. .to . . . I don’t know!...plague and lightning strike! Most of the time he will not even look at the patients, just requires me to bring a phial of their urine, holds it up to the light, then tells his brother – that’s his assistant, one who’s cut from the same cloth – tells him how much to bleed the patient.’
I’d never seen Peter so angry. He drained half his beer in one swallow.
‘You heard me say we were running short of supplies? Temperley never restocks, has no use for curative herbs. We’d almost run out of your father’s salves and other medicines. I asked Master Winger if I could order what we needed, and he gave me leave. He’s as unhappy as I, but what can an apothecary do, when the physician will not act?’
‘What of Dr Stephens?’ I asked. He was my father’s older colleague, who often argued with him, being suspicious of modern trends, but I believed that secretly he recognised their effectiveness.
‘Oh, he is growing old and lets Temperley take the lead. I think he will retire soon. He only wants the quiet life.’
I picked up my pie and began to eat. It was somewhat greasy, compared with the fare in the Lopez house, but the flavour was good.
‘So the patients are not being well treated?’
‘Far fewer are recovering than used to,’ he said glumly.
There was a pause, then he gave me an odd look, almost conspiratorial.
‘May I tell you something in confidence, Kit?’
‘Of course.’
‘I have not worked beside you and your father these last years without learning something. I have been using your wound salves and burn salves myself, unknown to Dr Temperley. I have had some success, at least when he has not thoroughly weakened a patient with too much bleeding.’
I grinned. ‘So you are turned physician?’
‘I could not claim that, but I want to help those poor folk. That’s why we have run low on some of our supplies. I do remember how to make up some of your cures, but not all of them, so I’m glad to run into you today. I heard you were staying with Dr Lopez and planned to visit you, to ask if you could remind me of those I have forgotten. That is, if you do not think you should keep them secret.’
‘Of course not. I would want to help the patients as well, even though I am told there is no place for me at Barts. You must be careful, though, Peter. Dr Temperley could make trouble for you.’
‘I know. I am careful.’
‘The Temperleys are living in our home in Duck Lane. They bought some of our goods when the creditors seized them. But it seems Dr Temperley thought the books of Arabic medicine were full of demonic symbols.’
Peter snorted. ‘The man is a fool.’
‘Not a fool, if he has qualified in medicine at Oxford, but clearly a man blinkered by his own old-fashioned opinions.’
‘What will you do now, Kit, if you are not coming back to Barts?’
‘I’ve just been to see what work they have for my in Walsingham’s office. And I might find work at St Thomas’s.’
‘Don’t they just take the hopeless and dying?’
There was a slightly patronising tone in his voice, for Barts looked down on Thomas’s.
‘They are all sick folk,’ I said. ‘They all need our help.’
We finished our pies and ordered more beer and a platter of cheese.
‘Do you remember William Baker?’ I said. ‘Who lost a leg after Sluys?’
He shuddered. ‘Not likely to forget, am I? I attended the amputation.’
‘Well, things have turned out well for him. He’s learning shoe-making as well as other leather work and he’s marrying this month. I’m going to the wedding. I’m sure William would be glad to see you there too.’
He smiled. ‘That’s good news indeed. He endured it bravely. I remember that little nephew of his, taking his mother’s cakes and sweetmeats round to the other patients.’ He sighed. ‘Can’t see that happening now.’
‘The wedding is just before Bartholomew Fair,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking of getting up a party to
I’d never seen Peter so angry. He drained half his beer in one swallow.
‘You heard me say we were running short of supplies? Temperley never restocks, has no use for curative herbs. We’d almost run out of your father’s salves and other medicines. I asked Master Winger if I could order what we needed, and he gave me leave. He’s as unhappy as I, but what can an apothecary do, when the physician will not act?’
‘What of Dr Stephens?’ I asked. He was my father’s older colleague, who often argued with him, being suspicious of modern trends, but I believed that secretly he recognised their effectiveness.
‘Oh, he is growing old and lets Temperley take the lead. I think he will retire soon. He only wants the quiet life.’
I picked up my pie and began to eat. It was somewhat greasy, compared with the fare in the Lopez house, but the flavour was good.
‘So the patients are not being well treated?’
‘Far fewer are recovering than used to,’ he said glumly.
There was a pause, then he gave me an odd look, almost conspiratorial.
‘May I tell you something in confidence, Kit?’
‘Of course.’
‘I have not worked beside you and your father these last years without learning something. I have been using your wound salves and burn salves myself, unknown to Dr Temperley. I have had some success, at least when he has not thoroughly weakened a patient with too much bleeding.’
I grinned. ‘So you are turned physician?’
‘I could not claim that, but I want to help those poor folk. That’s why we have run low on some of our supplies. I do remember how to make up some of your cures, but not all of them, so I’m glad to run into you today. I heard you were staying with Dr Lopez and planned to visit you, to ask if you could remind me of those I have forgotten. That is, if you do not think you should keep them secret.’
‘Of course not. I would want to help the patients as well, even though I am told there is no place for me at Barts. You must be careful, though, Peter. Dr Temperley could make trouble for you.’
‘I know. I am careful.’
‘The Temperleys are living in our home in Duck Lane. They bought some of our goods when the creditors seized them. But it seems Dr Temperley thought the books of Arabic medicine were full of demonic symbols.’
Peter snorted. ‘The man is a fool.’
‘Not a fool, if he has qualified in medicine at Oxford, but clearly a man blinkered by his own old-fashioned opinions.’
‘What will you do now, Kit, if you are not coming back to Barts?’
‘I’ve just been to see what work they have for my in Walsingham’s office. And I might find work at St Thomas’s.’
‘Don’t they just take the hopeless and dying?’
There was a slightly patronising tone in his voice, for Barts looked down on Thomas’s.
‘They are all sick folk,’ I said. ‘They all need our help.’
We finished our pies and ordered more beer and a platter of cheese.
‘Do you remember William Baker?’ I said. ‘Who lost a leg after Sluys?’
He shuddered. ‘Not likely to forget, am I? I attended the amputation.’
‘Well, things have turned out well for him. He’s learning shoe-making as well as other leather work and he’s marrying this month. I’m going to the wedding. I’m sure William would be glad to see you there too.’
He smiled. ‘That’s good news indeed. He endured it bravely. I remember that little nephew of his, taking his mother’s cakes and sweetmeats round to the other patients.’ He sighed. ‘Can’t see that happening now.’
‘The wedding is just before Bartholomew Fair,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking of getting up a party to
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