Mel Starr - Rest Not in Peace

Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow rose. “Aye, ’tis a puzzle. You believe it important?”

“Everything which happens in your castle may be important. Our problem is that some things may not be of consequence and we do not know which are which… so we must treat all events as significant to Sir Henry’s death, even though some may not be, as we do not know the difference.”

“Oh,” Sir Roger frowned. “Just so.”

I departed the solar with the sheriff’s brow furrowed in thought and Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow yet raised. They might puzzle out the mystery over a cup of wine whilst I ministered to William.

I found the squire groaning in his bed. His nose was more swollen and his eyes blacker than the day before. It seemed likely that William had slept little.

Robert de Cobham sat upon his bed, watching his companion, when I entered their chamber. Robert’s visage, clouded with worry, lightened when I entered, as if he thought his friend’s anguish would be soon ended. Not so. Pain may come in but a moment, as in the arrival of a strong man’s fist upon the point of another man’s nose, but will generally take much longer to pass away.

William turned from his pillow and lifted his head when my shadow fell across him. His warped nose had long since stopped bleeding, but was evidently so painful that neither he nor any other had tried to cleanse the dried gore caked upon his upper lip.

“You’ve come to fix my nose?” William said, his voice sounding as if he spoke from the base of a garderobe drain.

“Aye.” I turned to Robert and told him to seek the buttery and return with a large cup of ale, then described to William what I must do.

Robert returned with the ale as I concluded my explanation. It was impossible for William’s eyes to grow wide, but when I told him of what I must do and the brief pain he would feel, his face reflected the fright in his soul.

I poured all of the vial of crushed hemp seeds into the ale, instructed William to drink it all, and watched to see that he did. It is my experience that such a physic is most effective an hour or so after being consumed, so I told the squire to wait upon his bed while I was about other business, and that I would return to set his nose straight when the potion had done its work.

I did not tell William that I intended to visit Sir John while I waited for the hemp seeds to make the lad lethargic. I wanted no further explanations from him until I had heard the knight’s account of their brawl.

Sir John lay sleeping upon his bed. So silent was he that at first I feared he had died in the hour since I had spoken to Lord Gilbert. No man or woman attended him, which I thought strange. But I was pleased that Sir Geoffrey was not present. I wished to ask of Sir John questions he might prefer not to answer was his friend with him.

Sir John slept soundly, which was good, as I am convinced that healing of such a wound is hastened when the one so injured is rested. I shook the fellow by the shoulder to wake him, and he finally snorted from slumber and lifted his head from the pillow to see who had disturbed him.

“Ah,” he mumbled. “’Tis you. I have lived the night. I heard you speak to Lord Gilbert after you dealt with my wound.”

“Sir Roger said you took bread and ale this morning. Did the meal make you nauseous?”

“Nay… well, not much. Didn’t lose it.”

“I will draw back your blanket and see the wound.”

I did so, and Sir John raised himself upon his elbows to see also. “You’ve not bound it, nor put a salve on it,” he said in an accusatory tone. I explained that I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who learned in dealing with wounds suffered in battle that those left dry and open to the air usually healed best.

“There’s no pus,” the knight said, and I heard fear in his voice.

“Aye,” I replied. “This is best. Physicians have long taught that thin, watery pus is perilous, and thick, yellow pus issuing from a wound is good. But again, I hold with de Mondeville that no pus at all is best.”

Sir John remained propped upon his elbow as I told him this. He seemed unconvinced, but I explained to him that his very posture was evidence of the likely success of de Mondeville’s view. If his cut had festered it would be unlikely that he could raise himself as he did without pain.

My words seemed to remind the man that he was uncomfortable, and he slumped back to the bed.

“Why did you strike young William?”

Sir John was silent. He was unwilling to speak and although I waited for a reply, none came.

“You broke his nose and blackened his eyes,” I finally said. I thought I saw a smile flicker across the knight’s face. “Does that news bring you pleasure?” I asked.

“He might have slain me,” Sir John finally said.

“After you struck him down and drew your dagger,” I reminded him. “What did he do to anger you so?”

The man once again lapsed into silence, and turned his head from me as if to signal that he wished the conversation at an end. I did not.

“The lad spoke in jest when he said that Sir Geoffrey might soon be riding Sir Henry’s mare. Why did you take his wit so amiss?”

I saw Sir John stiffen under the blanket, but he made no reply. My words had touched some tender place, but I did not know why.

I learned nothing more from Sir John. He remained resolute in his silence, his face turned from me. He did not respond even when I told him that I would return before supper to see how he fared, and that we would speak about this again.

The failed attempt at conversation had taken nearly an hour, so when I returned to the squires’ chamber William was as ready as he was likely to be for the straightening of his skewed nose.

The work required no instruments. There was nothing to slice or stitch, to open or close. My only tools were two small, tightly rolled linen patches which I drew from my pouch and laid upon the table.

William sat upon his bed, but I thought this an unsafe posture. Should he swoon from the pain when I set his nose aright he might fall to the floor. I told him to recline against his pillow, which he seemed grateful to do, as the hemp seeds had stupefied him to a wonderful degree.

There was no gentle way to do what must be done. Quickly was best. To set William’s nose straight with slow, steady measures would bring him more grief than to do the work in one rapid, if painful, wrench.

The squire lay back upon his bed and watched through the swollen slits of his blackened eyes as my hand approached and gently probed his battered nose. This touch evidently caused him little pain. He did not twitch or catch his breath while I examined the organ.

This inspection was done as much to calm William as to tell me what must be done. I wished the lad to be lulled into a false sense that the treatment he was about to receive would be but more of the same. Such he could endure.

The squire lay relaxed under my hand when, with a quick motion, I grasped his nose, pulled it straight, and a heartbeat later, seeing it now protruding as should be from between his eyes, released the offended appendage.

William responded with an awful howl, and tears welled from his eyes. He threw his hands up as if to provide some relief for his pain, but I grasped them so he could not undo the work I had just completed.

Robert saw his friend thrashing about and jumped to aid me in holding William quiet upon the bed. The yelping soon subsided. William’s body twitched a few times and was then still. I believe he understood, through his torment, that the worst was past.

When I was sure that the squire would do no harm to his restored nose I released his arms and stood above him.

“Is there more?” he moaned. “Or are you done with me?”