“S... sir, may I point out that, Dr. Merton said in his Treatise of 1266 that King Arthur did not exist but served as a metaphor...”
“What is your name?” Wilfred asked, his voice suddenly as icy as his temper was hot. If he did not get a poultice on his leg ulcer soon, he just might send the boy to the cave where his ancestress had imprisoned the previously invoked demon. He knew the spell. He’d just never had the courage to try it.
His nephew, Griffin, Baron of Kirkenwood and Pendragon of Britain, wouldn’t hesitate. But then he had more magic in the tip of his fingers than Wilfred would ever be able to conjure in a lifetime.
“I am...” the student stammered.
“I don’t really care who you are. Nor do I have the patience today to deal with your half reading. Show me the logic in your statement.”
“Sir?”
“You are here to learn logic, the finest discipline in the quadrivium. The last discipline you must learn before you can call yourselves masters. And not one of you has the sense to think this through. All you do is quote previous masters.” Wilfred pounded his stick once more. This time the act sent vibrations through his feet, connecting him to the earth. The sense of power ready to be tapped calmed him. A bit.
“Sir, is there no logic in quoting masters who have already thought the problem through?”
“Cheeky youngster, aren’t you.” Wilfred and the young man began a staring contest.
Wilfred won. The young man looked back to his scroll.
“I could claim descent from King Arthur for myself. Would you believe me?” He could prove it if any of them showed enough interest, and discretion, to appreciate it. His nephew had decided the populace in general could not appreciate and might misinterpret such information. So the family kept their ancestors secret from all but the king. King Edward, the first of that name, had a right to know which one of them currently acted the Pendragon and advised his royal personage.
“Such a claim would be suspect,” the cheeky student offered.
“At last you are thinking.” Wilfred crowed in triumph. “The purpose of this class is to make you think on your own. If we accept everything previous masters believed, we’d still be living in caves with monkeys, eating bugs and not knowing the truth of our God-given talents; never puzzling out the meaning behind the movements of the sun, moon, and stars, never creating or understanding beautiful music, learning to read...”
Wilfred paused for breath as he raised his eyes to encompass the entire class. “All of you take yourselves off and finish reading the assigned scrolls before we convene again on Monday. And I mean study them, form your own opinions, don’t just parrot the words back to me. You have brains. Use them!” He flung open the door from where he stood with just the power of his mind.
Finally a release of the energy building within him.
If only he could heal the ulcer on his leg as easily as he opened doors or lit candles. Even if he had the healing talent, he couldn’t use it upon himself.
The students scuttled out of his chambers. The young men hastened away. The clatter of their patens on the flagstones made Wilfred’s head ache as sorely as his leg.
Wilfred frowned at the lengthening shadows in the quadrangle of the college. Sunset approached on this Friday eve. Simon ben Isaac would not stir from his home in the Jewish quarter this late even for his old friend Wilfred.
Therefore, Wilfred must go to the good physician and apothecary if he hoped for any relief from the pain in his leg.
He grabbed his walking staff and cloak and stumped out the door of his chambers. The bleak cold of early November in this Year of Our Lord 1289 penetrated his woolen undertrews and set the oozing ulcer on fire. He cursed again, this time in Greek, knowing that any student who overheard him would have to work at understanding the words.
A student, wearing the gown and colors of Merton wove a drunken path across the quadrangle.
Wilfred tried to avoid bumping into the fellow. His painful leg locked in place, then threatened to give way beneath him. This left him a target for the young man’s bleary vision. The youth carried a pewter tankard that sloshed dark and fragrant ale.
“You one of mine?” Wilfred shouted, peering beneath the boy’s hood. “You’ll be out on your ear if you are. Drunk this early on a Friday eve. Couldn’t you have waited until after sunset?”
“Sorry, Sir,” the boy slurred. “Been over to the Turf. New ale. Best brewed in whole city.” He waved his arms expansively. More of the ale sloshed upon Wilfred’s gown.
“Drunken fool.” Wilfred brought a ball of cold witch light to his palm, the better to study the boy’s face. Too many hours of studying ancient manuscripts had weakened his eyes.
“Strange torch,” the boy mused. “Almost magic.” He wavered, coming close to toppling over.
Wilfred grabbed his sleeve to keep him upright and center his own vision. “Ulrich of Salisbury. I should have known. You haven’t been sober of a Friday since you got here.” But he was a damned fine student during the rest of the week. “You’ll make a fine scholar if you ever stay sober long enough to complete the curriculum.”
The world seemed to shift to the left. Wilfred’s vision doubled and then doubled again. For a brief moment he caught a glimpse of an older and wiser Ulrich wearing a master’s robes, teaching a bevy of younger men in Wilfred’s own quarters.
The vision left Wilfred gasping in confusion. “Just a portent. Not a certainty,” he reminded himself.
“You say something, Sir?” Ulrich slurred.
“Go to confession before you dare darken the door of my chambers on Monday morn.”
Ulrich of Salisbury saluted with his mug to his brow.
Wilfred doubted he’d remember the orders to confess. But that sacrament was required of all students before Mass on Sunday. Wilfred himself would have to confess his foray into the Jewish quarter. Consorting with the tainted Jews was considered a sin.
But no other physician in the city had Simon ben Isaac’s skill and knowledge.
“On your way, boy. And stay out of trouble.” Wilfred pushed Ulrich toward the student chambers.
“Could you trouble me with one of those hand torches, Sir? Stairs are damned dark and twisty.”
“Master’s secret,” Wilfred said rather than admit openly to having magical talent. Bad enough his students spread rumors hither and yon of his alchemical experiments. He didn’t need it bruited about that the youngest Don—barely three and thirty—had congress with the Devil, or Jews, or whatever evil currently topped the Church’s list.
With growing urgency as the sunset fell toward the horizon, he stumped his way across town to the Jewish Quarter.
Suddenly, as if traversing a portal into a new world the streets became clean, the houses newly whitewashed and thatched and in good repair despite their modest size and appearance. Not one bit of garbage or animal waste marred his passage.
He breathed deeply. This part of town always smelled fresher than the Christian sections. One thing his fellow believers had not learned or improved upon from the Jews was cleanliness. And they weren’t likely to in the current political climate.
King Edward Longshanks made noises on a monthly basis about how the Jews corrupted the very air Christians breathed. His grace also had a fondness for referring to Jews as thieves. One of the few professions open to the Jews was money lending. They had to charge interest to make a living. And every time the king or a great lord defaulted on a loan (without penalty), the Jews had to increase their interest rate to other clients to make up the difference.
The Jews were blamed for everything from the decreasing value of a coin, to the latest disease, to the worsening relations with France, to the early and long winters. Mimicking their cleanliness might become the next great sin.
Wilfred touched his soiled robe with the Celtic cross atop his staff and willed the stains away. The scent of spilled ale and the roast mutton he’d eaten for his dinner evaporated under an orange glow. The
embedded mint sauce from yesterday took a little more concentration. At last he felt clean enough to approach his friend, the physician.
“Simon ben Isaac, open your door.” Wilfred pounded upon the stout wooden planking with his staff.
“’Tis Friday eve, the Sabbath. I may not open my door,” came a robust reply just on the other side.
“The sun hasn’t set yet, you old hen-plucker,” Wilfred replied with a bit of mirth.
“How can you tell with those heavy clouds about to dump snow upon us?” Simon opened the door and leaned out, looking at the horizon rather than his friend. A single grey curl dangled before each of his ears. The rest of his hair was clipped short and an elaborately embroidered black prayer cap adorned his head.
“I can tell.” Wilfred closed his eyes and concentrated. His body automatically turned to face north. The wind caressed his face and told him everything he needed to know about the heavens. “You’ve time to poultice my leg before you go to your prayers.” Wilfred shouldered the man aside and limped heavily into the stark room.
“Come right in, Wilfred of Kirkenwood,” Simon said sarcastically, hands on hips, a glare of disapproval in his eyes.
“Thank you, old friend.” Wilfred dropped onto the kist, a small chest with a rounded top, beside the window and stuck his offending left leg out before him. Simon did not waste money on chairs that served no other purpose than a place to sit.
“You’ve got to do something, Simon. This really pains me. I’ll not make it to Monday.”
“How do you know the sun has not set?” Simon waved his hand to indicate the bowls of tallow burning feebly around the room. They did little to lighten the gloom of this dark November day.
“My soul senses the movement of sun and stars and moon. I’ve studied them too long not to know precisely where they are at this moment. You have half a candle length before the sun touches the horizon. Now please, stop stalling and treat this leg.”
Simon remained by the door, his arms crossed across his chest. His mud brown robes fell to his feet undisturbed by movement.
“I’ve money to pay, if that keeps you rooted to the spot like some great oak.” Wilfred held up the small purse his nephew had sent him so that he might journey home to Kirkenwood to celebrate Yuletide Mass.
“I am not allowed to treat Christians,” Simon said simply.
“But you are the best doctor in all of Oxford. Possibly in all of England.”
“That matters not. The Archbishop of Canterbury has decreed and the king agrees with him: for a Jew to treat the illness of a Christian only further taints their bodies and disrupts the humors. I may only serve my own people.”
“Nonsense. I don’t give a mistletoe berry what the king and archbishop think...”
“’Tis the law, Wilfred.”
“I am not a physician, merely a simple midwife,” a woman said, walking into the main room of the house from some hidden cubby in the rear.
Wilfred stared at her, agape. She glided into the room more than walked, graceful, serene, and... and beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her dark hair contrasted delightfully with her pale, flawless skin. And those clear green eyes sparkled with mischief and intelligence.
From one breath to the next, Wilfred, who had never had time or interest in the mousey, stupid, giddy women his family paraded in front of him, fell in love.
“Close your mouth, Wilfred. You will only catch flies with it hanging open like an oubliette,” Simon said.
Wilfred managed to lever his jaw upward enough to comply while he studied the woman. She carried a bowl filled with some aromatic substance he could not name. Keeping her eyes modestly lowered, she began bathing the offensive ulcer with a clean cloth which she dipped into the mixture.
No skinny, giggling, maiden this. She had passed the first flush of youth and matured into incredible beauty. The sight of her rounded body filled Wilfred with sweet longing.
“How be it you have managed to keep this glorious angel a secret from me, Simon?” Wilfred finally asked. He knew better than to speak to the woman directly. Jewish ideas of modesty differed from his own.
The first fire of the bathing passed from his ulcer, replaced by a blessed cooling that spread outward from the center of the wound.
“My sister, Miriam, newly come from Flanders.” Simon did not follow the information with a formal introduction. Wilfred could not yet speak directly to her.
A secret smile played about Miriam’s generous mouth as she applied an ointment to the ulcer. “Simon, tell your patient that this balm will help heal the wound, but he must keep the bandages clean, and he must not drink so much wine or eat too many blood puddings.”
Her rich voice washed over Wilfred like a sweet melody.
Simon repeated her words, the same mischievous smile tugged at his mouth as his sister’s.
“Simon, tell your lovely sister that I must return here every three days so that she may replace the bandages and apply a new dose of this wonderful balm.” Wilfred did not, could not, remove his eyes from her.
Simon repeated those words.
At last Miriam looked up at Wilfred and laughed. “Very well, Wilfred of Kirkenwood. You may return here every three days for more treatment from a simple midwife who has lived too long among Christians to fear them.”
“Miriam, no,” Simon protested. All trace of amusement left him. “They’ll burn you for a witch if he heals too quickly and too well.”
“Or they’ll brand and exile us all, Jews consorting with a Christian. And a Christian who is rumored to deal with dark powers and alchemy.” She rose from her crouch to her knees and glared at them both with hands on hips and her mouth pursed in disapproval.
“Will you marry me, Miriam?” Wilfred blurted out. “I love you.”
“Nonsense. You are grateful for the release of your pain. Now return to your studies and your philosophical arguments with your fellow Dons before the sun truly sets and we must begin our prayers.”
“You’ve told her about me?” Wilfred queried Simon.
“I may have mentioned you a time or two in my letters to her husband, may he rest in peace. Can I help it if he allowed an impertinent woman to read our correspondence?” Simon asked as he helped Wilfred up from the low kist and guided him to the door. “Now do try to stay off that leg for a few days and eat lightly, watered ale and gruel. A bit of chicken or fish if it’s not too salty or drowned in rich sauces.”
“You are cruel, Simon. How am I to stay warm sleeping alone on these frigid nights with so little food inside me? If I survive, I shall return on Monday for fresh bandages and some more of your widowed sister’s wonderful balm and charming company.”
Wilfred limped back to his chambers, dreaming of Miriam, sister of Simon ben Isaac. He didn’t feel the cold a bit, nor did the snow that soaked his cloak chill him to the bone.
The next morn Wilfred sent word to his nephew by merchant caravan that he could not travel because of the ulcer on his leg, compounded by the worsening weather. Winter did seem to come earlier and earlier each year.
When students traveled home for Yuletide, Wilfred remained in his chambers, entertaining the few remaining in Merton College. They mulled wine on the hearth and helped him through the snow every three days to the home of Simon ben Isaac. Four times Miriam dressed his wound, then declared him healed. Wilfred found new ailments, aches and pains to justify additional trips across town into the Jewish quarter.
The snow grew deeper. Christians and Jews alike ran out of firewood, peat, and sea coal. Many had to borrow money from the Jews to pay inflated prices for fuel to stay warm.
And the snow grew deeper yet.
Still Wilfred beat a daily path to the home of Simon ben Isaac. By Twelfth Night he gave up making excuses. He courted Miriam openly. Her wit, charm, and intelligence enchanted him. They argued politics. She knew history nearly as well as he. Best of all she never doubted that King Arthur existed and that he had died a martyr, believing th
at the law, justice, and peace could work and that honor, truth, and promises were important.
Neither of them could remember a monarch since who had lived up to those qualities.
Wilfred hesitantly claimed distant kinship to the great king of the past.
“’Tis only logical that a man as great as you with kin of ancient and honorable lineage should descend from King Arthur. ’Tis more logical that you descend from King Arthur’s Merlin, the greatest magician of all time,” Miriam countered.
Wilfred blushed. “What if I told you that my family can trace its lineage to both King Arthur and his Merlin?”
“I am happy that you take such pride in your heritage. My mother traces our lineage back to Abraham and thence to Adam,” she returned proudly.
Her big brown eyes met his in shining affection. Wilfred’s heart melted anew and his loins set afire.
The world tilted around him. His eyes found focus in a new dimension. He caught a glimpse of Miriam holding an auburn-haired babe to her breast while three others, also sporting the auburn hair and deep blue eyes of the Kirkenwood family, played at her feet. He knew without question that he had fathered/would father all four of those children within the bounds of wedlock.
Pride and joy swelled within him.
On Shrove Tuesday, as the Christian community feasted on the last of the lard, eggs, and milk before the forty days of Lenten fasting, Wilfred dressed in his finest, and cleanest robe. He washed his hair and trimmed his beard. As usual Simon ben Isaac greeted him at the door. The two old friends exchanged formal greetings then ducked inside.
“Is the world about to end?” Simon asked as he tweaked Wilfred’s curling beard. A few strands of gray had crept into the auburn mass during the winter.
“I bathed. What is so unusual about that?” Wilfred growled.
“Snow still encrusts the verge and ice makes the roads treacherous. No one has extra fuel to heat water for a bath,” Simon replied. A bit of mirth tugged the corner of his mouth upward.
Fantastical Ramblings Page 12
