The Butchers Funeral: A Medieval Murder (3 page)

He awoke to the glow of a fire, the heat warming his blanket covered body.  The pain was back and despite the fire, he was feeling cold.

‘Awake then?’  The barber surgeon had noticed movement.

‘It hurts and I'm feeling cold.’ Perry complained.

‘I'll give you some more dwale in a while.  You know, the cold will be the blood you have lost.  Your liver is not burning up enough of it, so you'll be getting cold as your internal fire is getting low.’

‘The bastards turned me upside down.  That won't have done my humours any good either.’

‘So what happened then?’  Alvin asked.

They talked back and forth for a while.  Perry was not completely honest as he did not want to admit that he fell on his own knife.  Instead he told how the assailants had stabbed him after cutting him down and leaving him to die.  He felt that was fair as they had left him in such a bad way.  If he ever got hold of them again, they would wish they were dead. 

The pain was still strong, but the cold was beginning to numb Perry and give him a little relief.  As they talked, Alvin continued to feed the fire carefully building up the heat rather than raising the flames.  Eventually he exposed the charcoaled wood at the heart, placing some metal rods on them.

‘What you doing with those?’  Perry asked.

‘Cauterizing irons.’  The explanation was more than enough.

‘Ah, so there may be some hope for me?’

‘Well, the wound needs to be sealed so that you do not lose any more blood.  Also if we let too much miasma in, then the wound will go bad, so we need to get you closed up.’  Alvin watched as the iron rods began to change colour with the heat of the fire, ‘The knife was long enough to have caused you some real damage inside.  If it's really bad there won't be much I can do for you.  If your liver or stomach are damaged, you’ll not be able to keep burning blood.  If you have too much black or yellow bile, the chances are also not good.  It’ll be a case of waiting to see if you heal.  I've some good poultices to place on the wound, and God willing, you will heal.  Now tell me, are you normally melancholic?’

‘Not really, maybe a bit pessimistic, but I'm usually more choleric, forever irritable and bad tempered.’

‘How would you say you feel now?’

‘Melancholic, quiet and cold.’

‘Yes, that's a worry.  This injury may cause problems with your black bile.  You’re certainly cold, so we’ll have to keep an eye on that.’  Alvin almost sounded like he was lecturing an apprentice, ‘You know you need your humour balanced just right for healing and the clotting of you blood.  Now I don't want you moving any distance until we've sorted out this wound.’

‘More like don't want my guts spilling out.’

‘Well there is that, but I can't carry you on my own.  Someone will be along the path sooner or later.  If not, I can get help to move you once I've patched you up.  You'll not get any better help than me, best barber surgeon for miles and I can work just as well here as anywhere else’

‘Probably the only one for miles.’ Perry managed a grin, ‘Thanks anyway.  I've only used Old John for tooth pulling and he passes through only once a year.  So, where's your apprentice?’  Perry looked around.

‘Haven't got one at the moment.  The last one was a lazy piece of work.  Couldn't stand the sight of blood.  We were half way through an amputation one time, I'd cut through the muscle and as I started sawing bone there was a thud.  He'd only gone and passed out.  Wasn't even holding the patient down and I got punched in the face for it.’

‘No dwale that time then?’

‘No, that patient got drunk and had his mates and my assistant were meant to hold him down for the operation.’  Alvin thought for a moment, ‘The kid was also a thieving little sod.  Any time we went though a market he'd knock off something.  We were at a fair one time and I caught him stealing a bracelet.  The grief from that!  We avoided a hue and cry, but only ‘cause I got him to return the stolen goods.  He got away without a punishment because there were too many people needing my skills in that town.  I couldn't trust him after that and bartered him in for food and board.  At least he was suited to that thieving trade.’

Alvin poked the fire with the iron rod, seeing it was glowing red with the heat, ‘Ah, coming along nicely.  Let's get you ready.’

He started to clear a space, unrolling a cloth full of probes, saws and knives.  He held up the vial of dwale in front of Perry, Perry almost snatching it in his growing pain.

‘Sip it,’ Alvin said, ‘You don't want too much, just enough to make you sleepy.  There are some pretty nasty ingredients in it that will kill you if you have too much.’

Perry sipped, cooperating with the barber surgeon as he moved him from his side to his back.  Alvin moved a couple of the torches he had lit so that he had sufficient light to operate by.  After a while, Perry began to doze.

Alvin tutted to himself.  This was not good.  Perry was beginning to run a fever, and that would suggest he was suffering from a plethora of blood.  His breathing was also getting much quicker.  As the dominant humour, it was important that the quantity of blood in the body was carefully kept under control.  Too much and the blood may stagnate, too little and there would not be enough, again causing stagnation. However, with all the blood that had clearly been lost, despite placing some pressure on the wound, it was unlikely that Perry had too much blood.  So it was probable that there was a degree of stasis of the blood around the wound.  The wound was beginning to smell, was cool to the touch and had swollen.  Alvin instantly recognised the smell as that of putrification.  There was also a small amount of pus, so the blood was mortifying into yellow and black bile, a trace of blood suggesting that the fever was progressing quicker than the body could heal. 

The treatment was obvious, he needed to cauterise the wound.  Then it was a case of hoping that Perry survived the shock and putrification.  If it were a limb, it would be a simple amputation, but this was not an option for a stomach wound.  Alvin had a good track record.  Unlike many other barber surgeons, more than half of his amputations and cauterisations survived the shock, and of that remainder, half survived the fevers that routinely followed.  This case was a bit more complicated as the fever was already setting in and some stomach wounds could not be healed, whatever was done.  If the fever continued, then he would see about further bleeding to prevent stasis.

Taking his time, Alvin used a very sharp, small blade to remove some of the more fevered flesh from immediately around the entrance of the wound.  He did not want to cut too deeply, but the flesh that was beginning to blacken was already dead.  Used to working by torchlight and candlelight, he expertly probed the wound, clearing away further mortified flesh, while soaking up the fresh blood with a rag.  Perry grunted several times, but barely stirred, the dwale successfully maintaining the unconsciousness.

When he was satisfied that he could remove no more dead flesh, Alvin readied the hot iron rod, clasping the cooler end with a thick leather glove.  He plunged the red hot end into Perry’s wound.  The burning flesh sizzled, smoke rising, while Perry whimpered and his body jerked.  Alvin was used to the smell of burnt flesh, but even after so many years found it disturbingly like roasted meat.  He made sure the rod went the full depth of the wound before carefully withdrawing it and placing the end back into the fire to clean off any scraps of flesh still stuck to it.  The wound had only been exposed to the hot rod for a couple of seconds, cauterizing too long caused even more problems.

Leaning close he inspected his handiwork.  The wound had stopped bleeding and was clearly sealed by the burnt flesh. He used the iron rod to tidy up a few visible places that he had missed the first time.  Soon there was no puss and the smell of mortification was gone.  Alvin cleaned up the wound as carefully as possible, applying a salve based on honey to help the healing.  Carefully, he bound the wound, checking on Perry’s breathing and fever while he was at it – both were worse than before, but that was not a surprise considering the shock of cauterization.

‘Hey!  What you doing?’

The shout had come from the edge of the clearing.  Three men had emerged from the wooded path.  They looked like workmen.

‘Come here.  I need you to get this man to town.  He's been attacked.  I've fixed him up a bit, but he needs warmth and maybe a priest.’

‘Who is it?  What happened to him?’

‘It's Perry the Carniter.  Two men attacked him.  He thought it was a hocking, but then they went and stabbed him, tried to kill him.  Robbed him blind of course.’

Perry gave a splutter, but remained unconscious.

‘Looks to me like you've done him in.’ One of the three new arrivals said.  He appeared to be the leader.  Addressing the other two new arrivals, ‘See I told you I saw something wrong going on here, some devilish robbery.  See, Perry's been tortured with hot pokers by this devil-worshipper.’

‘What are you going on about, I found him in this clearing and helped fix his wounds.’

‘Listen, Perry can't even talk.  He's under the spell of this.  Get him lads!’

All three rushed forward, pinning Alvin to the floor.  He smacked him head as he went down, but still noticed one of the assailants was searching him.

‘Look what I've found on him,’ It was the same man who had launched the attack and he was holding high a pouch full of coin, ‘I bet these are his foul won monies, all stolen from Perry.’

Alvin did not recognise the pouch and started to protest that it had been planted on him.

‘Looks like you were right Judd,’ One of the assailants said to their leader, ‘Caught him red-handed with the stolen money and practicing his devil worship.  First he attacks the Butcher, and now he attacks the carniter.’

‘Didn’t I tell you, I did.’

His heart sank as he recognised the name Perry had given as that of one of the hockers who had strung up the carniter. He was about to protest his innocence when Perry sat bolt upright, gave a bubbling cough and fell back, no longer breathing and black bile oozing from his mouth.

‘See, he's used his magic to murder Perry as well!’

'
Albin
, get out of there! You've been in there for ages, I ain't paying you to do nothing.' 

Dionisia Butcher banged on the door as she stormed past.  She carried a basket of meat to the preparation table, tipping out the contents besides the vegetables she had chopped earlier. Albin always seem to hide in the larder when there was work to be done and she felt like she was forever chasing him to do his job.  Only last week, Dye had found him asleep in the front of the shop.  She had not told her husband about it, instead preferring to deal with the issue herself.  She had made use of a bucket of cold water and Albin had woken with a start.  It wasn't that he was lazy, or even that he she might be uncomfortable as he was close to her age.  It was simply that she was the woman of the house and as the apprentice she had to make sure he knew his place.

Dye at 17, was doing well for herself.  Running her own business, well her husband's business, she had an unusual amount of freedom.  Despite five years of marriage, she still had no children and was actively reducing her husband's say in the matter.  Her husband, Col, was not lazy.  In fact she admired his ability to make money out of almost anything.  He made sure there was very little waste in the butcher's shop, always finding a way to sell even the oldest meat. Her main gripe with Col was that he was old, entering his fourth decade, and well, just not very interesting.

'Get that pastry out of the larder.' She called to Albin, who promptly brought her the bowl, tipping it out onto the lightly floured table.  Dye started to roll it out.

'What meat do you want mistress?' Albin asked her as she started cutting out shapes from the thinly rolled pastry.

'I got it here already when you was hiding in the larder.'  She smiled at Albin and looked at his lower half, 'Or did you mean something else?'  She may be the mistress of the house, but flirting was fun.  Albin went bright red.

'But mistress, that meat's well past it.'  Albin looked at the meat on the preparation table, knowing better than to flirt back.  He had tried that once and had nearly had to fight her off. It was all very well having some fun flirting with people, maybe even going to far, but he knew that Col would beat him within an inch of his life if he found out.

'Exactly. There's no point throwing things away when people are prepared to pay for them.  Besides, it's only a little ripe, it's not like it's got any worms or anything like that yet.'

She quickly made the pie casings, filling them with the smelly and slightly slimy meat.  This was a trick her husband had taught her.  'People like pies,' he had once said to her, not long after they were married, 'and they pay good for them as well.  Never, throw away something you can make money out of.'  She had worked to that maxim ever since.  Her husband may be old, and no longer to her taste, but he knew business and she learnt quickly.

Dye was just putting the pies into the oven when there was a knock at the back door, her husband entered the room carrying a slab of pork.  He was red-faced, sweating and out of breath.  Despite being a strong man his age was beginning to show.

'Ah woman, glad I caught you now. Got a nice bit of beef here for our pie tonight.' He took some beef out of his apron pocket before tossing it to her. She smiled as she caught it, and placed it down on the table.

'Thank you my love. I got plenty of pastry left, so we'll have a nice pair of pies tonight.' Being well off they frequently took their main meal in the evening.  They were both well fed and it showed, something that marked them out as successful.

'I've got some extra deliveries to make, in addition to the ones Albin will be doing later.  I'll be in the tavern afterwards.'  The afternoon sky was visible as he opened the door to the shop, throwing the pork onto a shoulder and giving her a wink, 'I'll be back for the pie, and to keep you warm, later.  Albin!  Get out here and take over the shop.'

Col did not see the shudder that went through Dye as he left.  She was sick of his night-time pawing of her.  It had been fun at first, but now she knew better and he just did not match up to the others.  Half the time he did not even finish and she was fed up with her wifely duties.  He was getting old.  About his only advantage was that he had a successful business that she had learnt from top to bottom.  However, she made sure that he did not know how she felt.  On the contrary, she played the perfect loving wife to him.  On the days when he got blind drunk, she ran the business by herself, enjoying the knowledge that he would be unconscious by the time she turned in for the night.  With luck, he would sleep through the first waking and leave her alone for the entire night.

  As a businesswoman, Dye knew she could deal with the customers, even the awkward ones.  Most of the local farmers were too busy trying to flirt with her to cheat her, and the rest she could easily handle.  She knew how to present the meat so that it would sell for the best price, and she knew how to make money out of every single piece.  She had even learned how to butcher a carcass and was almost as good as her husband at the task, despite him rarely letting her practice the skill.  As for the gangs, none bothered her as they either adored her, or were fearful of the gangs that admired her.  She even knew how to deal with the blasted Carniter.  If only Col would sort him out.  Donald Alvin had given her the idea a few days ago.  For that matter, when Col finally went to his eternal reward, she would be able to run the business for herself without the help of a man.  She would add something 'special' to her husband's pie tonight, another suggestion Donald, the itinerant barber surgeon, had made that would give her plenty more sleep.

After finishing the two pies for dinner, she busied herself with tidying up.  He might arrive soon and she could not wait.  He did not come by every day, but when Col was out drinking, or on an errand, he would often arrive.  Fortunately that brat, Albin, knew what was good for him and would keep his mouth shut.  She smiled when she heard the familiar rhythmic knock on the back door.

It
was getting late when Col returned home.  The light was failing and he had sensibly prized himself away from the tavern having only drunk a few ales.  He was pleased to see that his wife had closed up the shop successfully, the street stall was inside and the shutters were closed.  She was a good lass, growing into a fine woman.  He had been lucky, marrying both beauty and brains.

Of course, he had heard the rumours, how could he not?  He had seen people hiding their laughter behind their hands in the tavern.  These occasions did not happen often, but were frequent enough to be noticeable. People thought him a silly old cuckold and loved to gossip, their favourite theories being that she had a much younger man, no, many men, all of them much younger than Col.  At first it had hurt, the idea that she was with others.  He did not really give much credence to the whole idea as he would have caught her by now if she was guilty.  Besides she did not act as if she was involved with another, she was still a loving and dutiful wife, eager to please and quick to learn the art of his business.  To be honest, it worked to his advantage having these wild rumours spread about him as he could take advantage of them to con the stupid and rip off the pitying.  He had even made jokes of how she had been a wild animal when he had first married her, but that marriage had tamed her and if any man looked twice at her Col would see to him becoming a eunuch.  It was not just a joke, but a threat in case anyone decided to put some truth into the rumours of her infidelity.  Everyone knew if you got on the wrong side of Col you would find that his knives were not only used on animals.

'Ah, that smells good.' He said as he entered the back room.

'It'll just be a minute,' Dye removed a pie from the oven, briskly serving up his dinner, 'Good business?'

'Quiet. Not many people at the tavern tonight, but we should be able to get that cheap chicken that John is bringing in.' Col was clearly not drunk, having not had the opportunity to consummate many deals with alcohol.

The Butcher got on with his meal, noisily enjoying the superior pie his wife had made for him.  Having eaten earlier, Dye got on with readying the shop for the next morning while carefully watching to see that he ate every bite.  Perhaps she would have some quiet tonight, at least that was the plan.  She had enjoyed herself earlier when her husband was out and she did not want to spoil the afterglow of those stolen hours. If Col cleared his plate then this might work, she was sure the barber surgeon knew his job.

It was not long before they turned in, tired by their long day of labour.  While they were wealthy enough to burn plenty of candles late into the night, neither of them were prepared to waste money on such follies when they would be better able to work by the early morning light.  She knew she would be safe from his clutches before the first sleep and it did not take long until Col was snoring.  She turned over and fell asleep herself.

Dye awoke shortly after midnight.  She lay awake for a while, listening to her snoring husband.  He would normally have woken up by now and either tried to have his way.  On some nights they would have got up for a couple of hours to read and talk.  Sometimes Col even went out for a walk, as long as there were no later night miasmas in the air. 

After a while she got up, lit a candle and started to read one of the few books she allowed herself as a luxury.  Quite some time passed before she noticed the increasingly laboured breathing coming from the bed.  She tried to block it out and instead concentrated on the words before her.  After a while, she realised the noise had stopped.  She looked up.  Col did not seem to be moving, appearing sweaty and pale.  She was worried that something was wrong.

'Col, wake up!'

Dye panicking threw her book to the floor, leaping from her chair and across the room towards her husband.  As she shook him, Col coughed and rolled onto his side before being violently sick across the bed.  Convulsions continued to hit him, even after there was nothing left to eject from his stomach.  Dye's panic grew in pitch as he gasped for breath, his eyes growing wide.  He looked awful, flushing red.  The room began to stink from the vomit spread across the bed.

'Get away,' He rasped, not looking directly at her, but over her shoulder, 'keep away from me.'  Dye worriedly looked behind herself, there was no-one there.  Col was trying to move up the bed, away from whatever he feared, licking his lips as if they were too dry.

'No, no!  I've never sold that, never.'  Col was slurring, looking at the spot behind her shoulder, 'Leave me alone, I never did that.' 

Col tried to sit upright, holding his hands in front of his eyes as if shading them from the candlelight. He was still not looking directly at her and was pulling at his nightshirt as he staggered to his feet. She grabbed his arm to steady him, but he pushed her away shouting, 'Get off woman!'

'But Col, you're in no fit state to be on your feet. Get back into bed you silly sod.'

Dye could see only confusion in his eyes as he fumbled on some clothing. She tried to persuade him further but he was having none of it. Despite being unsteady, he was soon dressed and heading for the door.

'Col,' she was almost pleading as she rushed to the door to stop him, 'where do you think you're going? You're in no fit state to go anywhere.'

'I've got to deal with it. I've got to stop them bothering me, they keep appearing before my eyes. I've got to do it now.'

Col slurred several times as he spoke, but his wife could not work out what he talking about? Before she had even finished the thought he had rushed down the stairs. Something was knocked off the table in the back room as her husband moved through towards the back door.  Before she had reached the bottom of the stairs she heard the door to the alley slam shut.

Every
night it was the same, every single night.  He would start at one end of a street and finish at the other, clearing all the mess into his cart as he went.  Of course, some streets were worse than others, but very few of them were in a good condition when he arrived.  His third street tonight had taken quite a while.  There was the usual array of muck: animal mess; straw piles where householders had cleared out their floors; food waste and today, someone had dumped a small and pungent pile of fish guts.  At least it had not been raining recently so instead of being ground into the mud, there had been an easy layer of muck to shovel onto the back of his cart.

Paid by the cartload, he needed to be quick about his work.  The cart was only a couple of paces long, with two large wheels that helped him get over the hardest obstacles.  He wished he had an ass, or better still a horse, to pull the cart, but that would cut too much into his profits.  As long as he was quick about his work he could make a go at empty four carts a night.  Paid by the cart, in a few nights he could earn more than most people were paid in months.  Of course, there were shortcuts, but the most useful one was not always possible as the city was too small.  In some cities, muckrakers dumped their carts into neighbouring streets rather than go to the effort of taking the waste all the way outside the walls.  By doing this they could get paid more than once for each cartload as residents paid them to move on every load that mysteriously appeared during the night.  It was easiest to do this when there were several muckrakers as they could then blame each other, cooperating so that everyone got paid.  He had no competition in this city, so he had to be subtle and spread small amounts of waste over several streets, slowly building up the future demand for his services.