by Ann Benson
“From what he wrote, I would have thought the distance was farther.”
“Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you? It was a lovely little building. Thatched roof, stucco walls, a rough wood floor. It was such a shame it had to burn. But we had no choice—it was the only way to stop the spread.”
They left the oaks and walked to the far end of the field.
“This was the spot,” she said. She pointed to the ground a few feet away from a protruding rock. “Right here. We positioned the plugger right here and sank it into the soil. We brought up only a little piece of the shirt. The rest of it’s probably still down there.”
Alex was pensive for a moment, then he looked at his mother with excitement. “I want to dig it up,” he said. “Let’s go buy a shovel and get the whole thing.”
He took hold of her hand and started to turn, as if to walk off the field. Janie pulled him back. “Alex,” she said, “no.”
“There’s a piece of me down there.”
“I know that. But leave it be, please. There are pieces of you all over this world. Not physical pieces,” she said, “but pieces of your influence. You took up right where Alejandro Canches left off, braving problems that no one else would touch, creating new technology, new methods…MedGlobe is a wonderful organization, and it’s your baby. His, through you. Let that be enough.”
She lowered her voice and said one last thing.
“It’ll be a better ending.”
Alex Thomas Macalester stood quietly on the spot where, more than thirty years before, his “mother” Jane Elizabeth Crowe had dug up the small piece of contaminated cloth that set plague free in London. The shirt from which it came had been buried there, in the time of the Black Death, by the man whose genetic material was used to bring him to life.
The tale was complete.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
Thirty-seven
August 1394
Sir Geoffrey Chaucer brought his horse to a stop with a quiet, “Arrêtez,” for this was a horse trained in French commands, unlike his own favorite mount in England. The animal stood still on a shaded path that ran along the north bank of the Loire, a few miles east of the city of Nantes. He held in his hand a worn parchment on which was written the poem that had brought him there, in a hand that he could not mistake even after so many years:
There lives a dame of age with hair of gray,
Who thinks of times gone by most every day;
And wonders if her dearest friend of old
Has given up, or still retains, his soul.
So much to say of all the years gone by;
She shakes her head and breathes a troubled sigh.
Shall she await the one who set her free,
Beneath the two entwined and ancient trees?
But no, she cannot travel in that land
For fear of capture by a hunting band
Of soldiers loyal to the late-crowned king
Who chased her once before, meandering
Through wood and square, with hounds and men at bow;
And where she ended up, they’ll never know.
But to this friend she offers rendezvous;
If he is of a mind to see it through.
East three leagues beyond Château de Rais,
Where she is oft engaged on any day.
The river flowed peacefully below, and birds chirped in the silence of the forest. He barely heard the sound of an approaching horse until it was nearly upon him. He turned toward the sound and saw a hooded figure sitting straight and steady on the back of a dappled gray mare.
He heeled his horse in the direction of the rider and came alongside.
The rider pulled down the hood and smiled.
He could barely breathe at the sight of her. “Madam…Karle.”
She nodded gracefully. “That is still my name, Sir Geoffrey.”
This brought a laugh from him. “I had not thought my knighthood would resonate at such a distance.”
“All news resonates, given time,” Kate said.
He regarded her for a moment. Though her hair was tinged with gray, it held some of the same shining gold color he remembered from their youth. There were lines on her face, but fewer than he would have thought. Her cheeks were still high and her lips full, and the blue eyes twinkled, even in the low light of the forest.
“Ah, madam, you take my breath away, for you are still a beauty. I suppose I ought not to be surprised by that.”
“Pure luck,” she said, though she smiled with a youthful blush. “I have been treated well by time. My father taught me well the ways of preserving health, and I have practiced diligently. Even now, in his absence.”
“Oh, dear,” Chaucer said. “I dared not ask….”
“Last year, he took a shock.”
“I am sorry. He was a remarkable man.”
She smiled again and nodded her acceptance of his condolence. “It was a good death, if such can be said of any passing. I hope someday my own will be as swift.”
“Your son, how fares he?”
“He fares well, I can say with complete confidence. He lives with me, not far from here.”
Chaucer hardly knew what to ask in view of their unusual life. “Has he…a trade?”
“He is a maker of furniture and other such things of wood. His artistry is impeccable.”
“You are a proud mother, then. But you never…I mean, you did not—”
“Marry again?” She laughed. “No. A woman must leave her family to marry properly, and I was unwilling to do so. Knowing what you do of my family, I am sure you will understand my reluctance.” She glanced downward for a moment, as if reliving memories. When she looked up again she said, “And the lady your wife? We have heard that she is a fine woman.”
“Passed on herself, seven years ago.” Now it was Chaucer who lowered his head. “Ours was not a perfect marriage, but what is said of her is correct—she was a good and decent woman. Our unhappiness was entirely my doing. God forgive me, thoughts of another occupied my heart from time to time. Too often, I confess.” He looked up again, directly into Kate’s eyes. “I could never completely put them out.”
“I will confess as well,” she said softly, “that you were in my heart. And my prayers, as I promised.”
“Those prayers have had great power, apparently, for I have lived a favored life.”
“One hears of your good fortune often, your appointments, the king’s favors…your fine writings! And I must tell you, I have read your works when I could put my hands upon them.” She leaned in and said, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Really, m’Lord Chaucer, your Canterbury Tales have thrilled me! I need not tell you why! And your Wife of Bath, you have captured her to perfection. Of course, in your presentation, she wants a censor, I’m sure you will agree! But she is a marvelous creature, wise and worldly, and deserving of emulation.”
He let her praise sink in, then said, “And The Physician’s Tale? What think you of that?”
There was a pause. “I would have had a better ending,” she said, “though it differed little from our knight of that journey. He would never tell us how his daughter died, and we never pressed him on it. It seemed a cruel thing at the time. But your knight—to kill his own daughter, so he can keep her from those who would harm her; he is in need of great blessing. It seems so—extreme.”
Chaucer spoke, as if to explain. “One must exaggerate, for drama’s sake, sometimes. I wrote what I thought to be the worst possible scenario, praying all the while that God would have a better notion.”
“Well,” she said quietly, “your prayers certainly had power for my life, if not that of our poor knight.” And with that, she pulled a book from under the folds of her cloak. She passed it over to Chaucer, who examined it with his eyes for a moment before giving her a curious look.
“My father kept a journal for many years. He left it—quite unintentionally—in Mother Sarah’s cottage when we made our hasty departure after the first Gre
at Mortality. He swore that it must still be there, that the daughter Sarah kept it from him when he asked about it on his return during the pestis secunda. I do not know if that is true, but as you may recall, he was not a man to put forth an idle notion.” She nodded toward the book. “That which you hold in your hand is the journal his wife kept, beginning with his mission to bring me out, and ending only a few months ago with her own death.”
“He married—I am so happy to know that!”
“Yes, she was the love that he left behind when he came out of Paris to retrieve me. He had a fine life with Philomène. She was also a physician, so they shared their love and their work.”
Chaucer said, with surprise in his voice, “A woman!”
“Indeed, a woman; she was also a student of de Chauliac, though he kept it hid.”
“It was a match meant to be, then.”
“Truly.” She pointed to the journal that Chaucer held in his hands. “There was sadness, at times, but he loved her with all his heart, and theirs was overall a most fortunate union. It is all recorded in there, including the events of our journey out of England for the last time. I would like to ask you to take it back there when you next return and give it to the daughter Sarah, and if she is no longer there, to her daughter. If you do not find them, then keep it for yourself as a token of my eternal friendship. I have read it a thousand times and memorized each word, so I will not feel its absence. Beg whichever Sarah might be there to copy the entries into my father’s journal, if it still exists.”
He started to open Philomène’s journal, then thought better of it. “May I?” he said.
“Please,” Kate said, “read it if you like. I need only return before nightfall, or Guillaume will fret.”
Chaucer turned the pages carefully, reading small bits here and there, as Kate sat on her horse and watched his expression change with each snippet of the Jew Alejandro Canches’s life, as described by his loving and devoted Christian wife, Philomène de Felice.
Our beautiful daughter thrives. She has just begun to speak, and my husband insists that she learn every language we know, starting immediately, though she can barely walk! Now is the time, he says, for her to take them all in. And so we speak to her in French, in Breton, in Latin with bits of Greek tossed in, in English, and, of course, in Hebrew. It is a wonder that she can speak at all, with all the curious words he throws at her each day….
“A daughter! How wonderful! What is her name?”
“Ariella Meryle. Their little blackbird.”
“Lovely,” Chaucer said. He read on.
Guillaume is such a fine young man! We marvel daily at how he grows and prospers. Yet, there is something about him, a longing for privacy, perhaps, that makes him keep himself away from others. Alejandro thinks that he is worried, in some dark part of his soul, of being taken from his family again, or that someone he loves will be taken from him. I pray daily that he will overcome these feelings, if that is true.
Chaucer sighed and turned pages so he was further into the journal.
Avram Canches left this earth today. My husband was at his side when the great old man breathed his last and went to his reward. Tomorrow we shall put his body to the fire. This is against the Jewish way, but there is no Jewish cemetery in Nantes, and we dare not reveal ourselves by inquiring after one within the surrounds…. God will know that we mourned him properly; that is all that matters….
Once again, Chaucer looked up from the journal. “He was reunited with his father, then.”
“Yes. De Chauliac brought him back on one of his journeys to Avignon. That was a joyous day!”
“One can only imagine,” Chaucer said. He read a few more lines. “And here is more joy!”
“Well, some…” Kate said. “Some bitterness as well.”
The Cyrurgia is complete! We journeyed to Paris to join with Father Guy in a celebration. So much work has gone into its creation, but it will stand the test of time, I am sure of it! Centuries from now, physicians will still seek out the wisdom and beauty to be found in its pages.
But while we were there, Guy de Chauliac was called to God. My husband could not be consoled at the loss of his greatest friend. We could not attend his funeral, and this was a torture to us, but we heard that it was a remarkable event—Pope Urban himself presided.
Before we left Paris, we labored diligently for nearly a fortnight, and by the grace of God we were able to make a complete copy of the Cyrurgia. We took it with us when we returned to Nantes. Immediately upon our return, my good husband went to a small church, and though it was against his faith, he lit a candle in de Chauliac’s honor. He wept without shame for the soul of our beloved mentor and friend. And since we had a copy of the Cyrurgia in French, my husband took it upon himself to translate the work into English. He spent the better part of the next year in doing so, but we are proud beyond description that our hands are upon it in such a significant way….
Chaucer looked up from the journal. “Did the man never stop working?”
Kate laughed lightly. “Not that I can recall. He cast his influence on my son, I fear, though they are not of the same blood.”
Guillaume carves in wood incessantly; he has made a secretary for us in the wood of the black walnut tree, and I swear I have never seen a thing of such beauty. We keep our papers in it, though they are few. Each day after I write in this journal, I put it away in one of the drawers, secure in the knowledge that it will be safe and dry….
Dear Kate has become a peerless midwife; there is no woman in France who can bring a child into this world with more skill and care. She is called often to the house of la famille de Rais to deliver their children; they are a haughty bunch, with no idea that a daughter of the king of England is pulling the screaming infants from their noble French wombs, with little mishap. Yesterday she brought triplets into this world, and by the grace of God, all survived. It is a sign, Alejandro says, that God favors us….
Today is the anniversary of the day we wed. My dear husband brought me a volume by the Englishman Geoffrey Chaucer, who conspired with him to bring our dear Kate out of England. God bless and keep this brave, courageous, and remarkable man! It is a delightful work, full of wonderful characters, each with his own history, each with a tale to tell.
But I do not care for The Physician’s Tale. I want a better ending.
And the last entry, dated September 8, 1393:
My soul is hollow and void of all happiness. Yesterday my husband Alejandro Canches took a shock. He was in his surgery, which he modeled much after that of his departed friend de Chauliac. He was working over a glass plate of blood. He had put all manner of tinctures in it and was endeavoring to gauge the results of his experiments; it was the blood of a woman who had taken ill with plague and yet lived. I have seen this before, he said to me, many years ago in England, and I must unravel the mystery.
To his very last moment, my dear, sweet Alejandro sought knowledge and put his best effort into improving the lot of his fellow man, whether Christian or Jew. We are all children of the same God, he said, and he lived his life in keeping with that belief.
And so, Dear God, I ask you please, in your infinite wisdom, find a way to bring such a man into the world again, so it may benefit from his wondrous influence.
Sir Geoffrey Chaucer stopped his horse before the oaken gate, but only after he had drawn in a deep breath did he urge his horse between the two massive trees. A wind came up, but not the harsh one he’d known from his first passage through. The path to the cottage seemed different as well, much shorter and without the clutching roots. He wondered to himself if the place had the power to change over time; it certainly seemed so.
An old woman in a red shawl busied herself with a flock of chickens as he came into the clearing. She looked up at him and smiled in welcome.
“You’ve been here before,” she said.
“How do you know that, Old Mother?”
“I can see it in your face. I am Sarah, as you
might well know.”
“Geoffrey Chaucer, at your service, madam.” He nodded his head respectfully.
“Ah, the poet!” she said. “Well, come in and entertain me with your fine tales! I’ll give you a drink. It’s a hot day, and you’ll no doubt be thirsty.”
But Chaucer remained on the horse. “I thank you, but I’ve many errands to tend to before the sun sets. But I’ve brought you something. Can you read, Mother?”
“Now, how else would I know that you’re a poet?”
“And can you write as well?”
“I can, indeed.”
“Very well, then,” Chaucer said. He took Philomène’s journal out of his satchel and gave it to Sarah.
She opened it and glanced at a few of the pages, then looked up at him. “’Tis not poetry.”
“No,” Chaucer said, “but it is an intriguing tale nonetheless.” His eyes went to the book. “It is written by the wife of the physician who left his journal here….”
“Ah, I have heard about this…. My mother, in her senile ramblings, spoke of it often and with enthusiasm. But I myself have not ascertained that it is here.”
“Indeed,” Chaucer said. “Well, that being the case, you’ll have no use for the book, then. A pity; his daughter thought perhaps that it might be of interest to you.” He held out his hand expectantly.
Sarah peered at Chaucer suspiciously, scratching her chin as she did so. “I’ll take another look among my mother’s things,” she said finally. “I’ve a notion it may be among them somewhere, though I can’t say for sure.”
Chaucer smiled. “Well,” he said, “if you should happen to find it, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to add a few entries.” He leaned closer, as if confiding in her. “It will be far more entertaining if you do.”
“Aye,” the old woman said. “Another Physician’s Tale? One hopes this one has a better ending.”