One morning Matilda woke to find Tildy's lips blue and her face pale as death. Doctor Margery was sitting beside the bed, her rosy face near as white as Tildy's. "Her pulse and heart are strong, but her breathing is not. I fear for her," she said. "Tildy is in God's hands now."
And mine, thought Matilda. "I will not let you die, Tildy," Matilda said, squeezing her friend's hand. "I know dying means you will go to God, but I do not want you to go. I want you to stay here with me." As Tildy passed from sleep to fretful waking and back again to sleep, Matilda bathed and stroked, warmed and cooled her. Tildy did not know her, but still Matilda talked to her. "Live, Tildy!" she whispered. "There are so many raisin pies we have not eaten, and chicken legs, and fresh bread. And somewhere there is a great lady in a wimple in need of starching looking for a girl just like you."
And Matilda prayed. Her Aves and Pater nosters could have been piled clear to Heaven, so diligently and ceaselessly did she pray. She called upon Saint Aldegund who defended against fevers, Saint Placid who protected from chills, and Saint Lucy who guarded against loss of blood—and just to be safe, she included Adalbert, Godbert, Swithbert, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
Day after day Matilda sat with Tildy, held her hand, washed her face with cool water, and forced thin porridge between her lips. "I will not let you die, Tildy," Matilda said again and again. "Who will tell me gossip? And try to make me laugh? Do not die. Stay here and make me laugh."
Finally, slowly, Tildy's face passed from pale to pink, and her cheeks from fiery to rose, and her feverish restlessness became quiet sleep.
The next morning Tildy woke, sore but hungry, her fever gone. Matilda leapt up from her doze with a cry that brought the doctor full awake. She examined Tildy's tongue and pulse and the wound on her head. "You should live now," said Margery, "although it appears you will have a mighty scar here on your forehead."
"Gor," said Tildy with a smile, "how tragic I will seem."
Tildy stayed at Margery's while she grew stronger, and Matilda visited often. Once, when Tildy's head tortured her, when she seemed about to go mad with pain, Matilda found herself picking up an apple and peeling it in one long slow spiral while Tildy watched spellbound, her pains and torments for a time forgotten. Matilda reminded herself to thank Tom when next she saw him.
That evening Tildy said to Matilda, "I thank you for your good care of me."
"I would have you live," said Matilda. She did not know how much of Tildy's recovery was due to her good care and how much to her good prayers. But then perhaps it did not matter.
Another day Tildy told Matilda, "Doctor Margery has spoken to Theobald. I will not be returning to his house. She said, 'Can't have Fat Annet heaving any more meat at you.' I will be staying here."
"Does that suit you?"
"Indeed. Doctor Margery is not what I thought a great lady would be. No curls to curl or pleats to stiffen. But great she is, and I can boil and sew and cut linen and sweep for her. It suits me very well, so here I will stay."
Great? Was Doctor Margery great? Well, perhaps she was. "I am pleased for you," Matilda said to Tildy.
Tildy had found a life that suited her. But what about Matilda? If Father Leufredus did not come back, what was she to do? "What am I to do?" she said aloud. "I do not belong here. I am a duck."
"A duck?" Tildy asked.
So Matilda told her of her conversation with Walter. "And Walter said only a duck can lay a duck egg."
"And duck eggs are remarkable indeed," said Tildy with a wink, "for only a duck egg can hatch into a duck."
"So you think a duck is none so bad a thing to be." Tildy smiled. "But I know nothing of what is valued here."
"Nonsense. You know about things I do not even know exist." Tildy yawned and settled herself deeper into Margery's bed. "And you saved my life." She was asleep.
Margery came in as Matilda made ready to leave. She looked at the woman, trying to see again that goose girl who so annoyed her. But she could not. There was Doctor Margery, a physician and a great lady, red of face but kind of eye, sturdy and strong and trustworthy. Matilda said to her, "Tildy does not understand what happened. She thinks it was I saved her life."
"And truly you did."
Matilda shook her head. "I do not have the skills to heal."
"You used the skills you have: your quick thinking, good sense, your strength and your prayers, your friendship. You saved her life, just as surely as if you had mixed the medicine and sewed her wound yourself. You did what you know to do, just as I did what I know."
Matilda thought for a moment. Yes, she had used the tools God gave her, and used them well. "But what you do seems like a miracle," Matilda said finally. "I have no difficulty seeing what ails a struggling fire or a dirty floor, but how can you see what is amiss inside of someone?"
The doctor thought a minute and then said, "I see with my hands."
"Your hands?"
"I have no great knowledge of the science of stars or numbers, so I must rely on my eyes, which are limited, and my hands. I can feel your heart pounding in your temples and know when it is too fast. I can feel your skin and know whether you be of cool and moist humor or warm and dry. My hands can tell which lump is but a bruise and which means something is not right, where your stomach is tender or swollen or hot, what bones do not move or fit together as they should—just Peg's hands can. The hands can see what the eyes cannot."
"Still it sounds like a miracle," said Matilda. Frowning, she looked at her own hands. She could no more see with them than with her feet or her elbows. Well, then, she supposed these were none of her tools. She would work with her own tools, and leave Margery's to Margery. Margery? Would Margery have any patients to use her tools on? "How will you go on without Theobald's help?" Matilda asked her.
"The ills of women are numberless. I have decided there are enough for me to physick without my going to Theobald for patients or advice. The man may know Latin and astrological calculation, but he is a fool when it comes to looking, listening, and tending to people. I will bow to him no longer. I will do what I can and do the best I can." Doctor Margery smiled. "Now let me ask you something. Why was it you fetched me for Tildy? I thought you had no great opinion of me or my skills."
"Because," said Matilda, "1 would have Tildy live."
Chapter Seventeen: Receiving a Letter
Tom was leaving again. While he was out hitching up Saint Brendan, Matilda remembered him carrying Tildy, and peeling the apple for William Baker, and scrubbing the burned porridge out of the pot for her. She heard Peg snuffle and turned to face her.
"I know you do not think much of Tom," Peg said as she wiped her face dry of tears with the hem of her kirtle, "but I do hate to see him go." She snuffled again.
"In truth I believe I have been mistaken about Tom," Matilda said. "He is not a great man of learning, but neither is he witless or villain or wizard. He helps those with no money for physicians or faith in barbers. And I have seen his kindness for myself."
"Better you tell this to Tom," said Peg. "The early-morning air is cool. Here, this cloak is for you, to replace the one you gave away." She wrapped Matilda in russet wool, much like Peg's own best cloak. Matilda nodded her thanks and hurried to the stable. Where had Peg gotten coins for a new cloak?
Tom smiled when he saw her and pulled the raisin bag from his belt. They sat on a straw bale and chewed raisins in silence for a moment or two. She repeated what she had told Peg. "I beg pardon for wronging you," she said.
"Is this your holy priest's opinion?"
"No. It is mine."
"You mean you will not send me to burn at the stake?"
"Not yet," she said smiling, "but you must watch your step."
When Tom and Saint Brendan ambled off, Matilda followed behind, waving and smiling, and then retraced her steps toward Peg's. She had come to realize Blood and Bone Alley was not such a fearful place; neither was it so bad a thing to be helper to a bone-setter. It was not how she wished to s
pend all her days, but it was not so bad a thing.
As she approached Frog Road, she nearly collided with a tall man dressed in yellow and green. He had squinty blue eyes and a nose that headed south and then changed its mind and turned sharply to the east. He carried a staff and a worn pack on his back. "I seek one Matilda of Blood and Bone Alley," he said. "Can you direct me to her?"
"Indeed," said Matilda. "I am she."
"Then I have for you a letter from Lu ... Lu ... Lu something," he said as he handed her a letter.
Father Leufredus. After all this time. She stood perfectly still, except for her heart, which jumped and tumbled in her breast. This letter, she thought, strangely hesitant to open it, would change her life. What might he be saying? I am most grievously sorry for my delay in answering you, and I beg you to drop everything and hasten to my side, for I have sorely missed you. She shook her head. He would never say that, even if it were true.
Perhaps, Come here to me and we will go to Oxford, where your father said there were men of learning and you can consult them about your friend Nathaniel. But he knew nothing of Nathaniel.
The Pope has named me a saint. Not likely. The Pope has named you a saint. Even less likely.
Finally she wiped her hands on her skirt and unfolded the letter.
It was not from Leufredus.
The letter came from a Louis, a Master Louis d'Argent of Oxford. She smiled at the Latin words and began at the beginning:
To the honorable Matilda of the Bone,
I am in receipt of your letter. Do not doubt your value. Your learning is a treasure and a blessing. Cherish it. Homo doctus in se semper divitias habet: A learned man always has wealth within him.
As for your Nathaniel Cross, this new world is full of medical marvels and scientific wonders. In Oxford we are experimenting with shiny glass disks which, though hazy and bubbly, help the sight of those who cannot see what is right in front of their faces. Mayhap soon we can help your Nathaniel. Until then he has you.
Vox audita perit, litera scripta manet: The voice that is heard perishes, the letter that is written remains. Heed me. What you know, what you have learned—use it, value it. It is your wealth.
Matilda trembled. In Oxford might be help for Nathaniel, but where was help for Matilda? There was no Father Leufredus. He was not coming back for her. Of course. She had known that for a while. But what now?
Dear Saint Thomas, she thought, who looks after those who have doubts. I am confused and uncertain and I need your help. What is the right thing for me to do now?
But neither Saint Thomas nor any other saint answered her, and Matilda knew that, although the saints might provide comfort and consolation, they would not be telling her what life she should live or how she should live it. She must make her own decisions and her own way.
I must think on this. I will get lost, for it ever does help me to think. She walked past the town gate, breathing deeply of the sweet air that smelled of green apples and listening to the birds waking up. Church bells sang. Merchants and farmers entered through the gates, as did peddlers with old fish and young radishes. One old woman slowly pushed a handcart full of parsley and new onions. She stopped to rub her shoulders. "The rheumatics," she explained to Matilda.
"I being attendant on a bonesetter know something of the rheumatics," Matilda told her. "I have heard that it can be cured by carrying with you a stolen potato or four mole feet, although Mistress Peg always recommends poppy tea, warm soaks, and a good hard stretching and bending." The woman nodded her thanks and continued on her way.
Peg. That reminded Matilda, there was much needed doing around Peg's shop. The leather straps on the pulley needed to be oiled before hot weather set in. Marya Cordwainer still owed threepence; she would ignore the debt unless someone brought it to her attention. And Hag, the cursed cat, should have her leg looked at once more, although it seemed to be healing well.
As Matilda walked and thought, the day grew warm. She took off her new cloak. Now she looked at it, the crooked stitches seemed familiar. And the stain on the hood. Saliva mucusque! The cloak was the same color as Peg's because it was Peg's, cut down to fit Matilda. Peg would be wearing her old one this winter. Matilda knew that Father Leufredus would never understand or approve of Peg, but in this matter Father Leufredus was wrong. She carefully folded her new cloak, which had been Peg's, given over with love, and she walked quietly for a few moments, face to the sky, the sun on her cheek like the touch of a warm hand.
Turning an unfamiliar corner, she wondered, "Am I lost?" But no. There was water ahead, sparkling in the summer sunshine. She knew this town too well. There was no more getting lost.
The river was a tangle of ships and masts, ferries and barges. Small boats with billowy white sails that snapped in the breeze hurried from here to there and there to here. A family of ducks, quacking furiously, crossed the road, waddled down the riverbank, and launched themselves into the water. Matilda laughed. How extraordinary they were. It was not a bad thing to be a duck. Walter and Tildy had helped her to see that. And Nathaniel, Tom, and Effie. And Peg. I must go home and thank Peg for my new cloak, she thought. And tell Walter about the ducks, and... It seemed Father Leufredus was right: Becoming attached to people had taken her mind from Heaven. But she was learning to live in God's world.
What would Matilda Bone do now? She did not want to be a bonesetter's helper forever—but she did owe Peg much, and it would be a pleasure to repay her: Peg, dependable as daylight. She wanted to write to this Master Louis and find out more about the magic seeing disks for Nathaniel. Beyond that she did not know, but whatever it was, she believed she could do it. Can I live not knowing, just believing? she wondered.
The church bells rang for the hour of Tierce. "Thundering toads!" said Matilda aloud. "I will be late."
Late for what she could not say, but nevertheless she hurried off to meet it, the wind at her back, the same wind that stirred the water, ruffled the feathers of the swimming ducks, and filled the sails of the boats as they hastened up the river to meet what was next.
Author's Note
While researching Matilda Bone, I came across much interesting material that I wanted to share, and I included a lot of it in my early drafts. I did realize finally that I was telling a story, not writing a textbook on medieval medicine, so I took out most of it. But here are some of the high points.
We who are accustomed to modern doctors and practices might not even recognize medieval medicine as medicine. Physicians in medieval Europe were not like the doctors we know; they were philosophers, astrologers, numerologists, and dream interpreters. Like most people at that time, they believed in charms, incantations, relics, devils, fairies, gnomes, flying witches, and the power of the unicorn's horn. The earth was thought to be the center of the universe, humans the center of the earth, and fate written in the skies. Physicians studied the positions of the stars and planets, comets and eclipses, and the signs of the zodiac, and made their diagnoses and prognoses accordingly.
In general, none of the medical practitioners understood the benefits of hygiene, nutrition (although many spoke against the evils of gluttony), and public sanitation—or even that there was a connection between these things and health. They did not know about germs, bacteria, or viruses.
Little was known of human anatomy. Dissection of bodies was discouraged by the Church and forbidden by the Koran. There was no means of preserving cadavers, so any dissections that were performed had to be done quickly and in the winter. The few physicians who did open human bodies used what they saw merely to prove what they already believed. X-rays and microscopes did not exist. Knowledge of the circulation of blood was not known until the work of William Harvey in the seventeenth century.
Most people believed that sickness was a result of sin or witchcraft. Souls were considered more important than bodies and were cared for more attentively. There were a few hospitals, but they were shelters for the old and the poor, not centers for medical treatment
. Practitioners worked on their own; I found no evidence that indicated the existence of a community such as Blood and Bone Alley, but since shoemakers and potters and weavers gathered together, I imagine that medical people did, too.
Medicine in the Middle Ages was based on Greek, Roman, and Arabic writings and relied heavily on practices that had not changed for two thousand years. Medieval physicians believed in the theory of bodily humors, a theory that had descended unchanged from the ancient Greeks. In the body, it was thought, were four humors—blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. The humors in balance meant good health. Too much of one or another affected a person's temperament—an excess of blood made a person cheerful; too much phlegm, sluggish; yellow bile, ill-tempered; black bile, melancholy—and led to illness. Treatment consisted mostly of procedures to expel the extra or corrupt humors: bleeding, enemas, diuretics.
Watercasting, or uroscopy (the examination of urine), was of vital importance. Ancient textbooks enumerated the many observations to be made—for example, taste, smell, color, and consistency—for it was believed that every illness or disease in the body was reflected in a person's urine. A physician took a patient's pulse, examined the urine, and made a diagnosis.
Medicines were made and prescribed by physicians and apothecaries. Some medicines were gross (snail shells and eggshells, herbs, and soap for gallstones), some dangerous (broth made from the rags of Egyptian mummies), and others magic (bezoars, stones from the stomach of a goat or cow, believed to counteract poisons). Remedies made from poppies, foxglove, and bread mold most likely were effective; they are the precursors of morphine, digitalis, and penicillin. Other useful practices—using cobwebs to stanch blood, setting and splinting fractures—probably grew from trial and error. Experiments with refraction and magnification led to the development of eyeglasses by the fourteenth century. Considering the reliance on ancient practices, the prohibition of dissections, and medieval practitioners' faith in superstitions, patients were lucky physicians got as much right as they did.