“God has provided all that is needful for men,” the abbot continued. “If a man suffers an affliction,” here he looked to Brother Theodore, “from which no salve or herb will cure him, then it must be that the Lord Christ wishes him not to be cured.”
“Or mayhap the Lord Christ sends a man of wit, skill, and experience to effect the cure.”
“You claim to act for God?”
“All who do His will act for God.”
“And what is God’s will?”
“You will find it in Holy Scripture, where nowhere have I read that a man must be required to suffer when relief is possible.”
“Whom God loveth, He chasteneth,” the prior said.
I was about to reply that when He chooses to chasten the abbot, he should not call for me. I would not interfere with God’s lessons nor his expression of love. But visions of the abbey cells came again to me and I held my tongue.
“God is not the only power who may chasten a man,” the abbot said. “Be gone, and do not return. You shall treat no man here ever again.”
The abbot’s doughy face was growing red. I thought it best to make no further reply, so turned to Brother Theodore and the open-mouthed infirmarer, and told Brother Bartholomew to remove the hosteler’s stitches in a fortnight.
“Salves?” the infirmarer asked.
Again I was required to explain that I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who learned while in service to men at arms in war that wounds heal best when left dry, and that they should be covered only if it is necessary to do so to keep them clean.
I was sorry to be required to leave the abbey, as I had questions for the hosteler which, I hoped, after he had recovered from the pain of the surgery, he might be able to answer.
Abbot Peter had required that I leave the abbey precincts. I had no option but to do so. The Lord Christ’s love for poor sinners is a remarkable thing, but even more mysterious is His patience with ill-tempered saints. The abbot had also commanded that I not return. Before I passed through the abbey gate I was devising a plan to steal back into the monastery to learn what I might from Brother Theodore.
Chapter 14
In the street before the abbey gate I saw a baxter selling pies from a cart, and was reminded how hungry I was. I purchased two, and considered a scheme to return to the monastery while I ate.
As with most monasteries, women of the town are hired to wash the monks’ clothing. While I munched upon my pies I wandered about the neighborhood, keeping the abbey gatehouse in view, until I saw a woman pass through the gate and walk across the marketplace toward the bury. I followed.
To my surprise she entered the alley where Amice Thatcher’s house stood, walked purposefully past the empty dwelling, and entered the threadmaker’s house. I followed, and rapped upon the door.
It was a small house, as are all of those in the bury, so the woman had but a few steps to reach the door and open it from any corner of the place. She drew the door open a crack to see who was there, did not recognize me, and immediately slammed it shut again. The day was far gone, night was near, and honest folk would soon be off the streets.
I pounded upon the door again. I heard voices within, but some time passed before the door again opened. The threadmaker scowled through the opening this time, recognized me, and asked my business.
“It regards Amice Thatcher, Amabel Maunder, and the men who have harmed them.”
The fellow opened his door wider and motioned for me to enter. His wife had heard me speak, and said, “You know what’s become of Amice an’ Amabel?”
“Aye. Amabel recovers from her injuries at St. John’s Hospital. Amice was held captive, but has been freed and is now safe with her children in a town not far from here.”
“Captive?” the woman said. “Why’d someone take Amice captive?”
“To discover from her the location of a treasure.”
“Amice has treasure?”
“Nay, but the men who took her thought she knew where riches were buried. She does not,” I added hastily.
“Who did this?” the threadmaker asked. “An’ why do you interest yourself? You said when you was here before you was a friend. Didn’t know Amice an’ Amabel had such friends,” he said, inspecting the quality and cut of my cotehardie.
“The men who took Amice and beat Amabel murdered a man in seeking his treasure. I believe I know who did so, but need more proofs before the Sheriff will act.”
“You a friend of the dead man?”
“Nay. I am bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, on his manor of Bampton, where the murdered man was found.”
“You need proofs, why do you come here?”
“I believe that there are, in the abbey, monks who may know something of the matter.”
“Monks? Then why seek us?”
I turned to the woman. “I followed you from the abbey just now. Are you a servant there?”
“Aye. Wash their clothes.”
This was as I hoped.
“The abbot is displeased with me,” I said, “so will not permit me to enter the abbey. I cannot question monks if I cannot gain entrance to the place.”
“What did you do to offend Abbot Peter?”
“I am also a surgeon. Without the abbot’s permission, I treated a monk who suffered from a fistula.”
“Brother Theodore? Him who goes about with a cloth over ’is face?”
“Aye.”
“You could help ’im? He’s one of the few in the abbey who’s decent to folk like me.”
“His fistula is cured, if all goes well. I need to gain entrance to the abbey to speak to Brother Theodore, but the abbot forbids it. I require assistance.”
“From us?” the woman asked.
“From you. Do you return to the abbey Monday?”
“Aye.”
“When you leave it, hide under your surcoat a habit you have washed. I will wear it to enter the monastery, and when it has served its purpose you may return it, none the wiser. For this service I will pay you two pence.”
The woman peered at her husband in the darkening room, caught some signal from him, and agreed. I arranged to visit the house on Monday at the same time of day to take possession of the robe and cowl.
Two days must pass before I could put my plot into action — time enough to consider whether it be foolish or not. Generally, the wisdom or folly of a deed does not become apparent till after its completion, and so it was that all of the next day no serious flaw in my plan came to me.
Late Monday afternoon the washer-woman appeared with the black robe and cowl, as she had agreed, and I gave her two pennies for her temporary theft. She would be required to wash the habit again, for what I intended would likely leave the garment with a muddy hem.
I thanked the woman, bundled the robe under my arm, and hurried to the New Inn, where, if I did not make haste, I would miss my supper. If any man in the place noted the black woolen fabric folded under my arm he was too busy spooning pottage to his lips to consider what it might be.
By the time I finished my pottage and loaf the night was full dark, and when I left the New Inn I heard the bell of the abbey church announce compline. I would have nearly six hours to accomplish my task before vigils, when the monks would awaken for the office.
The moon would rise later this night, so only starlight showed the way as I walked north past St. Nicholas’s Church, following the boundary wall of the abbey. I soon came to a path leading eastwards, where the precinct was bounded only by the abbey ditch. When I reached a likely place where I might cross the ditch I donned the robe and cowl, then sat with my back against a small tree to give the monks time to return from the church to their dormitory and fall to sleep.
When I had nearly fallen to sleep myself, cold as the night was, I felt sure that the monks were snoring in their beds. I took off my shoes and tied them about my neck, raised the hem of the borrowed habit, and stepped into the dark water. My chauces would be soaked, but there was no helping that.