A Summer of Discontent

Robert nodded with gleeful satisfaction, clearly enjoying the fact that he was in possession of information that the others lacked. Bartholomew thought him a thoroughly repellent character, and was not surprised that Michael preferred life in Cambridge to that in his Mother House, where there were men like Robert, Thomas and William to contend with. ‘He was found floating face-down in the water — he took his own life.’

‘But why would he do that?’ asked Henry uncertainly. ‘I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but Haywarde was too selfish and arrogant a man to do himself any harm.’

‘I agree,’ said Robert, who seemed the kind of fellow who would always find something negative to say about someone. ‘But that is what is being said in the town. As almoner, I am told these things, whereas you will hear little, locked in your hospital all day.’

‘I have Julian,’ said Henry, a little bitterly, as he cast an unreadable glance towards Alan. ‘He more than compensates for any gossip I might miss. I have never met anyone with a more spiteful tongue.’

‘I have,’ muttered William, directing another glance of rank dislike at Robert. ‘Even the reprehensible Julian could learn some tricks from the likes of our Brother Almoner.’

‘Haywarde was a pig, and does not deserve to be buried in consecrated ground anyway,’ announced Robert sanctimoniously, apparently unaware of William’s murmured comments. ‘Suicide or not, the potter’s field is the best place for him.’

‘That is a fine attitude for a man whose task is to care for the poor,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Does it not touch your sense of compassion that the man felt compelled to risk his immortal soul rather than continue to live?’

‘No,’ said Robert firmly. ‘And we paid him a perfectly fair wage, so do not listen to any seditious chatter put about by that Leycestre. He claims the priory does not care for its labourers.’

‘We could have paid Haywarde a little more,’ said William reasonably. ‘The man had six children, and what we gave him was barely enough to feed them all.’

‘It was, actually,’ argued Thomas, reaching for the empty ham platter and proceeding to scrape up the grease with his spoon. ‘Or it would have been, had he chosen to buy bread, rather than squandering it on ale at the Lamb.’

‘He did enjoy his ale,’ admitted Henry. ‘And his drunkenness did not make for a happy life for his wife and children. He was altogether too ready with his fists — I cannot begin to recall the times that I have dispensed salves to heal his family’s bruises.’

‘Too many offspring,’ proclaimed Thomas, licking the fat from his spoon with a moist red tongue. ‘That was the essence of Haywarde’s problems.’

‘He should have thought of that before he rutted with his woman, then,’ snapped Robert nastily. ‘I have no patience with men who breed like rabbits and then decline to accept their responsibilities. Haywarde chose to have six children, and his death has condemned them to a slow death by starvation.’

‘I am sure no one here will allow that to happen,’ said Bartholomew, loudly enough to silence the hum of chatter that buzzed around the refectory. He felt Michael plucking at his sleeve, encouraging him to leave before he could embroil himself in an argument with the people whose hospitality he was receiving. Impatiently, he moved away. ‘This man was one of the monastery’s servants, and I am certain none of you will be so callous as to allow his children to starve.’

‘That is unfair,’ snapped Robert angrily. ‘It is not our fault that Haywarde is dead, and we cannot afford to take every hungry child into our care; we would be bankrupt in no time at all.’

‘We would have every peasant in the Fens clamouring at our doors for succour,’ agreed Thomas, who had finished the fat and was eyeing the last of the cheese, indicating that the plight of Haywarde’s children was not something that would affect his own appetite. ‘Robert is right.’

‘Robert is wrong,’ declared William promptly, delighted with an opportunity to show his rival in a poor light. He turned to Alan, still raking his fingers through his peculiar hair. ‘Bartholomew has a point, Father. It would be wicked of us to ignore this stricken family. I will donate my breakfast to Haywarde’s children from now on.’ He shot Robert an unpleasant smile, indicating that he thought he had won some kind of point.

‘You will not, my lad,’ said Thomas fervently, looking up from his feeding. ‘That would place an obligation on the rest of us to do the same thing, and I can assure you that I shall allow nothing to come between me and my food. I am a large man, and I need sustenance to conduct my life in a manner that is fitting to God.’

‘I am sure God would condone a little abstinence in the name of compassion,’ said William, surveying Thomas’s girth critically. ‘And I shall undertake to ensure that Haywarde’s children are cared for. You can do as you will.’