Mel Starr - The Tainted Coin

I turned Bruce from the road, and Arthur followed. We were already soaked through, wet and cold. What matter if we became colder and wetter?

It was not necessary to dismount to follow this path. I knew the way, and I thought I knew where it would lead. I discovered soon enough that my knowledge was incomplete.

We came to the clearing where John Kellet and I had found Thrale’s horse and cart, and here I dismounted to inspect the surrounding forest for cavities made by those who sought the chapman’s hoard. No such digging was visible, but two wicked men had recently come to this place for some reason. It was not to enjoy the solitude of a peaceful autumn wood.

I told Arthur to circle about the clearing to the right, and I would do the same to the left. No more than ten paces from the clearing I found a duplicate of the ruins we found near Standlake. Here there were twenty leaf-and-mold-covered columns, four across and five in length, standing in a shallow declivity, as in the first discovery. Here was a place where ancient men had once lived, but a half-mile from Bampton, yet so far as I knew, no man of Bampton knew of the place. Perhaps some swineherd had passed by, or men seeking downed limbs for winter firewood, but if they saw the lumps in the forest they thought little of them. I was sure I would find holes dug into the earth nearby, and soon did so; four of them.

I called softly to Arthur and a moment later he appeared, stepping silently through the sodden forest.

Here the layer of fallen leaves covering the holes and the accompanying piles of dirt was thinner than at Standlake. Rain had surely loosened some this day, so whoever dug these pits had done so recently, perhaps this very morn. I held a finger to my lips to silence Arthur, though in truth he made no sound as he stepped near, and glanced about to see if any men might at that moment be seen observing us from behind an oak. Arthur caught my intent, and did likewise. We stood thus for some time, silent in the dripping wood, but neither saw nor heard any other man.

“’Tis sure the villains who delved here found no riches at Standlake,” said Arthur.

“Aye, they would not trouble themselves here had they done so. Nor did they find silver or gold here, I think.”

“Four holes, rather than one?”

“Aye, unless the fourth pit rewarded their labor.”

Arthur peered about, water dripping from his cap and eyebrows, and shivered. This was unlike him, for he bore discomfort as well as any man. I knew this from having spent some hours with him bound uncomfortably in a cold swineherd’s hut a year and more past.

“We have missed our dinner,” I said. “But mayhap cook will have a morsel remaining, and I am wet through and need dry clothes. Let us be off.”

Once or twice as we neared, then passed St. Andrew’s Chapel, I thought I saw in the road the mark of a broken horseshoe, but the pelting rain had so eroded all impressions in the mud that I could not be sure the felons had entered the town. And I was so wet and chilled, I no longer cared much where the fellows had gone. My mind, as we approached Bampton Castle, was fixed on warm, dry clothes, and a warm, dry wife. I found both readily.

Rain continued all the next day. I sought Arthur and told him we would not return to Abingdon until the morrow, when the deluge, I hoped, would have passed. I spent the day in my old bachelor quarters, playing with Bessie and enjoying conversation with Kate.

Saturday dawned clear but cold. After a loaf and a cup of ale, Arthur and I were off again for Abingdon, with a sack of my instruments and herbs slung across Bruce’s rump. I had spent so much of the journey on Thursday watching the road pass beneath me that I could not refrain from doing so this day as well. If the men I sought had found no treasure yet, perhaps they might be again upon the roads. They were not.

We left our horses in the mews behind the New Inn, consumed a dinner of stockfish and pease pottage, then set off for St. Nicholas’s Church and the abbey gatehouse.

The porter was not present, perhaps at his dinner, but the lay brother who served in his place trotted off willingly to seek the hosteler. Brother Theodore appeared soon after, the stained linen cloth pressed to his cheek. The monk did not seem comforted to see me.

I carried over my shoulder the sack of instruments and herbs I would use to mend Brother Theodore’s fistula. His eyes went to the sack as he approached and I saw him sigh.

“I have brought all things needed to deal with your hurt,” I said.

“I am sorry for your inconvenience,” the monk replied.

“You have changed your mind? You no longer wish me to treat your fistula?”

“Nay. I wish it heartily, but m’lord abbot forbids it.”

As we spoke the porter appeared, returning to his post. He overheard Brother Theodore and explained.

“Saturn is in the house of Aries, as any competent leech or surgeon should know, and will remain for a fortnight. No surgery upon a man’s head or face will succeed at such a time. Brother abbot has forbidden it.”

I knew the tradition that Saturn, that malignant planet, might bring medical and surgical care to naught, was the physician or surgeon so bold as to try his skill when Saturn was opposed.

But I also knew of Henri de Mondeville’s experience in mending men after battle. He once extracted an arrow which pierced a man’s cheeks, through from one side of his face to the other, no matter the position of planets or the moon in the zodiac. What good to a man wounded in battle to wait a fortnight, or even a day, to minister to his injury?

De Mondeville wrote of his cures that recovery from wounds seemed dependent more upon the skill of the surgeon than the position of the stars and planets. So after reading Surgery , which book set me upon my chosen work, I paid scant attention when learned doctors at the university in Paris required of us students that we become expert in the zodiac and the influence of the stars and planets over our work.

And while a student at Baliol College I read The Confessions of St. Augustine . He wrote that astrology strikes at the root of human responsibility. To men it says, “What has happened is not my fault, it was decided by the stars. Venus or Mars or Saturn did this, not my foolishness or sin.” God, creator of the stars and planets, is to be blamed for whatever mistakes we make or evil we do.

But if the abbot forbid me dealing this day with Brother Theodore’s fistula, so be it. An abbot may not be contradicted within the walls of his demesne. Brother Theodore had lived with his malaise for some years. He would need to endure a fortnight longer.

“How does Amice Thatcher?” I asked.

“Brother Anselm sent her away this morn,” the hosteler finally said.

“Away? Why so? She may be in danger. The infirmarer knew this. What cause did he give?”

“Said the children were too noisy, disturbed those who were ill.”

The hosteler seemed skeptical. Had it not been so, I would not have prodded the monk further.

“Did you hear of others who complained?”

Again the hosteler hesitated. “Nay… well, not much. My chamber is in the guest hall, so as to be near my charges. I’d not have heard even were the children troublesome.”

I believe he did not wish to seem disloyal to a friend, but wished to speak the truth. This is often a trying thing for an honest man, whether he serves abbot, bishop, or King.

“Did Mistress Thatcher annoy the infirmarer? Had she some distasteful habit, or did she demand more than proper of a guest?”

“Nay, not so far as I could see. But somehow she vexed him. He was in a choler when I saw him this morn, before matins.”