and Welles as they distributed the oatmeal. ‘Perhaps that will happen to Thomas, if he recovers.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, who thought Thomas too thoroughly reprehensible to be a candidate for Damascus Road life changes. When he happened to glance back at the workbench, he saw the paring knife had been replaced.
When the old men had been fed – and Bartholomew had ensured that Henry had eaten a little, too – the physician went to the refectory to join the brethren for his own breakfast. He almost collided with Symon, who was hovering near the chapel door, craning his neck to see Thomas and apparently unable to resist the attraction of seeing a mighty man felled. Bartholomew made a point of waiting for him, unwilling to allow the man’s macabre presence to distress either Henry or the old men, and they made uncomfortable, desultory conversation as they walked together to the refectory. They were overtaken by Welles, Julian and Bukton, released from their duties by the ringing of the breakfast bell. The three lads pushed and shoved each other playfully as they raced towards their meal.
When Bartholomew arrived, Michael was already there, rolling up his sleeves in anticipation of some serious snatching and grabbing, although the competition had been severely reduced at the high table that morning. Empty spaces gaped where Thomas, Robert and William usually sat, while Henry had asked to be excused so that he could remain with his patients. Alan presided, but was distracted and careworn, and ate little of the sumptuous meal provided by the kitchens.
‘Is Thomas awake?’ the Prior asked anxiously, seeing that Bartholomew was to join them for the meal. ‘Has he regained his speech yet?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Although he rested well last night, which is a good sign.’
‘But he has not spoken?’ pressed Symon, very interested. ‘He remains mute?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he may regain that power today. Why do you ask?’
‘No particular reason,’ said Symon, with a careless shrug. ‘I was merely voicing concern for one of my brethren.’
Alan mumbled a hasty grace, and Bartholomew turned his attention to some of the best oatmeal he had ever consumed, despite the fact that the cooks seemed to have ladled salt into it with a shovel. He wondered whether the monks liked it salty because it made them want to drink more ale.
In contrast to the unease and awkwardness among the few remaining occupants of the high table, the main body of the refectory exuded an atmosphere of relaxed jollity. It was not only the novices who appeared to be happy and hopeful, but many of the older monks, too, and Bartholomew sensed that the trio of sub-prior, almoner and hosteller had done little to create a pleasant environment in the monastery and much to repress one. Welles and Bukton smiled and laughed, while Julian was positively jubilant. Bartholomew watched Julian closely as he ate, thinking that there was something unsettling about the lad’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. He wondered whether it had anything to do with the incident regarding the paring knife, or whether Julian, like the other monks, was merely grateful to be free of Thomas’s looming presence for a while.
After the meal, which seemed unusually protracted that morning – mostly because he wanted to escape the uncomfortable company at the high table – Bartholomew walked with Michael back to the infirmary, to see whether Thomas was awake. Now that the day was wearing on, Michael was anxious to ask him about the contents of the grain sack they had discovered the night before.
Symon had left the refectory before them, and set off in the direction of his domain, arms swinging and feet stamping with military precision. Because Bartholomew had spent some time over the past few days tracking Symon in order to be admitted to the library, he was familiar with the man’s habits. He knew Symon always took the longer path, through the gardens and around the eastern end of the hospital chapel. This route was invariably deserted, and he guessed that Symon preferred it because he was unlikely to run into anyone who might ask him for a book.
However, that morning Symon’s ghoulish fascination with Thomas led him to abandon custom and stride instead towards the Dark Cloister, which would mean a diversion through the infirmary itself. Bartholomew saw him disappear inside, presumably to walk through the hall and then leave via the rear door in order to reach the library from the cemetery.
Michael grimaced. ‘There is nothing like the downfall of an unpopular man to bring out the worst in people. Symon never uses the infirmary as a shortcut to the library, and is only doing so today so that he can gloat over Thomas’s predicament.’
‘I hope no one ever views any illness of mine as an excuse for entertainment and celebration,’ said Bartholomew distastefully.
‘You would have to go a long way before you attained Thomas’s standards,’ replied Michael. He stopped suddenly, and Bartholomew saw that de Lisle was hurrying towards them from the chapter house, his steward at his heels like a faithful hound. He sighed. ‘Damn! I hope he does not detain us for long. I want to question Thomas as soon as possible.’
‘Then you can deal with de Lisle and I will talk to Thomas,’ said Bartholomew, starting to walk away. De Lisle, however, had other ideas, and his haughty summons clearly included the physician, and well as his agent.
‘Any news?’ asked the Bishop immediately. ‘What do you plan to do today to bring about my release from these charges?’
He listened intently while Michael described their findings in the granary and their plans to walk upriver to see whether they could find the place where Glovere and the others were murdered. He seemed disappointed by the lack of progress, while Ralph was openly disgusted by it. He bared his blackened teeth in a sneer of contempt, and Bartholomew turned away, so that he would not have to look at the man. As he did so, he saw Julian slinking into the infirmary, dragging his heels and evidently reluctant to resume his daily duties. Welles was not long in following, although he seemed more enthusiastic than his friend. He waved cheerfully to Bartholomew as he disappeared inside.