by Mel Starr
“Uh, ummm, some impurity has contaminated your wine, m’lord.”
“Nay. Master Hugh, what is this? Can you identify the stuff?”
“A fragment of bramble leaf, I believe.”
“And bramble leaves were to be among the herbs pounded and given to me in wine each day. Is this not so?”
“It is, m’lord.”
Prince Edward turned again to Dr. Blackwater, whose face had turned quite pale. “Why is it that when you prepared my wine with the herbs Master Hugh advised I found no residue of bramble leaves or any other herb in my wine cup? What say you?”
“Uh… perhaps Master Hugh used too much. I, uh, was sparing of the physics.”
“So sparing that the herbs did me no good. You wished me to have nothing but more boiled roosters for my dinner. Is this not so?”
“Your illness requires a diet which is dry and hot, m’lord. Nothing serves so well as boiled roosters.”
“So you say. But before Master Hugh arrived here your roosters did me little good. You cannot be trusted. Master Hugh will prepare my draughts and we shall see if I need your boiled roosters. Or if I need you, for that matter.
“Now, on another matter, Sir William suffers from a scrofulous sore. My father, the king, has touched him, but to no effect. What say you?”
“When did this touch take place?” Blackwater asked.
“Last week,” Sir William replied.
“And what is your birth date?”
“The fourth day of January.”
“Ah, you are a Capricorn. The King’s Evil can best be relieved if the sufferer is touched under his natal sign. For the king’s touch to succeed you must wait ’til December, then visit the king again.”
This assertion was new to me. Perhaps it was new to the quick-witted William Blackwater as well. He could assure the prince and Sir William that his knowledge of astrology would assist the knight in seeking a cure, and also buy time for the physician either to try some other remedy or hope Sir William would forget the claim. Or mayhap the knight would die of the affliction and Blackwater’s explanation would remain untested.
Prince Edward turned suddenly to me. “What say you, Master Hugh? Must Sir William wait ’til the stars and planets agree before my father’s touch will be effective?”
Hope is a valuable commodity. Perhaps for that reason it should be used sparingly. I did not wish to undermine Sir William’s faith, but I knew it was unlikely that King Edward’s touch would heal a man of anything. Physicians say such a thing may happen. The world may end tomorrow in fire and the Lord Christ return. But probably not.
“I have heard of men recovering from scrofulous sores after a king has touched them,” I said cautiously.
“Aye,” Blackwater said. “’Tis common in France. King Jean once touched more than one thousand sufferers in one day.”
“How many of these found relief?” I asked.
Blackwater shrugged. Here was answer enough.
“You are a surgeon, Master Hugh,” Prince Edward said. “What can scalpels and such do for a scrofulous sore?”
“If it has not grown too large the sore might be cut away. But the surgery is not always successful.”
“Not successful?” Sir William said. “How so? If you remove it may I perish of the wound?”
“Nay. But a scrofulous sore will often return.”
“Often, but not always?” Sir William asked.
“Aye. No surgeon knows why this is so.”
“So if you relieve Sir William of his sore he may be rid of it for good?” Prince Edward said.
“He may. But he may not. I can promise nothing.”
“What say you, Sir William? Will you have Master Hugh deal with your carbuncle?”
“The king’s touch failed, and Dr. Blackwater has said I must wait many weeks before it may succeed. The sore grows apace. I would have it dealt with now.”
“Success is not guaranteed,” I reminded the knight.
“But if nothing is done the sore will surely increase, will it not?”
“Aye,” I replied. “That much can be guaranteed.”
Dr. Blackwater had been silent during this exchange, but now he spoke. “’Twould be foolish to allow a mechanic with a blade to slash away upon your neck.”
“You recommend that I wait until December? What if King Edward’s touch fails me then?” Sir William said.
“I will prepare you so that it will not. Your diet must henceforth be warm and wet, and a poultice of pig fat applied to the sore twice each day.”
“Have you treated other men with scrofulous sores in like manner?” the knight asked.
“Aye. A servant to Lady Margaret Chesham.”
“Was he cured?”
Blackwater hesitated. “Nay,” he finally admitted, but quickly explained the failure. “Lady Margaret presented the man to King Edward for his touch at the time when King Jean of France was held hostage in London. King Edward brought King Jean to touch the servant as well, saying that he was God’s anointed also. But this caused the cure to fail, as the French king was no longer upon his throne – a regent governed in his stead.”
“My father’s anointing as king could be overcome by another king no longer upon his throne?” Prince Edward said. “Jean was yet king of France.”
The prince’s tone of voice caused Blackwater to retreat a step. Clearly Prince Edward was not pleased with the assertion that his father’s powers could be rendered ineffectual by some other sovereign.
Sir William spoke. “’Tis sure that the sore can be removed?” he asked me.
“Aye, unless it has grown too large. I must see it to know.”
Without another word the knight unwrapped the liripipe from about his neck. Doing so exposed a putrid lump the size of half a hen’s egg oozing a small amount of pus and blood.
“What say you, Master Hugh?” Prince Edward asked.
“’Tis not too large. I can cut it away. But again I must tell you that it may return.”
“Hah,” Blackwater said. “With the proper diet suited to your unbalanced humors, and an appropriate salve applied daily, when the king touches you in December the sore will disappear and not return. Be patient, and under my care all will be well.”
No man enjoys the thought of another man applying a blade to his flesh, even if the flesh is diseased. I watched as Sir William considered his choice and the possible consequences of the decision.
“You can provide no assurance that after you cut the sore away it will not return?” the knight said to me.
“None.”
“If it does return, what then?”
“It may be that I or another surgeon can remove it once again.”
“How much time must pass before I know if the sore is to return?” Sir William is a thoughtful man and was considering alternatives and results. He spoke again, and repeated his earlier decision. “I will have it dealt with now.”
Blackwater snorted quietly to show his view of Sir William’s resolve.
“Can you do this surgery soon?” Sir William asked.
“This day, if you wish it.”
“I do. I’ll not live with the sore any longer than need be.
“Perhaps Dr. Blackwater will assist you?” Sir William continued.
Blackwater had done no good service at the surgery tent when Limoges fell. I wanted him nowhere near an open incision. At Limoges his behavior made it clear that he desired nothing to do with blood and scalpels.
“Too many hands at work upon a sore will interfere with each other,” I said. Blackwater seemed relieved that I had rejected the suggestion.
“After dinner, then?” Prince Edward said. “Where will you do this surgery? You may do it here if you think it suitable.”
“The day is cloudy and I will need good light to see what I am about. Your privy chamber is not suited. A table set in the palace yard would serve.”
“It will be done,” the prince said. “After dinner, then.”
&nbs
p; Sir William nodded.
“I will prepare my instruments,” I said, “and some herbs which will reduce the pain: crushed hemp seeds and the dried sap of lettuce pounded to flakes. But these will only reduce the hurt.”
“I’ve been wounded twice in battle,” the knight said. “What can your scalpel do to me beyond what swords have already done?”
Chapter 15
I forget what was served at dinner that day. My thoughts were upon other matters. Gossip had flowed through Kennington Palace and by the time dinner was done most folk, from high to low, knew why a sturdy table had been moved to the palace yard.
Following the meal I sought Prince Edward’s butler and asked him to provide a ewer of wine and two cups. I intended to give Sir William a substantial dose of wine with hemp seeds and lettuce sap. The wine remaining I would use to bathe the incision. From the buttery I went to my chamber and armed myself with my medium scalpel, a needle, and a spool of silken thread. Also two pouches of the herbs I would dissolve in wine.
The hall was nearly empty when I returned to it on my way to the porch and palace yard. Those who remained ceased their conversations and watched me pass. They knew where I was going and what I was to do.
I was stunned when I turned the corner of the palace to the yard. I was to have an audience. The thought had not occurred to me when I suggested that the surgery be done outside where the light would be greater. Had I done the work in some room in the palace the curious could be excluded. But in the yard forty or fifty onlookers greeted me, both men and women. My first thought was to ask Prince Edward to send them away. My second thought was that he would not wish to do so, for he stood closest to the table, apparently eager to see blood flow. William Blackwater was not present.
Sir William stood beside his prince, appearing a little pale. His scrofulous sore was yet hidden under his liripipe. I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see the butler, in his hands a ewer and two silver cups. I took them from him, set them upon the table, and poured wine into one of the cups. Then into this cup I measured a heaping handful of crushed hemp seeds and flakes of dried lettuce sap. As I did this the spectators grew silent, watching, wondering. I saw no obligation to explain to them what I had done, but I told Sir William.
“These herbs will, as I told you, lessen the pain of the surgery. The hemp seeds dull a man’s pain, and the lettuce will cause you to become drowsy. About an hour after you drink this wine, the herbs will take effect and I will begin. Are you yet determined to have me remove the sore?”
“Aye. More so than this morning.”
I held the cup to Sir William and he drank it in two gulps. Those of the audience who stood nearby had heard my words, and passed the explanation to others who stood farther from the table. Upon hearing that no blood would be shed for an hour many departed. Perhaps they would return. But twenty or so remained, unwilling to risk missing a unique entertainment. Prince Edward did not relish standing while the herbs took effect, so called for a bench to be brought to him. While I waited for the hemp seeds and lettuce sap to do their work I threaded a needle with silken thread, ready to remedy the damage I was about to do to this man’s neck.
Prince Edward’s chamberlain stood at his master’s elbow. There was one other item I needed which I had forgotten to collect before I entered the castle yard. I requested of the chamberlain that he seek a clean linen cloth of good size, perhaps a fragment of portpain from the pantler’s store.
A moment after the chamberlain had departed to seek the linen, we who stood about the table heard the iron-shod hooves of horses and the clatter of cart wheels striking the cobbles of Kennington Palace yard. I looked to the marshalsea whence came the racket, and saw three men mounted, a wagon, and two carts. Two runcies drew the wagon, and a lady rode regally upon it, behind the driver.
As I gazed upon this scene Prince Edward spoke. “Sir Thomas Dod departing for Clovelly.” The prince said no more, but I knew his thoughts and why Sir Thomas, his wife, squires, pages, and grooms were leaving. Sir Thomas was the third knight to abandon Kennington since the deaths of Sir John and Lady Ardith. A prince likes to show his wealth, but if I could not soon discover who had slain Sir Giles, Sir John, and Lady Ardith there might be no man remaining at Kennington Palace to enjoy Prince Edward’s splendor and largesse.
A few more onlookers drifted away, bored, but some who had departed returned, so that an hour later I had as many spectators as ever. If this surgery succeeded, my name would be known throughout the realm. Of course, if I failed, my name would also be known.
Clouds obscured the sun, but even so the light was much better than it would have been within the palace. Sir William had been in discussion with Prince Edward and a few other knights when I noticed that he began to slur his words, as if he’d consumed too much wine. ’Twas time to begin.
I told Sir William to remove his cap and I would assist him to the table. His squire, Thomas Poer, stood nearby. The knight removed cap and liripipe, gave it to the squire, then climbed to the table, disdaining my assistance. This concerned me. I had placed enough hemp seed and lettuce sap in his wine that Sir William should have been unsteady. Too unsteady to mount the table, which was as high as my waist. I feared the draught did not stupefy him enough to ease his pain. ’Twas too late to do aught about it though. I would proceed, and trust to his courage proved in battle. Onlookers crowded closer to see Sir William’s affliction, and several ladies gasped at the sight.
I took a length of the chamberlain’s linen cloth, doubled it twice, and laid it under Sir William’s head, neck, and shoulders. Prince Edward would not wish his table stained with blood.
Beneath the skin of a man’s neck are many vital vessels which must not be severed nor punctured. For this reason I planned to make several shallow cuts about the carbuncle as I lifted the sore with the fingers of my left hand. But first I swabbed Sir William’s neck with a linen fragment soaked in Prince Edward’s wine. Washing a wound with wine will speed its healing, although no man knows why this is so. It seems to me that if bathing a laceration after the wound is made will aid its mending, then doing so before a scalpel is applied might also be of benefit, although this I cannot prove. I dipped the scalpel in wine for good measure.
Because I feared that Sir William might flinch when he felt the blade against his neck, imperiling vessels I must not slash, I assigned Arthur and Thomas Poer, his sturdy squire, to stand on either side of the table and grasp the knight’s arms just below his shoulders. Poer gave Sir William’s cap to one of Prince Edward’s valets and did as I asked. I saw Randall Patchett nearby, called to him, and asked the lad to hold Sir William’s head steady. I need not have concerned myself. Sir William was not the man who twitched when the scalpel was applied.
I heard a woman gasp when I sliced into the flesh of Sir William’s neck. With my left hand I felt under the sore, found a vessel, and pressed it down so that I might cut more deeply under the growth without harming some vital vein or artery.
When my scalpel had sliced halfway under the carbuncle I moved to cut under the opposite side of the lesion. Before I could do this I heard a strange guttural sound and felt a shove against my back. ’Twas as well I had not placed the scalpel against Sir William’s neck for a second incision. The jolt would have pushed my blade into places I did not want it to go.
What I had felt was Thomas Poer collapsing at my feet. I turned in time to see his head strike the cobbles, fortunately cushioned by a large, fashionable cap and liripipe. But the blow would be enough to render him senseless for some time. His eyes rolled back in his head and I glimpsed only the whites. I heard Prince Edward order two grooms to haul Poer’s limp form from the table, and gave the stricken youth no further thought.
Sir William had lain motionless under my scalpel so I saw no need to replace the fallen squire. ’Twas but short work to slice under the scrofula from the opposite side of the first cut, and lift the lesion free of Sir William’s neck. The carbuncle was little larger than a che
stnut in circumference and as thick through as a finger.
I was somewhat surprised that the wound bled little. I wiped blood from the cut with a scrap of wine-soaked linen, took up my threaded needle, and began to stitch up the hole I had made in Sir William’s neck. Six or seven stitches would have served, but the scar would be less conspicuous if I made more but smaller sutures. I closed the wound with twelve stitches, washed it again with wine, and declared the procedure finished. I believe some of my audience were disappointed that nothing tragic had happened.
Arthur helped Sir William to sit. This time he needed the assistance. The ample measure of herbs I had placed in his wine would no doubt leave him unbalanced for several hours. But the knight had enough wit to ask what salve I would apply to his wound.
As always in such circumstances I was required to explain that I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, late surgeon to the army of the French king, who discovered when patching together wounded soldiers that those whose wounds were left open, unbound, not treated with salve, healed most readily. Sir William nodded understanding, but his expression was skeptical.
“The stitches I have made to close the wound must not be removed ’til St. Edmund’s Day. When you turn your head, the sutures will hold the cut close together. Removed too soon, the incision might open and be more difficult to close than at first. If I am no longer at Kennington” – and I dearly hoped I would not be – “any man with a steady hand and sharp blade may slice and draw the silk threads.”
As I concluded these instructions I heard behind me a groan. ’Twas Thomas Poer awakening from his slumber. I turned to him. He lay yet upon the cobbles where the prince’s grooms had deposited him. I was done with Sir William – I should now attend his squire.
I knelt over the lad. He blinked, then mumbled, “A terrible end… terrible end.” I assumed he spoke of the surgery I had performed upon his lord which had caused him to swoon. Perhaps he thought the surgery would prove fatal to Sir William.
The squire’s eyes closed again. I asked for a bucket of water from the well. One was soon provided, and I told Arthur to dash the water into Poer’s face. The result was miraculous. The lad shook, spluttered, and raised himself to a seated position. His face took on a crimson hue, from embarrassment or the cold water I cannot say. Prince Edward found this humorous and laughed loudly.
