by Ann Benson
“But this is a scourge, a punishment from God,” the apothecary protested. “We cannot apply logic to its discovery.”
“We must apply logic to all discoveries,” Alejandro said, to which the apothecary did not reply. Alejandro thought it just as well that the discussion end there. He’d heard enough nonsense from the man. Excusing himself as politely as possible, he went in search of the Widow Selig, vowing never to send a patient to a man who was himself so filled with poison.
The widow opened the door to her late husband’s surgery and, after Alejandro had explained himself, invited him in. He walked about for some time, inspecting the premises and equipment carefully. Patiently waiting by the door, she kept her distance, answering Alejandro’s questions with polite but brief replies.
He asked her the price of the premises and equipment, expressing an interest in buying everything at one time. The tools suited him well. They were not the best quality available, but they were far better than what he had used in Cervere. She named a price, and he hesitated a moment, thinking it too low to reflect the true value of the lot. He remarked about this to her. “Surely, madame, a higher sum would be more appropriate.”
“I named this price because I need to sell quickly. I must provide for my children.”
Counting out the number of coins needed to make the higher price, he pressed them into her hand. After thanking him profusely, she handed him the heavy iron door key and turned to leave. Alejandro called out to her.
“Madame,” he said, “did your husband treat many patients afflicted with the plague?”
Still she would not look directly at him, but spoke instead as if addressing the floor. “It was all he did for the last week of his life. It consumed him. When they took his body away, it was covered with pustules; but I know he died of a broken spirit.” And then she left, carrying in one hand all that was left to her of her husband’s years of devotion to his craft.
He stood in the empty surgery and looked around at his new possessions, feeling an odd mix of excitement and trepidation. It was larger and darker than his surgery in Cervere. He knew he would need to arrange a source of light for delicate procedures. Light for my new life, he thought as he locked the door behind him. There on the door was the sign with Selig’s name still on it. Tomorrow, he thought, I will find a signmaker, and post my own notice of trade.
Hernandez came back to Alejandro’s house in time for the evening meal as promised, and reported on the success of his mission to the banking house. “We are to report there together in three days, at which time I will be handsomely recompensed for defending your ignorant hide against the ruffians of the road.” And giving Alejandro a pointed stare he added, “I am thankful that no ruffians in the guise of Spanish soldiers bothered us.” Then Hernandez chuckled and said, “But I am overpaid, I think. The worst danger we seemed to face was the heat of the sun.”
“Nevertheless, señor,” Alejandro answered, “your task was not an easy one, and you did it well. No one begrudges you your rightful compensation. It was agreed upon in advance.”
They ate their boiled meat and crusty bread by the illumination of two candles on the table between them. The widow provided a delicious wine, one that her husband had made, and they raised their glasses to each other as promised.
Alejandro queried the Spaniard about his plans for the future. “What will you do, now that your employment is over? Perhaps you should spend some time here in Avignon. This house is far too big for me, and I think the widow might be glad to have an extra coin each week.”
Hernandez thanked him for the offer. “I have actually grown fond of you, young sir, and I know I will miss your company. We have come a long way from our first encounter in the monastery at Cervere.”
After a sip of excellent wine he continued, “It is too much temptation for a man like me to have a fine horse and a small pile of gold. I can travel now wherever I wish, and take my fill of starry nights. Besides, I am growing tired of my old tales. I believe it is time for me to collect some more.”
Then the Spaniard lowered his voice, not wishing to bring the landlady to mind of her recent bereavement. “I have it in my plan to outride this pest. I think Avignon will be more dangerous to me than a fireside camp.”
Alejandro was sobered by this declaration from his brave friend. Trying to regain their previous warm mood, he made a bold prediction.
“You will return to Avignon, and I shall eagerly await your next visit. I will expect to be entertained by tales of your latest adventures. In the meantime, your fine company and conversation will be sorely missed.”
Hernandez toasted his young host again with a courtly flourish. Alejandro thought about future dinners with only his landlady for company, and knew he would miss him indeed.
“And now, my friend, I shall leave you for the evening in search of the company of a lusty wench. I feel a need to repeat my old tales one more time.”
The night before they were to visit the banking house, Hernandez excused himself from the table before completing his meal, and complained of a sick stomach.
“This French food is too rich for me. I have consumed more eggs and cheese this week than in my entire time in Aragon. I believe I will let my digestive organs have a rest tonight.”
By midnight he was sweating and shivering alternately, one minute pulling his blanket tightly about him, the next kicking it off violently. Alejandro hoped against all reason that his friend’s symptoms were only a passing influenza, or a simple bout of la grippe, so he treated Hernandez accordingly, administering tea and sponging the man’s head with cool water.
He borrowed a lantern from the landlady, promising to refill its receptacle with oil the following day. Running quickly to his nearby surgery, he gathered together the tools he would need to deal with Hernandez’s illness, should his worst fears be realized. He would need his knife and scalpel, and a bleeding bowl, some laudanum for easing the pain, and much wine, which he would buy from his landlady’s supply.
By the time he returned to the house, Hernandez had visibly worsened. His breathing was shallow, and his normally swarthy complexion was pale and greasy-looking. Alejandro instructed the landlady to bring a sturdy goblet, which he filled with strong wine, forcing Hernandez to drink it. It seemed to calm him.
Then without warning the big man sat up in bed, his eyes bulging, and vomited forcefully, casting the undigested contents of his stomach fully across the room. The landlady groaned in revulsion and hurried out. Alejandro heard her hurried footsteps on the stairs but did not try to follow her.
Hernandez settled down somewhat, having purged himself of his gastronomic demon. Alejandro opened the window shutters, hoping to clear the air of the unpleasant smell, then pulled a chair up by the sick man’s bed. “I will keep a vigil by you, Hernandez, and see to your needs,” he said. Resting his head on his arms, he dozed fitfully, with small dreams of Carlos Alderón disturbing his repose.
He was awakened by the cawing of a blackbird on the sill of the open window. When he looked at Hernandez, he saw that the sick man was still sleeping peacefully. The coarse dark blanket was pulled close around the soldier’s neck, in eerie contrast to the chalky skin of his face. “You must be warm, my good friend,” he said, laying his palm across Hernandez’s sweaty forehead.
“Yes, you are indeed,” he answered himself, and pulled the blanket back from around the man’s chin.
He had seen the ghastly swellings on the necks of the corpses, but the sight of a living man with such disfigurement turned his stomach. Hernandez’s neck was grossly distended and misshapen. Patches of blue and black surrounded one large spherical growth. He reached toward Hernandez, feeling the increased warmth of the flesh as his fingers neared the neck. Resting the tips of his fingers lightly on the hot skin, he gently palpated the circular mass, and was surprised by its firmness. He knew without a doubt that it would be filled with the thick cloudy mess so frequently described by observers of this plague. He decided to relie
ve Hernandez of the pain of the enormous boil by lancing it.
When he called for the landlady to bring water, he got no reply; when he went downstairs he saw that the linens on her hearthside sleeping pallet were undisturbed, and he assumed that she had fled. He pulled the light sheet of linen off the pallet and quickly tore it into small rags. In the kitchen he found two water buckets, one full and the other partially so. He carried one bucket and the rags upstairs, arranging everything on the small table at Hernandez’s bedside.
After quickly washing his hands and drying them on a linen scrap, he took out a small flask of laudanum. He gently shook Hernandez to awaken him, and bade him open his mouth.
“Stick out your tongue, Hernandez. I will give you a draft that will relieve your pain.”
Groggily, the Spaniard did as he was bidden. Their roles were now the opposite of what they had initially been, Hernandez the helpless and ignorant child, Alejandro the wise and experienced warrior, ready to do battle with his friend’s unseen attacker.
Alejandro turned away, needing a fresh breath, for Hernandez’s tongue was covered with a chalky film, and the odor it exuded was beyond description. Fortified by fresher air, he said, “Steady, now, for this will taste vile,” and dribbled a small amount of the drug on his friend’s tongue. Trying to amuse his patient, he added, “This time it would please me greatly if you did not give it back as you did your last meal.” Hernandez tried to smile, but winced instead; the simple act of curling his mouth caused his neck to throb wildly. He bravely refrained from crying out, but he could not keep the tears from coursing down his pale cheeks.
“Patience, Hernandez; soon I will apply my meager skills to your tormented neck. You will not suffer much longer.”
Unable to speak, Hernandez slowly moved his hand to Alejandro’s, tapping the hand lightly, then tapping his own armpit. Trying to decipher the meaning of the sick man’s actions, Alejandro unlaced Hernandez’s shirt, and pulled it down over the shoulder for a better look. The same mottled swellings were presenting themselves there. As he touched the apple-sized lumps, Hernandez recoiled, this time failing to stifle his expression of agony. He cried out in misery.
Slowly the laudanum worked its magic, and the patient lay quiet, insensible and drowsy from the drug. Alejandro worked quickly, not knowing how much time he would have before Hernandez came back to full awareness. He cleaned his instruments, wiping them carefully on one of the linen scraps. Another rag was dipped in water and the area around the boil wiped clean of the sweat that had poured down Hernandez’s neck. Carefully, Alejandro placed several more small rags around the yellowed center of the boil, hoping to absorb the effusion of fluid that was likely to gush forth after the lancing, for he was not inclined to touch the vile exudant. He placed the scalpel at the center of the boil, wrapped yet another rag around it, and pressed down. Hernandez began to writhe slowly, feeling this agony even through his laudanum-induced haze; Alejandro kept strong pressure on the man’s neck, and felt the size of the mass slowly diminish.
At last the flow was stanched, and none too soon, for Hernandez was beginning to regain consciousness. Alejandro thought he would be better off in a stupor, and offered him more laudanum. But Hernandez weakly gestured no with his hands. He seemed to want to say something.
The voice was dry and tired. “Do not waste your potions on me, Alejandro. I feel the same pain in the pit of my arm and near my manhood as I feel in my neck. Soon I will be a mass of boils, and you will not be able to help me. I despair of ever rising from this bed again. Please allow me to die with some honor.”
It had taken all of Hernandez’s strength to speak those few words; he closed his eyes and lay still, exhausted by the effort of making his wishes known.
Alejandro had heard that the victims of the plague suffered the terrible despair of hopelessness in their last hours, and he sensed its presence in Hernandez now, but it had not occurred to him that the same despair would have such a deep hold on their survivors. He whispered to Hernandez, clutching the man’s blackened hand, “As you wish, my friend. I will not add to your suffering.”
By midafternoon both of the Spaniard’s hands were completely black; Alejandro had not dared to look at his feet, but suspected they were in a similar condition. He sat uselessly at the Spaniard’s bedside, his mind alternately sinking into deep gloom, then racing into a frenzy of impotent anger. He thought back on the death of Carlos Alderón, and the frustration that had come from his inability to stop the progress of the blacksmith’s disease. “Would you not allow me time to prepare myself?” he said to Hernandez, who could no longer hear him.
Looking at the ruined body, Alejandro recalled how burly and strong it had once been. The body had consumed itself with fever in the short course of its illness and the man appeared much smaller and bonier, as though the very life had flowed out of him. His neck was once again swollen, having filled up rapidly with black blood, which was now oozing from the wound and coagulating in grainy lumps along the side of his neck.
Desperate to maintain some contact with the man he had come to admire, now his only friend in the world, Alejandro spoke softly to Hernandez as the man slipped closer and closer to death, although he knew the Spaniard could not hear him.
“I curse my luck, Hernandez,” he said; “I would be still in Cervere, among friends and family, were it not for that girl. And had the bishop behaved honorably, as you have shown me Christians can behave, I would not have known the fear of discovery on this journey.” He hung his head in shame. “Nor would I have had reason to keep my secret from you. I killed him, you see. I plunged my knife into his breast. I watched the redness of his life flow out of him before me. It burdens my soul; I will need to atone somehow for that act.”
Hernandez groaned and Alejandro wiped his forehead. “But had this not all come to pass, I would not have had the privilege of knowing you, my friend. It has been a greater pleasure than I could ever have imagined. I will miss you, indeed.”
Hernandez died at sunset, after opening his eyes briefly for one last look around. He whispered, “Madre de Dios,” then closed his eyes, and his chest fell for the last time.
Knowing there was nothing more he could do for Hernandez, Alejandro covered him with the sheet, then walked slowly to his own bedroom and fell into bed exhausted, not even bothering to remove his clothes.
Pope Clement sat in his private apartment, fanning himself against the stifling heat. Of what use is this exercise? he asked himself silently. There has been no new air in here since that rascal de Chauliac locked me in here, at my own orders, all irony be damned! He wiped the sweat from his red brow with the moistened cloth that had been at his side since he began his imprisonment.
He was distracted from his misery momentarily by the soft ringing of a bell. Oh, sweet Jesus, let it be something tasty, or honeyed, or perhaps lusty and willing! I tire of this boredom!
But to his disappointment it was merely a scroll, albeit an impressively large one. He opened it eagerly, needing its distraction from the boredom of his routine as his physician’s captive. Neglecting to review the seal before doing so, he began reading.
Your Holiness,
It is with great sadness that I write to you concerning matters of great import to the Holy Church of Christ and the Kingdom of England. We are stricken at last with the dreaded scourge that has already ravaged the whole of Europa. We had hoped by virtue of our isolation from France to escape its ravages, but it has stubbornly crossed the waters, bringing its vile poison to our fair shores. It began in Southampton not a month ago, and is now firmly entrenched in our fair city of London and its surrounds.
It is my sad duty to advise you of the death of John Stratford, our devoted archbishop, at Canterbury on the sixth day of August. His Eminence departed this earth after five days of illness, attended by his physician and several members of his family, who are greatly distressed in their bereavement and cannot be comforted.
But we must speak of our own grief now,
for I am further bound to report a loss more deeply distressing to myself and my good Queen Philippa. Our dear daughter Joanna, on her bridal journey to Castile, has succumbed to the same dreadful plague. While traveling through Bordeaux she became ill, along with several members of her entourage.
The death of our beauteous Joanna, beyond leaving its unspeakable mark on our grieving family, has threatened our alliance with King Alfonso. I fear that my Isabella’s refusal to wed his despicable son Pedro did nothing to promote mutual understanding between our two kingdoms, and you know that I was not in favor of the subsequent match between him and Joanna. Your Holiness may recall that there was much discord over the wisdom of this match. We expended great effort to persuade Alfonso that Joanna was a suitable substitute for her sister, and the girl herself was willing, and may God grant her the blessing in heaven she deserves for such noble willingness. Now her untimely demise has no doubt widened the rift between Castile and England. There is no remedy for the loss of Joanna, except the conjuring of another acceptable daughter of marriageable age, and my queen is now loath to let any of her progeny leave her sight, for fear of it being the last encounter. I have convinced her to allow the younger ones to travel with our royal physician, Master Gaddesdon, to Eltham Castle, there to await the scourge’s passing. But she will not hear of allowing young Edward and Isabella to join them there, and in truth, neither wishes to do so.
My ministers and advisors cannot come to accord now, and all is confusion; no one wishes to stay in London, dreading the contagion that has gripped our populace in its black claws. My court is meagerly attended, and I have been forced to disband Parliament for the foreseeable future. I lack counselors of any notable ability at Windsor, and the business of my court is dangerously neglected. Scots gather in a jovial mood at my border, thinking to take advantage of our temporary weakness, falsely believing that they will not fall prey to the pest.