church. And the church is already the bride of Christ and needs no other spouse.
The vision on the gray mare wore a deep red cotehardie. Because it was warm she needed no cloak or mantle. She wore a simple white hood, turned back, so that chestnut-colored hair visibly framed a flawless face. Beautiful women had smitten me before. It was a regular occurrence. But not like this. Of course, that’s what I said the last time, also.
I followed the trio and their grooms at a discreet distance, hoping they might halt before some house. I was disappointed. The party rode on to Oxpens Road, crossed the Castle Mill Stream, and disappeared to the west as I stood watching, quite lost, from the bridge. Why should I have been lovelorn over a lady who seemed to be another man’s wife? Who can know? I cannot. It seems foolish when I look back to the day. It did not seem so at the time.
I put the lady out of my mind. No; I lie. A beautiful woman is as impossible to put out of mind as a corn on one’s toe. And just as disquieting. I did try, however.
I returned to de Mondeville’s book and completed a third journey through its pages. I was confused, but ’twas not de Mondeville’s writing which caused my perplexity. The profession I thought lay before me no longer appealed. Providing advice to princes seemed unattractive. Healing men’s broken and damaged bodies now occupied near all my waking thoughts.
I feared a leap into the unknown. Oxford was full to bursting with scholars and lawyers and clerks. No surprises awaited one who chose to join them. And the town was home also to many physicians, who thought themselves far above the barbers who usually performed the stitching of wounds and phlebotomies when such services were needed. Even a physician’s work, with salves and potions, was familiar. But the pages of de Mondeville’s book told me how little I knew of surgery, and how much I must learn should I choose such a vocation. I needed advice.
There is, I think, no wiser man in Oxford than Master John Wyclif. There are men who hold different opinions, of course. Often these are scholars whom Master John has bested in disputation. Tact is not one among his many virtues, but care for his students is. I sought him out for advice and found him in his chamber at Balliol College, bent over a book. I was loath to disturb him, but he received me warmly when he saw ’twas me who rapped upon his door.
“Hugh…come in. You look well. Come and sit.”
He motioned to a bench, and resumed his own seat as I perched on the offered bench. The scholar peered silently at me, awaiting announcement of the reason for my visit.
“I seek advice,” I began. “I had it in mind to study law, as many here do, but a new career entices me.”
“Law is safe…for most,” Wyclif remarked. “What is this new path which interests you?”
“Surgery. I have a book which tells of old and new knowledge in the treatment of injuries and disease.”
“And from this book alone you would venture on a new vocation?”
“You think it unwise?”
“Not at all. So long as men do injury to themselves or others, surgeons will be needed.”
“Then I should always be employed.”
“Aye,” Wyclif grimaced. “But why seek my counsel? I know little of such matters.”
“I do not seek you for your surgical knowledge, but for aid in thinking through my decision.”
“Have you sought the advice of any other?”
“Nay.”
“Then there is your first mistake.”
“Who else must I seek? Do you know of a man who can advise about a life as a surgeon?”
“Indeed. He can advise on any career. I consulted Him when I decided to seek a degree in theology.”
I fell silent, for I knew of no man so capable as Master John asserted, able to advise in both theology and surgery. Perhaps the fellow did not live in Oxford. Wyclif saw my consternation.
“Do you seek God’s will and direction?”
“Ah…I understand. Have I prayed about this matter, you ask? Aye, I have, but God is silent.”
“So you seek me as second best.”
“But…’twas you just said our Lord could advise on any career.”
“I jest. Of course I, like any man, am second to our Lord Christ…or perhaps third, or fourth.”
“So you will not guide my decision?”
“Did I say that? Why do you wish to become a surgeon? Do you enjoy blood and wounds and hurts?”
“No. I worry that I may not have the stomach for it.”
“Then why?”
“I find the study of man and his hurts and their cures fascinating. And I…I wish to help others.”
“You could do so as a priest.”
“Aye. But I lack the boldness to deal with another man’s eternal soul.”
“You would risk a man’s body, but not his soul?”
“The body cannot last long, regardless of what a surgeon or physician may do, but a man’s soul may rise to heaven or be doomed to hell…forever.”
“And a priest may influence the direction, for good or ill,” Wyclif completed my thought.
“Just so. The responsibility is too great for me.”
“Would that all priests thought as you,” Wyclif muttered. “But lopping off an arm destroyed in battle would not trouble you?”
“’Tis but flesh, not an everlasting soul.”
“You speak true, Hugh. And there is much merit in helping ease men’s lives. Our Lord Christ worked many miracles, did he not, to grant men relief from their afflictions. Should you do the same, you would be following in his path.”
“I had not considered that,” I admitted.
“Then consider it now. And should you become a surgeon, keep our Lord as your model, and your work will prosper.”
And so God’s third wonder: a profession. I would go to Paris to study. My income from the manor at Little Singleton was?6 and 15 shillings each year, to be awarded so long as I was a student, and to terminate after eight years.
My purse would permit one year in Paris. I know what you are thinking. But I did not spend my resources on riotous living. Paris is an expensive city. I learned much there. I watched and then participated in dissections. I learned phlebotomy, suturing, cautery, the removal of arrows, the setting of broken bones, and the treatment of scrofulous sores. I learned how to extract a tooth and remove a tumor. I learned trepanning to relieve a headache, and how to lance a fistula. I learned which herbs might staunch bleeding, or dull pain, or cleanse a wound. I spent both time and money as wisely as I knew how, learning the skills which I hoped would one day earn me a living.
Chapter 2
I left Paris and returned to Oxford in 1363, at Michaelmas. Trees were beginning to show autumn brown, reapers were completing their labors in the fields as I passed, and horn dancers pranced in the marketplace.
I understood that Oxford might be a poor place for an untried surgeon, there being many others who followed the profession there, and physicians as well. But I felt at home in no other place but Little Singleton, and there would be no custom for me there in such a small village. I shudder to think all I might have missed had I set up my shop in Ashford or Canterbury, as I was tempted while passing through those towns. Of course, I may have missed much by not remaining in one of those places. Who can know? I believe I have served God’s will, but have wondered occasionally if God’s will might be variable.
I found lodging on the upper floor of an inn, the Stag and Hounds, on the High Street; an establishment where I had often supped in my student days, but not by choice. The rent of such a location was sixpence each month — more than I could afford, but I wished to hang my sign in a visible, well-traveled place. I unpacked my meager possessions, aligned my surgical instruments, hung a board above my window with my name and profession
