by Mel Starr
“When will you depart?”
“Tuesday. I will make ready tomorrow.”
“You will not go upon the roads alone, will you?”
“Nay. I will have Arthur and Uctred accompany me.”
I saw relief wash across my bride’s face. Since the Great Death men who seek employment are able to find it, so there are fewer brigands accosting folk upon the roads than in past days. But there are always some who would rather take what is another’s than earn their own keep. Arthur and Uctred are large fellows, not tall, but well fed at Lord Gilbert’s table, and seeing them garbed in Lord Gilbert’s blue-and-black livery with his design across their chests, most felons would choose to allow them, and me, to pass unmolested.
Monday morning I sought Arthur and Uctred and told them to make ready to leave next day with the Angelus Bell. Uctred is a bachelor and Arthur a married man. I expected Uctred to be eager for the journey and the novelty of new lands to see, and thought Arthur would be unhappy to leave Bampton. I was mistaken. Uctred greeted the announcement with gloom, whereas Arthur seemed pleased to be away. Perhaps wedded bliss had faded for Arthur.
I left instruction with the marshalsea to have Bruce and two palfreys ready to travel with the dawn. Bruce is an old dexter and carried Lord Gilbert at Poitiers. His use was provided me as incentive when Lord Gilbert prevailed upon me to accept the post of bailiff at his Manor of Bampton. I hoped the elderly beast was hale enough to travel to Devonshire and return.
Chapter 7
Early next morn I threw a bag of my surgical instruments across Bruce’s rump, and a moment later Arthur, Uctred, and I urged our mounts under the Bampton Castle portcullis. I planned no surgery in the next fortnight, but I have been so often surprised by the injuries men may do to themselves and each other that I dislike being without the tools to repair their hurts. Kate was determined to see us off, so came with me to the castle while the eastern sky was just beginning to grow light above St Andrew’s Chapel. I turned in my saddle when we three gained Mill Street and was rewarded with a kiss blown from Kate’s fair lips. I was determined to see my business in Exeter complete and be on my way home so soon as could be.
From Bampton to Swindon is nineteen miles. We traveled the distance easily, for the horses were rested, and sought an inn for the night. The second day we traveled longer, near thirty miles, to Trowbridge, where we found another vermin-infested inn. I wished to be in Glastonbury after three days, and near the seventh hour of the third day we saw the tor rise above the plain.
I have heard many tales of the great abbey at Glastonbury: of the graves of Arthur and Guinevere, his queen; of the thorn tree planted by Joseph of Arimathea; and of the magnificent view from the top of the tor. After three days’ travel our elderly beasts were tired and lagging. I decided we would rest the horses for a day and see the great abbey and its treasures.
The gatehouse of Glastonbury Abbey is new and impressive, built but a few years past. The porter greeted us there, and sent a lay brother to fetch the hosteller when I made known our need of shelter for two nights and provision for the horses.
We were not alone in such a request. Pilgrims swarmed through the gatehouse while we awaited the hosteller, for we had arrived on Ascension Day. All these folk could not be accommodated within the abbey precincts, or if they were, there would be no place for three more travelers.
The porter’s assistant returned shortly, pushing through the throng of pilgrims. A slender monk followed in his wake. I saw the monk squint over the crowd at our horses, then peer past the swirling swarm at the gatehouse to see who it was required his aid. His eyes drifted past me without focusing. Here, I thought, is a scholar whose long hours of study, bent over his books, have rendered him blind to anything much past his fingertips.
The monk stood close before the porter, who took his arm and turned him to face me. At that close vantage I saw clearly the monk’s affliction. The pupils of his eyes were milky and clouded. He suffered from cataracts.
“Brother Alnett,” the porter said, “here are three fellows bound for St Nicholas’s Priory in Exeter who need place to rest themselves and their beasts.”
“I am Hugh de Singleton,” I added, “bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his lands in Bampton. I travel to Exeter to examine a man about a death in Bampton. Arthur and Uctred accompany me.”
Brother Alnett seemed to look away, but addressed me, as if by inspecting the gatehouse beyond my shoulder he could see me the better.
“We have many pilgrims here, and cannot house them all, but travelers are welcome. I will send for a lay brother to care for your beasts. Meanwhile, follow me and I will see you to the guest hall.”
The monk led us past the abbot’s hall and a great kitchen, where a chimney belched the smoke and fragrance of roasting flesh. Glastonbury is a Benedictine House, but I suppose the abbot had guests who required meat for their supper. Beyond the kitchen was a garden to the south and the abbot’s hall to the north. On the eastern side of the garden lay a long structure, two stories tall, of dressed stone and newly built. The monk led us to the entrance of this hall.
Once we were inside the darkened corridors of the building Brother Alnett led us to our chamber as surely as if he could see clearly. I remarked on this to the monk.
“Near thirty years since I was a novice. I learned my way about the place when I could yet see well,” he explained. “Now I see in my mind’s eye what was when I was young.” He hesitated briefly. “So I see what others see, just not in the same manner. But I do wish I might yet read. Those who can see and do not read are more blind than me, I think.”
“Is there no surgeon in Glastonbury who can couch your cataracts?”
“Nay. Brother Jerome is an herbalist of great wisdom, but he knows little of surgery, and even did he possess such skill, his hand now trembles with age. A year and more past a traveling surgeon visited Glastonbury. The man claimed competence in couching cataracts. I thought to seek him, but he departed the town but a few days after he arrived. His treatment of a town alderman failed.”
“Failed?”
“Aye. Went blind in the eye the fellow couched.”
“What then?”
“Gone next day, when it was known about the town what happened. Of course, when a man has cataracts so cloudy as mine, he is blind already, so it matters little whether the surgery succeed or not.”
“You would have sought relief from this surgeon even after his failure?”
“Aye. A woman of the town also went to him and she is pleased. Can’t see so well as when she was a lass, but better than if a shroud was hung always before her face.”
“Master Hugh be a surgeon,” Arthur said. He and Uctred had followed the conversation and as I had not told the monk of my training, Arthur decided it was his duty to make it known.
The monk turned to me, although was it his intent to study me for evidence of competence, the effort surely failed. The chamber was on the east side of the guest range, facing a yard which was enclosed by the dorter and refectory. Little light entered the space, even though the window was of glass. The darkness and his cataracts surely rendered Brother Alnett blind in such a place. Perhaps he turned to me of custom, behavior learned when he could yet see clearly, as an old man will turn to watch a winsome maid pass by, though the exercise will bring him scant satisfaction.
“A surgeon? I thought you were a bailiff.”
“I am both. An odd combination, I know, but ’tis so.”
“Do you treat men such as me for cataracts?”
“I have never done so. Such work was part of my training in Paris, but I’ve had no opportunity to practice the skill.”
“Paris? You trained in Paris?”
“For but one year. I lacked coin for further study.”
“The university there is renowned for training men who repair another’s broken body. I have heard much of the new methods taught there. Tell me, do you practice in the manner of de Chauliac or de Mondeville?”
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“De Mondeville… although de Chauliac has much to teach us of mending human flaws and injuries.”
“But you have never couched a cataract?”
“Never. I observed surgeons at the university as they worked the remedy, that is all.”
“I cannot leave the abbey to seek treatment,” the monk sighed, “and no surgeon able to succor my affliction is likely again to visit. When the wandering surgeon appeared I thought ’twas an answer to my prayers… but not so.”
“Master Hugh will fix most any hurt a man can have,” Arthur claimed. “Seen ’im put a man’s skull back together after the fellow had an oak tree drop on ’is head. Well… I didn’t actually see ’im do it, you understand, but I see the fellow up an walkin’ about regular like, him bein’ Lord Gilbert’s verderer.”
Brother Alnett made no reply, but looked away into the dim corners of the chamber, as if there was some object there which required his study.
“I don’t know when another itinerant surgeon will visit Glastonbury. I am not a youth. I fear I will go to my grave blinded, never again to read a book or watch a goldfinch flit about the abbey orchard.”
I was cautious of my ability in dealing with cataracts, but Arthur felt no such reticence, as he was neither the sufferer nor the untried surgeon.
“No need to await another,” he said confidently. “Master Hugh can fix you up proper as any man can.”
“It would be a blessing can you do so,” the monk replied.
“Even when couching for cataracts is successful,” I warned, “vision is often poor.”
“Ah,” Brother Alnett smiled, “I do not wish to be twenty years of age again. But to read once more… I yearn for that. And Brother Andrew wears upon his nose the bits of glass and brass which allow an old man to read like a youth. If you can remove the veil from my eyes, I will seek such an aid for myself.”
I did not reply for a moment. I had come to Glastonbury Abbey seeking rest, not labor. And I feared that the work asked of me was beyond my competence. I saw couching done twice while in Paris, near four years past, but had never put my hand to the work. If I should attempt the business and succeed, I might bring much pleasure to Brother Alnett, but should I fail, I would lay much distress upon him.
I told him this. When I had finished my warning the monk was silent for a time, then spoke: “One eye, then… the worst. Work your craft upon my left eye, for that is cloudiest. Then, if you fail, I will be no more blind in my left eye than I am now. But if you succeed, then the reward will be worth the risk, and you may couch my other eye when you will.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Arthur and Uctred grinning broadly at me, as if the surgery were already complete and successful. It is a good thing when others have confidence in my skill, but not so when their expectation is beyond my competence. I feared this was such a time. I thought of an escape.
“Will the abbot approve? Will he accept an unknown surgeon poking about the eye of one of his brothers?”
“We will seek him and ask,” Brother Alnett said, and turned to the chamber door as he spoke. “Your companions may wait here for our return. Master Hugh, come with me.”
Brother Alnett found the stairs and descended with no hesitation. In the dark passageway I was uncertain when my feet might find the last step, but not so the monk. He did not stumble upon his way, but strode firmly to the door, reached unerringly for the latch, and lifted it for our passage.
The abbot’s lodge at Glastonbury is grand, as befits the head of one of the richest houses in the realm, second only to Westminster in its lands and tithes. I did pause to wonder, though, how men who had taken vows of poverty could live so well. In my youth, while yet a scholar at Balliol College, I asked this of a monk, a Benedictine. He replied that the wealth of a monastery belonged to God, not the brothers who inhabited the place. As God had no need of gold and jewels and rich tapestries, his servants felt free to use them. Cistercians take a different view.
The monks had but a short time earlier completed nones, so we arrived at the abbot’s hall as he and the prior approached from the direction of the church.
Brother Alnett heard their approach, guessed who it was, bowed respectfully, and introduced me to the abbot, Walter de Moynyngton. The abbot is a severe, thin-faced, somber-appearing fellow, and greeted me with a scowl. I did not take this personally. He seemed to me a man who received all in the same manner.
“Master Hugh,” Brother Alnett continued, “has sought lodging in the guest-house, with two companions. He travels to…” The monk turned helplessly to me.
“Exeter.”
“Master Hugh is bailiff for Lord Gilbert Talbot on his Bampton estate.” I saw the abbot’s lip curl in distaste. “And is also a surgeon, trained in Paris.” The lip seemed to relax.
Brother Alnett hesitated, and the abbot turned to enter his hall, assuming, I suppose, that the introduction was done.
“He knows how to couch a cataract,” Brother Alnett continued hurriedly. “Saw it done in Paris when he studied there.”
All this time neither the abbot nor his companion spoke, but after this announcement the abbot turned and, with a frown, examined the hopeful face of Brother Alnett.
“You wish this surgeon to seek to clear your vision?”
“Aye, m’lord abbot.”
The abbot dismissed Brother Alnett with a wave of his hand. “As you wish. You have my permit.”
I bowed respectfully to the abbot as he walked past me to his hall. If he noticed he gave no sign.
Brother Alnett also bowed and turned, prompted more by the departing abbot’s fading footsteps than the sight of the abbot’s back.
“M’lord abbot,” the monk said when he was sure his superior was beyond hearing, “is an even-tempered man. He is always angry. But he did grant permission for you to restore my sight. Will you do so? This day?”
“Nay. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I am weary from the day’s travel. My hand may not be steady, and I must sort through the instruments I have with me to see if any will serve in place of couching needles.”
The monk seemed disappointed at the delay, but had borne his affliction so long that another day would seem but small abeyance.
Brother Alnett sent a lay brother with straw pallets for Arthur and Uctred. Our chamber in the guest-house had already a bed where I might seek my rest. We were served a light supper of pease pottage, maslin loaf, and ale, and because the days grew long there was enough light after supper that I could sort through my instruments for lancets and thin scalpels which might serve in place of couching needles.
The sky was yet aglow when we three took to our beds, and soon Arthur’s rumbling snore filled the chamber. Uctred duly joined the chorus, adding his tenor to Arthur’s bass. I reviewed in my mind’s eye what I had seen of couching for cataracts while a student in Paris, planning the next morning’s work. The effort was not conducive to slumber, and I heard the sacrist ring the bell for vigils before I slept.
Brother Alnett appeared at the guest-house as soon as Lauds was sung. The man was eager to undergo treatment for his affliction; more eager than I to venture the work. I have heard scholars suggest that St Paul might have suffered cataracts – the “thorn in the flesh” he prayed unsuccessfully for the Lord Christ to remove. Now I spoke a silent prayer that my hand might be guided to good success this day, and Brother Alnett’s burden be lifted, even so the apostle’s was not. Perhaps St Paul required a surgeon.
I chose the abbey infirmary for the work. While I had brought instruments, I had not thought to bring herbs and salves. These the infirmarer could supply, though, in truth, few are needed to couch a cataract. When the needle is applied the patient feels little pain. Nevertheless, I prepared a draught of crushed lettuce and hemp seeds mixed in a cup of ale. Brother Alnett did not need to be persuaded to drink it down.
The seeds of wild lettuce will calm an anxious man. I know not if the draught succeeded with the monk, for he seemed a phlegmatic sort anyway,
but I was tempted to prepare a cup for myself.
The patient whose cataract is being couched must not be permitted to blink while the work is done. I required the infirmarer and his assistant to fix Brother Alnett’s upper and lower eyelids in place, took a deep breath, and began my work.
I had among my instruments a needle, used for stitching wounds, which would serve, I thought, to couch a cataract. The milky corruption of a cataract is but a humor collected between pupil and lens, thus obstructing vision. My task was to clear this space, so that when it was empty vision might be restored. The monk’s cataract was of many years and fully formed, so no medicinal treatment would avail.
I inserted my needle into the outer edge of Brother Alnett’s whitened lens and worked it into the space between lens and pupil. I felt resistance when the needle touched the suffusio, for the cataract was large and firm. But because it was so it came free from its place in one whole, rather than breaking apart. When the cataract was loosened I thrust with the needle until I had worked it down and away from the pupil.
My work was done, so long as the suffusio stayed where my needle had pushed it. If it did not it would require breaking into fragments and these pieces would then be depressed. I prayed this would not be necessary, stood from my patient, and wiped sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my cotehardie. It was not a warm morning, but I noted perspiration also upon the brows of the infirmarer and his assistant. Brother Alnett seemed not so affected. Perhaps it was the lettuce seeds.
The monk blinked rapidly several times when his eyelids were released, then turned his head to the infirmary window whence came a shaft of golden morning sun. The beam struck the infirmarer’s table, upon which lay an opened book. Brother Alnett’s gaze fastened upon the volume and he stood and walked to it.