The Tainted Coin hds-5

by Mel Starr

  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.

  It was a small house, as are all of those in the bury, so the woman had but a few steps to reach the door and open it from any corner of the place. She drew the door open a crack to see who was there, did not recognize me, and immediately slammed it shut again. The day was far gone, night was near, and honest folk would soon be off the streets.

  I pounded upon the door again. I heard voices within, but some time passed before the door again opened. The threadmaker scowled through the opening this time, recognized me, and asked my business.

  “It regards Amice Thatcher, Amabel Maunder, and the men who have harmed them.”

  The fellow opened his door wider and motioned for me to enter. His wife had heard me speak, and said, “You know what’s become of Amice an’ Amabel?”

  “Aye. Amabel recovers from her injuries at St. John’s Hospital. Amice was held captive, but has been freed and is now safe with her children in a town not far from here.”

  “Captive?” the woman said. “Why’d someone take Amice captive?”

  “To discover from her the location of a treasure.”

  “Amice has treasure?”

  “Nay, but the men who took her thought she knew where riches were buried. She does not,” I added hastily.

  “Who did this?” the threadmaker asked. “An’ why do you interest yourself? You said when you was here before you was a friend. Didn’t know Amice an’ Amabel had such friends,” he said, inspecting the quality and cut of my cotehardie.

  “The men who took Amice and beat Amabel murdered a man in seeking his treasure. I believe I know who did so, but need more proofs before the Sheriff will act.”

  “You a friend of the dead man?”

  “Nay. I am bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, on his manor of Bampton, where the murdered man was found.”

  “You need proofs, why do you come here?”

  “I believe that there are, in the abbey, monks who may know something of the matter.”

  “Monks? Then why seek us?”

  I turned to the woman. “I followed you from the abbey just now. Are you a servant there?”

  “Aye. Wash their clothes.”

  This was as I hoped.

  “The abbot is displeased with me,” I said, “so will not permit me to enter the abbey. I cannot question monks if I cannot
gain entrance to the place.”

  “What did you do to offend Abbot Peter?”

  “I am also a surgeon. Without the abbot’s permission, I treated a monk who suffered from a fistula.”

  “Brother Theodore? Him who goes about with a cloth over ’is face?”

  “Aye.”

  “You could help ’im? He’s one of the few in the abbey who’s decent to folk like me.”

  “His fistula is cured, if all goes well. I need to gain entrance to the abbey to speak to Brother Theodore, but the abbot forbids it. I require assistance.”

  “From us?” the woman asked.

  “From you. Do you return to the abbey Monday?”

  “Aye.”

  “When you leave it, hide under your surcoat a habit you have washed. I will wear it to enter the monastery, and when it has served its purpose you may return it, none the wiser. For this service I will pay you two pence.”

  The woman peered at her husband in the darkening room, caught some signal from him, and agreed. I arranged to visit the house on Monday at the same time of day to take possession of the robe and cowl.

  Two days must pass before I could put my plot into action — time enough to consider whether it be foolish or not. Generally, the wisdom or folly of a deed does not become apparent till after its completion, and so it was that all of the next day no serious flaw in my plan came to me.

  Late Monday afternoon the washer-woman appeared with the black robe and cowl, as she had agreed, and I gave her two pennies for her temporary theft. She would be required to wash the habit again, for what I intended would likely leave the garment with a muddy hem.

  I thanked the woman, bundled the robe under my arm, and hurried to the New Inn, where, if I did not make haste, I would miss my supper. If any man in the place noted the black woolen fabric folded under my arm he was too busy spooning pottage to his lips to consider what it might be.

  By the time I finished my pottage and loaf the night was full dark, and when I left the New Inn I heard the bell of the abbey church announce compline. I would have nearly six hours to accomplish my task before vigils, when the monks would awaken for the office.

  The moon would rise later this night, so only starlight showed the way as I walked north past St. Nicholas’s Church, following the boundary wall of the abbey. I soon came to a path leading eastwards, where the precinct was bounded only by the abbey ditch. When I reached a likely place where I might cross the ditch I donned the robe and cowl, then sat with my back against a small tree to give the monks time to return from the church to their dormitory and fall to sleep.

  When I had nearly fallen to sleep myself, cold as the night was, I felt sure that the monks were snoring in their beds. I took off my shoes and tied them about my neck, raised the hem of the borrowed habit, and stepped into the dark water. My chauces would be soaked, but there was no helping that.

  The ditch was deeper than I had expected and the muddy bed slippery. I was in above my knees before I could change my course and splash toward the bank inside the abbey wall.

  I clambered up the bank and shook out the habit. An orchard occupies the north-east corner of the abbey grounds. I made for the nearest apple tree. There I sat, shivering from the effect of the cold water, and drew on my shoes. I waited there in the darkened orchard and watched as the waning moon began to appear through bare tree limbs to the east. After a time, when no man cried out a challenge, I felt ready to put my plan into effect.

  My first step from the sheltering tree fell upon something soft, and when my foot slipped from the object I nearly turned an ankle. I thought at first I had trod upon some large, fallen, rotting apple. But not so. Apples do not have fur; dead cats do. Perhaps this feline had been pursuing rats when death overtook it. The discovery startled me, but my mind often works in curious ways, and I thought of a use for the animal. I picked it up by the tail and crept from one tree to another toward the infirmary.

  From the infirmary I walked past the reredorter, feeling safe there. If any man saw me he would think a brother about some nocturnal relief. I had drawn the cowl over my head, the shadow would obscure my face, and the cat was grey and not likely to be seen dangling close by my leg.

  After I passed between the reredorter and the dormitory, however, I needed to be more careful, for I was entering a space where no monk should be after compline, with or without a dead cat.

  My goal was the guest house, and the hosteler’s chamber there. To reach the guest house my path lay past the abbot’s kitchen. There was a narrow entry between the kitchen and the guest hall which led toward the cloister. I ducked into the shadows of this entry and found the door to the kitchen. It was not locked. I entered, and when my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, found a large iron pot which hung over a cold hearth. I dropped the cat into m’lord abbot’s cook pot. With luck the cook would not soon discover it.

  The door to the guest hall was just across the entryway from the abbot’s kitchen. I prayed that the hinges would not squeal and gently opened the door. The hinges were silent.

  Brother Theodore’s small cell lay just inside the entrance. I rapped knuckles upon his door firmly enough, I hoped, to awaken him, but not so loudly that other sleepers nearby would be roused from their slumber.

  The hosteler was not easily aroused, but eventually I heard the latch of his door lifted. His chamber had a narrow window of glass, so I saw his shape in the open door, and the dim moonlight allowed him to see a man standing before him. But there was not so much light that he knew me.

  “’Tis Master Hugh,” I whispered.

  “You? Hugh? But… m’lord abbot has banished you.”

  “Aye. Which is why you must bid me enter your chamber and close the door, that we may speak privily.”

  “Oh, uh, aye. Enter.”

  The hosteler closed the door behind me and I saw him approach a small table where there appeared to be an open book and a cresset.

  “No light,” I said.

  “Why have you come? The fistula is well. You need not have troubled yourself. I have little pain from the surgery. How did you enter? Whose robe is that?”

  I had questions for the hosteler, but thought I would be more likely to learn from him what I sought if I answered his questions first. I told him all, except how I came by the habit — and the matter of the dead cat — for I did not wish to bring trouble to the threadmaker’s wife should her part in this become known.

  “I have told you how I came here,” I said, “and now I will tell why. The woman I brought to the hospital nearly a fortnight past, Amice Thatcher, was sent from the hospital. She was told that her children disturbed those who were ill. That same night two men took her and her children, as I feared might happen.”

  “Why did they do so?”

  “A chapman of the town and she were to wed, but he was found near Bampton, beaten so badly that he soon died. I investigated his death and learned that the man had found treasure — ancient coins of silver, and jewels and golden objects.”

  “I remember — you told me of this. He was murdered for this wealth?”

  “For the location of the find, I think. He would not tell, even when they beat him insensible.”

  “Where is this hoard?”

  “No man knows, nor woman, either. But the men who murdered the chapman thought he might have told Amice where it was hid.”

  “Ah, I see. Because they were to wed.”

  “Aye. And somehow they knew of it.”

  “So now they have her, until she tells what she does not know?”

  “Nay, she is freed, and now safe in Bampton.”

  “Saints be praised.”

  “She was held in an abandoned plague house in East Hanney.”

  “Are her captors brought to justice?”

  “Not yet?”

  “Who are they?”

  “I believe they are squires to Sir John Trillowe.”

  “Him who was Sheriff of Oxford two years past?”

  “Ay
e. Your abbot is Peter of Hanney.”

  “He is, from West Hanney.”

  “But the villages are small, and close together. Men in one place would know those who lived in the other.”

  “Surely.”

  “Does the abbot receive guests from the villages, old friends who call when they visit Abingdon?”

  “Aye. Many brothers are from towns nearby, and m’lord abbot is lenient in allowing visits from family and friends. I am from Lyford, not far from West Hanney.”

  “Did you know Abbot Peter before you came here?”

  “Knew his father and older brothers. I’m nearly twenty years older than m’lord abbot.”

  “If you were reared near West Hanney, and knew folk from the village, do you know some of the abbot’s visitors?”

  “Aye, some.”

  “The day Amice Thatcher was sent away, or the day before, did the abbot entertain guests?”

  “Aye, he did, one.”

  “Did you know the man?”

  “Oh, aye, Sir Simon’s easy to remember, with his ear standing away from his head as it does.”

  “Did Sir Simon stay long at the abbey?”

  “Don’t know. He doesn’t stay in the guest range. Stays in the abbot’s private rooms.”

  “Did Abbot Peter have other visitors with Sir Simon that day?”

  “Not that I saw… You said the men who slew the chapman are squires to Sir John Trillowe?”

  “Aye.”

  “And when Sir John’s son visited the abbey, next day the abbot sends Amice Thatcher away.”

  The hosteler saw the direction of my thoughts. “Aye,” I replied. “Sent out to fend for herself, where men might seize her to seek treasure.”

  Brother Theodore was silent.