Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [98]
They sponged up the blood and cleansed Gottschalk’s wounds.
“Well, Brother John, what needs doing next?” Brother Benjamin quizzed Joan when they had done.
She was quick with the answer. “Apply a salve … of mugwort, perhaps, mixed with some pennyroyal. Soak some bandages in vinegar, and apply them as a healing pad.”
“Very good.” Benjamin was pleased. “We shall put in some lovage as well, as a guard against infection.”
They worked side by side, preparing the solution, the pungent smell of the new-crushed herbs rising headily around them. When the bandages were dipped and ready, Joan handed them to Brother Benjamin.
“You do it,” he said, then stood back and watched approvingly as his young apprentice firmly pressed the ugly flaps of skin together and expertly positioned the bandages.
He came forward to inspect the patient. The bandaging was perfect—better, in fact, than he could have done himself. Nevertheless, he did not like the way Brother Gottschalk looked. His skin, cold and clammy to the touch, had gone white as new-sheared wool. His breathing came shallowly, and the pulse of his heart blood, faintly detected, was dangerously rapid.
He’s going to die, Brother Benjamin realized with dismay, and the thought immediately followed: Father Abbot will be furious. Raban had exceeded himself in chapter and surely knew it; Gottschalk’s death would serve as both reproach and embarrassment. And if news of it should reach King Ludwig … well, even abbots were not immune from censure and dismissal.
Brother Benjamin searched his mind for something more to do. His pharmacopoeia of medicines was useless, for he could not administer anything by mouth, not even water to replenish lost fluids, while his patient lay senseless.
John Anglicus’s voice startled him from his reverie: “Should I start a fire in the brazier and set some stones to heating?”
Benjamin looked at his assistant with surprise. Packing a patient round with hot stones wrapped in flannel was standard medical procedure in winter, when the pervading chill was known to sap a sick man’s strength, but now, in these last warm days of autumn …?
“Hippocrates’ treatise on wounds,” Joan reminded him. She had given him her translation of the Greek physician’s brilliant work only last month.
Brother Benjamin frowned. He enjoyed doctoring, and within the limited medical knowledge of the day, he was good at it. But he was no innovator; he felt more comfortable with safe, familiar remedies than with new ideas and theories.
“The shock of violent injury,” Joan continued with a barely perceptible degree of impatience. “According to Hippocrates, it can kill a man with a penetrating chill that emanates from within.”
“It is true that I have seen men die suddenly after injury, though their wounds did not appear to be mortal,” Brother Benjamin said slowly. “Deus vult, I thought, God’s will …”
The intelligent young face of John Anglicus was alight with expectancy, seeking permission to proceed.
“Very well,” Brother Benjamin conceded, “fire up the brazier; it’s unlikely to do Brother Gottschalk any harm, and it may do him good, as the pagan doctor says.” He settled himself on a bench, grateful to rest his arthritic legs as his energetic young assistant bustled about the room, starting the fire and setting stones over it.
When the stones were hot, Joan wrapped them in thick layers of flannel cloth and carefully placed them all about Gottschalk. Two of the largest stones she positioned under his feet, so that they were slightly elevated, following Hippocrates’ recommendation. She finished by laying a light woolen blanket over all, to hold in the warmth.
After a short while, Gottschalk’s eyelids fluttered; he moaned and began to stir. Brother Benjamin went to the bed. A healthy pink tinge had returned to Gottschalk’s skin, and he was breathing more normally. A quick check of his pulse revealed a strong, regular heartbeat.
“God be praised.” Brother Benjamin breathed in relief. He smiled at John Anglicus