by Ann Benson
Alejandro was surprised. “Is it wise? I mean, will you—”
“Have no fear, colleague. I have taken the necessary precautions.”
They hurried through the basement corridor by the light of de Chauliac’s torch, slipping through the shadows past the kitchen, where—even at that ungodly hour—the work of preparing the day’s food was well under way. Alejandro kept hold of Guillaume’s hand as they made their way up a narrow, winding staircase. More than once the child nearly lost his footing on the damp stone steps. Finally, they emerged, several stories up, a few paces away from de Chauliac’s private quarters.
The rooms in which his colleague lived and worked in the papal palace were every bit as much of a sanctuary to their occupant as when Alejandro was first brought there, a frightened young Jew on the run from his crime of passion. He was alone then—a fugitive with no country, no home, no family. He had the sense again that he entered a private lair of a man who, were he less fastidious in his demeanor, might have marked it off as a buck does his piece of the forest. The appointments were a reflection of the Frenchman, who left an indelible mark on nearly everything he touched. The same exquisite tapestries graced the walls; the sumptuous carpets hushed every step, and the furniture gleamed in the torchlight like the still surface of a pond. Guillaume was as awestruck as his grandfather had been on his first occasion there as his eyes traveled slowly over the marvels, drinking in their exotic beauty.
While the boy was absorbed in inspecting his surroundings, Alejandro led de Chauliac far enough away so the child would not hear.
“Speak, my friend, and tell me why we were called here so urgently.”
De Chauliac looked in the boy’s direction. “Will he sleep?”
“As soon as he calms. He has never seen such things as these before.”
“We will speak when he is abed. You must stay the day here, in any case. It is not safe to leave just yet.”
“Leave?” he said. He disliked the word before it left his mouth. “Where are we going?”
“To Paris, where you will be safe.”
It was the last destination he would have considered. “To Paris? Safe? From what?”
“From those who would hurt you, and the boy.”
“They have discovered us, then.”
De Chauliac said nothing but glanced toward the boy.
“Ah, yes,” Alejandro said, acknowledging the need for discretion. “When he sleeps.” He leaned closer. “I have been away from the larger world for so long that I am no decent judge of it. Even so, Paris would not be my chosen haven.”
“I understand your sentiment,” de Chauliac said, “but you must trust me now. You are safe for the moment, and you will be safe there.”
Their eyes locked. Once before he had trusted de Chauliac with his life and more.
And I am still alive, he thought. So is Kate, and so is Guillaume.
“Please. Forgive my impatience.”
De Chauliac nodded. “It is your nature, after all.” His eyes settled again on Guillaume. “The boy seems to have found something of interest.”
They moved across the large salon and stood on either side of Guillaume, who ran his hand back and forth on the polished surface of a table with quiet awe. He looked up at Alejandro and said, “Grand-père, the wood is so smooth—I can see my face!”
He moved his small fingers over the carved edges of the table, examining their shape and texture with a light and reverent touch.
De Chauliac leaned over—with some difficulty, for he was extremely tall—and said, “I will have a special treat for you later, but first you must take some rest. Young boys need sleep, for it is in repose that you grow.”
The child looked up at him, and then at his grandfather. “Really?” he said.
“Really. Now,” he said, extending his hand, “if you will but follow me, young man, we shall find you a soft place….”
The boy allowed himself to be led into the separate bedchamber. Alejandro watched through the door as de Chauliac settled Guillaume onto a chaise longue.
“He seems to trust you,” Alejandro said when de Chauliac returned.
“The boy follows your lead—in all things, one imagines.” He pointed to the same shiny table that Guillaume had admired. “You have been known to admire a thing of beauty. Now, sit, colleague. There is much to discuss.”
Alejandro did as bidden; de Chauliac went to the very same table and picked up a sheaf of parchments, first carefully removing the stone weights he had placed on both ends against the inevitable curl brought on by Avignon’s often damp weather. He carried the lot to where Alejandro sat and offered it to him.
Wearing a look of confusion, Alejandro took the offered pages and placed them on his lap. He read the opening lines on the first page:
In God’s name, here beginneth the inventory or gathering together of medicine in the part of surgery, compiled and fulfilled in the year of our Lord 1363 by Guy de Chauliac, Surgeon and Doctor of Physik in the full clear study of Montpellier….
He looked up in astonishment. “Colleague…what treasure is this?”
“A manual of surgery,” he said with quiet pride. “I have begun one, at long last.”
Alejandro began to turn the pages, now wearing a look of joy and wonder, but de Chauliac placed his hand on the stack of sheaves.
“This is the reason I have given to his Holiness to explain my sudden need to travel to Paris. We will speak more of this work in time. But right now we have more immediate matters to discuss.”
Kate aligned the ivory combs on the dresser in the specific order preferred by her sister Isabella. She stared at the arrangement, which rested precisely on a brocaded silk scarf, and wondered if Isabella had ever actually touched any of the combs herself; her hair was always dressed by one of the many ladies who clucked incessantly around the royal apartment, meeting the princess’s every need with stunning immediacy. Her world consists of lotions and silks and lace, Kate thought. She knows nothing of her people, who live beyond these walls.
She used the tip of her finger to move one of the combs ever so slightly, until it was just visibly out of line with its companions. It was a peevish gesture but one that would send her older half sister into a wild rant. She regretted that she would not hear it; by then, the soldiers would have come to take her away again. Poor Nurse—dear, venerable, faithful Nurse—would have to listen to the diatribe that followed, despite the queen’s mandate to Isabella that she treat the old servant more tenderly. It was an instruction that the Plantagenet princess—the only marriageable daughter of King Edward and his lawful queen—chose to ignore. Despite Nurse’s best efforts, Isabella had grown into her father’s daughter more than her mother’s; she was a demanding, self-absorbed, and petulant woman, shrewdly devoted to the pursuit of all that she desired. She wore arrogance as visibly as a harlot wore rouge and kohl, without even the slightest attempt at subtlety.
But for all her similarities of temperament, Isabella bore only a passing physical resemblance to her father, King Edward. Not so with Kate, who had, since her abduction from Paris by her half brother’s retainers, made no secret of her hatred for Edward—or for Isabella.
She knew the king’s knock when it sounded and wondered why he bothered, for he never waited to hear Entrez. He would simply enter, without a decent interval, for his daily attempt at reconciliation, though she could not for the life of her understand why he wished to reclaim their kinship after so many years of denial.
“You need not bother to knock next time,” she said defiantly. “Save your knuckles.”
He walked across the room with long strides. “Such anger, such contempt,” he said. “It is not fitting for a princess.” He made a point of emphasizing the last word. As he glanced around the salon, his eyes came to rest on a pile of rumpled garments in one corner. He walked over to it and picked up the ivory velvet mantle that lay on top. “Nor is this mess. Why are my gifts in a heap on the floor?”
“Beca
use the window is barred, and I could not throw them into the courtyard.”
The king’s voice darkened. “Do these riches not please you, daughter?”
Her reply was spoken without hesitation. “You are no father to me.”
She saw the anger flare in his eyes and shrank back, but he lurched forward suddenly and took her by the arm. The Plantagenet king yanked the defiant young woman he had sired to the looking glass and held her still in front of it. She closed her eyes against the pain of his grip, but he squeezed her arms until she cried out.
“Open your eyes and look into the glass, or I shall squeeze harder. Better yet,” he added, “I will summon one of those burly Celts who escort you to and fro. Perhaps they can convince you to take a look. Or maybe,” he said, “I will send them out to collect your son.” After a pause for effect, he said, “The boy is well within my grasp.”
She opened her eyes and stared straight ahead but would not meet her father’s stare.
“That’s right,” the king said as he tightened his grip on her flesh. “Even you cannot fail to see the resemblance between us.” He let go of her arm and shoved her away.
She rubbed her arm and fought back the tears, lest he see her weakness. “Indeed,” she said, “you have left more than a passing mark on me.”
The king grabbed hold of her hair and pulled her close. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
“I gave you life,” he hissed into her ear. “You would be wise to thank me for that gift.”
“You may reclaim that life,” she whispered back, “when you find it convenient. You will hear no complaint from me. That would be the most desirous gift you can give me.”
He pushed her away again, almost violently, and she fell to the floor. “You forget to whom you speak!”
She pushed herself up and looked directly into his eyes. “I speak to the man who denied me as an innocent child, and now, after years of abandonment, would claim me as his own. Well, you shall not have me. My father will come for me. You might prepare yourself.”
The king laughed aloud. “Your father?” he sneered. “A stinking Jew, a coward who has not shown himself in seven years! He stole your son—my grandson—and yet still you speak of him as if he were the Savior himself! You dwell in delusion, daughter. He will not come. And if he should foolishly attempt it, we will take him prisoner.”
Kate’s voice trembled; she could not hide it from the king. “He will come.”
“You sound as though you must convince yourself.”
Barely above a whisper, she said again, “He will come.”
The king stomped off but turned back at the door. “He had better hurry, then.” He strode out, slamming the heavy door behind him.
De Chauliac and his protégé were finally alone.
“I sent for you because there is news on two fronts. First, the king has written to the pope requesting the approval of a match for Isabella.”
For a moment, Alejandro said nothing. “I shall say a prayer for her bridegroom,” he finally offered, his voice bitter. “The man will soon find himself in need of grace.”
“Indeed,” de Chauliac said. “But it may be Isabella who will need your prayers.”
“I shall not pray to any god for her happiness.”
“She is to marry de Coucy.”
Alejandro nearly leaped to his feet. “Dare you say!” The long rows of desperately wounded soldiers of the ill-fated Jacquerie came into his mind’s eye, and he revisited for a brief moment the atrocities that de Coucy—under the command of the Count of Navarre—had carried out in quashing their rebellion. Though de Coucy was but a young baron of eighteen at the time, he had displayed a ruthlessness more fitting for an older, embittered warrior. By the time sun set on that terrible battle, Alejandro and Kate were drenched in the blood of the fallen comrades of her husband, Guillaume Karle, whose own head had perhaps been taken by de Coucy himself. The only reason that Kate herself was still alive after de Coucy and Navarre descended upon them was her swift and sure placement of a knife at de Coucy’s crotch when he grabbed her from behind.
He saw now the image of this monster at the side of the wretched and scheming Isabella. What a fitting couple they made—two demons of the dark.
May they dance at their wedding in shoes of hot iron and make their marriage bed on hot coals.
“Surely God cannot allow such a horror as this to take place!” he seethed.
De Chauliac put a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder and gently pushed him back to sitting. “Please, colleague, you will take a shock with your outbursts, and I have need of you yet. Sit, and calm yourself. There is much more to tell.”
The tall Frenchman poured himself a glass of brandy. “Will you have one, for your constitution?” He did not wait for the reply but poured anyway. “His Holiness will naturally approve the match, since la famille de Coucy have always supported him. This is an excellent match for them. Quite excellent. Of course, they would expect nobility in their son’s bride, but royalty should have been beyond them—the daughter of a king, the king of England, is too much to be hoped for. But as we all well know, she is an evil shrew, worthy only to be Satan’s bride, and he is a hostage in Edward’s court, against a ransom. Edward will do everything in his power to see that it takes place.” He paused before saying, “Word has it, incredibly, that they are very much in love, despite the difference in their ages.”
Alejandro sat back in his chair and imagined Isabella as she might now be—a woman of thirty-three or perhaps thirty-four years, whose sharp beauty would certainly have begun to harden. With four failed matches behind her, she would be on the verge of desperation. De Coucy at twenty-six would be in the fullness of his manhood, swarthy and dark, a steely and well-muscled warrior.
“Love, between such a pair? Indecent. And love is of no import in such arrangements, or so you have stated before. Therefore, you must tell me, de Chauliac, what importance this has to bring me out of the ghetto with the boy. Let Isabella and her beastly bridegroom spend their honeymoon in hell. My only concern is my daughter.”
De Chauliac wanted to remind his comrade that Kate was not truly his daughter, but this hardly seemed the time. “Therein lies the main reason for my summons,” he said gently. “It seems that the king is seeking to legitimize her, so she can be wed as well. He has written to the pope with that request.”
Alejandro gripped the arms of the chair and leaned forward. “This cannot be true,” he said.
“I have seen the letter myself, Canches, and I know it is true.”
“But who…”
“De Coucy has asked that she be given to one of his retainers, a distant cousin, a count whose name is Benoit. There is little known about him other than that he is a fellow of some means and property, most of it in Bretagne, where Edward has little influence. And so by giving her to him he accomplishes two goals: He cements his bargain with de Coucy and puts his fingers on Bretagne.”
“I will rip him from neck to navel if ever I see him again!”
“Whom shall you rip—de Coucy or the king?”
“Both,” he snarled, “given the opportunity.”
“You must learn to curb your temper, my friend. Your impetuous acts have cost you dearly in the past. This excess of emotion is unhealthy and will be your undoing.”
Alejandro ignored his friend’s warning and pushed himself out of the chair. He paced back and forth on the thick oriental carpet in de Chauliac’s salon, muttering to himself. Then he turned to de Chauliac and said, “I must depart immediately. I will take her out of the castle and bring her back here. She will be safe in Avignon, among the Jews….”
De Chauliac saw his friend’s distress and agitation. “Calm yourself, colleague; now is the time for temperance, not tempestuousness. I brought you here as soon as the news arrived, so there is time yet to formulate a plan and then to act. The pope has not yet given his approval for the match, though I am sure he will agree. The message has only just arrived. There is much to
be gained in delaying his response. The king will become nervous and perhaps conciliatory on other matters. This is a game they play with each other.”
“I cannot delay. I must go now, to afford myself every advantage.” The anger in his voice changed to regret. “I should have gone for her before.”
“You would have failed. The time was not right. There was too much strife in the land, and there is plenty still! Soldiers are all about, and though they are fewer in number than before, they are no doubt still seeking you, with no war to distract them.”
Alejandro slumped back into the chair again. There was defeat in his voice. “So,” he said, “how shall I proceed, then?”
“Go first to Paris with me. Bring the boy. You will be safe there, I assure you. When we arrive, I will put some of my retainers to the task of gathering further intelligence on these events. Then we will take measure of what you ought to do next. There will be many travelers heading for England as soon as the betrothal is announced. You might be able to lose yourself among them.”
“Or be recognized.”
“There is, of course, that risk.”
“And what shall I do, with a small child in tow?”
“If we deem it advisable, he can remain in Paris, in my home, and we will house him among the servants.” De Chauliac paused, to let Alejandro consider the things he had said. “His Holiness is in good health for the moment, and he is not as demanding a patient as his predecessors, so I will ask for permission to travel to Paris to work on my Cyrurgia. I have no doubt that he will oblige me. You can travel as an assistant to me; no one will be the wiser.”
He did not say, as he might have, that a certain intelligence had already come his way that the king’s soldiers had been told to double their efforts to find the Jew physician and bring him to England. There would be time for that bitter news later, when they were safely in Paris.