by Mel Starr
Five or six paces behind the house was a thicket where perhaps a tenant had at one time built a hutch. This had collapsed over time, and a clump of bushes had grown up amid the ruins. This vegetation was the only shelter I could see in the toft. I grasped Arthur’s arm and ran toward it. We were briefly visible in the moonlight as we ducked from the shadow of the house to the thicket. If the approaching watchman was alert he might see us, and as we hid in the foliage I expected him to cry out. He did not.
We waited and watched and soon heard the fellow talking to himself as he circled the house. He appeared around the corner of the dwelling, clutching the broken pole. His words were indistinct, but what I could hear seemed to question the discovery of the broken branch and how it came to be at the door of the house.
A few more steps and the fellow would be aside the break I had carved in the wall. I waited to see what he would do if he found it, having no way to prevent the discovery.
When he came to the breach he fell silent for a moment, laid the pole aside, and knelt to peer into the black interior of the house.
“What’s ’ere?” he said, speaking again to himself. Then louder, “You, in there… you there?”
He did not wait for an answer, but crawled into the hole. He was halfway through when I heard a muffled thud and saw the fellow cease moving and lie flat.
“Come,” I said to Arthur, and ran for the house.
The watchman lay still and silent in the hole. I grasped his heels and pulled him from the opening. He was as peaceful as a corpse, and stank, and I wondered what had befallen him. I learned soon enough.
“Master Hugh?” Amice whispered.
“Aye. Send your children out, quickly, then follow.”
The two children crawled from the house and Amice followed. “What happened to him?” I asked, looking to the watchman.
Amice stood and whispered an explanation. “They left an iron pot in the house, for want of a privy. I hit ’im with it.”
The watchman began to stir. Even a stroke across the head from an iron pot will not put a man to sleep forever. Well, it might if Arthur delivered the blow, but not if a frail woman did so.
The man must be prevented from giving alarm. Arthur carried the hempen cord. I bound the guard’s wrists tight behind him, and his ankles I tied to his wrists. Alfred’s surcoat was threadbare and easily torn. I ripped a sleeve from the garment, stuffed a fragment into the guard’s mouth, then tied the remainder tightly about his mouth. I told Arthur to take the man’s shoulders while I grasped his knees, then I bid Amice and her children follow.
We carried the sentry to the chapel. I hoped the door would be unbarred, and so it was. We deposited the man upon the flags, shut the door behind us, and fled the town. If the fellow was not soon able to free himself from his bonds, or shout for help with a mouth full of tattered wool, we would be able to escape at least as far as Marcham, where the church might again become a refuge.
The sleeping watchman was not a slender fellow. Carrying him had caused my wounds to ache, but there was no time to seek relief.
The moon illuminated the forest where Bruce and the palfrey awaited. Arthur lifted the children to the palfrey, one before him and one clinging to his back, and I drew Amice up to Bruce’s rump, there to cling to me behind the saddle. Her perch was precarious and I breathed a prayer that I would not need to spur Bruce to a gallop. The woman could never retain her seat if I did so.
A mile north of East Hanney the road crosses a brook upon a narrow stone bridge. As we approached Bruce sensed the water and I realized that our beasts were thirsty. We dismounted, led them from the road to a place where the bank sloped gently to the water, and allowed them to drink their fill. They were surely hungry, as well, but I could do nothing about that.
We remounted and rode on toward Marcham. As we did I learned from Amice what had happened to her since she and her children were taken.
“Infirmarer said the children was makin’ too much noise, disturbin’ them as was ill… that’s why we was thrown out of the hospital,” she said. “But they wasn’t troublesome. I made sure we was no bother to anyone. He said as how someone complained to the abbot, an’ the abbot told ’im we must go.”
“When you were taken from your house, what then?”
“’Twas as you said. Them as took us wanted to know where John found coins an’ jewels an’ such. Told ’em I knew not. Didn’t believe me.”
“You’ve been in that plague house since?”
“Aye, most of the time. Told me we’d be set free when I named the place where the treasure was hid. How could I do that? I don’t know. Second night we was held, little Tom begun to weep, an’ the watchman heard. Spoke through the door for me to quiet ’im. I tried, but ’e was right fearful… place was so dark at night, an’ we was hungry. Next day them what took us come again, asked if I was ready to tell ’em where John’s treasure was. I couldn’t, so one stayed with the children while the other took me across a field and into a wood. Feared what ’e was about, but I went. Feared what would ’appen to Tom an’ Randal did I not. We come to a pit dug in the forest, covered over with branches. The man said we’d be put there if I couldn’t keep the children quiet. Told ’im I could do that was they not so hungry.”
“But you were not harmed?”
“Nay. I told the children what would become of us if they were not silent. They’re old enough to understand bein’ put in a pit is worse’n bein’ prisoner in a house… even an old house what leaks when it rains.”
The moon lighted our way to Marcham, and when we entered the village I considered once again seeking shelter in the church. But Arthur and I had done so already, so pursuers might seek us there, even if it was squires to Sir John Trillowe and not Sir Philip Rede who followed this time. And I did not relish sleeping again upon a cold stone floor.
We instead drew the horses to a halt before the vicarage. Father Maurice had expressed disdain for Sir Philip. Perhaps he held similar views of Sir John. So I hoped.
’Twas near midnight, so I was required to pound vigorously upon the vicarage door for some time before the clerk opened to us. He was in a foul mood, as I might be if awakened and drawn from my bed on a cold autumn night.
“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 k
night 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.
