by Lee Arthur
Seamus's presence was soon noted by the Lady Islean. Tall, lithe, she was so rosy-cheeked that the gap between her own and her husband's age was accentuated. Drawing Seamus close to the bed, she quickly outlined the situation in a low voice.
"We are all agreed that the wound has mortified." She drew back the quilt of wool from the arm and with a finger disturbed the bandages about the wound to let Seamus see the streaks of red and purple and black radiating out from the wound. The smell of rotting flesh was enough to make a strong man gag, but it seemed to bother the countess not at all.
"You get used to it," she observed as Seamus paled, continuing with her explanation: "We all agree that the arm must come off."
Again outwardly she showed no emotion. "But Father Cariolinus insists that such an act needs not only the sanction of the church but the services of the priest's assistant.
"I had heard," she continued, "that Andrew Boorde—over mere—was in Edinburgh, and just now returned from studying at Montpellier, where he actually spent a week watching a surgeon dissect a dead man. It is an act forbidden by the father...and Father Cariolinus here, in turn, forbids such a man to touch the earl. Boorde was, it seems, once a Carthusian priest and even suffragan bishop of Chichester. The good father fears he would menace not just my Lord's body, but also his soul."
Seamus said nothing, but looked hard at Boorde, who could not fail to overhear and who returned the look in kind, breaking the stare with a slow, deliberate wink.
That decided Seamus. "Lady, if he is the man you want, he is the man you'll have. Leave the priests to me."
In two strides, he crossed the-room to the priest and his assistant, collared one with each hand and quick-marched them toward the door. Totally flustered, Father Cariolinus scurried after, clutching in vain at the giant before him.
Boorde sprang to open the door before them, allowing the intertwined foursome to leave. Outside the door, Seamus shook his two victims like a terrier with a rat and pushed them down the hall. Gently but firmly he disengaged Father Cariolinus from his arm, picking him up and setting him down from the chamber door. "Go, priest, do what you do best. Say a few prayers for the man on the bed in there."
Seamus returned to the chamber and took a stand within the door, barring with his body any from entering. The quacks gone, the physician quickly took stock of the men left in attendance. All, he was sure, had seen their share of bloody limbs at the highly popular drawing-and-quartering of traitors and criminals on High Street. If anything, Boorde feared that instead of withdrawing in disgust, they might press too close. He cleared the room of all but Seamus, four gentlemen of the bedchamber, two servers to do the mopping up, and the patient. The Lady Islean he sent to supervise the cooking of a special salve needed when the sawing and burning were done.
If the earl had been conscious, Boorde would have sedated him with a drink of Malmsey laced with more opium. But an unconscious man might choke on such; thus, a gag was made ready in case they might need it later. Building a fire in a three-legged pot he carried for the purpose, he laid out his tools: lancets, big, small and tiny, plus a medley of cauterers, a handful of which he put to hearing in the little pot. Out of the sack also came needles and tongs of many sizes, as well as bodkins and stoppered bottles and drawstringed bags. Last of all, he drew out three serrated blades, selecting the largest, with the crudest teeth. Carefully feeding his little fire until it burnt with a white-hot flame, he emptied one of his bags into a small metal crucible and hung that from the pot's handle.
While it heated, he launched into a monologue, as if lecturing apprentices:
"A fire in the chamber is good, to waste and consume evil vapors within the chamber. I do advise you neither to stand nor to sit by the fire, but stand or sit a good way off from the fire, taking the flavor of it, for fire does arify and dry up a man's blood, and does make stark the sinews and joints of man. In your bed lie not too hot nor too cool, but in a temperance. Ancient doctors of physic said eight hours of sleep in summer and nine in winter is sufficient for any man; but I do think the sleep ought to be taken as is the complexion of the man."
Seamus, still exhausted though he had slept the clock around and then some, had difficulty believing his ears. The smells, the heat, the deathlike earl—all this presided over by a merry man discussing the values of fire and sleep was too much. He had to get out of here for a second to breathe clean air.
"Physician," he interrupted, "is there aught else that you might need?"
The doctor looked about the chamber and nodded. "A table—a good, solid one, the length at least of that man there... and of the same width or more. And some wine. A Malmsey if you please."
Seamus felt like one released from Hell as he left the room, the two lackeys in reluctant tow. They had been drinking in the words of the doctor and were loath to leave. When Seamus returned with a trestle table brought up from the great hall below, the doctor was still carrying on.
"When you be out of your bed, stretch forth your legs and arms and your body, cough and spit." He demonstrated, then continued.
"After you have evacuated your body..." He paused. Seamus feared another demonstration, but the doctor wanted merely to check the temperature of the contents of the crucible. "Near at heat. Now, where did I leave off? Oh, yes. After you have evacuated your body and trussed your points, comb your head so and do so divers times in the day. And wash your hands and wrists, your face and eyes and your teeth, with cold water."
He stopped. The crucible was bubbling away, and from among his jars, he selected one, slowly emptying it into his concoction. The crucible hissed, and the room filled with the smell of roses. Seamus's stomach lurched, then steadied. As Seamus gently lifted the earl to the table and lashed him fast, the doctor sniffed, then savored the bouquet of the wine.
"A good vintage this, I ha' never had better. Oh, you'd best remove the bandages from his arm," he directed, then devoted himself to guzzling the wine.
Wiping his lips fastidiously on the arm of his gown, he upended the wine jug well above the furthest reach of the poison's streaking. The dregs he sloshed over his own hands to wash them. Just below the elbow, he made his first cut with the largest lancet, a bold brave stroke that caused blood to well up; whereupon the earl came awake, screaming. Seamus's hand over his mouth stilled further sounds, while the physician got up the gag. At Boorde's direction, Seamus let go. Seaforth opened his mouth to scream, and Boorde deftly popped in the gag. Whistling tunelessly, Boorde went back to work, cutting away as the patient's eyes bulged, and the veins and muscles in his neck stood forth in mute token to the strength of each muffled scream until finally, mercifully, he fainted.
Deeper the lancet probed, and the blood spurted. Undismayed, Boorde took up his white-hot cauters and slapped them on the wound. The smell of cooking flesh added to the nightmarish quality of the scene. Boorde, Seamus admitted, seemed to know well his business and didn't waste a moment. Other than the whistling, he made no sound until the flesh had been cut through all around and scraped from the bone. With the bone bared, Boorde took up his monologue where he'd left off, this time rhythmically punctuating his comments with a rasping stroke of his saw.
"Exercise is good...
"in moderation...
"do some labor...
"or play at the tennis...
"or cast a bowl...
"or poise weights...
"or plummet lead in your hands...
"or do some other thing...
"to open your pores...
"and to augment natural heat."
The bone was almost severed, and Boorde's forehead was beaded with the sweat of his exertion.
Seamus's shirt was sweat-soaked, too, but from tension. The sounds of the saw traveled to the bottom of his feet and back up his spine and set his teeth on edge. The others in the room seemed not the least unnerved.
Suddenly, arm and elbow separated. Ignored, the arm fell to the floor as all grabbed for the stump which, released of its
anchor, flopped wildly about, strewing blood in a shower of gore upon all those grouped around the earl's improvised bed.
"Here, friend Seamus," Boorde said in good humor, "give me a hand with his lackahand." The doctor seemed pleased with his joke as he handed Seamus the large tongs, the curve of which fitted tightly around the wriggling earl's bicep. "Hold it steady now while I coat it with burnt lead."
Slowly he began to pour the rose-scented molten lead from its crucible. As the first drop dribbled onto the living flesh, the earl's body galvanized in one violent convulsion, then ceased moving. Whether he had fainted or died, Seamus couldn't tell, nor could he spare a glance at the moment. The hot lead on the moist flesh sent up a cloud of blinding steam. Eyes closed, holding his breath against the stink, Seamus steadied the tongs to hold the foreshortened arm upright lest the molten metal find its way onto other flesh.
Once the stump was coated to the physician's satisfaction, he put the crucible aside and declared the operation a success. "Of course," he admitted, cheerfully scraping moist bone chips from the blade of his saw with thumb and forefinger, "the patient probably will not live. However, occasionally one of mine does. Now, while we wait for the metal to cool before I bandage the stump, how might I be of further service to you?"
Andrew, first gentleman of the bedchamber, complained of a toothache. For him Boorde recommended, "purges and gargles if the ache is due to a descending humor. Chewing horehound root is the French remedy. But if the ache be due to worms, men impregnate a candle with henbane seeds. Sit you with the mouth open to allow the perfumery entrance. This will stupefy the worms and they will fall into the basin of water you place in your lap. Then catch them and kill them on your nail."
Almost as an afterthought, Boorde warned, "Beware of giving over a tooth to be drawn out by the Pelican or the Davier. Pull one and pull out more, I always say."
For another's insomnia, Boorde's advice was in keeping with his whole mien: "To bedward go merry. Let not anger nor heaviness, sorrow nor pensivefulness, trouble nor worry disquiet you. Be sure the windows of the house, specially of your chamber, be closed. When you be in your bed, lie a little while on your left side, but .sleep on your right side, that troubles the heart less."
As he went about handing out advice, Boorde was also quietly packing up his sack. At last, jabbing within the mouth of the comatose man with his forefinger, he deftly plopped the gag out into his other hand. As he did so, the earl moaned, and Seamus held his breath, silently praying the man would not awaken yet. With his free hand Boorde tested the heat from the wound. "Not yet time to bandage the wound." Tossing the gag into his sack, he laughed impishly. "Are you Scots less than other men? No one has asked about white leprosy. Do you men not use too much Venus acts or are you somehow immune? In France, many a physician makes his living treating these sad victims of love." The gentlemen of the bedchamber demurred for themselves but did have a friend in need of such a cure and so pressed the good doctor on.
"There are at least three cures, my friends: finely powder a root of gentian and mix it with its own juice and white vinegar in a poultice. Have you no gentian, use madder root but add a dram of sugar. Apply freely. However, many swear that the best remedy of all is the simplest: take a scarlet cloth and rub yourself well with it.
Then take a handful of mandragora leaves and do the same. Twice a day do this until the skin grows back pink and whole. But rub not too hard lest you get yourself in a different humor, for especially now should you avoid the usage of a harlot or whore."
Spitting on his forefinger, he tested the lead on the wound and announced it cool enough. As he bandaged, he continued his dissertation. "Avoid you harlots, they are unclean. Do not think you can tell from their smell whether they be in good health or not, for I will tell you the harlot's secret. She does stand over a chafing dish of coals, like my crucible there, and into it she puts brimstone and, using her skirts as a tent, perfumes herself. Later she smells clean, but she is not. If you do meddle with such a woman and then meddle with another, you shall burn not just yourself but the other as well. You, if so burnt, best wash your secrets two or three times with white wine and seek out a surgeon. If this goes untreated, the guts will burn and fall out of the belly."
As Boorde was speaking, John Nairn turned pale and suddenly clutched himself protectively. "Physician, is there no other cure?" he choked.
Boorde adjusted the final bandage on the earl's stump slowly and meticulously. Then, as if in deep thought, he answered, "I have heard of such a one. It's an anointment that sometimes has the desired results. But, alas, it is most complicated to make."
When he did not continue, Nairn pressed him on. "Good doctor, for a man in such extremity, no cure is too difficult to undertake. And my friend would be most eager to show his generosity for your trouble."
Boorde considered a moment and then nodded agreeably. "Well, then, for your friend. Take boar's grease and powdered brimstone—"
"Good doctor, go slow," Nairn interrupted, counting the first two items out on his fingers to commit them to memory.
"Powdered brimstone," said Boorde, "and the inside bark from a vine that grows in a churchyard. Add the greenish deposit scraped from a copper pot. Or if you have not copper, use brass or bronze. Then you must get five ounces of quicksilver... and another of fasting spit, but not all need come from the same man. Two or three of your—I mean his—fellows may contribute theirs too. Beat this together and apply to the sores."
Nairn would have left the room then and there to begin gathering the ingredients together, but Boorde called him back. "Now, this is a cure, as I say, for the pocky person who has taken his case from lechery. But, it is of no avail if the cause of the case is sodomy. The' cure for that, young man, is truly extreme," and Boorde heartily clapped the young man on the shoulder. "A cure simple yet dire." He paused for effect. "Marriage."
The men all laughed, except for Seamus, who having kept his silence so far had had enough of this talk of sin, cures and ills. He wanted the earl back in his bed, the countess at his bedside. "Be you gossips finished?"
Boorde took the hint. "Yes, yes, friend Seamus, by all means we are through. Get your master back in his bed, and one of you summon your mistress." While the men followed his bidding, Boorde retrieved the now-lifeless forearm and hand from the pool of blood under the table.
Taking Seamus aside, he asked in a low voice, "Friend Seamus, do you think the duchess would give me this arm, seeing that the earl will not need it?" Seamus, shocked, didn't reply. Thoughtfully, Boorde manipulated the fingers one by one. "It's a good hand, a strong one, one that has probably served its owner well in life."
Seamus reached for the limb, but Boorde did not release it. "Nay, good Seamus, it's not what you think. I would not make this into a curiosity for the prying to see. I would have it to use to teach my students how their limbs work. I know the law forbids operating on the dead, but surely an arm freely given would not cause the authorities alarm." Seamus only stood there looking down at the grisly bloody remnant of the earl that he and the red-robed doctor clutched fast between them. Boorde with a sigh reluctantly released his grip. "You shall have it, my hand On it." Again the play on words pleased him and restored his good humor. He made Seamus just the slightest of bows and then returned to the bedside of his patient. Holding the arm at his arm's length, Seamus walked to the nearest chest, pulled out a cloth—a bright red one, he remembered later—and swaddled the bloody thing.
Just as he finished, the duchess appeared with a small ewer of salve clutched to her bosom like a magic talisman. Immediately, the doctor was again workmanlike, launching into the treatment of the patient. "The metal coating will fall off, lady, but do not worry. Wash the wound daily with vinegar or wine if you have it; sack is very good, too. Then apply the salve "
- Seamus, his bundle in hand, stealthily edged his way toward the door as the physician continued. "He should awake soon. Dose him with opium. Within a day or two his wits may return. Fear
not if he tells you his hand itches or suffers pins and needles. 'Tis a trick the 'Natural Spirit' plays on the body as it attempts to rejuvenate that which can't grow back."
The Lady Islean seemed not to hear. Her face had gone white as the featherbed; her eyes fixed on the smooth sheet that should have bulged from the presence of a lower right arm beneath. Seamus, grasping the clumsy bundle behind him, thought he'd never reach the door, then suddenly was through it.
On his way to the stair, he could hear the physician's hearty, healthy, almost happy voice follow: "Lady, if his wits do not return within the week, purge his head with a sternutation. White hellebore, if you can obtain it. Otherwise, simple pepper blown into the nostrils will effect a good sneeze. Do that daily until..."
Seamus raced down the stairs and into the great hall where he found the servers preparing for dinner. He slowed his pace, lest he draw untoward attention, but moved on with purpose and without pausing to be questioned in depth.
Once outside the hall, he paused, his shirt soaked with sweat. Taking a deep breath, Seamus for the first time faced the consequences of his action. Rescuing the arm had been instinctive, an impulse. Now what to do with it?
In desperation, he turned, like the good Catholic he was, to the Church. Since he accepted the Church's tenet that parts of the body were hallowed having partaken of the Sacraments along with the whole, what better caretaker was there for such a part? Let Father Cariolinus take the problem of the disembodied arm on his prayer-stooped shoulders.
Such was his feeling of relief that, almost jauntily, he tucked his lord's arm under his like a parcel of dead fish from the market. In the small antechamber off the chapel he found his priest. But not alone. The priest, the priest-physician and the priest-assistant had evidently continued the discussion that had begun in the solarium up above. Now, fueled by a goodly draught of the earl's piment, a sour, thin wine sweetened with honey, they waxed philosophical. Seamus, debating what to do, stood at the door, unseen and unheeded, and listened as the unsavory duo pompously lectured the older, holier family priest. Seamus, once he caught the drift, grew ever more disgusted.
