A Novel Name Nigel John Robinson
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University of • Bedfordshire Title The Apothecary’s Tales: A Novel Name Nigel John Robinson This is a digitised version of a dissertation submitted to the University of Bedfordshire. It is available to view only. This item is subject to copyright. The Apothecary-s Tales Chapter One The Tal.king Horse 1111~1 1~'11 lilt ~lll 111~ l~ll 11~111111111\ I~ ~I~ 3403595108~I~ The Apothecary's Tales: A Novel by Nigel John Robinson A novel submitted to the University of Bedfordshire, in partial fulfilment requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy (Creative Writing) August 2009 The Apothecary-s Tales Chapter One The Talking Horse 2 The Apothecary's Tales Edited by John Yeoman XVIII o...,.,,,O Q From the Hypnerotomachia ofPoliphilli, 1499 'Nisi credideritis, non intelligitis. ' St Augustine, De Libero Arbitrio (l.2.4. I 0) The Apothecary's Tales Chapter One The Talking Horse 3 Editor's Prologue The scene: Ivinghoe, a little village of some 400 souls in central England, 35 miles from London and 50 years behind it. The date: 1623. King James I has been on the throne for twenty years. He is an expe1i ditherer, gross in his personal appearance and habits, but deceptively subtle in his mind. His diplomacy has kept at bay the aggression of Philip III of Spain, who threatens ever to return England to Catholicism - if necessary, by the sword. So far, he has also managed to placate Parliament, increasingly bold, which would have James renounce Papism and champion unequivocally the Protestant religion - a path no less dangerous. Meanwhile, the worst famine for 25 years rages throughout England. The chronicle: This is the diary of Hippocrates Yeoman, a 'cunning man' of Ivinghoe, once the richest apothecary in London, and now (for reasons that will later become clear) forced to become a hermit. In his dotage, he ministers to those sick in body or mind, and asks for his labours only men's thanks. He is a saint, some say. Nay, a necromancer, others whisper. He is privy to all secret things, being a detective, an astrologer, a physician and what passes for a priest, in these days when popery is outlawed but men still thirst for the comfort of confession. Truly, his ways are curious. And many a mystery does he find in the darkness of men's souls, not only in Ivinghoe but also throughout the kingdom, to unravel. In his curious ways. The Apothecary·s Tales Chapter One The Talking Horse 4 Chapter One: The Talking Horse The Codex Climactericon ofHippocrates Yeoman: Wednesday, xiv May Anno Dom 1623. The Sun in Taurus. The Moonfull. Two o' the clock. 'There is a man about, without a horse!' So my servant Mercer affronts me, bustling into my chamber with nary a knock, or a 'saving your reverence, master?' or a 'by your good leave', ribaldry being his habit. Startled, I look up from my journal. I cast down my quill. I admonish Mercer: 'Pray, tell the gentleman that the mystery of my guild is not at the disposition of horses, nor do I provide the services of a common stable. If he wants ofa horse, the village at Ivinghoe will supply him.' I gesture Mercer away, and I again pick up my quill; but with forlorn hope. The child frets. Its mother hath been away too long. Beyond the cradle, in the shado-.,,vs, there is a scurrying. 'Nay, master.' Mercer slopes remorseless at my door like a rancid drip of candlewax. He droops upon me his red and beamy nose, like unto a blood pudding, that could mop out the bowl of the deepest ale pot and oft times does. He persists: "Tis not the horse who is sick, master, but the man! His horse is not with him because he durst not ride it. He durst not ride it, for peril ofhis soul. Moreover, his soul is at hazard because his horse talks to him,' Mercer pulls his lip, mournful. 'So is he not possessed ofhis horse.' Mercer licks his greasy fingers 'primus, because his horse is possessed. Secundus, he thinks he is now himself possessed. Tertius, he believes that you can dispossess the horse. And so repossess for him his soul, his sanity, and his horse, in which order comes most commodious to your genius.' Mercer inspects his fingers, delighted. 'By my soul! And that is the matter clear, as I possess it, as plain as any man might tell.' I sigh. I wish that my alchemical skills were the better advanced, that I might sublime Mercer into a turnip. No man would be any the wiser for it, nor Mercer the duller. Yet a talking horse beguileth me. I lay down my quill. I scowl upon my servant, and affect to mistake him. 'Men talk to their horses. 'Tis common. You do so yourself, when you think I hear you not.' 'Ay, and Bayard understands me and I him, so never do I need ofcrop or spurs, and likewise in his wisdom is he saved the futility of eloquence. Yet this man avers The Apothecary's Tales Chapter One The Talking Horse 5 that his horse replies to him. What is more, it brabbles to him plain, effluent and poetical in the good English ofthe King.' The child keens. The rats are at its cradle. Far away, the mother drops her f'-agon to the floor. She lifts her skirt. I avert my thoughts. 'Ha!' I snort. 'IfJames talks good English then I am a Dootchman.' And I wag out my tongue. I drawl. I roll my eyes. I drool, as I have heard tell our Scottish king does, as daffy as a moon-calf. 'Sir,' the wretched Mercer chides me. "Tis young Master Repent-thee-of-Sin Abell and he hath walked an hour from Ashridge, and he weeps most affectingly that his horse is bewitched, fascinated and overlooked. And such is your degree, he says, that only you can redeem his horse or soul. And for either ofthese boons, whichever incurs the least expense, he would be most beholden to you.' This confoundeth me the more. 'Abell is a godly man,' I muse, soft. 'A precisian. One ofthe elect. Right famed is he for enclosing the lands ofpoor folk, and evicting them. Most wondrous is he acclaimed for loving God with all his soul, and hating his neighbour with all his heart. Firm is he in his faith, though I hear he would rather attend the church of St Mary, a place he must abhor, than be fined for his absence. So do I commend his thrift.' I pull my nose. 'Yet for his grovelling salvation, you say, he goeth not to his pastor? He despiseth his own sectaries? Instead, he bends his head to me, a cunning man, one cursed for all eternity by the quiddity ofhis own creed? This is rich indeed.' A flea hops from my beard. I crack it. My skills are quick, even in my dotage. I smile. Then I frown. I should harbour no fleas. Do I not douse my head, beard and arm pits each day, religious, with Oileum Allium? Memorandum: I must interrogate the freshness ofthe garlic. I fret. I note in my tables: 'Garlic'. The child screams. The rats are closer now. 'Master?' the rogue insists. Were my memory not perfect, I would swear I had quite forgot his presence. 'Abell hath no priest to confess him, now that priests are exploded. Nor in his continence can he attend an inn, where a tapster might absolve him for a dandiprat,' Mercer mourns. 'In your Christian charity, I prithee, take pity on him.' I roar: 'What cause did I ever give you to impeach me for a Christian?' Mercer blenches. 'But by all means admit him.' I laugh, satanic. Doth Mercer tremble? No. The Apothecarys Tales Chapter One The T al.king Horse 6 'Abell interests me no more than a saint's turd,' I console him. 'And yet,' I chew my quill 'I have a mind to confess his learned horse.' I turn to my wife, ever patient. 'Forgive me, dearest chuck. This drollery will take but a moment. I shall return to you soon enough and read to you again from my journal. Ho! You will remember that parson Bostock visited me today, much perplexed? Oh, 'twere a dainty tale. He had come that very morning from his bedchamber and found himself, upon the street, wearing the breeches ofhis churchwarden. Withal, in their pocket were a golden crown, and not his own! He could not fathom it. Yet I dissolved the riddle, in a trice. I urged him buy with the crown a bonnet for his wife that she henceforth might wear his horns, and not him!' I think I hear my darling smile. I close the door behind me. I lock it fast. 'u' 'u' 'u' He is a peculiar little man with a crumpled little sword and he weareth a black jerkin, black breeches and a black hat like a chimney. 'Tis so big that, did Noah's flood come again to Ivinghoe, he could sit within his hat and paddle himself home to Asbridge, it doubts me not. He is as lean as a weasel, and as twitchy. Above his neat white ruff, his young and beardless face bears that air of eager discontent that is the nearest a Puritan may discover, in this world, ofhappiness. So do I know, by the bubble ofhis rapture, that he is most serious afflicted. He dithers before my hearth. Startled by my appearance, so asudden in the shadows, he drops his hat.