The Physician's Tale

by Ann Benson

  “Ah, well,” she said, “this is what we expected—indeed, what we hoped for.”

  Chaucer let out a sigh and glanced downward.

  Kate reached out and placed her fingers lightly under his chin, then lifted his face until their eyes met. “It was not entirely a portrayal,” she said softly.

  “Ah, my dearest Kate, to hear you say these words…my blood quickens! You have become my heart’s desire.”

  Now it was Kate whose sigh was long and heavy. “We knew this might happen, but that foreknowledge does not lessen my sadness by one bit. My admiration for your courage and your loyalty to me are boundless.”

  “You honor me with this sentiment,” Chaucer said quietly. “One does not expect to win the admiration of a lady such as yourself.”

  “You have won mine handily, and shall have it always, my dearest friend and companion.”

  Chaucer allowed her praise to ripen in his heart, but his pleasure in it was brief. “I am to let you down gently,” he said, “so as not to bring you pain. We can meet once or twice more to finalize the details of our plan. But we must be careful, lest he ban me altogether from your presence.”

  She remained silent for a moment, then said, with sadness in her voice, “When I am gone from here, I shall perhaps never see you again.”

  Chaucer stepped closer to her and put his hands upon her waist. “When you are away from here and safely with your son again, you will not feel such a deep need for my companionship as you do now. It brings me both joy and sorrow to realize this.”

  “Joy and sorrow often mingle,” she said, “and in a life away from these confines, I would still desire your company. You bring a smile to my lips, even here. Imagine how I would smile with no chains upon my heart.”

  “I shall make that imagination my mission,” he said. “Now, give me the inspiration I need to fuel it.” He drew her closer and kissed her on the lips. And, feeling no resistance, pulled her into a deep embrace.

  The sun poured in through the narrow window, putting the king in silhouette when Chaucer entered his private audience chamber the next morning. Against the light, the monarch’s protruding belly and slouched posture were starkly unflattering. The young man cleared his throat to make his presence known.

  Without looking up, the king said, “Good morning, Chaucer.”

  “Good morning to you as well, Your Majesty. I have copied the spoiled letter exactly. Shall I affix the seal for you?”

  Before the king lay two piles of official papers. The pile still to be read was significantly higher than the pile of those he had finished. “You have not inserted a declaration of war into the text, I hope.”

  “No, sire,” the young man said. He laughed, too nervously for his own liking.

  “Very well, you know where it is.”

  Chaucer hurried to the secretary before the king could think better of it. “Permit me to bring this to the courier immediately. After all, the delay in its completion is a result of my clumsiness.”

  “Very generous of you, Master Chaucer. My manservant will thank you for the rest you have afforded him.”

  “Delighted to be of service, sire.”

  He sprinted away, with one letter in his hand, another in his sleeve, both sealed.

  Cauldrons and beakers and measuring devices stood in a neat row along the back of a wood bench. A complete human skeleton hung from a wooden stand in one corner. Drawings of internal organs lay about everywhere, made by de Chauliac’s own hand like those Philomène had shown him in the library. Alejandro stood in the middle of it all and let its magnificence soak into him.

  Philomène entered, all smiles. She wore a simple dress of blue, over which she had tied an apron with many deep pockets. “A glorious morning,” she said. “Thanks be to God for that.”

  He took hold of her hand. “Thanks be to God for your sweet lips.”

  “And yours.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly, lingering for a moment. “Such pleasure I thought I might never know! And now we will know the pleasure of working together at our craft.”

  “My good fortune continues to astonish me.” He looked around the room, and was once again amazed by what he saw. “It is even more well fitted than I could imagine.”

  “I know. I fear that if I am ever forced to do my work elsewhere, that place will fall far short of what is here.”

  “We lack only the master himself to begin.”

  “Ah,” she said. “De Chauliac will not join us today; he is still abed, resting.”

  A moment of disappointment gave way to the realization that he would have Philomène all to himself for this day. “Then let us begin,” he said.

  The first of the pages that wanted correction and verification lay before them on a table. They fell into a certain rhythm; Alejandro would read from the text, one paragraph at a time, and then the two would discuss the exactitude of the wording. Philomène would then write the corrections on the pages for de Chauliac’s later scrutiny. From time to time, they would engage in discussions over what might seem irrelevancies to anyone who did not know de Chauliac as well as they. Often, the discussions revolved around a single word that one found satisfactory, the other lacking.

  Of elephancies, of variciles and middle vein swellings, and greatnesses without kind…

  Greatnesses, largenesses, immensities…They went back and forth, finally settling on the first.

  Now and again, Alejandro would leave the surgery and visit with Guillaume, whose new companion appeared to be quite amiable. Alejandro suffered a small bit of hurt in seeing that the boy did not seem to miss his grandfather. But it freed him to pay attention to the work; they continued well into the night, sharing their supper in the surgery itself, when the rest of the household, de Chauliac included, was already abed.

  Each day when their work was finished, they shared the tasks of caring for the instruments, working side by side in quiet joy. One evening as he was washing instruments prior to storing them, he caught a glance of Philomène as she arranged in proper order the papers on which they had worked that day. She was not aware of his observation, for the sound of clanging metal continued as he stole the look. He realized, as he watched her, that he had come to know this woman nearly as well as he had any other to whom he was not related.

  This is how a wife and husband ought to share their time, he found himself thinking. For a moment, his thoughts went to Rachel and her service to his family in Avignon. How many times had his own father urged him, nearly ordered him, to marry her? He could not count. In his heart, he knew that she would have been a good and dutiful wife to him. In time he would have come to cherish her, as his father had said. And he knew, without doubt, that this was what the woman herself hoped for.

  But he would never have truly loved her, not in a way that would allow him to ask her to share the fractured life that lay before him. He had loved Adele with a part of his heart that he had never before known to exist. That feeling, he knew, was lost forever to him; the danger of their time, the urgency of their courtship, his own youthful innocence—those conditions could never be revisited. But Philomène was a comrade of his mind, indeed, his very soul. He had come to treasure their hours together in a way that he could not describe.

  She looked up from her papers and saw him staring at her. She smiled, and for one brief moment, Alejandro did not miss his daughter.

  When he was called to de Chauliac’s chamber the next evening, Alejandro assumed it was to discuss the progress of their work on the Cyrurgia. But soon he understood, by the expression on his mentor’s face, that this was not his purpose.

  On a gilt and enameled tray at the foot of the bed lay a letter. The seal was broken. De Chauliac gestured toward it with a slight lift of his chin. “Go ahead,” he said. “You may read it.”

  Alejandro reached out and took the letter in his hand. He looked at the seal, then quickly looked at de Chauliac again.

  “This came in 1349, at midsummer. Open it, and read what the King
of England had to say on the matter of your escape with Kate.”

  Alejandro unrolled the parchment and began to read the letter. It was written in court French in an elegant hand and began with the usual ornate greetings, which he ignored completely. The tone of the letter was not friendly, but neither was it laden with outrage. He paced nervously as his eyes moved down the page.

  We find it curious indeed that the physician selected by you to attend to our court should be a man of what we can only describe as questionable descent.

  “Questionable descent,” he said aloud. He looked at de Chauliac. “How delicately phrased.” He turned his attention back to the page and read on.

  We shall, of course, remember these events, but it is our sincere hope that an occasion on which we feel compelled to address the matter with the Holy Father shall never arise.

  “In other words, he would use this against you by informing the pope when it was to his advantage to do so.”

  “It was a trump card,” de Chauliac said, “but he never made use of it. Clement died before he could make his play.”

  “But why should he not raise this matter with the pope who followed, if your actions were so despicable?”

  “Jesus Christ said, ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,’ and the same principle applies here. Being of a different faith, you perhaps would not know this.”

  “As it happens,” Alejandro said, “I have read this passage with Guillaume in his study of your Bible.”

  “You are to be commended, colleague, on your broad-mindedness in educating the boy. I daresay I would not do so myself, were the situation reversed. In any case, a new pope is seldom interested in addressing the problems of the one he replaced. He is more eager to create his own, if history is any prediction. When Clement died, Edward missed his chance.”

  Alejandro read the rest of the letter quickly. There were vague threats of revenge if the girl child was not returned, but as a whole, it was far less vitriolic than he would have expected. He handed back the parchment. “One gets the impression that at the time he was glad to be rid of her, and his protests were more a means of pressing his influence with the pope.”

  “One does, indeed,” de Chauliac said. “But the circumstances have changed, as they have a nasty habit of doing.”

  “And now, when she might be useful to him, he has her.”

  “Yes, but not for long, one hopes.” De Chauliac lifted his coverlet and fished around beneath it, producing after a moment another parchment. He placed it carefully on the tray.

  “This came by courier earlier this evening, while you were still absorbed in your work with Philomène. Naturally, I was loath to interrupt you. I believe the letter is intended for you,” he said, “though it bears my name on the outside. Again, it is from England, and, quite curiously, under the king’s own seal.”

  Alejandro picked up the parchment that lay on the tray and held it in his hands, his fingers barely touching it. He turned it over and examined it, as if trying to determine if it was real or simply an invention of his imagination.

  De Chauliac resolved the dilemma for him. “Open it,” the Frenchman commanded. “Read.”

  Alejandro lowered himself into a tall-backed chair at de Chauliac’s bedside, all the while keeping his eyes on the parchment. He slowly unfolded the single page, but after a quick glance, he looked up at de Chauliac. “English!” he said, in surprise. “But who—how…”

  “I do not know, since I do not read that language myself. And though the letter came under his seal, I do not believe Edward knows how to write it. Perhaps he has developed an academic bent in his advancing years and an interest in the language spoken by the lower classes of his kingdom, but I would be hard-pressed to believe that. Therefore, I assume it is intended for you—and if it is not, if it is indeed meant for me, I shall depend on you still, for I am unable to decipher it. So read on, colleague, and then tell me what it says—I am beyond curious!”

  Fourteen

  Michael could hear his own breathing in the suit but none of the whooshing sounds that would indicate a leak. The rest of the traveling party remained a good distance behind as he walked slowly down the cracked sidewalk toward the first of three collection points, sidestepping when he could the dried tufts of weeds that reached up through the concrete and crunched under his heavy boots.

  As he trod heavily up the wooden front steps of the abandoned Victorian, slowly lifting one foot in front of the other, he looked from side to side and wondered what spirits of occupants past might be lurking there in some other dimension, watching as he invaded their erstwhile homes in his alien suit. What they might think of him, he couldn’t imagine. Would there be a little boy in knee pants, with a hoop and stick, or a Victorian lady in starched linen, her arms demurely lace-covered even on the most sweltering summer day? Or perhaps there would be a black-clad widow, a pearl brooch at the tight throat of her high-collared blouse, clutching her shawl around herself, as if to keep the advancing green demon at bay.

  He found himself in front of the kitchen counter—he was supposed to run the swab across its surface, just to the right of the sink. He did his job quickly and then stowed the swabs in their containers. When he’d tucked them away, he took a quick look around.

  The place seemed empty, but evidence of minute life was everywhere. He pushed his way through a lacy network of cobwebs that connected a few pieces of furniture so dilapidated as to be unworthy of pilfering. Petrified insects, small black droppings—he followed them with his eyes to the sound of his own breath inside the helmet. Along the windowsill behind the sink, he saw paw prints. Cats roamed wild around the countryside—those that managed to escape their predatory feline cousins. They could be nasty when provoked or hungry, and a series of claw rips would render his suit worthless. He heightened his guard even more.

  An open door at one end of the kitchen beckoned to him; he peered cautiously around the doorjamb. Nestled in a pile of rags was a mother cat and a litter of kittens. In one corner, as if they had been arranged there, lay a pile of rodent remains, some skeletal, others covered with maggots.

  The mother cat rose to her feet, and all the nursing kittens dropped from her teats to the rag pile. She was scrawny and mean-looking, and she hissed at him with bared teeth. Watching her closely, he backed off. He hastened out of the house, stepping quickly down the rotting steps, hoping he wouldn’t crash through a bad board.

  The others boosted him up onto Galen’s back. He pulled up his visor and took a long, deep breath.

  “I’m seeing evidence of lots more mice and rats than the last time I was here,” he said. “I don’t know what it means, but I know I’m not imagining it.” He cast a quick glance at Janie, who took out her precious notebook and made a few quick scribbles. They made their way as quickly as possible to the next two collection points; Michael was swift and efficient in acquiring the needed swipes and, once again, commented on the increase in the rodent population.

  The sun was nearly at its highest point when he was finally able to climb out of the suit and back into his regular clothing. With the samples safely stowed in their respective toothbrush cases, the travelers gratefully left the known hot zone and continued onward.

  The descent to Orange was easier this time, as most of the ice had been banished by the onset of spring. They arrived late in the afternoon to the great relief of the rest of their clan, who welcomed them in with helping hands. Janie’s patient was carried, once again by her father, straight to her own room, surrounded by the other children of Orange, all curious about her great adventure to the outside world. None of them knew how close her adventure had come to ending in tragedy.

  When her patient was situated comfortably, Janie took another blood-sugar test and then administered an appropriate dose of insulin, worrying briefly about how they would determine the proper dosage when the sugar test strips ran out. When the child was in reasonably good spirits, Jamie left her in the care of her father and went out into the
settlement. She explored shamelessly, the excitement she felt akin to that of being in a foreign country. She counted thirty-two people in Orange, including six children—a small town by their own standard. The adults possessed a marvelous assortment of skills with time-after value: carpentry, stonemasonry, engineering, farming, electronics—things they lacked in their own world. What was left of the afternoon passed quickly in discovery.

  “An advanced society,” Michael whispered to her as they settled into places at the dinner table. “They have us beat by a mile.”

  It was an odd thing to say, Janie thought. She leaned closer and said, “I’m not sure this is a competition, Michael. We’re all just trying to stay afloat.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I would argue that point. Claiming or conjuring a selective survival advantage is the biggest competition of all.” He glanced around quickly at the Orange folks settling in for their dinners. “Just like politics, social evolution is local. They have the people to do the things they need so easily—things we struggle with.”

  “You seem to be forgetting that the reason we’re here is because of something Kristina did. There’s one little girl who wouldn’t have survived without the advantage she provided.”

  “Of course, that’s a gap in their assets. But I’m talking more about the physical skills they have. Wouldn’t it be lovely not to have to tinker our way through every breakdown?”

  Janie thought about the time that one of the windmills jammed and wouldn’t turn. Tom had gone up the pole by himself, with Janie standing on the ground below him, to find that one of the bearings was damaged. She’d climbed up with more tools, and the two of them had spent the better part of an hour forty feet above the ground in a January wind. Gloves were too cumbersome, and their fingers were nearly frostbitten by the time they finished. Janie’s thighs ached for days from the constant strain of balancing against the wind on a narrow strut. The process wore them down in ways she couldn’t have imagined. But she knew—better than most—that parts wear out on machines and people; there was no getting around it. “I suppose it would be lovely,” she admitted.