“Aye. The wound is putrefied and will never heal as it now is. A new cut must be made, to trim away the decay. A clean wound may then heal. A corrupt wound such as you describe never will.”
“You can do this?”
“Aye. Well, not now…my instruments are in Bampton.”
“Master Hugh is come to Oxford for parchment and ink,” the girl said. “He is bailiff in Bampton for…”
“Lord Gilbert Talbot,” I assisted the girl.
I saw the man’s nose wrinkle in distaste, though he tried to hide it. Given the avaricious reputation of most bailiffs, ’twas understandable. “Lord Gilbert Talbot? He who married Petronilla Boutillier?”
“Aye, the same.”
“Great grand-daughter of the first King Edward,” the man explained to his daughter.
I could see the girl’s mind churning over this information. “She’s cousin once removed to t’king, then?” she deduced.
“Aye,” the stationer agreed.
“You know Lady Petronilla?” I asked.
“Nay. Heard of her, that’s all. Folks like to talk ’bout the gentry, you know.”
This is surely so. There are those of the gentry who provide much for the commons to talk about. Lady Petronilla was not such a one to furnish a fertile plot for imaginings to grow, but gossip is a vigorous weed and can take root and prosper in the thinnest soil. I did not ask what the stationer had heard of Lady Petronilla, nor did he volunteer the information.
“You have done such surgery before?” The man asked.
“Many times.”
“And was’t successful?”
“Not always. A good result depends on what has caused the fistula. If the abscess be too deep, or the product of a cancer, the surgery will not answer.”
“But such as mine?”
“I must examine the fistula before I can say if success is likely. But for injuries such as you describe, good fortune often accompanies the work.”
The stationer shrugged, looked to his daughter and spoke. “Kate, mind the shop while Master…Hugh, is it?” I nodded. “While Master Hugh has a look at my back.”
Kate! The girl’s name was Katherine.
The stationer led me to stairs which climbed to the living quarters above the shop. He grimaced once as he twisted to free himself from his cotehardie, and again as he drew up his kirtle. A linen belt wrapped around his body obscured the fistula, but a stain on the cloth showed clearly where it lay.
The stationer unwrapped the linen girdle, the turned his back to me. “’Tis a great trial. What think you? Can you deal with it, or will this be the end of me? I don’t like to talk so before Kate, but I know a thing like this can take a man to his grave.”
“It could,” I agreed. “A stick of wood did this, you say?”
“Aye. Broken it was, and sharp. Punched through cotehardie and kirtle like a blade.”
“You fell a great distance?”
“Aye. The ladder broke when I would have repaired the sign above my father’s shop in Cambridge. The sign came down in a storm, whence came the splinter as well. Pitched me into the street on my back.”
“Did any fragments of the broken limb work out of the wound?”
“After Kate drew the splinter from my back? Not that I recall.”
“You suffer pain when you twist your body, is this not so?”
“Aye.”
I pulled the skin of the stationer’s back apart the better to see the fistula, then squeezed the flesh together. The man gasped, and yellowish pus oozed from the injury.
“Can you do aught for me?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“I can. ’Tis my belief that a fragment of the stick you fell on may be lodged in your back.”
“You can remove it?”
“Aye, but not today. My instruments are in Bampton.”
“When? Tomorrow?”
“You are eager to see this done,” I smiled.
“Was it your back and your wound, you would be also.” He chuckled in spite of his discomfort.
“’Tis so, I’m sure. I have business for Lord Gilbert tomorrow, but next day I will return to deal with this. You should have ready then a jug of wine, and some ale.”
“You wish me drunk for this surgery?”
“No,” I laughed. “I will put powdered herbs into the ale. They will help you deal with the pain. The wine is to wash the wound when I am done.”
“Day after tomorrow, you say?”
“Aye. And now I must return to Bampton. I have purchased a gathering of parchment and a pot of ink. What is your charge?”
“Ah…if you can relieve me of this affliction I will supply all the parchments and ink you wish until the Lord’s return.”
As he spoke the man wrapped himself in the stained linen belt and donned his kirtle and cotehardie.
“You have the better of me,” I said. “You know my name, I do not know yours.”
“I am remiss,” he frowned. “My injury often drives other thoughts from my mind. I am Robert Caxton. My daughter, Katherine, you have met.”
“Indeed. A most lovely young woman.”
I feared I had misspoke myself, for the stationer made no reply, nor even gave me a glance. No doubt he had heard such appraisals before.
Caxton was on his way down the stairs to the shop before he spoke again. “Favors her mother,” he said softly.
As he had vowed, the stationer would take no pay for his ink and parchments. I clutched the bundle under an arm, promised to return two days hence, and walked through the clamor of Oxford’s streets to the Stag and Hounds and the patient Bruce.
Chapter 11
There is much to be said for Oxford’s bustle and energy, but after nearly two years in bucolic Bampton I was not sorry to cross the river and leave the din behind. I arrived at Bampton Castle too late for dinner, which was become my custom since Easter. I spent the afternoon at my duties for Lord Gilbert, chief of which was seeing to the construction of new stables for the marshalsea. John Holcutt had the work well in hand, but was pleased to relinquish the business to me and seek his occupation in Lord Gilbert’s fields. John is better suited to beasts and grain than adze and hammer.
The builders needed little advice from me. Corner posts were set true and tenons and crossbeams fit tightly. Of course the workmen knew that I or John would observe their work, so I cannot say whether the labor would have been done so well due to pride alone.
I advised the marshalsea that, after a day of rest, I would require Bruce again, and on the Thursday before Whitsunday I slung a pack full of herbs and instruments over his rump and set off again for Oxford.
This day was not so pleasant as that of the journey three days earlier. Thickening clouds blew in from Wales and before I was past Cote a cold mist began to fall. I saw no sign of life in the villages I passed, but for the occasional wisp of smoke from a gable vent which hung thick and low in the air ’til it mingled with the drizzle.
The mist became a steady rain before I reached the Thames Bridge. Bruce and I were soaked through before we reached the Stag and Hounds. I left instructions for the old horse to be dried thoroughly and fed, washed down a dinner of coney pie with a mug of watery ale, and set off for Holywell Street and my patient.
I was expected. The shop was shuttered against the weather, but my knuckles made contact with the door
