Rest Not in Peace (The Chronicles of Hugh De Singleton, Surgeon #6)

by Mel Starr

  William turned from his pillow and lifted his head when my shadow fell across him. His warped nose had long since stopped bleeding, but was evidently so painful that neither he nor any other had tried to cleanse the dried gore caked upon his upper lip.

  “You’ve come to fix my nose?” William said, his voice sounding as if he spoke from the base of a garderobe drain.

  “Aye.” I turned to Robert and told him to seek the buttery and return with a large cup of ale, then described to William what I must do.

  Robert returned with the ale as I concluded my explanation. It was impossible for William’s eyes to grow wide, but when I told him of what I must do and the brief pain he would feel, his face reflected the fright in his soul.

  I poured all of the vial of crushed hemp seeds into the ale, instructed William to drink it all, and watched to see that he did. It is my experience that such a physic is most effective an hour or so after being consumed, so I told the squire to wait upon his bed while I was about other business, and that I would return to set his nose straight when the potion had done its work.

  I did not tell William that I intended to visit Sir John while I waited for the hemp seeds to make the lad lethargic. I wanted no further explanations from him until I had heard the knight’s account of their brawl.

  Sir John lay sleeping upon his bed. So silent was he that at first I feared he had died in the hour since I had spoken to Lord Gilbert. No man or woman attended him, which I thought strange. But I was pleased that Sir Geoffrey was not present. I wished to ask of Sir John questions he might prefer not to answer was his friend with him.

  Sir John slept soundly, which was good, as I am convinced that healing of such a wound is hastened when the one so injured is rested. I shook the fellow by the shoulder to wake him, and he finally snorted from slumber and lifted his head from the pillow to see who had disturbed him.

  “Ah,” he mumbled. “’Tis you. I have lived the night. I heard you speak to Lord Gilbert after you dealt with my wound.”

  “Sir Roger said you took bread and ale this morning. Did the meal make you nauseous?”

  “Nay… well, not much. Didn’t lose it.”

  “I will draw back your blanket and see the wound.”

  I did so, and Sir John raised himself upon his elbows to see also. “You’ve not bound it, nor put a salve on it,” he said in an accusatory tone. I explained that I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who learned in dealing with wounds suffered in battle that those left dry and open to the air usually healed best.

  “There’s no pus,” the knight said, and I heard fear in his voice.

  “Aye,” I replied. “This is best. Physicians have long taught that thin, watery pus is perilous, and thick, yellow pus issuing from a wound is good. But again, I hold with de Mondeville that no pus at all is best.”

  Sir John remained propped upon his elbow as I told him this. He seemed unconvinced, but I explained to him that his very posture was evidence of the likely success of de Mondeville’s view. If his cut had festered it would be unlikely that he could raise himself as he did without pain.

  My words seemed to remind the man that he was uncomfortable, and he slumped back to the bed.

  “Why did you strike young William?”

  Sir John was silent. He was unwilling to speak and although I waited for a reply, none came.

  “You broke his nose and blackened his eyes,” I finally said. I thought I saw a smile flicker across the knight’s face. “Does that news bring you pleasure?” I asked.

  “He might have slain me,” Sir John finally said.

  “After you struck him down and drew your dagger,” I reminded him. “What did he do to anger you so?”

  The man once again lapsed into silence, and turned his head from me as if to signal that he wished the conversation at an end. I did not.

  “The lad spoke in jest when he said that Sir Geoffrey might soon be riding Sir Henry’s mare. Why did you take his wit so amiss?”

  I saw Sir John stiffen under the blanket, but he made no reply. My words had touched some tender place, but I did not know why.

  I learned nothing more from Sir John. He remained resolute in his silence, his face turned from me. He did not respond even when I told him that I would return before supper to see how he fared, and that we would speak about this again.

  The failed attempt at conversation had taken nearly an hour, so when I returned to the squires’ chamber William was as ready as he was likely to be for the straightening of his skewed nose.

  The work required no instruments. There was nothing to slice or stitch, to open or close. My only tools were two small, tightly rolled linen patches which I drew from my pouch and laid upon the table.

  William sat upon his bed, but I thought this an unsafe posture. Should he swoon from the pain when I set his nose aright he might fall to the floor. I told him to recline against his pillow, which he seemed grateful to do, as the hemp seeds had stupefied him to a wonderful degree.

  There was no gentle way to do what must be done. Quickly was best. To set William’s nose straight with slow, steady measures would bring him more grief than to do the work in one rapid, if painful, wrench.

  The squire lay back upon his bed and watched through the swollen slits of his blackened eyes as my hand approached and gently probed his battered nose. This touch evidently caused him little pain. He did not twitch or catch his breath while I examined the organ.

  This inspection was done as much to calm William as to tell me what must be done. I wished the lad to be lulled into a false sense that the treatment he was about to receive would be but more of the same. Such he could endure.

  The squire lay relaxed under my hand when, with a quick motion, I grasped his nose, pulled it straight, and a heartbeat later, seeing it now protruding as should be from between his eyes, released the offended appendage.

  William responded with an awful howl, and tears welled from his eyes. He threw his hands up as if to provide some relief for his pain, but I grasped them so he could not undo the work I had just completed.

  Robert saw his friend thrashing about and jumped to aid me in holding William quiet upon the bed. The yelping soon subsided. William’s body twitched a few times and was then still. I believe he understood, through his torment, that the worst was past.

  When I was sure that the squire would do no harm to his restored nose I released his arms and stood above him.

  “Is there more?” he moaned. “Or are you done with me?”

  “Nearly finished. What remains will cause you little distress.”

  The small linen patches I had placed upon the table had unrolled. I took one, rolled it tightly again, told William to remain motionless, and as gently as I could I thrust the linen up one nostril as far as it would go. The squire gasped once, but was perhaps relieved that this measure was not so painful as placing his nose in its proper place had been.

  I prepared the second linen plug and as I was about to shove it into the other nostril saw a small drop of blood drip from the offended orifice. The linen would end the flow, slight as it was, so I did not hesitate but pushed the linen into the empty nostril.

  “You must leave these plugs in your nose for a fortnight,” I said, “and even a few days longer if you can bear it. This will ensure that your nose will remain in place until the swelling has subsided and it has begun to knit. If I were you, I’d avoid any words or actions which might provoke a strong man to strike a blow… until well after Lammas Day, at least.”

  I might have left the youth some crushed lettuce seeds to help him sleep, as his pain would likely keep slumber distant for a few days, but my supply was low and could not be replenished until the new-grown lettuce was gone to seed. Before I left the chamber I had another question for William.

  “I have spoken to Sir John,” I said. “I asked him why your jest provoked him to strike you.”

  “What did he say?” William asked.

  “Nothing. He would not speak
of the matter. Can you guess why he would not?”

  Robert, who had returned to his seat after assisting me to restrain William, spoke. “Don’t need to guess.”

  I said nothing, but looked from Walter to Robert, awaiting the enlightenment I felt sure would come. It did. Silence is occasionally better than a question.

  “Sir John thinks much of m’lady,” Robert said.

  “The Lady Margery?” I said.

  “Who else?” he replied.

  “Not Lady Anne? I thought ’twas Sir Geoffrey who had caught Lady Margery’s eye.”

  “He has, and likewise. But just because a lady seems to choose one doesn’t mean another mightn’t have an interest.”

  I looked to William. “Did you know of this? That Sir John was enamored of Lady Margery?”

  William shook his head, “No,” and instantly regretted the action. His nose flexed slightly upon its unsteady base and he grimaced in pain.

  “Who else knows of Sir John’s infatuation with Lady Margery? Does Lady Margery know?”

  “Don’t know. He didn’t speak of it.”

  “Then how did you learn of this?”

  “He’d had much wine once, and I saw him leering at m’lady. Asked him what he was about, and did he not know that if Sir Henry saw him he’d likely be sent from the household.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said he cared little for what Sir Henry might think, and for me to hold my tongue. I did so. Sir John is a powerful man and I did not wish to offend him.”

  The lad had William’s nose before him as evidence of what an angry Sir John Peverel might do to an unwitting squire.

  “Why do you speak of this now?” I said. “Do you not fear what Sir John may do if he learns that you have spoken to me of this?”

  “Nay. Now Sir Henry’s dead what matter if all the world knows of Sir John’s hidden desire?”

  I admonished William again to take care for his nose, surely unnecessary but probably expected, and departed the chamber more confused than when I had entered. I had expected that the more I could learn of Sir Henry’s family, retainers, and servants, the closer I would come to finding a murderer. But the opposite seemed true. The more I learned, the more perplexed I became. I sought the solar and Lord Gilbert, but he was absent.

  “Gone to the marshalsea with Sir Roger,” Lady Petronilla said. “A pleasant day for a ride in the forest, he said.”

  I found Lord Gilbert and the sheriff preparing to mount their beasts before the marshalsea. My employer turned from the stirrup and, one eyebrow raised, asked of my patients.

  “Sir John will live, I think, and I have set William’s nose straight. He will appear no worse for wear in a month, so long as he does not provoke Sir John again.”

  “Why did his words do so yesterday?”

  “’Tis that I would speak to you about.”

  Lord Gilbert looked to Sir Roger and I saw the sheriff nod. “Tell a page to saddle Bruce. You will ride with us this morning and tell us what you know. We’ll wait here for you.”

  Bruce is an ancient dexter, given to my use as part of my service as bailiff of Lord Gilbert’s manor at Bampton. The beast carried Lord Gilbert into battle at Poitiers eleven years past, and is now doubtless pleased to spend most of his days in the meadow west of the castle, or munching oats in the marshalsea. I rarely need use of the beast, and being untrained to the saddle am not a skilled rider. But Oxford is a long walk from Bampton and Bruce has carried me there and back often. Perhaps he thought that our destination this day also.

  When Sir Roger and Lord Gilbert saw Bruce led from the stables they mounted their horses and I clambered upon Bruce’s broad back. Lord Gilbert led the way under the portcullis. Wilfred tugged a forelock as we passed. Iron-shod hooves clattered across the drawbridge and we were soon upon Mill Street, where Lord Gilbert turned his mount toward the forest and Cowley’s Corner.

  “You’ve set William’s nose straight, then?” Lord Gilbert said as we rode easily toward the wood.

  “Aye. A painful lesson, but such are not soon forgot.”

  “Just so,” Sir Roger laughed.

  “You wished to tell us of Sir John’s wrath,” my employer said, “and why William’s words goaded him to strike the lad.”

  “’Twas Robert told me that the Lady Margery has more than one admirer.”

  Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow lifted under his cap, as I knew it would, and he cocked his head toward me, awaiting explanation.

  “Sir John also holds the lady in much esteem.”

  Lord Gilbert sighed and glanced to the sky. “Had I known of the disorder in Sir Henry’s household I would never have extended an invitation for him to visit. Well… too late for second thoughts now. So two knights wished the Lady Margery free of her husband?”

  “But Sir John had kept his desire for the lady to himself, but for a drunken leer when Robert saw,” I said.

  “Did he not know,” Sir Roger said, “that Sir Geoffrey wished also to supplant the lady’s husband?”

  “He did,” I said. “All the household seemed to know, including, I believe, Sir Henry.”

  “Are not Sir John and Sir Geoffrey friends?”

  “So they seem,” I said.

  “’Twould not be the first time friends have fallen out over a lady,” Lord Gilbert observed.

  Sir Roger went to the heart of the matter. “Now you have another who might have wished Sir Henry dead.”

  We rode through the forest in silence for a time, each considering in his own way the events of the past few days. Lord Gilbert soon tired of this, being a gentleman and thus easily bored. He spurred his beast to a gallop and Sir Roger and I did likewise to keep up. We thundered past Cowley’s Corner and toward Alvescot, frightening squirrels and jackdaws, for better than a mile before Lord Gilbert drew upon his reins and brought his steed to a walk. I was much relieved. Teetering upon Bruce while the horse is in full gallop is akin to riding upon a cart with square wheels.

  Lord Gilbert had slowed his mount because of a path through the wood leading from the road which he wished to follow. The way was narrow, just a track cut through the forest for use of the verderer, so we went in single file. Conversation was then shouted rather than spoken, especially if Lord Gilbert wished to address me, as he led the way and Bruce and I were in the rear.

  “Sir John will live, you say?” he yelled.

  “Aye,” I replied.

  “Then I believe William has suffered enough for his indiscretion, and Sir John has paid the price of his temper and the blow to William’s nose. What say you, Sir Roger? Are these sleeping dogs best left to lie as they now are?”

  “Perhaps,” the sheriff agreed, “if the dogs you speak of are willing.”

  Our shouted conversation echoed through the forest as the sheriff and I found agreement with Lord Gilbert that William and Sir John be strongly urged to end their quarrel with no further blows, with perhaps a thinly veiled threat as to Lord Gilbert’s response were his wishes disregarded, at least while the two men resided within Bampton Castle.

  I wondered who would deliver this proscription to Sir John and William. I learned soon enough. “Hugh… will you see your patients again this day?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  “Tell them what is decided. Do not spare them harsh words. I want no repetition of their brawl while they remain under my roof. After you have discovered Sir Henry’s murderer, and they have departed with Lady Margery, I care not if they wish to continue slicing and battering each other.”

  We emerged from the wood north of Bampton, where the path found the road to Witney. Lord Gilbert turned his mount toward the spire of St Beornwald’s Church, which could be seen in the distance, rising above the clustered houses of the town.

  We returned to the castle in silence, enjoying the sun and contemplating dinner. As we approached the castle drawbridge I glanced down into the green, scummy water and saw floating there an object which I could not identify. Twigs and sticks and ot
her such debris often may be found in a moat, but the thing I saw was worked by some man, shaped and rounded. I paid it no more attention and followed Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger under the portcullis to the marshalsea.

  A few moments later we entered the hall, where all was readied for dinner, and a valet produced an ewer of water and towels for our ablutions. The morning ride and my labors had left me with an appetite, and so I did wondrous injury to the removes as they were placed before me.

  While I ate I watched my companions but saw no behaviors which might indicate a guilty conscience. Sir John and William, who might have reflected in their countenances such a sentiment, were not present.

  My thoughts also turned to the object I had seen floating in the moat. I decided that when the meal was done I would leave the castle and fish the thing out of the water. I was curious about what it might be, and how it had come to be there, as it did not seem to be anything common to a moat.

  As there is no current in the moat, and this day the breeze was slight, the object I sought was in the same place I had seen it when riding Bruce toward the drawbridge. A rounded piece of wood, about the size of my fist, floated amongst lily pads two or three yards from the bank. I had no desire to wade into the green, turbid water to retrieve the thing, and in any case it was far enough from the shore that it likely floated in water neck deep.

  I returned to the marshalsea and interrupted a page at his work. I instructed the lad to get a rake and a length of rope and report to me with these items at the moat.

  What caused my curiosity about the floating object I cannot say, except that such a thing was unusual in a moat, even though such bodies of water are likely to attract much which castle folk discard, though nobles frown on such practice. Someone had worked to remove the corners from a block of wood, and evidently then discarded the object of their labor. I wondered for what use the thing had been made, and why it now bobbed in the moat.