Anatomies
The physician wiped his hands. He could hear the servant in the other room, lifting the shutters and pouring out water. He longed to rinse his teeth. Below him on the little cot Nicholas lay still, his purple mouth split open like a plum. Giles had spent the night by his side, swilling the mouth with salt water and scooping the slush from the folds of his cheeks. He had woken quite by chance to find his patient dying, drowning in blood. Bound skull to craw, Nicholas had bitten his tongue. He lay there unable to swallow, blood beading soundlessly from nostril and lip. Giles had saved his life, stripping off the bandages to clear the blackened carcass of his throat. Now the airways were open, the patient breathed as faint and dreamless as before, sinking back into that strange unconsciousness. But Giles, as he began to set the jaw, had reconsidered. He fetched down his anatomies and spread them on the board beside the bed, squinting through the smoky stub of candlelight at Vesalius, his skeleton: the joints and sinews, skull and jaw, the brittle disc of cartilage that held the bone in place. Presently, he ran thoughtful fingers the length of his patient’s face, feeling for the bone in swollen flesh. The jaw shifted, loose and compliant. At last, as the end of the candle gave out, he made his experiment, a little pressure from the thumbs behind the teeth, coaxing the face into shape. He closed his eyes as he felt it snap into place, lips like a flower in the darkness, curling in close. The mouth was still too swollen to meet true, but the teeth were aligned and the tongue safely nestled within. Carefully he retied the cloths and with the cleanest sheet he tucked the body tightly to the bed. He bundled up the soiled strips, balanced on top the basin of mud-coloured water and joined Paul in the outer chamber, closing the door with his foot.
He was wearily dishevelled. The servant looked startled to see him. There was blood on his cheek, on the sleeve and the hem of his shirt. He set down his burden and gestured. ‘These rags are for the fire, Paul. Take out the slops.’
Paul did not move. He looked at the blood. ‘Had you the surgeon?’
Giles locked the door. He was fretful: ‘A fresh shirt, I’ll thank you. Some water. The surgeon? No. Mark you, you must burn the rags. Master Colp does very ill, but he is settled now. You’ll not disturb him.’
‘Is it blood in the basin? What will I do with it then?’
‘Do with it?’ Giles appeared puzzled. ‘Do what you do with the slops. But keep it from the drinking vessels. Have we any bread?’
‘I’ve set out the last of it.’ He watched as Giles Locke swilled his mouth and changed his shirt, scrubbing very hard at his gums with a sage leaf.
‘Professor Herbert had the surgeon, sir, to his wife,’ Paul said carefully. ‘He bled her last night. But she does very ill, and Professor Herbert begs you call on her this morning. When you’ve broken your fast, sir, and dressed.’
Giles peered through the window into the half-light. The haar was beginning to lift, and thin streaks of sunshine forced through the fog. The air tasted stale. And before him a hard little bread-loaf sat on the board like a stone. There must be compensations, after all, for the exertions of the night. Perhaps an egg. He brightened. ‘No, I’ll be gone. I’ll have something from the bakehouse on my way.’
Paul sluiced the bloodied water down the ease pipe, whistling softly. The liquid puddled gloomily upon the street outside. With luck the rain would wash it clear before his master stepped in it, and he had saved himself the trouble of the journey to Foul Waste. He spat on the edge of the bowl and wiped it with his handkerchief. Locke’s weakness was comfits and sweet coffin-crusts. He would linger awhile in the cookshop. There was time for Paul to take a look at the books. He smiled to himself and hugged close his secret. He would come to her soon. Whistling through his handkerchief, he bundled the soiled clump of rags on the fire and used the tongs to pack up a parcel of shirts for the laundress. Privately, Paul thought it better to have burned the shirts as well, for they would fester till the laundress lumbered down to scour them in the Kinness Burn and lumbered back to college, with the laundry just as black as when it went. But the shirts were French linen, finely stitched and perfumed with lavender under the stoor. He tied back the curtains and straightened the counterpane, nibbled the loaf with a mouthful of ale and swept clear the crumbs on the floor. At last, when all else was ordered and neat, he turned to the books on the shelves round the wall, his pulse already quickening at the thought.
Paul could not read, but his master kept picture books: puppets and sly-looking mannequins, coy blushing lassies and proud-standing men. Once the doctor had caught him admiring them, and laughing had peeled back the pages, frailer than garlic skins, layer upon layer of them, sinews and muscle and bone and blood traffic, rivers of blood coursing deep. Paul could not comprehend. It disgusted him. There were so many leaves there could scarcely be a place for the soul in this repellent flaying bare of flesh and blood. But there among it all a picture of a lass had caught his eye. He was affronted to the core when Giles Locke turned the page and stripped the lass beyond the bounds of decency, but to the very bone. Paul had liked her clothed in all the modest contours of the flesh, beautifully, decently naked. He remembered her sad little face – sad and no wonder – wistful and fair in the swell of her belly and breast, right hand resting coyly on her sex. The left arm lay open, quietly gesturing, modestly calling him, ‘Come to me.’ He would answer the call.
But to his frustration, even as he ran his fingers through the shelves, he realised that the book could not be found. His master had taken the anatomies – not that Paul knew what to call them – back into the little chamber where his patient lay. All that remained here were words. For a moment he allowed the disappointment to defeat him, and then almost unthinking, he drew back the curtain that hung by the door, took down the key from its rusted iron hoop, and unlocked it, passing quietly through to the darkness beyond. The doctor was doubtless still deep in his sweetmeats; these promised sweeter, and Paul retreated only once, to take up the lamp from the wall. A quiver of defiance stirred agreeably inside him as he cast its glare about the room.
The chamber was fragrant with garlic and sickness, the air scented sooty and hot. Paul moved quickly. He could see the pile of books by the bedside. The patient lay quite still and soundless. He lifted the lamp where the first book lay open, and the top of a skull appeared cracked like an egg. He turned through the leaves. A mandible grinned at him, wrenched from its face. There were horrors here, but he would not allow them to distract him. And in a moment she was waiting for him shyly on the page. He set down the lantern and smiled, and looking up a little in the cast of its shadow he took in unthinking the lie of the room, books and bed and quiet fire, the clean and decent silence of the corpse.
It was clear to Paul, as the lamp cast its glow on his cheek, that Nicholas was dead, as lifeless and drab as his grey winding clothes. The man was dead beyond a doubt, and Giles Locke had known he was dead, locked with his instruments close with the corpse, for whatever dark purpose Paul was afraid to suppose. The body was bound to the bed, lapped in a winding sheet, soberly, properly dead, but the face was a paper-frail picture, more macabre than any in Doctor Locke’s books. The cloths about the head were tied so tight the eyes protruded blankly from their sockets. The lashes were fringed with dry blood.
‘What are you doing?’ Paul had not heard the steps. His master was watching him, full in the doorway. He thought he saw another figure moving in the room beyond. There was no menace in the voice, but a simple, urgent quietness. He swallowed, afraid.
‘I thought . . . I thought I heard a cry.’
‘You did not hear it.’
‘No.’ It was dangerous perhaps, but he said recklessly, ‘I did not, sir, because he is dead.’
The doctor was upon him now, taking the lamp in his hands. He glanced at the book by the bed. ‘Ah, I see the way of it. Comely, is she not? Do not adjust your dress on my account. If you asked, I would show you the pictures.’
Paul burned with shame.
‘But
for the rest, trust the doctor,’ Giles said softly. ‘He is not dead. He may however be infectious, so do come away from the cot. Will you take back the book? You don’t care to? Then come, there’s a risk of lying broken there beside him, if you persist in breathing in his air. The bands have been tied to restrain him. He is indeed very ill, and he sleeps, but you must know he is not dead.’
Their visitor was watching curiously. It was Master Cullan, looking tired and worn, shifting about the room.
Frightened, Paul appealed to him, ‘Yon master’s dead, sir. There is no breath, no light in the face; he’s been gone these last few hours, sir, I would swear it. And I must call the bearers to take him away from here, else . . .’
Hew grasped him by the shoulders. ‘Don’t you hear your master, Paul; he is not dead!’
‘Hush, Hew, you’re frightening him; come, let him go.’ The servant was trembling. Giles Locke took a purse from his pocket. ‘Swill out your bowels with strong ale. I recommend it. We do not lie to you, and in a day or two, God willing, we may prove he is not dead. Go with you now.’
Hew cried as Paul fled, ‘Are you mad? But think what he’ll say to the alewife! He’ll have the town here in his wake!’
‘He’ll have to think twice on it, Hew. We discovered him at his most private pleasures, dampened no doubt by the sight of our friend. I don’t think his tastes run so rare. He’ll drink to drown his blushes before he dares speak. And if, when he’s done, he blurts out the tale, we’ll say he’s a drunkard and imagined it. It were easier to reassure him, if you had not put the fear of God in him. For pity, Hew, but need you seem so wild? Have you not slept?’
‘No,’ Hew replied shortly.
‘Nor have I. Your coming cut short all my hopes of my bed or a breakfast. But since you are come, you may see him. Bear witness after all that he lives on.’
Hew followed him reluctantly. He understood Paul’s apprehension. In the lamplight he could see no sign of life, though Giles Locke fussed about the bed, paring back the sheets to strip the bandage from the thigh.
‘You see the wound? Quite clean. Feel for the heartbeat.’
Hew shook his head. Only the face remained bandaged, pitted and sightless, lips cracked with blood. The mouth appeared to work a little, bubbling as Giles dabbed it with a sponge. Hew hoped he had imagined it, the workings of the hanged man’s lips still mouthing their last protests in surprise. But Giles was saying something, ‘. . . barley to strengthen the bone, garlic and hops and the wild onion flower, which being herbs under Mars and the sign of Aries may strengthen and nurture the head and the face and mend those parts by sympathy, the bones too by antipathy. But the best news is the mandible, which I believe was merely dislocated. And after all, your sister, impressive though she is, has scarcely enough strength to break his jaw. The spasm itself could unsettle the joint. It may go again, but we must remain hopeful. You see, Hew, the bone fits together like this.’
He thumbed through the leaves of a book.
Hew shrugged impatiently, turning away, ‘Well then, he’ll live?’
‘We may have every hope of it. And if you can find me the hour of his birth, I’ll draw him a horoscope.’
‘What use would that be?’
Giles looked pained. ‘Well now, his weakness or strength as controlled by the stars. Let us say that – for argument’s sake – I had given him hemlock . . .’
‘For argument’s sake?’ Hew echoed wryly.
‘Aye, as I say. Now hemlock is said to hold sway of the skeleton, which is good, but it’s governed by Saturn, and so if your friend . . .’
But Hew interrupted, ‘Could you cast one for Meg? A horoscope, I mean. She was born in the sign of the twins.’
‘Your sister?’ The doctor looked grave. ‘Does she ail?’
His friend answered cryptically, ‘I know not. I’m afraid for her.’
‘Ah. Then it’s not quite the same. I’m afraid I can’t help you. If she were to ask for herself . . .’
‘She’ll not do that. But would you not consider, if you thought that we might save her?’
‘Save her from what? Aye, if she comes, and she’s sick, I will do it for nothing. I cannot cure by proxy, and in truth I doubt she needs it. For the present patient, what he lacks is her good care. After all, she saved his life.’
Giles paused, then ever circumspect conceded, ‘If he lives, of course. Now, I have a notion that will cheer you. Have you brought that horse of yours?’
Hew grimaced ruefully. ‘He’s stabled at the west port, costing me a fortune. He’s eating twice as much as any other horse, and drinking twice the drink, and he is twice the trouble, voiding twice as much. Besides, he needs a boy to keep him to his stall.’
‘Now there’s a horse that needs a horoscope,’ beamed Giles. ‘Bring him to the east sands when I’ve had my dinner. Let’s say one o’clock.’
‘Whatever for?’ objected Hew.
‘Fresh air and sunshine. We’ll put him to school!’
The ale cooled the shame from Paul’s cheeks. After several more drinks he swaggered a little, bolder in his cups. He had chosen a small tavern shuttered from the street, which overhung the little lane between the marketplace and south street, almost empty at this hour. The inn was a good place to hide. The nether rooms were open through the hours of church and darkness, and the place had secret exits for the college boys who broke the rules of term. One other customer stood by the bar, debating the cost of the wine. He glanced across at Paul, but did not speak. Paul thought he looked familiar, and a little out of place. A merchant perhaps, buying in bulk, for presently the landlord led him to the cellar to inspect the wares. Emboldened by his holiday, Paul ordered yet another jug of ale, leering at the serving girl as she scooped up his coin. He imagined her bare as the lass in the picture book, and took courage to try her, for all she was pimpled and plain.
‘Aye, you may look while you drink, but you haven’t the money for that!’
She’d go ready enough with the college lads, purses or no. His cheeks were aflame once again. It was a small humiliation, one of many, but compounded by the landlord coming with a tray. He supposed that the girl had complained. But the tapster said merely, ‘The gentleman there would like to speak with you, once we are done in the cellars. You’ll be staying awhile? He’ll be up by and by.’
He set down the tray on the board. The flagon was filled with a dark brackish wine, thick as syrup. Paul rose to his feet in alarm. Did the man know him, then? Could he somehow have detected his most secret shame? The landlord stood blocking the way to the door. Whatever exits were provided for the student boys were closed to Paul. He felt the landlord’s hand upon his arm. ‘Ah, though, stay. But what’s your haste? You’ll hae another draught.’
The ale was fetched and persuasively poured, and within a few moments the gentleman arrived, drawing his stool next to Paul’s.
‘You don’t mind if I join you? Landlord, fresh cups.’
Paul recognised him now, soberly dressed but with soft polished fingernails, painfully neat in the curl of his beard. An equal to his master right enough, but scarcely a friend. He gulped.
‘I was about to go back to my work.’
‘Indeed?’ the man said pleasantly. ‘Then you may take a message to your master. I know you, don’t I? You are Giles Locke’s man. If he can spare you to the tavern quite so early in the day, he no doubt will excuse you a little while longer. Though I confess I am surprised to see you in this place and at this time, you are certainly well met. Pray you, have some wine. I’m buying for the college, and I like to taste the wares. Sadly, though, I cannot drink the bottle. Oblige me then, and share it. I can see you like a drink.’
The servant flinched. ‘My master sent me out here for physic. I was taken bad. A little ale, he says will set the stomach. But I’m quite recovered now.’
‘Indeed?’ His companion drew close. ‘Are you sure? You are a trifle pale. Some brandy wine perhaps would better serve your purpose. Try this
, do. My habitual supplier, a man of great integrity, is indisposed of late. We must take our choices as they come, though they be bitter ones. Drink it, man. Not over sweet? A little more will bear the proof. Here, but try a cupful, and I’ll not detain you long.’
The wine settled warm on the ale in Paul’s belly. He slumped on the stool, defeated, and finished the draught.
‘That’s better now,’ the man was saying, ‘well then, you must know me. For you are Giles Locke’s man.’
‘Aye, the doctor’s,’ Paul replied thickly. ‘You’re a professor from the college are ye not, sir? From the south street.’
‘I am the principal professor of St Leonard’s and your master, of course, is new appointed to the same position at the Auld College, the first mediciner we’ve had here. He is much admired. So tell me then, how does he do?’ Gilchrist answered genially.
‘He does well enough,’ the servant sniggered.
‘No doubt. And his patient, Nicholas Colp? He was one of my regents you know, but no one has seen him these past several days. How does Master Colp in your good doctor’s care?’
It was perhaps the wine that began to make Paul feel reckless, the warmth of the tavern, or Gilchrist’s soft voice. He had drunk after all far more than he realised of the dense, sweetened drink. Gilchrist’s share was hardly touched. At once it seemed to him a grand play, and he snorted, ‘How does he do, sir? Well and I’ll tell you. He does somewhat ill, for he’s dead.’ And he laughed very loud at the jest, so that the tavern girl looked startled to their table. Gilchrist frowned and gestured her away.
‘How so, dead? He died this morning? I had word that he was still alive.’
‘Aye, that’s the word. But I’d wager he’s been dead, stone dead, these past few days.’
Paul giggled. Tempted to slap him, Gilchrist filled the cup instead with the last dregs of wine and called for a thimble of brandy. ‘My friend is unwell.’ The brandy wine swallowed, he persisted, ‘Well then. What do you mean? Is it a jest?’
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