He scurried away, leaving his basket behind.
I made sure Peterson’s airways were clear and checked him over for any further injuries. I’d only seen the one blow, but he might have broken an arm or collarbone as he fell.
The monk turned up only a few minutes later, pulling a flat handcart, and together we lifted Peterson onto it. He pulled – I pushed. We trundled down the alley, emerging seconds later into a wide sunny space, at the end of which was what looked like a church.
I felt a sudden excitement. I knew what this was. This was the famous St Thomas’s Hospital, named for Thomas Becket. It would be clean and safe. Just for once, we had fallen, figuratively speaking, on our feet.
No we hadn’t.
It’s hard for us today to understand the importance of religion to the medieval mind. Doubly so for heathens like me. I never gave it a thought.
They wouldn’t let him in.
They were very nice about it and I was reassured that as soon as he was able to confess, he would be admitted immediately.
In vain did I recklessly commit Peterson to the Catholic faith and promise he would confess as soon as he was actually conscious. In the same way that a modern hospital fears the contamination of superbugs, so did medieval hospitals fear the contamination of sin. In their world, the body and the soul were linked, with the soul taking precedence. Cleanse the soul and the body would follow. The first step was confession. They were very sorry, but they couldn’t take him in until he confessed. I begged and pleaded. I even cried a little. They were sympathetic but unmoveable. And while all this was going on, Peterson lay white-faced on the handcart and never moved.
I was frantic. What could I do with him? I had nowhere to take him. There were no relatives who could render assistance. I couldn’t even get him back to the pod because it wouldn’t let me in. I’d be stuck outside with an unconscious man on my hands and trust me, when night fell, this would not be a good place for either of us to be. And jolting him around in a handcart wouldn’t do him any good, either.
The little plump monk found an acceptable compromise.
There was an old shed behind the kitchen gardens, empty at present. He would bring a mattress and blankets. There was a well. He would see some food was sent over.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and we bumped Peterson through rows of beans and peas to an old wooden shack next to three magnificent compost heaps.
The little monk was as good as his word. We laid Peterson out on an old straw palliasse and covered him with coarse brown blankets.
He lay like the dead. I tried not to panic.
The little monk smiled at me.
‘I am Brother Anselm, child. What is your name?’
If in doubt, always take the name of the ruling king or queen. The year was 1383. Edward III was king and his wife had been Philippa of Hainault.
‘I am Philippa. Philippa of Rushford. This is my husband, Thomas.’
He smiled. ‘A fortunate name. Fear not, he will be admitted as soon as he wakes, which will be soon, I am sure. Rest and quiet are all he needs for the present. There is a well, over there, by the wall. I will return after Vespers, when, I am sure, with God’s help, he will be waking.’
I nodded.
‘Thank you, brother.’
‘Do not thank me, child. Thank God who saw your need and guided my steps to you.’
‘I will, brother.’
Left alone, I took Peterson’s pulse, checked his breathing, tucked the blankets around him, and sat in the open doorway, looking out to the big, grey stone building across the kitchen garden.
This was the famous St Thomas’s Hospital, named after the martyr, Thomas Becket, who was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral more than two hundred years ago. And I should know – I was there. And so was Peterson.
If I could have got him into the hospital, he would have had a bed, clean linen, good food, and a safe place until he regained consciousness. Instead, he was lying on the ground in someone’s garden shed which smelled of earth, dung, and wet sacks, and there would probably be rats.
He hadn’t moved at all. Or made a sound. I checked him again, but there was nothing I could do except wait for him to regain consciousness.
The afternoon shadows lengthened. The hour of Vespers was upon us. Through the open door, I could hear the chanting, drifting across the garden in the late afternoon sunshine.
I thought he might send a servant, or a sister, but Brother Anselm came himself, bearing a bowl of thick vegetable broth and a heel of bread. I ate while he examined Peterson again.
‘Has he moved at all?’
‘A little. About an hour ago. And his breathing is better.’
‘Yes, it is. Tomorrow, I will bring a poultice. He may well be awake by then.’
‘With God’s good will,’ I said, getting into the swing of things.