Mel Starr: The Unquiet Bones

Lord Gilbert placed me beside a guest, Sir William Fitzherbert, but two places removed from himself at the high table. I was cognizant of the honor.

“Are you able to relieve my villeins?” Lord Gilbert asked, between the first and second removes. I told him what I had done for the first, and what I proposed for the other. I did not think it the proper time or place to explain the procedure in detail, however.

“I pray you succeed. Alfred has been in torment for months, and he’s no good to me as he is.”

“He may die,” I warned.

“So may we all,” Lord Gilbert laughed.

“The surgery may not succeed.”

“Alfred knows this?” Lord Gilbert frowned.

“He does.”

“Yet he desires you to proceed?”

“He said he would rather see God this day than live longer with his pain.”

Lord Gilbert toyed with a crust from his trencher: “Well, it must be his choice. Will you need assistance?”

“Some strong lads to hold him quiet; four, I think. Some hot water, ale, and a flagon of wine.”

“Wine? Will not ale suffice? A man may be made as drunk on ale as on wine.”

Lord Gilbert, I was to learn, is a bit miserly. Ale is cheap, wine is expensive.

“To wash the incision. Do you remember how I cleansed your wound?”

“Ah…yes. Well, you shall have your wine.”

I caught one last glimpse of Lady Joan Talbot as she left the hall for her chamber and I departed the room through the entry hall to make or mar my reputation.

Lord Gilbert acted quickly on my request. I had but stepped through the door of Alfred’s hut when four men arrived: two valets I had not seen before, and the two grooms who had accompanied Lord Gilbert to Oxford. Arthur had a flagon of wine and another of ale.

“Cicely is heating water. She’ll send a girl ’round with it as soon as she can.”

“Cicely?” I asked.

“My wife, Master Hugh. She be in charge of Lord Gilbert’s scullery.” I caught just a faint note of pride in Arthur’s voice.

I took from my bag two pouches: one contained willow bark, ground fine; the other held hemp seeds and roots, also crushed fine. The willow and hemp I mixed freely with the ale. Lord Gilbert’s ale was of good quality; Alfred drank the mixture with relish. Willow and hemp can relieve pain. In the surgery I was about to do, there would be great pain, willow and hemp or not.

I explained to my four assistants what I was about to do, and where I intended to do it. Not in the dim hut: I would need all the light I could get, for where I planned to work the sun did not shine much. One of the valets went quite pale when I finished my instructions.

I asked for the toft behind Alfred’s hut to be cleared and for his bed to be taken there, with him in it. I got him maneuvered across the bed with his kirtle pulled up and his buttocks pointed toward the sky. He must have been mortified to be made to assume such a position, and in great need to do so willingly.

A girl, blushing at the sight of Alfred — or what she could see of him — brought the water and I set to work. One man seized each of Alfred’s arms and legs, as I had instructed them. I will spare you details of the procedure and list the events of Alfred’s surgery in rudimentary fashion.

I asked his wife for lard, and with it greased several fingers. These I must then insert in Alfred’s rectum until I felt his bladder. With luck, I would also feel the stone.

God was with me, or with both of us, for I found the stone immediately. It was large, and so easy to locate. No wonder that he could not pass it, and that it caused him such torment. Using my finger, I worked the stone down to the neck of the bladder. Alfred grunted several times, but bore the pain stoically.

I took several deep breaths to steady myself for the hazardous work I must now do. I used the hot water and a fragment of linen to wash Alfred’s private parts, then bathed the area in wine. There is no precedent for this, and I know most consider it a waste of good wine. But it seems to me that, if washing a wound with wine aids healing, washing the skin with wine before a wound is made might do so as well.

I made an incision between Alfred’s rectum and scrotum, and deepened it carefully, trying to avoid damage to the complex plumbing in that place. I wanted to cut no deeper than necessary, so several times probed the incision with my finger, to see if I had got to the bladder yet. Alfred twitched and gasped a few times, but gave his captors no serious struggle.

This was good, for just as I felt the stone through the wound, the valet holding Alfred’s left leg shuddered, rolled back his eyes, and dropped to the ground. Alfred’s wife, who had been standing apprehensively in the door of the hut, rushed out. But rather than tend to the fallen man, she took his place at Alfred’s leg and attached herself to it like a leech.

I used a tiny razor to slice into the bladder and pried out the stone with a finger. Alfred gasped again. Reader, you would, also. Most would probably scream. I suspect I would have. Alfred had lived with pain for so long that additional distress seemed to torment him little.

All that remained was to once again wash the incision with wine, and sew him up. I made few stitches. Alfred needed no more pain, and where I was working Alfred was unlikely to show off my handiwork. Four stitches would work there as well as ten.

The fallen assistant came out of his swoon as we rolled Alfred to his back and replaced his bed in the hut. I left instructions with his teary-eyed wife, washed my bloodied hands in what remained of the warm water, and departed the house. I have rarely been so glad of leaving a place.

“Lord Gilbert would see you before you return to Oxford,” Arthur told me as we walked across the castle yard. It was now past the ninth hour, and gray clouds hung low in the autumn sky. It would be dark before I would see the High Street and Oxford. But when a lord wishes to see me, I usually make time for him.

We found Lord Gilbert in the solar, sitting with his wife before a small fire. It was a picture of connubial bliss. I hoped to insert myself into a more modest version of such a scene one day, but to that point had made no progress toward the goal.

“You have done with Alfred, then? Did the surgery go well?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“I am optimistic. I left him resting without pain. Not much pain, anyway.”

“Good…good; well done. I have directed a room be prepared for you. It is too late to pack you back to Oxford tonight. We will share a light supper shortly. I will send John for you. John!” he called to his chamberlain. “Show Master Hugh to his chamber.” John did so.

The room was light and airy, or as airy as a room of stone walls can be. The chamber was off the great hall, and lit by several narrow windows of glass. I had rarely slept behind glass before, so this would be a special experience to me. I lay back gratefully on the bed; John had to thump heavily on the door to wake me two hours later.

A light supper, Lord Gilbert said.

There was parsley bread and honey butter, cheese, pea soup, a pike, a duck pie, a capon, cold sliced venison, and a lombardy custard.

When I had eaten my fill and was rested and satisfied, Lord Gilbert steered the conversation to my profession. I see now what he wanted, but at that moment I had no clue to his direction and so was caught off guard. I had been off guard for most of the meal; Lady Joan was in attendance. She was silent while Lord Gilbert questioned me about medical and surgical practice. But when the conversation lagged, she spoke.

“Where did you train, Master Hugh?”

Her joining the conversation so disconcerted me that I nearly choked on the capon leg upon which I was at the time gnawing. “Uh…Paris, m’lady. And Oxford.”