nonetheless.
I passed the woods where, earlier in the day, I had found the cotehardie. I wished to be home, out of the blast, and safe from the sleet or snow I thought likely before morning. But my curiosity was too strong. I had yet an hour before darkness. I tied Bruce to a sapling while he gazed at me with a wounded expression. He wished to be home and out of the storm as much as I. Cotehardie in hand, I penetrated the underbrush. It took a few minutes of casting about before I found the place where the cotehardie had lain.
The wind was quiet here, its gusts broken by the forest. As I studied the ground, and kicked through the leaves searching for more clothing, I heard from the distance a dull thud. Then, a few seconds later, another.
It was difficult to tell, with the wind and dense vegetation, from which direction the sounds came. And when I determined the source, it was not an easy matter to work my way through the undergrowth and coppiced saplings toward the sound.
I came to a place where the coppiced trees thinned to an older growth of forest just as a final thud brought the sound of a falling tree crashing through the branches of its still-standing neighbors. I had heard the sound of an axe laid against a tree – woodcutters were at their trade.
I followed the sound of axes lopping limbs from the fallen tree and found three men at work in the gloom of a gathering twilight. One of the three was conspicuous for the white cap he wore, which marked him from his companions in the dim light. It was the man whose skull I had repaired, who I had told to remain in bed for a week, and to do no toil for a month. Here, but seven days later, he was at his labors.
One of the three took that moment to rest on his axe – no doubt they had been employed at their task all day – and saw me approach. He spoke to his fellows and they ceased their labor to observe me as I picked my way through limbs cast off from trees felled earlier. My patient seemed to recognize me first – not that he could have remembered the time he spent in my surgery – and he spoke as I neared the group.
“You’ve come for your t’uppence, then?” he asked.
“No. You’ve a week before I want to see the wound and change the wrapping. You were to remain in bed until tomorrow. This,” I looked past them to the fallen oak, “could kill you. Your condition is brittle, and will remain so for many weeks.”
“Aye…so you told ’em,” he nodded toward his companions. “But,” he continued, “if I do not my share of the work I’ll not have fare to last t’winter. Then me an’ my household may starve. I take a risk, whether I work, or no.”
I saw his point. Left to his choice, I think I would have done the same. “Do you suffer…from the wound?” I asked him.
“Aye,” he shrugged. “Now an’ again.”
“When?”
“If I turn me head, quick like, or bend to me feet, then rise…mostly times like that.”
“That’s to be expected. You feel no other constant affliction?”
“Aye…me left hand an’ leg is weak, like.”
“Let me have a look.” I approached and peered at the bandage I had wrapped about his head. The wound seemed to be healing well, with little oozing to discolor the fabric. “I must change the wrap in a week.”
“I’ll bring yer pay,” he muttered.
I considered the man’s station, and my own diminished supply of firewood, and struck a bargain. In a week’s time he would bring twopence worth of firewood to me, in payment of the portion of my fee still due. In concluding this agreement I nearly forgot my mission, but another of the woodmen cast his eyes toward the cotehardie I held in my left hand and returned me to my senses.
I held the garment out before me and asked if they’d seen anyone wearing it. They hadn’t. I thought an explanation in order, so told them of the discovery. I left them with the admonition to seek me if they found more clothing. I did not think it a promising possibility
I passed the woods where, earlier in the day, I had found the cotehardie. I wished to be home, out of the blast, and safe from the sleet or snow I thought likely before morning. But my curiosity was too strong. I had yet an hour before darkness. I tied Bruce to a sapling while he gazed at me with a wounded expression. He wished to be home and out of the storm as much as I. Cotehardie in hand, I penetrated the underbrush. It took a few minutes of casting about before I found the place where the cotehardie had lain.
The wind was quiet here, its gusts broken by the forest. As I studied the ground, and kicked through the leaves searching for more clothing, I heard from the distance a dull thud. Then, a few seconds later, another.
It was difficult to tell, with the wind and dense vegetation, from which direction the sounds came. And when I determined the source, it was not an easy matter to work my way through the undergrowth and coppiced saplings toward the sound.
I came to a place where the coppiced trees thinned to an older growth of forest just as a final thud brought the sound of a falling tree crashing through the branches of its still-standing neighbors. I had heard the sound of an axe laid against a tree – woodcutters were at their trade.
I followed the sound of axes lopping limbs from the fallen tree and found three men at work in the gloom of a gathering twilight. One of the three was conspicuous for the white cap he wore, which marked him from his companions in the dim light. It was the man whose skull I had repaired, who I had told to remain in bed for a week, and to do no toil for a month. Here, but seven days later, he was at his labors.
One of the three took that moment to rest on his axe – no doubt they had been employed at their task all day – and saw me approach. He spoke to his fellows and they ceased their labor to observe me as I picked my way through limbs cast off from trees felled earlier. My patient seemed to recognize me first – not that he could have remembered the time he spent in my surgery – and he spoke as I neared the group.
“You’ve come for your t’uppence, then?” he asked.
“No. You’ve a week before I want to see the wound and change the wrapping. You were to remain in bed until tomorrow. This,” I looked past them to the fallen oak, “could kill you. Your condition is brittle, and will remain so for many weeks.”
“Aye…so you told ’em,” he nodded toward his companions. “But,” he continued, “if I do not my share of the work I’ll not have fare to last t’winter. Then me an’ my household may starve. I take a risk, whether I work, or no.”
I saw his point. Left to his choice, I think I would have done the same. “Do you suffer…from the wound?” I asked him.
“Aye,” he shrugged. “Now an’ again.”
“When?”
“If I turn me head, quick like, or bend to me feet, then rise…mostly times like that.”
“That’s to be expected. You feel no other constant affliction?”
“Aye…me left hand an’ leg is weak, like.”
“Let me have a look.” I approached and peered at the bandage I had wrapped about his head. The wound seemed to be healing well, with little oozing to discolor the fabric. “I must change the wrap in a week.”
“I’ll bring yer pay,” he muttered.
I considered the man’s station, and my own diminished supply of firewood, and struck a bargain. In a week’s time he would bring twopence worth of firewood to me, in payment of the portion of my fee still due. In concluding this agreement I nearly forgot my mission, but another of the woodmen cast his eyes toward the cotehardie I held in my left hand and returned me to my senses.
I held the garment out before me and asked if they’d seen anyone wearing it. They hadn’t. I thought an explanation in order, so told them of the discovery. I left them with the admonition to seek me if they found more clothing. I did not think it a promising possibility
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