A Summer of Discontent by Susanna Gregory Page A

why. He could not
     imagine anyone – living, at least – tarrying inside for long enough to warrant the lighting of a fire.
    ‘It is obvious it was built for laymen, and not monks,’ said Bartholomew, critically eyeing its crude lines andunprepossessing appearance. ‘It is hardly the grandest edifice in the area.’
    ‘It is a storeroom, Matt,’ said Michael irritably. ‘It is not intended to be a final resting place.’
    ‘I hope I do not end up in a place like this,’ said Bartholomew, as Michael took a hefty key from his scrip and fitted it
     to the lock on the door. ‘My skull at one end of a room and my feet at the other, all mixed with someone else’s limbs, and
     my ribs still buried in the churchyard.’
    ‘I shall see what I can do to prevent it,’ said Michael, evidently anticipating that he would last a good deal longer than
     his friend. ‘You should approve of Glovere being stored here, Matt. It means he is well away from living people.’
    ‘But he is also out of sight and therefore out of mind. Perhaps the Prior is hoping that he will turn into bones if left long
     enough.’
    ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Michael, leaping backwards as he opened the door. ‘What a stench!’
    ‘I am not surprised the monks do not want this in their cathedral,’ said Bartholomew, recoiling, despite the fact that he
     had prepared himself for the olfactory onslaught. ‘Such a vile smell cannot be good for the health of the living.’
    ‘It does not say much about the health of the dead, either,’ muttered Michael. ‘I have never known a corpse to stink so.’
    He took a step forward, but then hesitated when he became aware that flies buzzed within. Pulling a face, Michael produced
     from his scrip a huge pomander stuffed with lavender and cloves, placed it over the lower part of his face, and indicated
     that Bartholomew was to precede him inside. Bartholomew obliged, taking care to breathe through his nose. It was a popular
     belief that inhaling through the mouth was the best solution for dealing with foul odours, but Bartholomew had learned that
     did not work for especially strong smells: he ended up being able to taste the foulness as well as smell it.
    It was dark inside the Bone House, and the two scholarswaited a few moments for their eyes to adapt to the gloom. Someone had placed a lamp on a shelf to one side, and as Michael
     lit it, Bartholomew looked around curiously.
    A row of shelves in front of him was stacked with grinning skulls, most with missing teeth that lent them rakish expressions.
     To his left was a pile of long bones – arms and legs – in various states of repair, while to his right lay a heap of broken
     coffins. Some revealed a glimmer of white inside, while others had apparently been emptied of their contents. An old barrel
     near one shuttered window was filled almost to the brim with bone fragments – flat pieces of cranium, and tiny carpals and
     tarsals that had once been living hands and feet.
    ‘I suppose this must be him,’ said Michael, stepping forward to a human shape that lay on the bare stone of the floor. It
     had been covered with a filthy piece of sacking, but that was all. Glovere had no coffin, no shroud, and no one had performed
     even the most basic cleansing of his body. The sacking was too small for its purpose: a bristly stack of hair protruded from
     one end, and a pair of legs from the other. Michael grabbed the material and pulled it away, backing off quickly when the
     movement aroused a swarm of buzzing flies.
    ‘This is horrible!’ he choked through his pomander. ‘Why are we doing this?’
    ‘Because you promised your Bishop you would,’ replied Bartholomew, flapping at the insects that circled his head as he knelt
     next to the bloated features of the dead man.
    In the summer months, most corpses were laid in the ground within a day or two of their deaths, and it was unusual to see
     one that had been left for so long. The face was dark, with