by Mel Starr
“That would indeed be a novelty.”
“If you seek his shop you will find it readily enough. ’Tis on the Holywell Street, but a short way from Baliol College. You will know the place from afar off for the students passing to and fro.”
“This new fellow has attracted much business, then?”
“Ah…well…I would not say he or his business is the attraction,” Wyclif smiled.
“You speak in riddles. I feel myself taken back to a lecture where you challenged us students with conjectures that would choke a bishop.”
“Choking bishops is a talent of mine. But fare you well, and may God grant you success in your endeavors.”
“May He, indeed,” I replied, and set off up Cornmarket Street for Baliol College and Holywell Street.
It was as Master John predicted. I was but a few steps past the gate to Baliol College when Broad Street straightened enough that I could see past Catte Street into the curve of Holywell Street. Two hundred paces or so before me I saw three black-gowned students milling about before a shop. As I watched and walked they took counsel of each other, threw back their adolescent shoulders, and disappeared inside the shop.
When I first entered the stationer’s shop I did not understand the reason for their manly display. The interior was dark, as the establishment was on the south side of the street and the shutters opened to the north. The slanting morning sun did not penetrate to the shaded corners of the business.
I envisioned the proprietor as a young man, setting out on business on his own, but the man who waited on the youths was middle-aged, and carried himself with the stiffness of old age. There was another figure in a dark corner of the shop, arranging bundles of parchment and vellum on a shelf. When this person turned toward me Master John’s words and the behavior of the students became clear.
My eyes beheld a lovely young woman of perhaps twenty years. She looked up from her duties and smiled, and my heart was captured. My heart does not do battle well against attractive females who possess a fetching smile. Truth to tell, I had surrendered it several times before, but those who seized it in the past always found some way of returning it, wounded and scarred, to me.
The girl turned and addressed me, asking might she be of service. Two of the students turned to her, hoping, I think, that she spoke to them, then watched, subdued, as she approached me.
The girl was of average height – perhaps on the tall side of average – and slender. Her neck was long and flawlessly white. Fair hair, not quite blonde, framed her face from under a turned-back hood. Her eyes were brown, and seemed to dance with laughter, though what she found amusing I could not tell. I hoped ’twas not me.
I was smitten. As I have written, this was not a new experience for me. I was become accustomed to the blows.
She wore a long cotehardie of deepest red, which swayed delightfully as she left the corner where she had been employed and walked toward me. The bodice of this garment was cut fashionably low, and thus gave more than a hint of an ample bosom, made more fetching by the belt she wore about a slender waist.
It is customary at this point in describing a beautiful woman to make some point regarding her flawless face and complexion. In all truth I cannot do so, for the girl’s nose was somewhat over-large – although, unlike my own, it pointed out straight and true, whereas my own has a decided turn to the right. And an unfortunate pimple marred her left cheek.
But when she smiled these flaws faded. The girl possessed straight teeth, and these shown through red lips in a smile which seemed to bring light to the dim recesses of the shop.
The girl stopped before me and waited until I remembered that I had been addressed and had made no answer. Her large eyes remained fixed on mine, and the corners of her eyes crinkled to duplicate the laugh lines creasing the corners of her mouth. I believe she knew her effect on men, and enjoyed their bewilderment.
“Parchment…uh…I would like some parchment. And a pot of ink,” I stammered.
The girl turned to the shelf where I had first seen her. “How much?”
I had intended to purchase three gatherings, but had I done so I would not need to visit Oxford to replenish my supply for many months. I thought quickly – which surprises me even now when I think back on it, for beautiful women usually leave me dazed – and replied, “One gathering.”
The girl began to count, leafing through the sheets with nimble fingers. She spoke and counted at the same time. I was amazed. I could not do it, nor could any other, I think.
“You do not appear a copyist,” she remarked.
I suppose I did not. I wore no robe or gown, but chauces cut tight to show a good leg, and a short cotehardie. My hood ended in a liripipe of fashionable length, which I had wrapped around my head, as young men now do.
“Indeed, you observe correctly. I do not earn my bread with goose quill in hand.”
“I have not seen you here before,” the girl continued.
“I am from Bampton.”
This information the girl received blankly. I think she had not heard of the place, being new in Oxford.
“’Tis a short way to the west, fifteen or so miles. Most of the town is in the manor of Lord Gilbert Talbot. I am his bailiff, and also a surgeon.”
“A surgeon?” The girl looked toward her father as she spoke.
“Aye.”
“My father suffers much. A complaint physicians cannot cure. Perhaps you might have a treatment…?”
I turned to view the stationer. He stood erect and tall and seemed well enough to me. He and the young scholar had apparently agreed on the price of the book, and coins were exchanged as I watched.
The three students cast wistful glances toward the girl, then passed from the dim shop to the sun-bright street. They seemed morose. I believe my appearance interfered with their goal, which was not, I think, literary. Well, the day was bright with spring, the term was near done, and they were young. They would soon forget their disappointment.
The girl spoke as the students reached the door. “Father, this is…uh…” She turned helplessly to me.
“I am Hugh de Singleton,” I bowed.
“A surgeon,” the girl added quickly. “Perhaps he might help you.”
“I am done with physicians,” the stationer snorted, and the smile faded from his lips. “My money is gone; the ailment remains.”
The girl looked helplessly to me. “He has suffered near a year,” she explained.
“I am not a physician. I make no judgments of unbalanced humors, nor can I diagnose a man’s illness with a sniff of his piss.”
The young woman blushed, but I wished to make clear that some things I could not do. And furthermore, saw no need for another to do them, either.
“’Tis not a complaint suited to a surgeon,” the stationer said. “The best physicians in Cambridge and Oxford cannot help me.”
“The best?”
“Aye, must be…they charged enough.”
I was now curious of the man’s disorder, and, I admit, eager to see if I might succeed where some arrogant physician had failed. I know, not all physicians are arrogant, but most are.
“What is the malady which besets you?” I asked. “I will tell you plainly if I can cure it or not.”
The man peered at his daughter, sighed with exasperation, then spoke. “’Tis a fistula…just there.” He reached an arm stiffly behind his back and poked gently about his ribs, just above the kidneys.
“The physicians, they have treated it with salves and egg albumin?” I guessed.
“Aye. But ’tis no better.”
“This fistula – how did it first appear?”
“Near a year ago. I fell from a ladder…struck my back. There was a stick laying on the ground where I fell, a bit of broken plank. A sharp end drove into my back. ’Twas a nasty wound, and will not heal no matter what is applied.”
“Nor will it,” I told him.
“Never?” The girl gasped.
“Not so lon
g as poultices and salves be the remedy.”
“Is there another? The stationed asked.
“Aye.”
“You are sure of this?”
“More so than of ointments.”
“What is it you would do?” the girl asked.
“The fistula oozes blood and pus, does it not?”
“Aye,” the sufferer agreed.
“At its root there will be an abscess. This must be removed. No salve can do so.”
“What must be done?” the stationer was now interested, but hesitantly so.
“The putrid flesh must be excised.”
“You mean, cut away?” He frowned.
“Aye. The wound is putrefied and will never heal as it now is. A new cut must be made, to trim away the decay. A clean wound may then heal. A corrupt wound such as you describe never will.”
“You can do this?”
“Aye. Well, not now…my instruments are in Bampton.”
“Master Hugh is come to Oxford for parchment and ink,” the girl said. “He is bailiff in Bampton for…”
“Lord Gilbert Talbot,” I assisted the girl.
I saw the man’s nose wrinkle in distaste, though he tried to hide it. Given the avaricious reputation of most bailiffs, ’twas understandable. “Lord Gilbert Talbot? He who married Petronilla Boutillier?”
“Aye, the same.”
“Great grand-daughter of the first King Edward,” the man explained to his daughter.
I could see the girl’s mind churning over this information. “She’s cousin once removed to t’king, then?” she deduced.
“Aye,” the stationer agreed.
“You know Lady Petronilla?” I asked.
“Nay. Heard of her, that’s all. Folks like to talk ’bout the gentry, you know.”
This is surely so. There are those of the gentry who provide much for the commons to talk about. Lady Petronilla was not such a one to furnish a fertile plot for imaginings to grow, but gossip is a vigorous weed and can take root and prosper in the thinnest soil. I did not ask what the stationer had heard of Lady Petronilla, nor did he volunteer the information.
“You have done such surgery before?” The man asked.
“Many times.”
“And was’t successful?”
“Not always. A good result depends on what has caused the fistula. If the abscess be too deep, or the product of a cancer, the surgery will not answer.”
“But such as mine?”
“I must examine the fistula before I can say if success is likely. But for injuries such as you describe, good fortune often accompanies the work.”
The stationer shrugged, looked to his daughter and spoke. “Kate, mind the shop while Master…Hugh, is it?” I nodded. “While Master Hugh has a look at my back.”
Kate! The girl’s name was Katherine.
The stationer led me to stairs which climbed to the living quarters above the shop. He grimaced once as he twisted to free himself from his cotehardie, and again as he drew up his kirtle. A linen belt wrapped around his body obscured the fistula, but a stain on the cloth showed clearly where it lay.
The stationer unwrapped the linen girdle, the turned his back to me. “’Tis a great trial. What think you? Can you deal with it, or will this be the end of me? I don’t like to talk so before Kate, but I know a thing like this can take a man to his grave.”
“It could,” I agreed. “A stick of wood did this, you say?”
“Aye. Broken it was, and sharp. Punched through cotehardie and kirtle like a blade.”
“You fell a great distance?”
“Aye. The ladder broke when I would have repaired the sign above my father’s shop in Cambridge. The sign came down in a storm, whence came the splinter as well. Pitched me into the street on my back.”
“Did any fragments of the broken limb work out of the wound?”
“After Kate drew the splinter from my back? Not that I recall.”
“You suffer pain when you twist your body, is this not so?”
“Aye.”
I pulled the skin of the stationer’s back apart the better to see the fistula, then squeezed the flesh together. The man gasped, and yellowish pus oozed from the injury.
“Can you do aught for me?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“I can. ’Tis my belief that a fragment of the stick you fell on may be lodged in your back.”
“You can remove it?”
“Aye, but not today. My instruments are in Bampton.”
“When? Tomorrow?”
“You are eager to see this done,” I smiled.
“Was it your back and your wound, you would be also.” He chuckled in spite of his discomfort.
“’Tis so, I’m sure. I have business for Lord Gilbert tomorrow, but next day I will return to deal with this. You should have ready then a jug of wine, and some ale.”
“You wish me drunk for this surgery?”
“No,” I laughed. “I will put powdered herbs into the ale. They will help you deal with the pain. The wine is to wash the wound when I am done.”
“Day after tomorrow, you say?”
“Aye. And now I must return to Bampton. I have purchased a gathering of parchment and a pot of ink. What is your charge?”
“Ah…if you can relieve me of this affliction I will supply all the parchments and ink you wish until the Lord’s return.”
As he spoke the man wrapped himself in the stained linen belt and donned his kirtle and cotehardie.
“You have the better of me,” I said. “You know my name, I do not know yours.”
“I am remiss,” he frowned. “My injury often drives other thoughts from my mind. I am Robert Caxton. My daughter, Katherine, you have met.”
“Indeed. A most lovely young woman.”
I feared I had misspoke myself, for the stationer made no reply, nor even gave me a glance. No doubt he had heard such appraisals before.
Caxton was on his way down the stairs to the shop before he spoke again. “Favors her mother,” he said softly.
As he had vowed, the stationer would take no pay for his ink and parchments. I clutched the bundle under an arm, promised to return two days hence, and walked through the clamor of Oxford’s streets to the Stag and Hounds and the patient Bruce.
Chapter 11
There is much to be said for Oxford’s bustle and energy, but after nearly two years in bucolic Bampton I was not sorry to cross the river and leave the din behind. I arrived at Bampton Castle too late for dinner, which was become my custom since Easter. I spent the afternoon at my duties for Lord Gilbert, chief of which was seeing to the construction of new stables for the marshalsea. John Holcutt had the work well in hand, but was pleased to relinquish the business to me and seek his occupation in Lord Gilbert’s fields. John is better suited to beasts and grain than adze and hammer.
The builders needed little advice from me. Corner posts were set true and tenons and crossbeams fit tightly. Of course the workmen knew that I or John would observe their work, so I cannot say whether the labor would have been done so well due to pride alone.
I advised the marshalsea that, after a day of rest, I would require Bruce again, and on the Thursday before Whitsunday I slung a pack full of herbs and instruments over his rump and set off again for Oxford.
This day was not so pleasant as that of the journey three days earlier. Thickening clouds blew in from Wales and before I was past Cote a cold mist began to fall. I saw no sign of life in the villages I passed, but for the occasional wisp of smoke from a gable vent which hung thick and low in the air ’til it mingled with the drizzle.
The mist became a steady rain before I reached the Thames Bridge. Bruce and I were soaked through before we reached the Stag and Hounds. I left instructions for the old horse to be dried thoroughly and fed, washed down a dinner of coney pie with a mug of watery ale, and set off for Holywell Street and my patient.
I was expected. The shop was shuttered against the weather, but my knuckl
es made contact with the door but once before it swung open. I stood, dripping, with my fist ready to strike the door again. A distant observer might have thought I had it in mind to rap on the nose the one who greeted me. This was assuredly not so, for Kate peered around the door as she opened it, and smiled when she saw ’twas me. I melted. And not because of my sodden condition.
The shop was equipped with fireplace and chimney, as befits a prosperous merchant. The girl drew me to the fire and pulled a bench close. She took my cloak and hung it beside the fire. I sat, steaming and dripping, as she called up the stairs to her father.
The shop was dark, lit only by the fire. Even were the shutters open there was not enough light on such a day to see my work. And with rain yet falling I could not proceed even in the toft. I had no choice but to delay the surgery.
I told Caxton this as he took a place on another bench opposite me. I could not see in the darkened room whether his face reflected relief at the postponement, or dismay that the deliverance he sought would not soon appear.
The stationer sat stiffly on his bench. One who knew not of his affliction might think him a hard, rigid man. But I had seen him deal with young customers and knew his posture was more likely due to his discomfort than a measure of his character.
Kate had busied herself in the room behind the shop when her father appeared. I saw her approach through the corner of my eye carrying two leather tankards which she offered to me and her father.
“Ale,” she advised, “fresh-brewed.”
“I have in my sack some herbs to add to your father’s ale. ’Twill make a potion to relieve the pain of surgery. Should the sky clear we may then proceed without delay.”
I had dropped my bag on a table when I entered the shop. I went to it and fished about in its damp recesses until I found the stoppered bottles I sought. One contained ground willow bark, the other the pounded seeds of hemp. I poured a generous amount from each into one of the tankards and gave it to the stationer.
“These herbs will make the pain of surgery less severe,” I told the man as he drank. “But you will be afflicted, even so.”
