by Mel Starr
“Who is there? What is it you wish?”
“I am Hugh de Singleton. Do you remember a week and more past I sought refuge in the church?”
“Aye,” he yawned. “What now?”
“We seek Father Maurice’s help again. May we enter?”
I believe that the clerk assumed that when I said “we,” I meant myself and Arthur. He stood aside to permit our entry and I saw, even in the dim light of the clerk’s candle, his eyes blink and widen as Amice and her children passed him by.
A moment later the priest came down the stairs from his chamber in the upper story, wondering about the muted conversation he heard below. The candle provided enough light that the priest recognized me.
“Hugh… again in Marcham in the middle of the night? And seeking aid again, I’ll warrant.”
I told the priest he was correct, introduced Amice Thatcher, told him of her plight, and asked refuge for the night.
“You shall have it,” he replied. Then, peering out the door, which was yet open to the night, he said, “We must stable your beasts. If Sir John or his squires followed they will see them and know you are here.”
To his clerk he said, “Take the horses to William Burghill’s stable. He’ll not mind waking to extra animals in his stalls.”
When the clerk returned his warm bed was taken. Father Maurice had sent Amice and the children to rest there. Arthur, I, and the clerk made our bed of cloaks laid upon rushes piled in a heap. I have rarely slept better.
William Burghill is of that class of prosperous yeomen who are not gentlemen, but possess land enough that some knights – Sir Philip Rede may be among them – envy their wealth. Burghill, Father Maurice said in the morning, cultivated three yardlands, and had married his oldest daughter to a knight of Wantage.
Burghill was not only prosperous, he was hospitable. Next morn I offered to pay for the oats Bruce and the palfrey had consumed, but the man would not take a farthing.
Father Maurice set loaves and ale before us, and when we and the horses were fed we thanked the priest, mounted our rested beasts, and set off for Standlake and the road to Bampton.
I was some concerned that we might meet Sir John Trillowe’s squires along the road. If they had words with Sir Philip they might guess who had freed their prisoner, and where we traveled. On the other hand, they might then also know I served Lord Gilbert Talbot, and not wish to offend such a great lord.
We drew the horses to a halt before Galen House just after noon. Kate took one look at Amice, knew who she must be, and so there would be enough to feed our guests set about adding peas and leeks to a kettle of pottage which was warming upon the coals.
Arthur took Bruce and the palfrey to the marshalsea, and I explained Amice’s presence to Kate, Alice, and Osbert while I, Amice, and her children munched upon a maslin loaf and waited for the pottage to be ready. Osbert, I was pleased to see, sat alert upon a bench, and did not grimace when he moved, although he seemed to stir as little as possible.
“What will become of Amice?” Kate asked when I concluded the tale. “She cannot return to her house in Abingdon. Those knaves will seize her again.”
“She must remain here until she is no longer threatened. She can assist you with Osbert, and Alice may return to her work at the castle.”
Alice seemed crestfallen at this news, but her life there was better than might have been had her felonious brothers had their way. And I knew that Will Shillside, son of Bampton’s haberdasher, had an eye for the lass. Few scullery maids have a quarter-yardland to bring to their husbands at the church door, but Alice did.
I had promised Brother Theodore that I would deal with his fistula as soon as I could, and Saturn was now past Aries. I told Kate that I must leave for Abingdon on the morrow, to perform the surgery. I had another reason for the journey. There were questions I wished to ask the hosteler.
Kate was not pleased that I must travel again, nor, in truth, was I. Sir John Trillowe’s squires had visited my house and stolen John Thrale’s treasure but a few weeks before. Might they return, seeking again to lay hands on Amice Thatcher? I must see that, if they did so while I was away, they would find a harsh welcome. I set out for the castle, found Arthur with his cheeks full of maslin loaf, and told him to organize castle grooms to keep watch over Galen House, night and day, two at a time, until my return.
“Think them squires might want Amice Thatcher back, eh?” he said.
“Aye.”
“A man might want Amice, even if she had no treasure,” he grinned. Cicily looked over her shoulder and scowled, but Arthur spoke true. Amice was nearly as pleasing to look upon as Kate.
I was crossing the castle yard when John Chamberlain saw me and cried out: “Lord Gilbert wishes you to attend him.”
“In the solar?”
“Aye.”
My employer was seated in a chair beside the fireplace, deep in conversation with some gentleman guest I had not met. When John Chamberlain ushered me into the solar the visitor stood, excused himself, and departed. When a lord wishes to discuss matters with his bailiff most knights understand that their presence would be an intrusion.
“That villein you helped escape from Sir Philip,” Lord Gilbert began, “is he well enough to return him to his lord?”
“Nay. He finds it difficult to stand. Becomes dizzy. And the lacerations upon his back are likely to break open if he bends over.”
“How much longer, then?”
“A fortnight… perhaps longer.”
“And if I require you then to send him to Sir Philip, you intend to leave my service?”
“I do, m’lord.”
Lord Gilbert snorted, turned to the fire for a moment, then, as I was about to ask his leave to depart, he faced me and spoke again.
“By heaven, you’re a hard man, Hugh.”
“Men who serve you do not often cross you?”
“Nay… only you. A fortnight, no longer. That villein will be returned to Sir Philip, whether he can stand or not.
“Now, what of the chapman found murdered upon my lands? You are yet my bailiff. Have you found the guilty men?”
“Aye, so I believe.”
“You believe? You are uncertain?”
“I know who the felons are, and why they beat the chapman to death, but I have not yet the evidence which would convince the Sheriff or the King’s Eyre. And the men I suspect are squires to a great knight and may have maintenance.”
“They wear his livery?”
“Nay. Perhaps they do not wish it known who they serve.”
“Who do they serve?”
“Sir John Trillowe.”
Lord Gilbert scowled. “Bah, if his squires did murder upon my lands, his arm will not shield them.”
“If I can discover proof of their guilt.”
“Well, you have a fortnight to do so, for that villein must be returned and then, unless you reconsider, you will no longer serve me in this matter, or any other, if that is your wish. And by the way, the maid Sybil… her father is coming for her day after tomorrow.”
I do not know Sir Henry Montagu, but I suspected that Sir Philip Rede would soon suffer serious embarrassment.
I bowed my way from the solar and returned to Galen House for a dinner of stockfish and maslin loaf, and a chardewarden made of the fresh pears of autumn. I saw that Osbert was much recovered, for he ate his fill and more, although he sat stiffly at the table.
Next morn I left Galen House with the Angelus Bell and met Arthur and Uctred walking up Church View Street to assume their posts as sentinels for the souls who resided in my home.
Shortly after noon I arrived at the New Inn, left Bruce with a stable boy, and with my sack of herbs and instruments slung over a shoulder, sought my dinner at the inn. This was also a fast day, so stockfish was all there was to be had, and as I was late for dinner, what remained had the consistency of shavings from a cooper’s drawknife.
I did not linger long over this meal, for the loaf was
little better than the fish. ’Tis but a few paces from the New Inn to the abbey gatehouse, between St. Nicholas’s Church and St. John’s Hospital. At the porter’s lodge I asked for Brother Theodore and the porter’s assistant ran to fetch him. The monk soon appeared behind his stained linen shroud, and I felt a sense of satisfaction that here was a tormented soul I could help.
The hosteler saw the bag over my shoulder and his eyes brightened. “Saturn is no longer in the house of Aries,” he said. “You did not forget my suffering.”
“Nay. I am prepared to deal with your fistula – this day, if you are willing.”
“I am. What must be done?”
“I have herbs which will help dull the pain. But I must warn you again, as I did when we first met, that the surgery I must do will be painful.”
“I have thought upon your words, but I will gladly bear brief suffering if it will end what I have endured for so long.”
“Then we may begin. I require a room with a fire, where I may heat a cautery rod, a cup of ale for you, in which I will place herbs to lessen your pain, and an egg. Also some wine.”
“The only room of the abbey with a fire, other than the kitchen, is the calefactory. Will that serve?”
“Aye, if the other monks warming themselves there do not mind my work.”
The calefactory was beyond the monks’ dormitory, attached to the infirmary, where ill and elderly monks might drive away the chill of a winter day. A lay brother kept the blaze in this warming room, and when told of what I intended to do was eager to assist. I sent him for a cup of ale and another of wine. When he returned Brother Bartholomew accompanied him.
Brother Theodore greeted the infirmarer with impolitic words. “Ah, Brother Bartholomew, here is Master Hugh, a surgeon, who is to cure my fistula.”
The infirmarer had surely used his store of knowledge and salves to work a cure, to no benefit, and I feared he might resent my intrusion. I thought to deflect any acrimony, so asked the monk what salves he had tried.
“Many ointments, but none have succeeded. A paste of our lady’s mantle seemed to reduce the discharge, but it soon returned.”
“You have applied adder’s tongue?”
“Aye. Also a lotion of bruised betony leaves, which has brought success in other cases, but not for Brother Theodore. What herbs will you use?”
“None. You have tried the best God gives us. If they brought no healing, the fistula must be cut and burned away.”
“I have heard of such a remedy, but have no knowledge of the method.”
“If you will assist me, you may see how ’tis done. Then, if another brother suffers a similar hurt you may deal with it.
“The first thing is to do what we may to lessen the pain of the surgery. I have pouches of herbs to add to a cup of ale; crushed seeds and the dried juice of lettuce, pounded hemp seeds, and bruised leaves of mandrake.”
“Mandrake?” the infirmarer asked with raised eyebrows.
“Aye. ’Tis a powerful sedative, and I will use little. I prefer lettuce and hemp alone when I must cause a man pain, but cauterizing a fistula calls for greater relief than they provide.”
I placed a strong mixture of hemp seeds and dried and pounded lettuce in the ale, then added a smaller portion of the fragments of mandrake leaves. Mandrake is a strong physic. Too much of the plant will put a man to sleep so that he will awaken in the next world. And its use is known to cause a man to contemplate females with much appreciation. Such an effect in a monk is to be avoided.
It is my observation that herbs to deaden pain, when taken with ale, are most effective an hour or two after the mixture is consumed. Days grew short, and by the time Brother Theodore would be ready the sun would be low in the west. I requested the infirmarer to assist me in moving a table before a west window, and I asked of him also a clean linen cloth and a feather.
Brother Theodore waited upon a bench for me to announce when the surgery would begin. After an hour or so he began to sway, his eyes drooping, and I judged him ready for the procedure. From my pouch I took a bronze tube nearly as long as my foot and the diameter of my thumb, and an iron rod with a wooden handle, small enough to fit through the tube. I gave the rod to the lay brother and asked him to heat it in the fire, being careful not to allow the flames to singe the handle.
I told the monk to take his place upon the table, and when he had done so I bathed his hurt with wine, then selected from my instruments a small blade. With this I enlarged the ulcer so that I could seek its root. It is often necessary to enlarge a wound before it can be healed, much like the grievances between men, which cannot be repaired until the cause be laid bare and excised. Brother Theodore took this cutting well, but worse was to come.
Next I broke an egg into a bowl, removed the yolk, and with the feather swabbed out the incision with the egg white, using the linen cloth to absorb the blood and pus which issued from the wound. Through all this the hosteler remained silent, nor did he twitch in pain or show any other sign of discomfort. That would soon change.
I allowed the egg white to work for a few minutes, then took the iron rod from the fire. The bronze tube I then inserted into the wound, which caused Brother Theodore to open his eyes in alarm. I told him to close his eyes, and when he had done so I grasped the heated rod by its wooden handle, slid it through the tube, and cauterized the root of the monk’s fistula. Smoke and hissing arose from the wound, and the monk, who had seemed near asleep, writhed in pain. This is why the bronze tube is necessary for such a cure. When the heated rod burns away the source of the fistula the patient will jerk and thrash about in torment. The tube prevents the rod from contacting and burning that flesh which is whole.
I dislike causing a man pain, and in such surgery it is tempting to withdraw the heated rod before it has completed the cautery. I resisted the impulse, and continued the treatment until I was sure of the cure. When I withdrew the rod and tube I saw a tear form in the hosteler’s eye and trickle down toward his ear.
With what remained of the wine I washed again the incision and cauterized wound. Brother Theodore winced as the wine touched flesh, but held still when I assured him that the worst was past and the surgery nearly complete. All that remained was to take needle and silken thread and stitch the laceration closed.
When I was done I used what remained of the linen cloth to wipe sweat from my brow. The blaze had warmed the room, and my work required much concentration – so much that I did not notice the calefactory filling with observers as I did the surgery. One of these watchers was the obese abbot, Peter of Hanney.
“You did not seek permission for this surgery,” he said as I mopped my brow and looked about the chamber in some amazement at the audience which had gathered there.
“Saturn is no longer in the house of Aries. Is it necessary to ask permission to do good?”
“God visited him with an affliction for the good of his soul, to bring him to humility and patience, which are virtues.”
“Aye, so they are.” I agreed. I thought to ask the abbot what affliction the Lord Christ had awarded him, that he might be humble and patient, but thought better of it. Too much wit might send me to the abbey dungeon.
“God has provided all that is needful for men,” the abbot continued. “If a man suffers an affliction,” here he looked to Brother Theodore, “from which no salve or herb will cure him, then it must be that the Lord Christ wishes him not to be cured.”
“Or mayhap the Lord Christ sends a man of wit, skill, and experience to effect the cure.”
“You claim to act for God?”
“All who do His will act for God.”
“And what is God’s will?”
“You will find it in Holy Scripture, where nowhere have I read that a man must be required to suffer when relief is possible.”
“Whom God loveth, He chasteneth,” the prior said.
I was about to reply that when He chooses to chasten the abbot, he should not call for me. I would not interfere with God�
��s lessons nor his expression of love. But visions of the abbey cells came again to me and I held my tongue.
“God is not the only power who may chasten a man,” the abbot said. “Be gone, and do not return. You shall treat no man here ever again.”
The abbot’s doughy face was growing red. I thought it best to make no further reply, so turned to Brother Theodore and the open-mouthed infirmarer, and told Brother Bartholomew to remove the hosteler’s stitches in a fortnight.
“Salves?” the infirmarer asked.
Again I was required to explain that I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who learned while in service to men at arms in war that wounds heal best when left dry, and that they should be covered only if it is necessary to do so to keep them clean.
I was sorry to be required to leave the abbey, as I had questions for the hosteler which, I hoped, after he had recovered from the pain of the surgery, he might be able to answer.
Abbot Peter had required that I leave the abbey precincts. I had no option but to do so. The Lord Christ’s love for poor sinners is a remarkable thing, but even more mysterious is His patience with ill-tempered saints. The abbot had also commanded that I not return. Before I passed through the abbey gate I was devising a plan to steal back into the monastery to learn what I might from Brother Theodore.
Chapter 14
In the street before the abbey gate I saw a baxter selling pies from a cart, and was reminded how hungry I was. I purchased two, and considered a scheme to return to the monastery while I ate.
As with most monasteries, women of the town are hired to wash the monks’ clothing. While I munched upon my pies I wandered about the neighborhood, keeping the abbey gatehouse in view, until I saw a woman pass through the gate and walk across the marketplace toward the bury. I followed.
To my surprise she entered the alley where Amice Thatcher’s house stood, walked purposefully past the empty dwelling, and entered the threadmaker’s house. I followed, and rapped upon the door.