by C. J. Sansom
‘He’s probably never been anywhere near the Bedlam,’ I said to Roger. ‘If all the beggars who say they’ve been there had truly been patients, the place would be the size of Westminster Hall.’
‘How is your client that has been put there?’
‘Grievous sick in his mind. It is harrowing to see. I wish to ask Guy to visit him, and I hope he can make sense of it, for I cannot.’
‘Dr Malton specializes in madness, then?’ Roger gave me an anxious look.
‘Not at all,’ I answered reassuringly. ‘But he has been practising medicine for nearly forty years and has seen every type of illness there is. And he is a good doctor, not like so many physicians who know of no remedies save bleeding and purging. ’Tis but your own fear that tells you you might have the falling sickness. Symptoms of falling over can have a hundred causes. And you have never had a ghost of a fit.’
‘I have seen those fits, though. I once had a client who suffered from them and he fell down in my office, gibbering and foaming with only the whites of his eyes showing.’ He shook his head. ‘It was a dreadful sight. And it came on this man late in life.’
‘You experience these falls and fix your mind on the most frightening thing you have seen. If I did not know you for a clever lawyer I would call you a noddle.’
He smiled. ‘Ay, perhaps.’
To take his mind from his worries I told him the story of the preacher who had stood at Newgate promising great rivers of blood. ‘Can a man who preaches such things possibly be a good man, a Christian man?’ I asked. ‘Even though the next minute he was proclaiming the joys of salvation.’
He shook his head. ‘We are in a mad and furious world, Matthew. Mundus furiosus. Each side railing against the other, preaching full of rage and hatred. The radicals foretelling the end of the world. To the conversion of some, and the confusion of many.’ He looked at me, smiling with great sadness. ‘Remember when we were young, how we read Erasmus on the foolishness of Indulgences granted by the church for money, the endless ceremonial and Latin Masses that stood between ordinary people and the understanding of Christ’s message?’
‘Ay. That reading group we had. Remember Juan Vives’ books, about how the Christian prince could end unemployment by sponsoring public works, building hospitals and schools for the poor. But we were young,’ I added bitterly. ‘And we dreamed.’
‘A Christian commonwealth living in gentle harmony.’ Roger sighed. ‘You realized it was all going rotten before I did.’
‘I worked for Thomas Cromwell.’
‘And I was always more radical than you.’ He turned to me. ‘Yet I still believe that a church and state no longer bound to the Pope can be made into something good and Christian, despite the corruption of our leaders, and all these new fanatics.’
I did not reply.
‘And you, Matthew?’ he asked. ‘What do you believe now? You never say.’
‘I no longer know, Roger,’ I said quietly. ‘But come, we turn down here. Let’s change the subject. The buildings are close together here, the voices echo, and we must be careful what we say in public these days.’
THE SUN WAS SETTING as we rode into the narrow alley in Bucklersbury where Guy lived and worked. It was full of apothecary’s shops, and Roger’s face became uneasy as he saw the stuffed alligators and other strange wonders displayed in the windows. As we dismounted and tied our horses to a rail, he looked relieved to see that Guy’s window contained only a selection of ornate apothecary’s jars.
‘Why does he practise in this godforsaken place if he is a physician?’ Roger asked, retrieving his sample from his horse’s pannier.
‘Guy was only admitted to the College of Physicians last year, after saving a rich alderman’s leg. Before that his dark skin and his being an ex-monk kept him out, despite his French medical degree. He could only practise as an apothecary.’
‘But why stay here now?’ Roger’s face wrinkled in distaste at the sight of a baby monkey in a jar of brine in the adjacent window.
‘He says he has grown used to living here.’
‘Among these monsters?’
‘They are just poor dead creatures.’ I smiled reassuringly. ‘Some apothecaries claim their powdered body parts can work wonders. Guy is not of that opinion.’
I knocked at his door. It was opened almost at once by a boy in an apprentice’s blue coat. Piers Hubberdyne was an apprentice apothecary whom Guy had taken on the year before. He was a tall, dark-haired lad in his late teens, with features of such unusual comeliness that he turned women’s heads in the streets. Guy said he was hard-working and conscientious, a rarity among London’s notoriously unruly apprentices. He bowed deeply to us.
‘Good evening, Master Shardlake. And Master Elliard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that your sample, sir? May I take it?’
Roger handed it over with relief, and Piers ushered us into the shop. ‘I will fetch Dr Malton,’ he said, and left us. I inhaled the sweet, musky scent of herbs that pervaded Guy’s consulting room. Roger looked up at the neatly labelled jars on the shelves. Little bunches of herbs were laid out on a table beside a mortar and pestle and a tiny goldsmith’s weighing balance. Above the table was a diagram of the four elements and the types of human nature to which they correspond: melancholic, phlegmatic, cheerful and choleric. Roger studied it.
‘Dorothy says I am a man of air, cheerful and light,’ he observed.
‘With a touch of the phlegmatic, surely. If your temperament was all air, you could not work as you do.’
‘And you, Matthew, were always melancholic. Your dark colouring and spare frame mark you out.’
‘I was not so spare before my fever eighteen months ago.’ I gave him a serious look. ‘I think that would have carried me off without Guy’s care. Do not worry, Roger, he will help you.’
I turned with relief as Guy entered the room. He was sixty now and his curly hair, black when first I knew him, was white, making the dark brown hue of his lean features even more striking by contrast. I saw that he was beginning to develop an aged man’s stoop. When we had first become friends six years before, Guy had been a monastic infirmarian; the monasteries had housed many foreigners and Guy came originally from Granada in Spain, where his forebears had been Muslims. Having abandoned a Benedictine habit for an apothecary’s robe, he had now in turn exchanged that for the black high-collared gown of a physician.
When he came in I thought his dark face seemed a little drawn, as though he had worries. Then he looked at us and smiled broadly.
‘Good day, Matthew,’ he said. His quiet voice still carried an exotic lilt. ‘And you must be Master Elliard.’ His penetrating dark eyes studied Roger closely.
‘Ay.’ Roger shuffled nervously.
‘Come through to my examination room, let us see what the problem is.’
‘I have brought some urine, as you asked. I gave it to the boy.’
‘I will look at that.’ He smiled. ‘However, unlike some of my colleagues, I do not place entire reliance on the urine. Let us first examine you. Can you wait here a while, Matthew?’
‘Of course.’
They left me. I sat on a stool by the window. The light was growing dim, the jars and bottles casting long shadows on the floor. I thought again of Adam Kite, and wondered uneasily whether Guy, still secretly loyal to the old church, might also say Adam was possessed. I had found myself thinking too over the last few days about the dark-haired woman keeper. What had she meant by saying she could never leave the Bedlam? Was she under some permanent order of detention?
The door opened and the boy Piers entered, carrying a candle and with a large book under his arm. He placed the book on a high shelf with several others, then went and lit the candles in a tall sconce. Yellow light flickered around the room, adding the smell of wax to the scent of herbs.
He turned to me. ‘Do you mind if I continue my work, sir?’ he asked.
‘Please do.’
He sat at the
table, took a handful of herbs and began grinding them. He rolled back the sleeves of his robe, revealing strong arms, the muscles bunching as he crushed the herbs.
‘How long have you been with Dr Malton now?’ I asked.
‘Just a year, sir.’ He turned and smiled, showing sparkling white teeth.
‘Your old master died, did he not?’
‘Ay, sir. He lived in the next street. Dr Malton took me on when he died suddenly. I am lucky, he is a man of rare knowledge. And kind.’
‘That he is,’ I agreed. Piers turned back to his work. How different he was from most apprentices, noisy lewd lads forever looking for trouble. His self-possessed, confident manner was that of a man, not a boy.
IT WAS AN HOUR before Guy and Roger returned. It had grown dark, and Piers had to bend closely to his work, a candle beside him. Guy put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Enough for tonight, lad. Go and get some supper, but first bring us some beer.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Piers bowed to us and left. I looked at Roger, delighted to see an expression of profound relief on his face.
‘I do not have the falling sickness,’ he said and beamed.
Guy smiled gently. ‘The strangest matters may have a simple resolution. I always like to start by looking for the simplest possible explanation, which William of Ockham taught is most likely to be the true one. So I began with Master Elliard’s feet.’
‘He had me standing barefoot,’ Roger said, ‘then measured my legs, laid me on his couch and bent my feet to and fro. I confess I was surprised. I came expecting a learned disquisition on my urine.’
‘We did not need that in the end.’ Guy smiled triumphantly. ‘I found the right foot turns markedly to the right, the cause being that Master Elliard’s left leg is very slightly longer. It is a problem that has been building up for years. The remedy is a special shoe, with a wooden insert that will correct the gait. I will get young Piers to make it, he is skilled with his hands.’
‘I am more grateful than I can say, sir,’ Roger said warmly.
There was a knock, and Piers returned with three pewter goblets on a tray which he laid on the table.
‘Let us drink to celebrate Master Elliard’s liberation from falling over.’ Guy took a stool and passed another to Roger.
‘Roger is thinking of starting a subscription for a hospital,’ I told Guy.
Guy shook his head sadly. ‘Hospitals are sorely needed in this city. That would be a good and Christian thing. Perhaps I could help, advise.’
‘That would be kind, sir.’
‘Roger still holds to the ideals of Erasmus,’ I said.
Guy nodded. ‘I once studied Erasmus too. He was in high favour when I first came to England. I thought when he said the church was too rich, too devoted to ceremony, he had something - though most of my fellow monks did not, they said he wrote with a wanton pen.’ His face grew sombre. ‘Perhaps they saw clearer than I that talk of reform would lead to the destruction of the monasteries. And of so much else. And for what?’ he asked bitterly. ‘A reign of greed and terror.’
Roger looked a little uncomfortable at Guy’s defence of the monks. I looked from one to the other of them. Guy who was still a Catholic at heart, Roger the radical reformer turned moderate. I was not so much between them as outside the whole argument. A lonely place to be.
‘I have a case I wanted to ask your advice about, Guy,’ I said to change the subject. ‘A case of religious madness, or at least perhaps that is what it is.’ I told him Adam’s story. ‘So the Privy Council have put him in the Bedlam to get him out of the way,’ I concluded. ‘His parents want me to get him released, but I am not sure that is a good idea.’
‘I have known of obsessive lovers,’ Roger said, ‘but obsessive praying - I have never heard of such a thing.’
‘I have,’ Guy said, and we both turned to look at his dark grave face. ‘It is a new form of brain-sickness, something Martin Luther has added to the store of human misery.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘There have always been some people who hate themselves, who torture themselves with guilt for real or imagined offences. I saw such cases sometimes as an infirmarian. Then we could tell people that God promises salvation to any who repent their sins, because He places no one outside His mercy and charity.’ He looked up, a rare anger in his face. ‘But now some tell us that God has decided, as though from caprice, to save some and damn others to perpetual torment; and if God does not give you the assurance of His Grace you are doomed. That is one of Luther’s central doctrines. I know, I have read him. Luther may have felt himself a worthless creature saved by God’s grace, but did he ever stop to think what his philosophy might mean for those without his inner strength, his arrogance?’
‘If that were true,’ Roger said, ‘surely half the population would be running mad?’
‘Do you believe you are saved?’ Guy asked suddenly. ‘That you have God’s grace?’
‘I hope so. I try to live well and hope I may be saved.’
‘Yes. Most, like you, or I, are content with the hope of salvation and leave matters in God’s hands. But now there are some who are utterly certain they are saved. They can be dangerous because they believe themselves special, above other people. But just as every coin has two sides, so there are others who crave the certainty, yet are convinced they are unworthy, and that can end in the piteous condition of this young man. I have heard it called salvation panic, though the term hardly does justice to the agonies of those who suffer it.’ He paused. ‘The question perhaps is why the boy became consumed with guilt in the first place.’
‘Maybe he has committed some great sin,’ I said. I was glad to see Guy shake his head.
‘No, usually in such cases their sins are small, it is something in the workings of their minds that brings them to this pass.’
‘Will you help me try to find what it is, Guy? Some in the Bedlam think Adam is possessed. I fear they may do him harm.’
‘I will come and see him, Matthew,’ Guy said. ‘I will go as a doctor, of course, not an ex-monk, or he would probably fear he was indeed in the hands of the devil.’ Suddenly my friend looked old and tired.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Young Piers seems a hard worker,’ I observed.
‘Yes, he is. A good apprentice. Perhaps better than I deserve,’ he added quietly.
‘How so?’ I asked, puzzled.
He did not answer. ‘Piers is very clever, too. His understanding is marvellous quick.’ Guy gave a sudden smile that transformed his face. ‘Let me show you something I have been discussing with Piers, something new in the world of healing, that many of my fellow physicians disapprove of.’ He rose and crossed to his shelf of books. He took down the big volume that Piers had replaced earlier. He cleared a space on the table and placed it there carefully. Roger and I went over to join him.
‘De Humani Corpora Fabrica,’ Guy said quietly. ‘The workings of the human body. Just published, a German merchant friend brought it over for me. It is by Andreas Vesalius, a Dutch physician working in Italy. They have been allowed to practise dissection of bodies there for years, though it has been forbidden here till recently.’
‘The old church disapproved,’ Roger said.
‘They did, and they were wrong. Vesalius is the first man to dissect human bodies on a large scale for centuries, perhaps ever. And you know what he has found? That the ancients, Hippocrates and Galen, the ultimate authorities whom a physician may not question without risking expulsion from the College of Physicians, were wrong.’ He turned to us, a gleam in his dark eyes. ‘Vesalius has shown that the ancients erred in many of their descriptions of the inner form of the body. He concludes they too were not allowed to dissect bodies, and that their descriptions came from studies not of men but of animals.’ He laughed. ‘This book will cause a great stir. The college will try to have it discredited, even suppressed.’
‘But how can we know Vesalius is right, and the ancients wrong?’ I asked.
<
br /> ‘By comparing his descriptions and drawings here with what we can see for ourselves when a body is opened. Four bodies of hanged criminals the barber-surgeons’ college is allowed now, for public dissection.’ I quailed a little as his words, for I was ever of a squeamish disposition, but he went on. ‘And there is another way I have been able to see for myself.’
‘How so?’ Roger asked.
‘A London coroner can call for a body to be opened and examined if it is needed to find out how a man died. Most physicians think the work beneath them and the pay is not great, but I have offered my services and already I have been able to test Vesalius’ claims for myself. And he is right.’ Guy opened the book slowly and almost reverentially. It was in Latin, illustrated with drawings that were marvellously executed but with something mocking and even cruel about them; as Guy flicked over the pages I saw a skeleton leaning on a table in the pose of a thinker, a flayed body hanging from a gibbet, all its innards exposed. In the corner of a drawing of exposed bowels, a little cherub sat passing a turd and smiling at the reader.
Guy laid the book open at a picture of a human heart cut open on a table. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Do you see? The heart has four chambers, four, not the three we have always been taught.’
I nodded, though all I could see was a horrible tangle of valves and tissue. I glanced at Roger. He was looking a little pale. I said, ‘That is very interesting, Guy, but a little beyond us, I fear. And we must be getting back to Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘Oh. Very well.’ Guy, normally the most sensitive of men, did not seem to realize the book had disturbed us. He smiled. ‘Perhaps this new year heralds in a time of wonders. I hear a Polish scholar has published a book proving by observation of the planets that the earth goes round the sun, not the other way around. I have asked my friend to bring me a copy. This new year of 1543 may find us on the threshold of a new world.’