Ariana Franklin: Mistress of the Art of Death

“Hmmm,” she said again, but her tone had altered.

“Risky?” Simon’s attitude had also altered. “He could die? Doctor, let us consider our position…”

She ignored him. She almost turned and opened her mouth to ask Margaret’s opinion before deadening loneliness overtook her. The space that had been occupied by the bulk of her childhood nurse was empty, would remain empty; Margaret had died at Ouistreham.

With desolation came guilt. Margaret should never have attempted the journey from Salerno, but she had insisted. Adelia, overfond, needing female companionship for propriety’s sake, dreading any but this valued servant’s, had acquiesced. Too hard. Near a thousand miles of sea voyaging, the Bay of Biscay at its worst, it had been too hard on an old woman. An apoplexy. The love sustaining Adelia for twenty-five years had withdrawn into a grave in a tiny cemetery on the banks of the Orne, leaving her to face the crossing to England alone, a Ruth among the alien corn.

What would that dear soul have said to this?

“I don’t know why you’m asking, you never take no heed anyway. You’m going to take the chance with the poor gentleman, I know you, flower, so don’t you bother with my opinion, the which you never do.”

The which she never did.

Adelia’s mouth became gentle as the remembered rich Devonian syllables sang in her head; Margaret had only ever been her sounding board. And her comfort.

“Perhaps we should leave well alone, Doctor,” Simon said.

“The man is dying,” she said. She was as aware as Simon of the danger to them if the operation failed; she had felt little but desolation in this unfamiliar country since they landed, its strangeness giving even the most jovial company a seeming of hostility. But in this matter, the possible threat was of as little account as the possible benefit to them if the prior could be mended. She was a doctor; the man was dying. There was no choice.

She looked around her. The road, probably Roman, ran straight as a pointing finger. To the west, on her left, was flatness, the beginning of the Cambridgeshire fens, darkening meadow and wetland meeting a linear sunset in vermilion and gold. On her right, the wooded side of a hill of no great height and a track leading up to it. Nothing habitable anywhere, not a house, not a cottage, not a shepherd’s hut.

Her eyes rested on the ditch, almost a dike, that ran between the road and the rise of the hills; she’d been aware of what it contained for some time, as she was aware of all nature’s goodies.

They’d need privacy. Light too. And some of the ditch’s contents.

She gave her instructions.

The three monks approached, supporting their suffering prior. A protesting Roger of Acton trotted alongside, still urging the efficacy of the prioress’s relic.

The oldest monk addressed Mansur and Simon: “Brother Ninian says you are doctors from Salerno.” His face and nose could have sharpened flint.

Simon looked toward Mansur over the head of Adelia, who stood in the middle of them. With strict adherence to the truth, he said, “Between us, sir, we have considerable medical knowledge.”

“Can you help me?” The prior yelled it at Simon, jerkily.

There was a nudge in Simon’s ribs. Bravely, he said, “Yes.”

Even so, Brother Gilbert hung on to the invalid’s arm, reluctant to surrender his superior. “My lord, we do not know if these people are Christians. You need the solace of prayer; I shall stay with you.”

Simon shook his head. “The mystery about to be performed must be performed in solitude. Privacy is a necessity between doctor and patient.”

“For the sake of Christ, give me relief .” Again, it was Prior Geoffrey solving the matter. Brother Gilbert and his Christian solace were knocked into the dust, the other two monks pushed aside and told to stay, his knight to stand guard. Flailing and staggering, the prior reached the cart’s hanging tailboard and was heaved up it by Simon and Mansur.

Roger of Acton ran after the cart. “My lord, if you would but try the miraculous properties of Little Saint Peter’s knuckle…”

There was a scream: “I tried it and I still can’t piss .”

The cart rocked up the incline and disappeared among the trees. Adelia, having grubbed around in the ditch, followed it.

“I fear for him,” Brother Gilbert said, though jealousy outweighed anxiety in his voice.

“Witchcraft.” Roger of Acton could say nothing unless he shouted it. “Better death than revival at the hands of Belial.”

Both would have followed the cart, but the prior’s knight, Sir Gervase, always one to tease monks, was suddenly barring the way. “He said no.”

Sir Joscelin, the prioress’s knight, was equally firm. “I think we must leave him be, Brother.”

The two stood together, chain-clad crusaders who had fought in the Holy Land, contemptuous of lesser, skirted men content to serve God in safe places.

The track led to a strange hill. The cart bumped up the rise that eventually led to a great, grassy ring standing above the trees, catching the last of the sun so it gleamed like a monstrous bald, green, flat-topped head.

It cast unease over the road at its foot, where the rest of the cavalcade had decided not to proceed now that its force was split but to camp on the verge within call of the knights.

“What is that place?” Brother Gilbert asked, staring after the cart even though he could not see it.

One of the squires paused in unsaddling his master’s horse. “That up there’s Wandlebury Ring, master. These are the Gog Magog hills.”

Gog and Magog, British giants as pagan as their name. The Christian company huddled close around the fire-and closer yet as the voice of Sir Gervase came whoo-hooing across the road from the dark trees: “Bloo-oo-od sacrifice. The Wild Hunt is in cry up here, my masters. Oh, horrible.”

Settling his hounds for the night, Prior Geoffrey’s huntsman blew out his cheeks and nodded.

Mansur didn’t like the place, either. He reined in about halfway up, where the cart could be on a wide level dug out of the slope. He unharnessed the mules-the moans of the prior inside the cart were making them restless-and tethered them so that they could graze, then set about building a fire.

A bowl was fetched, the last of the boiled water poured into it. Adelia put her collection from the ditch into the water and considered it.

“Reeds?” Simon said. “What for?”

She told him.

He turned pale. “He, you…He will not allow…He is a monk .”

“He is a patient.” She stirred the reed stems and selected two, shaking them free of water. “Get him ready.”

“Ready? No man is ready for that. Doctor, my faith in you is absolute but…may I inquire…you have carried out the procedure before?”

“No. Where’s my bag?”

He followed her across the grass. “At least you have seen it performed?”

“No. God’s ribs, the light will be bad.” She raised her voice. “Two lanterns, Mansur. Hang them inside from the canopy hoops. Now, where are those cloths?” She began delving in the goatskin bag that carried her equipment.

“Should we clarify this matter?” Simon asked, trying for calm. “You have not performed the operation yourself, nor have you seen it done.”

“No, I told you.” She looked up. “Gordinus mentioned it once. And Gershom, my foster father, described the procedure to me after a visit to Egypt. He saw it depicted on some ancient tomb paintings.”

“Ancient Egyptian tomb paintings.” Simon gave each word equal weight. “In color, were they?”

“I see no reason why it should not work,” she said. “With what I know of male anatomy, it is a logical step to take.”