‘How are you, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is good to see you out of your bed.’
The old monk grinned with toothless gums. ‘The brethren do not normally permit themselves the indulgence of a fire during the day, but Janius always has one lit when he thinks I might come downstairs. He imagines I have not guessed why there is always a blaze in the hearth just when I happen to leave my room. His religion can be a little unsettling from time to time, but he is a good man, to think of an old man’s pride.’
‘And your lungs?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you breathing easier now?’
‘Your potion helps,’ said Adam, ‘although I long for warmer weather. Spring is very late this year, and Lent has been interminable. Still, as I am elderly and ill, Brother Timothy insists that I be fed meat at least three times a week.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Timothy was an enlightened man not to demand that the restrictions of Lent be kept by the old and infirm. Although the Rule of St Benedict suggested more lenient guidelines for the sick, not everyone accepted them. He was sure Father William would not be so compassionate. ‘I hope you do not refuse it because meat is forbidden in Lent.’
The old monk raised his eyebrows and regarded him in amusement. ‘I am no martyr, Doctor. If I am commanded to eat meat, then eat it I shall. And my brethren have always been good to me. I will not burden them by insisting on doing things that are bad for me and that make me ill. It would be very selfish.’
‘I wish all my patients had that attitude,’ said Bartholomew fervently. He stood as Michael and Timothy made for the door.
‘If you are going to Barnwell, then I shall accompany you,’ said Janius, reaching for a basket that stood in a corner. ‘I have eggs and butter to take to the nearby leper hospital, so I can do God’s work and enjoy your company at the same time.’
He took a cloth from a rack where laundry was drying, and covered the basket to protect its contents from the rain, then set out after the others.
Chapter 4
WALCOTE’S BODY LAY IN THE CONVENTUAL CHURCH AT the Austin canons’ foundation at Barnwell. Barnwell was a tiny settlement outside Cambridge, comprising a few houses and the priory itself. Beyond it was another small hamlet called Stourbridge, famous for its annual fair and its leper hospital.
The priory was reached by a walk of about half a mile along a desolate path known as the Barnwell Causeway. Once the town had been left behind, and the handsome collection of buildings that belonged to the Benedictine nuns at St Radegund’s had been passed, Fen-edge vegetation took over. Shallow bogs lined the sides of the track, and stunted elder and aspen trees hunched over them, as if attempting to shrink away from the icy winds that often howled in from the flat expanses to the north and east. Reeds and rushes waved and hissed back and forth, and the grey sky that stretched above always seemed much larger in the Fens than it did elsewhere. As they walked, more briskly than usual because it was cold, ducks flapped in sudden agitation in the undergrowth, and then flew away with piercing cackles.
‘Damned birds!’ muttered Michael, clutching his chest. ‘No wonder people like to poach here. I would not mind taking an arrow to some of those things myself! That would teach them to startle an honest man.’
The Fens were known to be the haunt of outlaws, and Bartholomew kept a wary watch on the road that stretched ahead of them, as well as casting frequent glances behind. Since the plague had taken so many agricultural labourers, the price of flour had risen to the point where many people could not afford bread. Three well-dressed Benedictines and a physician with a heavy satchel over one shoulder would provide desperate people with a tempting target.
Michael seemed unconcerned by the prospect of attack, and was more interested in outlining the duties of Junior Proctor to Timothy. Timothy himself was more prudent, and carried a heavy staff that Bartholomew was sure was not a walking aid. Janius was also alert, and Bartholomew could see that he possessed the kind of wiry strength that was easily able to best larger men. While Michael continued to regale Timothy with details of his new obligations, Janius fell behind to walk with the physician.
‘I am still worried about Adam,’ he said, fiddling with the cover on his basket of food for the lepers. ‘He claims he feels better, and our prayers help, of course, but sometimes he seems so frail.’
‘He is old,’ said Bartholomew matter-of-factly. ‘I can ease his symptoms, but he will never be well again.’
Janius gave a startled laugh. ‘You do not mince your words, Matthew! I was expecting some comfort, not a bleak prediction. Have you no faith that God will work a cure if we pray hard enough?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Adam is almost eighty years old, and the wetness in his lungs will become progressively worse, not better. Such ailments are common in men of his age, and there is only one way it will end.’
Janius shook his head and gave Bartholomew a pitying glance. ‘Yours must be a very sad existence if you place no hope in miracles.’
‘My experience tells me that miracles are rare. It is better to assume that they will not happen.’
‘You should pray with us at Ely Hall,’ said Janius, patting Bartholomew’s arm sympathetically. ‘You strike me as a man who needs to understand God.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, determined not to engage in a theological debate with a man whose eyes were already gleaming with the fervour of one who senses a challenge worthy of his religious attentions. He knew from personal experience that it was never wise to discuss issues relating to the omnipotence of God with men who had the power to denounce unbelievers as heretics, and he hastily changed the subject before the discussion became dangerous. ‘Do you often deliver eggs to the leper colony?’
Janius seemed taken aback by the sudden change in topics. He tapped Bartholomew’s arm a little harder. ‘Remember my offer, Matthew. It may save your soul from the fires of Hell.’
Bartholomew was relieved when Janius made his farewells, and watched the pious monk walk briskly up the footpath to where the chapel of St Mary Magdalene dominated the huddle of hovels occupied by the lepers. The chapel was a sturdy building, pierced by narrow windows, almost as if its builders did not want the light to shine in on the people inside. The huts were flimsy wooden-framed affairs, with thatched roofs that allowed the smoke from a central hearth to seep out and the rain to seep in. Bartholomew had visited them on many occasions, usually to help Urban, the Austin canon who had dedicated his life to tending those people whom the rest of society had cast out. He saw Janius turn a corner, then ran to catch up with Timothy and Michael.
‘Janius has a good heart,’ said Timothy, who must have had half an ear on the conversation taking place behind him, as well as on Michael’s descriptions of his new duties. ‘His own faith is so strong that he longs for others to be similarly touched. I understand how he feels, although I am less eloquent about it.’
‘Good,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I already wear the cowl, so you have no need to preach to me.’
‘Just because you are a monk does not mean that your faith is not flawed,’ began Timothy immediately, his face serious and intense. ‘I have met many clerics who simply use their habits to advance their own interests here on Earth, with no thoughts of the hereafter.’
‘And doubtless you will meet many more,’ said Michael brusquely. Given what he had told Bartholomew about the reasons most friars came to Cambridge, the physician supposed that Timothy was likely to meet a lot of men who were more interested in the earthly than the spiritual aspects of their existence. ‘But we have arrived. Here is the priory.’
Barnwell Priory was a large institution, and the fact that it stood in the middle of nowhere meant that it had been able to expand as and when its priors had so dictated. Its rambling collection of buildings sprawled along the ridge of a low rise that overlooked the river. It was in a perfect location – close enough to the river for supplies and transport, but high enough to avoid all but the worst of the seasonal floods. A substantial wall and a series of wooden fences protected it from unwanted visitors, although beggars knocking at a small door near the kitchens were often provided with a loaf of bread or a few leftover vegetables.
The conventual church stood next to the road, attached to the chapter house by a cloister of stone. To one side was a two-storeyed house, which comprised the canons’ refectory on the ground floor and their sleeping
