by Mel Starr
The other cotters Kellet must bring here, with a pallet of some kind; two poles and a blanket would do if nothing better was at hand. And torches. Kellet must return with torches. The moon would not appear until midnight, and even then a quarter moon would shed little light through the leaves.
“Did you tumble down the slope?” I asked when the priest had scrambled up and away from the gully.
“Aye,” Attewood replied.
“You are not able to rise. Is your leg broken, you think?”
“Aye… an’ me ribs. An’ shoulder, mayhap. Hurts to breathe.”
I asked of the boar, and the swineherd told me of how he came to be at the bottom of the gully.
When he awoke Saturday morning he found that his swine had nearly all escaped the sty. One or more of the pigs had pushed through a weak place in the enclosure and the others, but for one sow which had farrowed the day before and would not leave her litter, had made off in the night.
Attewood immediately sought the escaped beasts and followed their trail through the wood, over the hill, to the lip of the gully where he had found most of them rooting about. He had prodded the pigs with his staff to move them back toward the sty, for they were near to encroaching upon the land of Aston Manor. The boar had disliked this method of persuasion and turned on him.
Thomas said that he had attempted to evade the boar’s attack, but caught his foot between two fallen trees. The boar struck him and he heard a crack as he felt the pain in his ankle. The blow pitched him down the bank onto the stump of one of the fallen trees, whence came the pain in his ribs and shoulder, thence to the bottom of the defile, where he had lain since Saturday. His fall had ended close enough to the tiny brook that he had been able to cup water in his palm, but to reach for the water had caused him much hurt.
Although we had had few dealings in the past, Attewood knew of me. “Can you patch me up, or am I for St. Andrew’s Chapel churchyard?”
“’Tis too dark to know much of your injuries. Did you try to rise and climb from this place?”
“Oh, aye. Thought to support meself with a stick, could I find one, but can’t raise myself. Got to me knees, but could rise no farther.”
I gently prodded the fellow’s ribs through his tattered cotehardie and learned from his groans that several were likely broken. I touched Thomas’s shoulder and brought from him a gasp when I pressed upon his collar bone. I then turned my attention to his leg, and made a gruesome discovery. His left leg was so badly broken that the man’s foot pointed off to the side.
“Is the pigs back to the sty?” Thomas asked.
“Nay. But tomorrow I will tell John Holcutt of this and he will see that they are recovered.”
“Lose my place for this, likely. That old boar is gettin’ too wise for ’is own good. Lord Gilbert should roast ’im for Christmas dinner.”
I agreed that might be best, and tried to keep the man’s mind from his injuries with talk of trivial matters until Father John returned with aid.
Time passes slowly when a man is crouched in a dark wood awaiting assistance. And if minutes became hours for me, for Attewood the wait for Kellet’s return must have seemed endless.
Eventually I saw the yellow light of a torch flicker through the trees above the gully, and I heard the priest say, “Just there,” to his companions. Soon the rescuers slithered down the steep slope of the gully, the torch-bearer leading.
Two of the arrivals carried a pallet. “Brought Thomas’s bed from his hut,” Kellet explained.
Hard men can be gentle. I warned Kellet’s companions of the swineherd’s injuries, and told them that moving him to the pallet would cause him pain even if they were careful of the hurt. I showed the fellows where it would be best to lift Thomas, and watched in the torchlight as they raised him from the leaves and deposited him upon his bed as gently as if he was a sleeping babe. The swineherd groaned once, but otherwise bore his affliction well.
It was no easy matter to draw the injured man and his pallet up the slope. The bed was jostled several times severely enough that I heard Thomas gasp. But he did not cry out, not even when one of his bearers tripped upon a root when we were nearly to St. Andrew’s Chapel and dropped a corner of the bed.
The door from the porch to the church was barely wide enough for the pallet. Those who carried Thomas were required to shift their places from the sides to before and after to slide through the narrow entrance. St. Andrew’s Chapel is small, and very old.
John Kellet directed the men to place Attewood’s bed before the altar, then hastened about the chapel collecting candles and two cressets. These he placed upon stands and a corner of the altar. Their combined light allowed me to see clearly the ghastly injury to the swineherd’s ankle. His bearers saw, also, and turned away rather than gaze upon so twisted a leg.
The cotter whom John Kellet had sent to Galen House was at the chapel before us, and followed us into the tiny building. My sack of instruments and herbs was slung over his shoulder. I took the sack from him and drew from it the pouches of crushed seeds of hemp and lettuce. I asked the priest if he had ale. He nodded, and went to the stairway – little more than a ladder – which leads to his room in the chapel tower. A moment later he reappeared with an ewer and a cup. I filled the cup with ale, then poured in a large measure of the crushed hemp and lettuce seeds. Some surgeons prefer mandrake for dealing with such pain as was likely to assail Thomas when I straightened his foot, but mandrake is a poison, nearly as strong as monkshood, and I will not use it unless no other of God’s remedies will suffice.
Thomas drank the mixture gratefully, then lay back upon his bed. It is my experience that the seeds of hemp and lettuce do their work an hour or so after being consumed. This I told Thomas, the priest, and the cotters who yet stood by the altar.
Two of the men I wished to remain, to restrain the swineherd when I put his leg right. I asked if any would do so. All four offered to stay.
These fellows seemed unlikely to flinch when they heard Thomas cry out, as he surely would. I sent two to Shill Brook to cut reeds which I could use to build a splint when I had got the swineherd’s foot pointing forward again. The moon was now risen above Aston, so the brook and reeds would be visible in its light.
Two of the candles flickered low before the cotters I had sent for reeds returned. The reeds would hold the swineherd’s broken leg in place, but only if they were bound tight to the appendage. For this I needed strips of cloth. Linen would be best, but who of these cotters possessed linen garments? And if they did so, who would give up a kirtle or braes? Some tattered woolen cotehardie must serve.
I asked if any man there had such a garment and John Kellet spoke. “For what use is it needed?”
“I must tear it to strips so as to fix the reeds about Thomas’s broken leg.”
“I have a robe which will serve, I think,” he said, and again disappeared into the dark at the base of the tower. I heard him climb his creaking stairs. A few moments later he reappeared with a black garment over his arm.
Here was no tattered vestment but a fine robe, simple in design, as suited a curate, but made of good wool and surely reserved by the priest for wearing on high holy days.
Kellet held the garment out to me. “Are you sure you wish to sacrifice this to the swineherd’s injury?” I asked.
“What better use? I have another.”
Kellet owned the threadbare robe he wore, I thought, and no other.
“This is unsuitable,” I said. “’Tis too heavy to tear into strips. What of the robe you wear? Might you donate that to the need?”
The priest looked from the robe in his hands to the garment which draped his skeletal form.
“This fabric is strong,” he said, proffering the richer robe again, “and you will be able to bind Thomas’s leg securely with it.”
“Poverty is a virtue if a man uses his goods and coin to help others,” I said, “but pride is a sin. A man proud of his poverty is as surely a sinner as a man pro
ud of his riches.” I did not reach for the robe.
The priest looked me in the eye for some time, then slowly withdrew the proffered robe. “I am well rebuked,” he said softly, then turned and walked toward the tower and the stairs to his chamber. When he returned he wore his fine robe and carried the tattered garment. This he held out to me, and I took it gladly from him.
Even this old vestment, being wool, was difficult to tear into strips. I employed my dagger to begin the work, and continued the rips until I had a dozen long black strips ready to bind the reeds to Thomas’s leg.
The pounded hemp and lettuce seeds had by this time done their work. The swineherd snored softly upon his bed. He had likely slept little for several days, so fatigue aided my potion. When I straightened his twisted leg he would awaken soon enough.
I assigned two cotters to hold Thomas in place when I turned his leg to its proper shape, and told them to take care for his ribs and shoulder. With my blade I cut ten reeds to the proper length, then with John Kellet peering over my shoulder I set to work on the swineherd’s grotesque leg.
I first removed his shoe, and so deeply did Thomas sleep that I was able to do so without awakening him, even though his foot was swollen and it required some tugging to draw the shoe from it. Then, with my dagger, I cut away his worn, dirty chauces the better to see what injury lay before me. Thomas shifted, but remained asleep.
The place of the break was clear, even in the dim light of candles and cresset. Just above Thomas’s ankle was a swollen place, discolored red and purple. His foot was turned in such a way that I was sure that both bones under the bulging flesh were broken. ’Twould be difficult under such swelling to be sure the fractured bones were set in proper place so as to heal.
I told the cotters to hold Thomas fast, and from the corner of my eye saw John Kellet cross himself. His lips moved in a silent prayer.
The swineherd came immediately awake when I took his twisted foot in my hand. He gasped, and would have thrashed about, but his friends held him fast.
To spare the man extended pain I wished to do the work of straightening his leg quickly, but too much haste would risk a poor result, and the torment might be greater, although of less duration, than if I worked more slowly. I was conflicted. The instructors in surgery at the University of Paris had not discussed the matter.
Pain might not be the greatest evil to befall Thomas. If I did my work poorly he would stumble about upon a misshapen leg ’till the grave called him. There is purpose in pain, although when under its attack ’tis easier to lament the cause than praise the lesson.
I bent low over the swineherd’s face and told him what must be done. I spoke of the happy result if his leg knitted properly, and of the torment which he must endure to make it so. He nodded understanding when I had done, and I saw the muscles of his jaw bulge as he clenched his teeth.
My words did not lessen Thomas’s pain, but perhaps made it more bearable. The pounded hemp and lettuce seeds also did their work. The man gasped and moaned as I set his leg straight, but did not writhe about or twitch in such a manner as to complicate my work. The men I assigned to hold him quiet had little to do.
When I had got the leg straight I asked assistance of John Kellet and one of the cotters in holding reeds about the appendage whilst I tied them tight with strips of black wool from the old robe. The night was cool, but sweat beaded upon my forehead and lip before I finished the task.
“What is to be done with Thomas now?” Kellet asked when I stood from the completed work. “Will you also bind his ribs and shoulder?”
“There is little to be done with broken ribs,” I told him. “And for a fractured collar bone the only cure is to place the arm in a sling to support it until the break is mended. A man lying abed needs no sling. Perhaps, in a few days, Thomas will be able to rise and move about with the aid of a crutch. Then will be soon enough to learn if he can stand the pain of supporting himself with a crutch, with an arm in a sling.”
“He will require care,” the priest said. “I will see to him.” Then, to the cotters who looked on, “Carry him to the tower… gently, now.”
This the fellows did, depositing the bed and its burden at the base of the tower, aside the stairs to Kellet’s chamber.
The quarter moon was by this time well over the chapel. I told the priest that I would call in the day to learn how did the swineherd, dismissed the cotters to their homes, then set out for Galen House and my own bed.
Twice I had thought that bones found in the Midsummer’s Eve fire were identified, and twice I was wrong. There now seemed no other choice but to travel to villages nearby to learn if any man was missing.
Kate had barred the Galen House door, as I had told her to do when I was absent in the night. I pounded upon it for some time before she lifted the bar and admitted me. She would not hear of returning to bed until I had told her all, and so the sky to the east was growing light before I rested my head upon a pillow. Then, as sleep was nearly upon me, Sybil awoke and decided ’twas time to break her fast. This was no work of mine, but the babe’s cries delayed my rest and interrupted Kate’s.
If Kate’s cockerel announced the dawn I did not hear it. When I finally awoke, the day was well along and I heard Kate below, about the business of managing her house.
Kate rises early, even when her sleep has been interrupted. So she had been to the baker while I slept, and I found a new loaf yet warm upon our table when I stumbled down the stairs. Bessie takes after her mother, and also wakes with the dawn. She gazed thoughtfully at me, munching her loaf, as I drew a bench up to the table and broke my loaf. Kate had also brought home an ewer of fresh ale, brewed by the baker’s wife. A man who has been awake most of the night should wince to face the sunlight falling upon his face, but the fresh loaf and ale revived me.
Lord Gilbert must be told that the man whose bones were found in the St. John’s Day fire was yet unknown, and I intended to collect a horse at the castle marshalsea. A beast under me would make travel to nearby villages easier and more quickly accomplished.
On my way to the castle I turned from Church View Street to Rosemary Lane and John Holcutt’s house. I found the reeve finishing his loaf, told him of the roving pigs, and requested that he gather a few of Lord Gilbert’s tenants to collect them, and then assign one of the fellows to tend the beasts until Thomas was able again to do so.
I did not linger this day at the bridge over Shill Brook. When confronted with a riddle, I cannot readily turn aside from it, even to watch the water of the brook flow south to the Thames.
Wilfred the porter greeted me at the gatehouse, and at my request sent his assistant to tell a page that I required a horse forthwith.
Lord Gilbert sat in the solar with his son, Richard, when John Chamberlain announced me. A lord need not rise to greet his bailiff, but as I entered the chamber Lord Gilbert did so. His lad stood also, emulating his father – a thing most children do, for good or ill.
Great men do not like to receive bad news. Lord Gilbert is a great man. I told him of his swineherd’s injury, and that no name could yet be assigned to the bones found in the Midsummer’s Eve fire. He did not smile, but neither did he frown.
“The swineherd, Thomas… is that not his name?”
“Aye.”
“Will he be of use again, or must some other be found for his duty?”
“I have told John Holcutt to take men this day to gather the pigs, and assign one to watch over them ’till Thomas may again do so.”
“The swineherd will be whole?”
“I believe so. John Kellet is caring for him in St. Andrew’s Chapel. I intend to go from here east to learn if any man has disappeared from Aston or Cote or Yelford, then upon my return I will stop at St. Andrew’s Chapel to see how Thomas fares.”
I passed through Aston first, then Cote, and sought the bailiffs in each place. Such officers would know if a man of their bailiwick was missing, as I would know of a man absent from Bampton. None was. Yelford
was too small, since plague struck, to have or need a bailiff, but I found the reeve and learned that all men under his authority were accounted for.
My return to Bampton took me past St. Andrew’s Chapel. I tied the palfrey to a shrub growing from the churchyard wall and entered the dark structure.
John Kellet sat upon a bench beside Thomas Attewood, and stood when he saw me enter the chapel.
“Moans an’ thrashes about in ’is sleep, does Thomas,” the priest said.
“’Tis to be expected. I should have thought to send more herbs to soothe his pain.”
I lifted Thomas’s cotehardie to see how fared his ribs and collar bone. Both places were purple and swollen. There was no cure for that but time. It seemed to me that the bulge about the swineherd’s leg was some reduced. The reeds I had tied tightly about the fracture seemed loose. I untied two of the ribbons of black wool I had used to bind the reeds to Thomas’s leg and retied them more tightly.
“Come with me,” I said to Kellet when the work was done. “I have plenty of pounded lettuce seeds which will help Thomas sleep. When he sleeps he will not feel pain.”
The priest walked with me to the gate, where I retrieved my palfrey and walked with Kellet to Galen House.
I had few crushed hemp seeds to spare, but provided the curate with a pouch of pounded lettuce seeds and told him to give the swineherd a large thimbleful in a cup of ale twice each day – perhaps at midday so the fellow might rest in the afternoon, and at dusk to help him sleep the night.
“Where will I find a thimble?” Kellet asked.
“Perhaps a cotter’s wife will have one. If not, look to your thumb and pour enough crushed seeds into your palm that ’twould fill a small pouch the size of your thumb.”
“Oh, aye.”
Kellet hurried away with the pouch and I went to my dinner. Kate had not known when I might return this day, so had prepared a simple pottage which would serve no matter when I appeared. There was honeyed butter for the maslin loaf. Bessie licked her lips and asked for more when she finished her portion. So did her father.
