Brother Wigbert still looked skeptical, but his face relaxed a little.
“Maybe we should try them on a few patients, and if they do not work, we throw them away?” I suggested.
He grunted. “We will see.” He moved the tray aside. “But now we have more important things to do.”
Like making valerian oil. I sighed but not too loudly, and we set out to work, assembling the alembic brought out from the shed. When it was ready, we poured water over the dried roots in the pot and covered it with a lid with a cap on top to collect the vapor as the liquid started to boil. A downward sloping tube was connected to the cap, through which the oil would drip into a receptacle. It was the kind of apparatus my Uda had always dreamed about.
As the November night fell and the wind started howling outside, I watched the thick brown liquid collect and thought about Salerno, where Brother Wigbert had learned the principles of medical analysis. I was fascinated by that faraway land of plentiful sunshine, countless churches, and men from all over the world who studied theology, law, and medicine. And I asked him, once again, to describe for me the students’ robes, their books, the university quarters, even the taverns where they gathered to drink and take their meals. Like each time before, I listened raptly, my cheeks flushed.
When he finished and rose to pour the oil into smaller flasks, I asked, my heart beating fast against my ribs, “Brother Wigbert, will you teach me about medicine?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What for, child?”
“So I can be a better assistant to you.”
He considered this for a while, and I could see that the idea had some appeal to him. “But you have already learned a lot at the infirmary. You are helping me more than Bertolf ever did.”
“I want to learn about anatomy and about the humors,” I interjected before he could say no. “I want to know how their imbalance affects the body, and how doctors diagnose diseases. Everything.” I added breathlessly.
Brother Wigbert chuckled. “I studied for four years to become a physician, so I will not be able to convey it all to you in one evening. But I can give you an overview after we are done with the lavender.”
I jumped from my seat to fetch a sack of lavender buds as he emptied the pot of the valerian dregs and rinsed it. Then he filled it with the lavender, poured fresh water over it, and set it back on the stove. We used large quantities of that fresh-smelling oil to scent infirmary linen.
He sat down across the table from me and cleared his throat. “You have already witnessed urine examination,” he began solemnly, and I imagined myself a pupil in a vaulted classroom, like I had once thought I would be. “Urine, being expelled from the body most regularly, carries with it the picture of internal health. Normal urine is pale yellow and clear, but disease can turn it red, which indicates the presence of blood. Various hues of brown signify gallbladder disease. If it is too yellow, it means there is an excess of bile, while a strong, unpleasant odor is a sign of the presence of an evil humor in the body. Those who suffer from too much sugar will pass water that is sweet and thick, but if it is cloudy the patient is likely afflicted with a case of . . . uh . . . burning . . . of the nether regions.” Brother Wigbert looked uncomfortable. “Of course, you would not expect anyone from this holy community to come down with it,” he hastened to add.
I tried to memorize everything he said. “And the humors?” I asked. “What are they exactly?”
“They are the very essence of health and disease.” He poured more wine from the flagon and began to expound—with growing enthusiasm, for he had likely never encountered anyone at the abbey interested in medical theory—on the four bodily fluids and their counterparts in the physical world, the four elements. He explained how they influenced each other, the essence of health being the right proportion among them. When they were out of balance, disease ensued.
Blood was the equivalent of Air, a hot and wet humor, which gave the person endowed with it to excess a sanguine temperament. Black bile, being cold and dry, had Earth for its analog, with superfluous bile bringing on sadness, anxiety, and lack of sleep. Then there was the yellow bile, a hot and dry humor similar to Fire, that caused one to become flushed and feverish, like Rumunda had been. Lastly, phlegm, akin to Water in that it was cold and wet, brought on apathy.
“This theory,” he added by way of a conclusion, “was first put forward by Greek physicians Hippocrates and Galen and gave rise to several therapies that aim to restore the imbalance between the humors and return the patient to health. Bloodletting is the most widely used method, a wonderful cure that purifies the body by draining the excess and resetting the equilibrium,” he said without even blinking. “But there are other useful treatments such as purging, special foods, and drafts made from plants long established as having curative effects.”
“Do you mean herbs?” I asked hopefully.
He gave me a significant look. “I mean certain herbs, ones that have been domesticated and are grown and picked”—he pointed toward the garden—“where they cannot become subject to spells and other manipulations.”
I hesitated. I was beginning to understand his views on non-monastics who dabbled in healing, but I wanted to defend them. “The drafts and ointments that Herrad makes from wild herbs restore many people to health. Many who come to her for help find relief, and she taught my nurse who never used spells when she made medicines for us.”
“The Church is concerned with superstitions that call
