World Without End

Caris gasped. She could hardly imagine such a bold operation. How did Matthew have the nerve to propose it? And what if it went wrong?

William said: “And he would recover?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew replied. “Sometimes a head wound has strange effects, impairing a man’s ability to walk, or speak. All I can do is mend his skull. If you want miracles, ask the saint.”

“So you can’t promise success.”

“Only God is all-powerful. Men must do what they can and hope for the best. But I believe your father will die of this injury if it remains untreated.”

“But Joseph and Godwyn have read the books written by the ancient medical philosophers.”

“And I have seen wounded men die or recover on the battlefield. It’s for you to decide whom to trust.”

William looked at his wife. Philippa said: “Let the barber do what he can, and ask St Adolphus to help him.”

William nodded. “All right,” he said to Matthew. “Go ahead.”

“I want the earl lying on a table,” Matthew said decisively. “Near the window, where a strong light will fall on his injury.”

William snapped his fingers at two novice monks. “Do whatever this man asks,” he ordered.

Matthew said: “All I need is a bowl of warm wine.”

The monks brought a trestle table from the hospital and set it up below the big window in the south transept. Two squires lifted Earl Roland on to the table.

“Face down, please,” said Matthew.

They turned him over.

Matthew had a leather satchel containing the sharp tools from which barbers got their name. He first took out a small pair of scissors. He bent over the earl’s head and began to cut away the hair around the wound. The earl had thick black hair that was naturally oily. Matthew snipped the locks and tossed them aside so that they landed on the floor. When he had clipped a circle around the wound, the damage was more clearly visible.

Brother Godwyn reappeared, carrying the reliquary, the carved ivory-and-gold box containing the skull of St Adolphus and the bones of one arm and a hand. When he saw Matthew operating on Earl Roland, he said indignantly: “What is going on here?”

Matthew looked up. “If you would place the holy relics on the earl’s back, as close as possible to his head, I believe the saint will steady my hands.”

Godwyn hesitated, clearly angry that a mere barber had taken charge.

Lord William said: “Do as he says, brother, or the death of my father may be laid at your door.”

Still Godwyn did not obey. Instead he spoke to Blind Carlus, standing a few yards away. “Brother Carlus, I am ordered by Lord William to-”

“I heard what Lord William said,” Carlus interrupted. “You’d better do as he wishes.”

It was not the answer Godwyn had been hoping for. His face showed angry frustration. With evident distaste, he placed the sacred container on Earl Roland’s broad back.

Matthew picked up a fine pair of forceps. With a delicate touch, he grasped the visible edge of a piece of bone and lifted it, without touching the grey matter beneath. Caris watched, entranced. The bone came right away from the head, with skin and hair attached. Matthew put it gently into the bowl of warm wine.

He did the same with two more small pieces of bone. The noise from the nave – the groans of the wounded and the sobs of the bereaved – seemed to recede into the background. The people watching Matthew stood silent and still in a circle around him and the unconscious earl.

Next, he worked on the shards that remained attached to the rest of the skull. In each case he snipped away the hair, washed the area carefully with a piece of linen dipped in wine, then used the forceps to press the bone gently into what he thought was its original position.

Caris could hardly breathe, the tension was so great. She had never admired anyone as much as she admired Matthew Barber at this moment. He had such courage, such skill, such confidence. And he was performing this inconceivably delicate operation on an earl! If it went wrong they would probably hang him. Yet his hands were as steady as the hands of the angels carved in stone over the cathedral doorway.

Finally he replaced the three detached shards that he had put in the bowl of wine, fitting them together as if he were mending a broken jar.

He pulled the skin of the scalp across the wound and sewed it together with swift, precise stitches.

Now Roland’s skull was complete.

“The earl must sleep for a day and a night,” he said. “If he wakes, give him a strong dose of Mattie Wise’s sleeping draught. Then he must lie still for forty days and forty nights. If necessary, strap him down.”

Then he asked Mother Cecilia to bandage the head.

Godwyn left the cathedral and ran down to the river bank, feeling frustrated and a

Most of the bodies were out of the water now. Those who were merely bruised and shocked had walked away. Most of the dead and wounded had been carried to the cathedral. Those left were somehow entangled with the wreckage.

Godwyn was both excited and frightened by the thought that Anthony might be dead. He longed for a new regime at the priory: a stricter interpretation of Benedict’s rule, along with meticulous management of the finances. But, at the same time, he knew that Anthony was his patron, and that under another prior he might not continue to be promoted.

Merthin had commandeered a boat. He and two other young men were out in midstream, where most of what had been the bridge was now floating in the water. Wearing only their underdrawers, the three were trying to lift a heavy beam in order to free someone. Merthin was small in stature, but the other two looked strong and well fed, and Godwyn guessed they were squires from the earl’s entourage. Despite their evident fitness, they were finding it difficult to get leverage on the heavy timbers, standing as they were in the well of a small rowing-boat.

Godwyn stood with a crowd of townspeople, watching, torn by fear and hope, as the two squires raised a heavy beam and Merthin pulled a body from beneath it. After a short examination, he called out: “Marguerite Jones – dead.”

Marguerite was an elderly woman of no account. Impatiently, Godwyn shouted out: “Can’t you see Prior Anthony?”

A look passed between the men on the boat, and Godwyn realized he had been too peremptory. But Merthin called back: “I can see a monk’s robe.”

“Then it’s the prior!” Godwyn shouted. Anthony was the only monk still unaccounted for. “Can you tell how he is?”

Merthin leaned over the side of the boat. Apparently unable to get close enough from there, he eased himself into the water. Eventually he called out: “Still breathing.”

Godwyn felt both elated and disappointed. “Then get him out, quickly!” he shouted. “Please,” he added.

There was no acknowledgement of what he said, but he saw Merthin duck under a partly submerged plank, then relay instructions to the other two. They eased the beam they were holding to one side, letting it slip gently into the water, then they leaned over the prow of the little boat to get hold of the plank Merthin was under. Merthin seemed to be struggling to detach Anthony’s clothing from a tangle of boards and splinters.

Godwyn watched, frustrated that he could do nothing to speed the process. He spoke to two of the bystanders. “Go to the priory and get two monks to bring a stretcher. Tell them Godwyn sent you.” The two men went up the steps and into the priory grounds.

At last Merthin managed to pull the unconscious figure from the wreckage. He drew him close, then the other two heaved the prior into the boat. Merthin scrambled in after, and they poled to the bank.