We hurried away to the marketplace and the New Inn, where Arthur awaited. I called to him to join us, and together we escorted Amice Thatcher to her house. I told her to remain there until I returned. She agreed readily, having had time to consider what trouble might come if John Thrale’s assailants found her.
There is much poverty on the lanes beyond the marketplace. Little wonder Amice was eager to wed if the sacrament would take her from the bury to East St. Helen Street. Her tears had been for John Thrale, I suppose, but perhaps also for shattered hopes of escape.
Arthur and I returned to the New Inn and between mouthfuls of pottage I related the morning’s events to him. While I explained, a way to provide for Amice Thatcher’s safety occurred to me.
’Tis but a few paces from the New Inn to St. John’s Hospital. I found the hospital porter and asked that he fetch the infirmarer. The man looked down his nose at me, or tried to, but as I stood half a head taller than him, this he found difficult to do. He did make a manful effort. At last he deigned to reply.
“The New Inn, just beyond the gatehouse, serves travelers.”
“Aye, and we are lodged there. It is accommodation for another I seek.”
The porter made no reply. I believe his instructions were to permit as few folk as possible to enter the hospital. When Amice Thatcher was safely in the hospital, this hostile reception might serve to protect her — if she was first permitted to enter the place.
“I am Hugh de Singleton,” I said. “Surgeon, and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton. It is Lord Gilbert’s business which brings me here.”
“Lord Gilbert wishes lodging in the abbey? I will send for Abbot Peter. He will wish for Lord Gilbert to be his guest. When shall I say Lord Gilbert will arrive?”
The sullen porter was suddenly willing to please. I could fit in no word till he had stopped for breath and had begun to turn from me to send for the abbot.
“Nay, ’tis not Lord Gilbert who wishes lodging in Abingdon.”
“You said you are here on Lord Gilbert’s business,” the porter scowled.
“Indeed. There has been theft and murder done upon Lord Gilbert’s lands. One who may know something of the felony needs a place where she may be safe from those who might do her harm so as to silence her and escape my investigation.”
“She?”
“Aye. A widow and her two children.”
Another silence followed. I would not plead with the porter, and he could think of no reason to deny my request that he seek the hospital infirmarer.
“I will fetch Brother Theodore,” he finally said, then turned and slowly entered the hospital.
Arthur and I stood before the porter’s chamber, shifting weight from one foot to another, for nearly an hour before the porter reappeared with two elderly monks following. If Lord Gilbert Talbot’s name could generate so little haste, it is sure that Master Hugh, surgeon, would have found even less regard in this place. Here was not the first time I had found it convenient to mention my employer’s name when I needed something from men who might otherwise be loath to provide for my need.
One of the grizzled monks who followed the porter held a linen cloth over his mouth and nose. When he came close I saw that this fabric was stained with blood and a yellowish effusion.
“Brother Bartholomew,” the porter said, “here is… Hugh, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot. Brother Bartholomew,” he turned to me, “is infirmarer at the abbey and hospital.” The elderly monks bowed slightly, and I returned the greeting.
“You require lodging for a woman, I am told,” the infirmarer said. Arthur, who had been standing near, displaying Lord Gilbert’s blue-and-black livery to add emphasis to my request, now spoke:
“You’ve injured yourself?” he said to the other monk. It was impolitic for Arthur to interrupt so, but he is accustomed to speaking his mind, and voiced but what I had thought.
“Nay, no injury. A fistula which will not heal.”
“Master Hugh can deal with such as that,” Arthur said confidently. “Seen ’im put a man’s skull back together after a tree fell on ’im.”
“You are a physician?” the monk asked.
“Nay, a surgeon. Is there no brother in the abbey, trained in medicine, who can help you?”
“Brother Bartholomew has prepared salves, but none will cure me. I will go to my grave with this, I think. I have prayed the Lord Christ to ease my affliction, and the saints, also, but as with St. Paul’s ‘thorn in the flesh,’ He has chosen not to do so.”
“Some afflictions,” the porter said, “serve to bring us to God. As we suffer now, He will requite it of us in purgatory. Brother Theodore’s suffering will release him from years of misery to come. And Brother Bartholomew possesses much knowledge and skill. If he cannot deal with Brother Theodore’s complaint, ’tis sure no other can.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, shrugged, but remained silent. He recognized that the porter was not a man who suffered lightly any contradiction, especially from the commons. The monk, however, saw no need to agree with the porter.
“You made a man’s broken head whole again?”
“Aye.”
“An’ he walks now near as good as ever,” Arthur found his voice again.
“Do you have salves which might help me, some ointment Brother Bartholomew does not know of?”
“Nay, no ointment will remedy your hurt.”
“See,” the porter said, “there is nothing to be done if Brother Bartholomew cannot work a cure.”
Brother Theodore turned to me and said, “Is this so?”
“Nay. Such a fistula can be repaired. I saw it done in Paris.”
“Paris?”
“Aye,” Arthur said. “Master Hugh studied surgery in Paris.”
The monk looked from me to the porter, then slowly dropped the linen cloth which had covered his disfigurement.
“Can you deal with this?” he asked.
The fistula was between his nose and his right eye. I believe it had vexed the man for many months, perhaps even years, for it was of great size and oozed constantly a fluid of pus and blood.
I approached close to the sufferer and studied the lesion carefully before I made reply. “Aye, I can. I must tell you, however, that such surgery as I must do to mend you will be painful.”
“But after the pain I will have relief?”
“Aye, I believe so. An unsightly scar will remain.”
“No more unsightly than this wound I now bear.”
“Nay, not so bad as now.”
“When can you deal with this affliction?”
“I have no instruments with me. I must return to Bampton for them. While I do so you and the infirmarer may find a chamber for a woman who needs a place of safety for herself and her children. Felons who have done theft and murder may seek her out to do more villainy.”
“I am Brother Theodore,” the monk said. “Hosteler to the abbey. Brother Bartholomew and I will see that the woman is safe in the hospital.”
I left the abbey pleased that I would be able to help a troubled man, and pleased also that when I did so, I would have a friend inside the abbey walls.
Chapter 6
So it was that the infirmarer of St. John’s Hospital, Abingdon, was pleased to find a place for Amice Thatcher and her children. Perhaps the porter, had he some infirmity I might have mended, would also have been willing to see Amice sheltered there. As it was, he showed his displeasure with a scowl and in every way but by words.
Arthur and I left the abbey and returned to the crowded alleys of the bury. Amice Thatcher’s door was open for custom, and a bushel was raised upon a pole above her door, to tell all that here was fresh-brewed ale. The narrow lane was swarming with residents, both adult and children. Their numbers would keep Amice safe in the day, but for the dark of night I was well pleased that she would be within St. John’s Hospital.