Fantastical Ramblings (16 page)

Wilfred grabbed his sleeve to keep him upright and center
his own vision. “Ulrich of Salisbury. I should have known. You haven’t been
sober of a Friday since you got here.” But he was a damned fine student during
the rest of the week. “You’ll make a fine scholar if you ever stay sober long
enough to complete the curriculum.”

The world seemed to shift to the left. Wilfred’s vision
doubled and then doubled again. For a brief moment he caught a glimpse of an
older and wiser Ulrich wearing a master’s robes, teaching a bevy of younger men
in Wilfred’s own quarters.

The vision left Wilfred gasping in confusion. “Just a
portent. Not a certainty,” he reminded himself.

“You say something, Sir?” Ulrich slurred.

“Go to confession before you dare darken the door of my
chambers on Monday morn.”

Ulrich of Salisbury saluted with his mug to his brow.

Wilfred doubted he’d remember the orders to confess. But
that sacrament was required of all students before Mass on Sunday. Wilfred
himself would have to confess his foray into the Jewish quarter. Consorting
with the tainted Jews was considered a sin.

But no other physician in the city had Simon ben Isaac’s
skill and knowledge.

“On your way, boy. And stay out of trouble.” Wilfred pushed
Ulrich toward the student chambers.

“Could you trouble me with one of those hand torches, Sir? Stairs
are damned dark and twisty.”

“Master’s secret,” Wilfred said rather than admit openly to
having magical talent. Bad enough his students spread rumors hither and yon of
his alchemical experiments. He didn’t need it bruited about that the youngest
Don—barely three and thirty—had congress with the Devil, or Jews, or whatever
evil currently topped the Church’s list.

With growing urgency as the sunset fell toward the horizon,
he stumped his way across town to the Jewish Quarter.

Suddenly, as if traversing a portal into a new world the
streets became clean, the houses newly whitewashed and thatched and in good
repair despite their modest size and appearance. Not one bit of garbage or
animal waste marred his passage.

He breathed deeply. This part of town always smelled fresher
than the Christian sections. One thing his fellow believers had not learned or
improved upon from the Jews was cleanliness. And they weren’t likely to in the
current political climate.

King Edward Longshanks made noises on a monthly basis about
how the Jews corrupted the very air Christians breathed. His grace also had a
fondness for referring to Jews as thieves. One of the few professions open to
the Jews was money lending. They had to charge interest to make a living. And
every time the king or a great lord defaulted on a loan (without penalty), the
Jews had to increase their interest rate to other clients to make up the
difference.

The Jews were blamed for everything from the decreasing
value of a coin, to the latest disease, to the worsening relations with France,
to the early and long winters. Mimicking their cleanliness might become the
next great sin.

Wilfred touched his soiled robe with the Celtic cross atop
his staff and willed the stains away. The scent of spilled ale and the roast
mutton he’d eaten for his dinner evaporated under an orange glow. The embedded
mint sauce from yesterday took a little more concentration. At last he felt
clean enough to approach his friend, the physician.

“Simon ben Isaac, open your door.” Wilfred pounded upon the
stout wooden planking with his staff.

“’Tis Friday eve, the Sabbath. I may not open my door,” came
a robust reply just on the other side.

“The sun hasn’t set yet, you old hen-plucker,” Wilfred
replied with a bit of mirth.

“How can you tell with those heavy clouds about to dump snow
upon us?” Simon opened the door and leaned out, looking at the horizon rather
than his friend. A single grey curl dangled before each of his ears. The rest
of his hair was clipped short and an elaborately embroidered black prayer cap
adorned his head.

“I can tell.” Wilfred closed his eyes and concentrated. His
body automatically turned to face north. The wind caressed his face and told
him everything he needed to know about the heavens. “You’ve time to poultice my
leg before you go to your prayers.” Wilfred shouldered the man aside and limped
heavily into the stark room.

“Come right in, Wilfred of Kirkenwood,” Simon said
sarcastically, hands on hips, a glare of disapproval in his eyes.

“Thank you, old friend.” Wilfred dropped onto the kist, a
small chest with a rounded top, beside the window and stuck his offending left
leg out before him. Simon did not waste money on chairs that served no other
purpose than a place to sit.

“You’ve got to do something, Simon. This really pains me. I’ll
not make it to Monday.”

“How do you know the sun has not set?” Simon waved his hand
to indicate the bowls of tallow burning feebly around the room. They did little
to lighten the gloom of this dark November day.

“My soul senses the movement of sun and stars and moon. I’ve
studied them too long not to know precisely where they are at this moment. You
have half a candle length before the sun touches the horizon. Now please, stop
stalling and treat this leg.”

Simon remained by the door, his arms crossed across his
chest. His mud brown robes fell to his feet undisturbed by movement.

“I’ve money to pay, if that keeps you rooted to the spot
like some great oak.” Wilfred held up the small purse his nephew had sent him
so that he might journey home to Kirkenwood to celebrate Yuletide Mass.

“I am not allowed to treat Christians,” Simon said simply.

“But you are the best doctor in all of Oxford. Possibly in
all of England.”

“That matters not. The Archbishop of Canterbury has decreed
and the king agrees with him: for a Jew to treat the illness of a Christian
only further taints their bodies and disrupts the humors. I may only serve my
own people.”

“Nonsense. I don’t give a mistletoe berry what the king and
archbishop think...”

“’Tis the law, Wilfred.”

“I am not a physician, merely a simple midwife,” a woman
said, walking into the main room of the house from some hidden cubby in the
rear.

Wilfred stared at her, agape. She glided into the room more
than walked, graceful, serene, and... and beautiful. The most beautiful woman
he had ever seen. Her dark hair contrasted delightfully with her pale, flawless
skin. And those clear green eyes sparkled with mischief and intelligence.

From one breath to the next, Wilfred, who had never had time
or interest in the mousey, stupid, giddy women his family paraded in front of
him, fell in love.

“Close your mouth, Wilfred. You will only catch flies with
it hanging open like an oubliette,” Simon said.

Wilfred managed to lever his jaw upward enough to comply
while he studied the woman. She carried a bowl filled with some aromatic
substance he could not name. Keeping her eyes modestly lowered, she began
bathing the offensive ulcer with a clean cloth which she dipped into the
mixture.

No skinny, giggling, maiden this. She had passed the first
flush of youth and matured into incredible beauty. The sight of her rounded
body filled Wilfred with sweet longing.

“How be it you have managed to keep this glorious angel a
secret from me, Simon?” Wilfred finally asked. He knew better than to speak to
the woman directly. Jewish ideas of modesty differed from his own.

The first fire of the bathing passed from his ulcer,
replaced by a blessed cooling that spread outward from the center of the wound.

“My sister, Miriam, newly come from Flanders.” Simon did not
follow the information with a formal introduction. Wilfred could not yet speak
directly to her.

A secret smile played about Miriam’s generous mouth as she
applied an ointment to the ulcer. “Simon, tell your patient that this balm will
help heal the wound, but he must keep the bandages clean, and he must not drink
so much wine or eat too many blood puddings.”

Her rich voice washed over Wilfred like a sweet melody.

Simon repeated her words, the same mischievous smile tugged
at his mouth as his sister’s.

“Simon, tell your lovely sister that I must return here
every three days so that she may replace the bandages and apply a new dose of
this wonderful balm.” Wilfred did not, could not, remove his eyes from her.

Simon repeated those words.

At last Miriam looked up at Wilfred and laughed. “Very well,
Wilfred of Kirkenwood. You may return here every three days for more treatment
from a simple midwife who has lived too long among Christians to fear them.”

“Miriam, no,” Simon protested. All trace of amusement left
him. “They’ll burn you for a witch if he heals too quickly and too well.”

“Or they’ll brand and exile us all, Jews consorting with a
Christian. And a Christian who is rumored to deal with dark powers and alchemy.”
She rose from her crouch to her knees and glared at them both with hands on
hips and her mouth pursed in disapproval.

“Will you marry me, Miriam?” Wilfred blurted out. “I love
you.”

“Nonsense. You are grateful for the release of your pain. Now
return to your studies and your philosophical arguments with your fellow Dons
before the sun truly sets and we must begin our prayers.”

“You’ve told her about me?” Wilfred queried Simon.

“I may have mentioned you a time or two in my letters to her
husband, may he rest in peace. Can I help it if he allowed an impertinent woman
to read our correspondence?” Simon asked as he helped Wilfred up from the low
kist and guided him to the door. “Now do try to stay off that leg for a few
days and eat lightly, watered ale and gruel. A bit of chicken or fish if it’s
not too salty or drowned in rich sauces.”

“You are cruel, Simon. How am I to stay warm sleeping alone
on these frigid nights with so little food inside me? If I survive, I shall
return on Monday for fresh bandages and some more of your widowed sister’s
wonderful balm and charming company.”

Wilfred limped back to his chambers, dreaming of Miriam,
sister of Simon ben Isaac. He didn’t feel the cold a bit, nor did the snow that
soaked his cloak chill him to the bone.

The next morn Wilfred sent word to his nephew by merchant
caravan that he could not travel because of the ulcer on his leg, compounded by
the worsening weather. Winter did seem to come earlier and earlier each year.

When students traveled home for Yuletide, Wilfred remained
in his chambers, entertaining the few remaining in Merton College. They mulled
wine on the hearth and helped him through the snow every three days to the home
of Simon ben Isaac. Four times Miriam dressed his wound, then declared him
healed. Wilfred found new ailments, aches and pains to justify additional trips
across town into the Jewish quarter.

The snow grew deeper. Christians and Jews alike ran out of
firewood, peat, and sea coal. Many had to borrow money from the Jews to pay
inflated prices for fuel to stay warm.

And the snow grew deeper yet.

Still Wilfred beat a daily path to the home of Simon ben
Isaac. By Twelfth Night he gave up making excuses. He courted Miriam openly. Her
wit, charm, and intelligence enchanted him. They argued politics. She knew
history nearly as well as he. Best of all she never doubted that King Arthur
existed and that he had died a martyr, believing that the law, justice, and
peace could work and that honor, truth, and promises were important.

Neither of them could remember a monarch since who had lived
up to those qualities.

Wilfred hesitantly claimed distant kinship to the great king
of the past.

“’Tis only logical that a man as great as you with kin of
ancient and honorable lineage should descend from King Arthur. ’Tis more
logical that you descend from King Arthur’s Merlin, the greatest magician of
all time,” Miriam countered.

Wilfred blushed. “What if I told you that my family can
trace its lineage to both King Arthur and his Merlin?”

“I am happy that you take such pride in your heritage. My
mother traces our lineage back to Abraham and thence to Adam,” she returned
proudly.

Her big brown eyes met his in shining affection. Wilfred’s
heart melted anew and his loins set afire.

The world tilted around him. His eyes found focus in a new
dimension. He caught a glimpse of Miriam holding an auburn-haired babe to her
breast while three others, also sporting the auburn hair and deep blue eyes of
the Kirkenwood family, played at her feet. He knew without question that he had
fathered/would father all four of those children within the bounds of wedlock.

Pride and joy swelled within him.

On Shrove Tuesday, as the Christian community feasted on the
last of the lard, eggs, and milk before the forty days of Lenten fasting,
Wilfred dressed in his finest, and cleanest robe. He washed his hair and
trimmed his beard. As usual Simon ben Isaac greeted him at the door. The two
old friends exchanged formal greetings then ducked inside.

“Is the world about to end?” Simon asked as he tweaked
Wilfred’s curling beard. A few strands of gray had crept into the auburn mass
during the winter.

“I bathed. What is so unusual about that?” Wilfred growled.

“Snow still encrusts the verge and ice makes the roads
treacherous. No one has extra fuel to heat water for a bath,” Simon replied. A
bit of mirth tugged the corner of his mouth upward.

“We need to talk, Simon.” Wilfred looked around for a place
for the two of them to sit. He settled on the low kist, leaving the taller,
flat-topped chest for his friend.

“May I take your cloak, Wilfred of Kirkenwood?” Simon
remained standing by the door.

“Oh.” Wilfred blushed as he handed over the heavy and sodden
garment.

“What portends?” Simon asked, settling his skinny bottom
upon a pillow atop the chest, the place of honor.