Mel Starr - The Unquiet Bones

I found a fallen limb and used it to scrape about in the leaves, but found nothing more. I saw on closer inspection that the cotehardie might be dirty, but it was not worn or frayed. Indeed, other than the filth, it seemed nearly new. Its owner would not have discarded it in these woods intentionally. I thought for a moment that I might clean it and use it for my own. This idea I dismissed immediately. The garment was far above my station. I would seem foolish to observers who knew me. Perhaps in London I might wear it — or even Oxford — and be thought a young lord. But in Bampton people would snicker behind their hands at my presumption. And sumptuary laws, though mostly ignored, forbid a man of my quality wearing such a garment. I resolved to show the cotehardie to Lord Gilbert. It had an unusual pattern. Perhaps he would know its owner. I slung the cotehardie across Bruce’s muscular withers, where it remained for the day, and continued my journey.

The November sun was well up over Burford’s rooftops when I reached my patient’s cottage. The door swung open before I could find a convenient fencepost to which to tie Bruce.

“I remembered the wine,” the woman said by way of greeting.

I would have returned a salutation but did not know her name. I had been more interested in the information she could provide, and the condition of her toe, than the woman herself. I view this now as a flaw in my character, but it was a flaw I took steps to rectify when I understood it. I asked her name.

“Edith, Edith Church…account of I live behind the churchyard.”

“Well, Edith, I have brought my instruments. Shall we begin?”

“Aye. Sooner the better. I’ve had no sleep for days for the ache in me toe.”

I dragged her table out into the sunlight in the toft at the rear of her cottage. Neither of us desired spectators, which, if I performed the surgery at her front step, her shrieks would likely attract. I warned her that the procedure would be painful.

Edith peered at me beneath narrowed brows. “I’ve borne seven children — four yet livin’ — naught you can do to me toe will teach me anything about affliction.”

I could not argue with her logic, so got her on the table and went to my work. She was as good as her word. She stifled a groan or two, and twitched as I incised the offending toenail. That was all. I completed my work quickly, bathed the toe once more in wine, then helped the old woman to her feet.

“Do not wear a tight shoe until you see all redness depart from the wound. This might be two or three weeks.”

“Hah! Tight shoe? I’ve but one pair of shoes, tight or no. Will you dress it now?”

I seem to make a habit of explaining my surgical philosophy to patients. It is usual practice, I know, to dress a wound or incision, so I am required to explain why, in most situations, I choose not to do so.

“The wound may yield pus for a few days. Dab it clear, but do nothing to restrain the flow. If the pus turns clear and watery, and releases a putrid smell, send for me instantly.”

“Why so?” she asked.

“Because that will likely signify gangrene.”

Edith put her hand to her mouth. “What’ll you do then?”

“I must then amputate the toe…but I think that unlikely. Walk little, keep the wound clean of the filth of the streets, and raise the foot on a stool when you sit. I believe then all will be well.” So it was, for when Edith sent for me a few days later, it was not to discuss her toe.

I helped Edith hobble into her cottage and sat her in what was clearly her accustomed bench before the fire. The house was once grander than now. It was built with a fireplace. I drew up a stool, lifted her foot to rest upon it, then placed the remaining bench before her.

“Now my work is done. Yours begins. What have you learned?”

“’Twasn’t easy, gettin’ round town w’me toe as ’twas.” She waited, seeming to expect some agreement from me that her share of our bargain had been most arduous. So I agreed.

“Like I said, Margaret was never short of admirers. An’ she seemed to admire ’em right back. Folks I’ve talked to say as her Tom didn’t seem to mind over much. Told some as how ’twas a kind’a honor, bein’ chose by one as had as many choices as she’d want.”

“So Thomas Shilton was not the jealous sort?”

“Not regular. But they did have a quarrel, him an’ Margaret.”

“I suppose most lovers do, once in a while,” I replied. “When was this quarrel?”

“Some time past. In t’spring. A week or so before hocktide. Or maybe ’twas after hocktide. ’Bout then.”

“What was this quarrel about — do you know?”

“Another man,” Edith replied.

“How did you learn of this?” I asked.

“It was me friend, Muriel. Her husband’s a wool merchant, you know.” I didn’t, but I remembered hearing of the wool merchant’s daughter. “She was at the river, comin’ back from t’mill. Margaret an’ her Tom had spoke to her when she walked by the smithy. Reckon her pa wasn’t there, ’cause when Muriel got ’cross the bridge she heard ’em yellin’ at each other.”

“Did she hear what was said?”

“Muriel’s hearin’ ain’t good. She’s of an age for that.” The same age as Edith, I guessed.

“She did hear Tom say as to how she was bein’ a fool. He said, ‘He’s a gentleman. He’ll not take up with the likes of you.’”

“Some screechin’ from Margaret next, but nothin’ she could make out. Not for want of tryin’, I’d guess.” Edith grinned and put a finger beside her nose. “Muriel likes a good story.”

“Then why did she not tell you of this before?”

“Well…” Here Edith looked away for a moment. “I don’t get to see her much any more.”

I waited. I thought the woman too needy for conversation not to tell me more.

“Her man don’t like it. Wants to buy me eggs an’ cabbages himself. I can get more from others than from him. He’s tried to put the guild on me.”

“The grocers’ guild? He’s a wool merchant.”

“That kind stick together. They don’t like folks as horn into their business. Even widows with but four eggs a day to sell.”

“Would Muriel speak to me about this?”

“Oh, aye. You’ll not get her to stop. So long as Theobald, that’s her husband, ain’t about.”

“He’s a hard man?” I guessed.

“Flint. An’ a miser, as well.”

“Where is Muriel likely to be at this hour?”

“At home. Where she should be, anyway. House behind the shop. Her man’ll be countin’ his pennies at his business.”

“Where is that?”

“On t’High Street. First merchant you’ll see past Church Lane.”

I thanked Edith for her discovery and led Bruce back to the High Street. I found the merchant, as Edith predicted, in his shop attending his accounts. I knew no way to assure myself that he was there than to enter and feign interest in a purchase. After a reasonable time spent fingering his wool, I headed south on the High Street, then led Bruce east, around behind the block of timbered, thatched shops.

The merchant’s daughter answered the door. I understood then the miller’s conclusion. She was a plain girl, who had enjoyed a few too many of the offerings of her mother’s kitchen. She was not ugly, but she would attract little attention if standing near a beauty — which all assured me that Margaret, the smith’s daughter, was.

The girl’s mother peered at me over her daughter’s shoulder, and invited me in when I mentioned Edith. Muriel asked about the surgery, and nodded approval when I announced likely success. I think she would have listened to a complete retelling of the procedure had I not diverted the flow of her conversation.