“Doesn’t it make you feel a bit nervous?” I asked as we went up the stairs. “Never being able to trust anyone?”
He laughed softly. “Well, I wouldna say anyone, Sassenach. There’s you—and Murtagh, and my sister Jenny and her husband Ian. I’d trust the four of you wi’ my life—I have, for that matter, more than once.”
I shivered as he pulled back the drapes of the big bed. The fire had been banked for the night, and the room was growing cold.
“Four people you can trust doesn’t seem like all that many,” I said, unlacing my gown.
He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the chair. The scars on his back shone silver in the faint light from the night sky outside.
“Aye, well,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s four more than Charles Stuart has.”
* * *
There was a bird singing outside, though it was long before first light. A mockingbird, practicing his trills and runs over and over, perched on a rain gutter somewhere in the dark nearby.
Moving sleepily, Jamie rubbed his cheek against the smooth skin of my freshly waxed underarm, then turned his head and planted a soft kiss in the warm hollow that sent a small, delicious shudder down my side.
“Mm,” he murmured, running a light hand over my ribs. “I like it when ye come out all gooseflesh like that, Sassenach.”
“Like this?” I answered, running the nails of my right hand gently over the skin of his back, which obligingly rippled into goose bumps under the teasing of the touch.
“Ah.”
“Ah, yourself, then,” I answered softly, doing it some more.
“Mmmm.” With a luxurious groan, he rolled to the side, wrapping his arms around me as I followed, enjoying the sudden contact of every inch of our naked skins, all down the front from head to toe. He was warm as a smothered fire, the heat of him safely banked for the night, to kindle again to a blaze in the black cold of dawn.
His lips fastened gently on one nipple, and I groaned myself, arching slightly to encourage him to take it deeper into the warmth of his mouth. My breasts were growing fuller, and more sensitive by the day; my nipples ached and tingled sometimes under the tight binding of my gowns, wanting to be suckled.
“Will ye let me do this later?” he murmured, with a soft bite. “When the child’s come, and your breasts fill wi’ milk? Will ye feed me, too, then, next to your heart?”
I clasped his head and cradled it, fingers deep in the baby-soft hair that grew thick at the base of his skull.
“Always,” I whispered.
14
MEDITATIONS ON THE FLESH
Fergus was more than adept at his profession, and nearly every day brought in a new selection of His Highness’s correspondence; sometimes I was hard pressed to copy everything before Fergus’s next expedition, when he would replace the items abstracted, before stealing the new letters.
Some of these were further coded communications from King James in Rome; Jamie put aside the copies of these, to puzzle over at leisure. The bulk of His Highness’s correspondence was innocuous—notes from friends in Italy, an increasing number of bills from local merchants—Charles had a taste for gaudy clothing and fine boots, as well as for brandywine—and the occasional note from Louise de La Tour de Rohan. These were fairly easy to pick out; aside from the tiny, mannered handwriting she employed, that made her letters look as though a small bird had been making tracks on them, she invariably saturated the paper with her trademark hyacinth scent. Jamie resolutely refused to read these.
“I willna be reading the man’s love letters,” he said firmly. “Even a plotter must scruple at something.” He sneezed, and dropped the latest missive back into Fergus’s pocket. “Besides,” he added more practically, “Louise tells ye everything, anyway.”
This was true; Louise had become a close friend, and spent nearly as much time in my drawing room as she did in her own, wringing her hands over Charles, then forgetting him in the fascination of discussing the marvels of pregnancy—she never had morning sickness, curse her! Scatterbrained as she was, I liked her very much; still, it was a great relief to escape from her company to L’Hôpital des Anges every afternoon.
While Louise was unlikely ever to set foot within L’Hôpital des Anges, I was not without company when I went there. Undaunted by her first exposure to the Hôpital, Mary Hawkins summoned up the courage to accompany me again. And yet again. While she couldn’t quite bring herself to look directly at a wound yet, she was useful at spooning gruel into people and sweeping floors. Apparently she considered these activities a welcome change from either the gatherings of the Court or the life at her uncle’s house.
While she was frequently shocked at some of the behavior she saw at Court—not that she saw much, but she was easily shocked—she didn’t betray any particular distaste or horror at the sight of the Vicomte Marigny, which led me to conclude that her wretched family had not yet completed the negotiations for her marriage—and therefore hadn’t told her about it.
This conclusion was borne out one day in late April, when, en route to L’Hôpital des Anges, she blushingly confided to me that she was in love.
“Oh, he’s so handsome!” she enthused, her stammer entirely forgotten. “And so … well, so spiritual, as well.”
“Spiritual?” I said. “Mm, yes, very nice.” Privately I thought that that particular quality was not one which would have topped my own list of desirable attributes in a lover, but then tastes differed.
“And who is the favored gentleman, then?” I teased gently. “Anyone I know?”
The rosy blush deepened. “No, I shouldn’t think so.” She looked up then, eyes sparkling. “But—oh, I shouldn’t tell you this, but I can’t help myself. He wrote to my father. He’s coming back to Paris next week!”
“Really?” This was interesting news. “I’d heard that the Comte de Palles is expected at Court next week,” I said. “Is your, um, intended, one of his party?”
Mary looked aghast at the suggestion.
“A Frenchman! Oh, no, Claire; really, how could I marry a Frenchman?”
“Is there something wrong with Frenchmen?” I asked, rather surprised at her vehemence. “You do speak French, after all.” Perhaps that was the trouble, though; while Mary did speak French very nicely, her shyness made her stammer even worse in that language than in English. I had come across a couple of kitchen-boys only the day before, entertaining each other with cruel imitations of “la petite Anglaise maladroite.”
“You don’t know about Frenchmen?” she whispered, eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, but of course, you wouldn’t. Your husband is so gentle and so kind.… he wouldn’t, I m-mean I know he d-doesn’t trouble you that way …” Her face was suffused with a rich peony that reached from chin to hairline, and the stammer was about to strangle her.
“Do you mean …” I began, trying to think of some tactful way of extricating her without entangling myself in speculations about the habits of Frenchmen. However, considering what Mr. Hawkins had told me about Mary’s father and his plans for her marriage, I rather thought perhaps I should try to disabuse her of the notions that she had clearly picked up from the gossip of salon and dressing room. I didn’t want her to die of fright if she did end up married to a Frenchman.
“What they d-do … in … in bed!” she whispered hoarsely.
“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “there are only so many things you can do in bed with a man, after all. And since I see quite a large number of children about the city, I’d assume that even Frenchmen are fairly well versed in the orthodox methods.”
“Oh! Children … well, yes, of course,” she said vaguely, as though not seeing much connection. “B-b-but they said”—she cast her eyes down, embarrassed, and her voice sank even lower—“th-that he … a Frenchm-man’s thing, you know.…”
“Yes, I know,” I said, striving for patience. “So far as I know, they’re much like any other man’s. Englishmen and Scotsmen are quite similarly e
ndowed.”
“Yes, but they, they … p-p-put it between a lady’s l-l-legs! I mean, right up inside her!” This bit of stop-press news finally out, she took a deep breath, which seemed to steady her, for the violent crimson of her face receded slightly. “An Englishman, or even a Scot … oh, I didn’t m-mean it that way …” Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment. “But a decent man like your husband; surely he would n-never dream of forcing a wife to endure s-something like that!”
I placed a hand on my slightly bloated stomach and regarded her thoughtfully. I began to see why spirituality ranked so highly in Mary Hawkins’s catalog of manly virtues.
“Mary,” I said, “I think we must have a small talk.”
* * *
I was still smiling privately to myself when I walked out into the Great Hall of the Hôpital, my own dress covered with the drab, sturdy fabric of a novice’s habit.
A good many of the chirurgiens, urinoscopists, bonesetters, physicians, and other healers were donating their time and services as a charity; others came to learn or refine their skills. The hapless patients of L’Hôpital des Anges were in no position to protest being the subjects of assorted medical experiments.
Aside from the nuns themselves, the medical staff changed almost daily, depending upon who found themselves without paying patients that day, or who had a new technique that needed trial. Still, most of the free-lance medicos came often enough that I learned to recognize the regulars in short order.
One of the most interesting was the tall, gaunt man whom I had seen amputating a leg on my first visit to the Hôpital. Upon inquiry, I determined that his name was Monsieur Forez. Primarily a bonesetter, occasionally he would attempt the trickier types of amputation, particularly when a whole limb, rather than a joint, was involved. The nuns and orderlies seemed a bit in awe of Monsieur Forez; they never chaffed him or exchanged rude jokes, as they did with most of the other volunteer medical help.
Monsieur Forez was at work today. I approached quietly, to see what he was doing. The patient, a young workman, lay white-faced and gasping on a pallet. He had fallen from the scaffolding on the cathedral—always under construction—and broken both an arm and a leg. I could see that the arm was no particular challenge to a professional bonesetter—only a simple fracture of the radius. The leg, though, was something else; an impressive double compound fracture, involving both the mid-femur and the tibia. Sharp bone fragments protruded through the skin of both thigh and shin, and the lacerated flesh was blue with traumatic bruising over most of the upper aspect of the leg.
I didn’t wish to distract the bonesetter’s attention to his case, but Monsieur Forez appeared sunk in thought, slowly circling the patient, sidling back and forth like a large carrion crow, cautious lest the victim not be really dead yet. He did look rather like a crow, I thought, with that prominent beak of a nose, and the smooth black hair that he wore unpowdered, slicked back to a wispy knot at the nape of his neck. His clothes, too, were black and somber, though of good quality—evidently he had a profitable practice outside the Hôpital.
At last deciding on his course of action, Monsieur Forez lifted his chin from his hand and glanced around for assistance. His eye lighted on me, and he beckoned me forward. I was dressed in a coarse linen novice’s gown, and lost in his concentration, he did not notice that I didn’t wear the wimple and veil of a nursing sister.
“Here, ma soeur,” he directed, taking hold of the patient’s ankle. “Grasp it tightly just behind the heel. Do not apply pressure until I tell you, but when I give the word, draw the foot directly toward you. Pull very slowly, but with force—it will take considerable strength, you understand.”
“I understand.” I grasped the foot as directed, while Monsieur Forez made his slow and gangling way toward the other end of the pallet, glancing contemplatively at the fractured leg.
“I have a stimulant here to assist,” he said, drawing a small vial out of his coat pocket and setting it beside the patient’s head. “It constricts the blood vessels of the surface skin, and drives the blood inward, where it may be of more use to our young friend.” So speaking, he grasped the patient by the hair and thrust the vial into the young man’s mouth, skillfully decanting the medicine down his throat without spilling a drop.
“Ah,” he said approvingly as the man gulped and breathed deeply. “That will help. Now, as to the pain—yes, it is better if we can numb the leg, so he will be less inclined to resist our efforts as we straighten it.”
He reached into his capacious pocket once more, this time coming out with a small brass pin, some three inches in length, with a wide, flat head. One bony, thick-jointed hand tenderly explored the inside of the patient’s thigh near the groin, following the thin blue line of a large vein beneath the skin. The groping fingers hesitated, paused, palpated in a small circle, then settled on a point. Digging a sharp forefinger into the skin as though to mark his place, Monsieur Forez brought the point of the brass pin to bear in the same place. Another quick reach into the pocket of marvels produced a small brass hammer, with which he drove the pin straight into the leg with one blow.
The leg twitched violently, then seemed to relax into limpness. The vaso-constrictor administered earlier did in fact seem to be working; the ooze of blood from the severed tissues was markedly less.
“That’s amazing!” I exclaimed. “What did you do?”
Monsieur Forez smiled shyly, a faint rosiness staining his blue-shadowed cheeks with pleasure at my admiration.
“Well, it does not always work quite so well,” he admitted modestly. “Luck was with me this time.” He pointed at the brass pin, explaining, “There is a large bundle of nerve endings there, Sister, what I have heard the anatomists call a plexus. If you are fortunate enough to pierce it directly, it numbs a great deal of the sensations in the lower extremity.” He straightened abruptly, realizing that he was wasting time in talk that might better be spent in action.
“Come, ma soeur,” he ordered. “Back to your post! The action of the stimulant is not long-lasting; we must work now, while the bleeding is suppressed.”
Almost limp, the leg straightened easily, the splintered ends of bone drawing back through the skin. Following Monsieur Forez’s orders, I now grasped the young man about the torso, while he maneuvered the foot and lower leg, so that we applied a constant traction while the final small adjustments were made.
“That will do, Sister. Now, if you will but hold the foot steady for a moment.” A shout summoned an orderly with a couple of stout sticks and some rags for binding, and in no time we had the limb neatly splinted and the open wounds firmly dressed with pressure bandages.
Monsieur Forez and I exchanged a broad smile of congratulation over the body of our patient.
“Lovely work, that,” I praised, shoving back a lock of hair that had come unbound during our exertions. I saw Monsieur Forez’s face change suddenly, as he realized that I wore no veil, and just then the loud bonging of the Vespers bell rang from the adjacent church. I glanced openmouthed at the tall window at the end of the ward, left unglassed to allow unwholesome vapors to pass out. Sure enough, the oblong of sky was the deep half-indigo of early evening.
“Excuse me,” I said, starting to wriggle out of the covering gown. “I must go at once; my husband will be worried about me coming home so late. I’m so glad to have had the chance of assisting you, Monsieur Forez.” The tall bonesetter watched this disrobing act in patent astonishment.
“But you … well, no, of course you are not a nun, I should have realized that before … but you … who are you?” he asked curiously.
“My name’s Fraser,” I told him briefly. “Look, I must go, or my husband …”
He drew himself up to his full gawky height, and bowed with deep seriousness.
“I should esteem it a privilege if you would allow me to see you home, Madame Fraser.”
“Oh … why, thank you,” I said, touched at his thoughtfulness. “I have an escort, though,”
I said, looking vaguely around the hall for Fergus, who had taken over escort duty from Murtagh, when he was not needed to steal something. He was there, leaning against the doorjamb, twitching with impatience. I wondered how long he had been there—the sisters wouldn’t allow him into the main hall or the wards, always insisting that he wait for me by the door.
Monsieur Forez eyed my escort dubiously, then took me firmly by the elbow.
“I will see you to your door, Madame,” he declared. “This section of the city is much too dangerous in the evening hours for you to be abroad with no more than a child for protection.”
I could see Fergus swelling with indignation at being called a child, and hastened to protest that he was an excellent escort, always taking care to guide me by the safest streets. Monsieur Forez paid no attention to either of us, merely nodding in a stately manner to Sister Angelique as he steered me through the huge double doors of the Hôpital.
Fergus trotted at my heels, plucking at my sleeve. “Madame!” he said in a urgent whisper. “Madame! I promised the master that I would see you safely home each day, that I would not allow you to associate with undesirable—”
“Ah, here we are. Madame, you sit here; your boy may have the other seat.” Ignoring Fergus’s yapping, Monsieur Forez picked him up and tossed him casually into the waiting carriage.
The carriage was a small open one, but elegantly equipped, with deep blue velvet seats and a small canopy to protect the passengers from sudden inclemencies of weather or slops flung from above. There was no coat of arms or other decoration on the equipage’s door; Monsieur Forez was not of the nobility—must be a rich bourgeois, I thought.
We made polite conversation on the way home, discussing medical matters, while Fergus sulked in the corner, glowering under the ragged thatch of his hair. When we pulled up in the Rue Tremoulins, he leaped over the side without waiting for the coachman to open the door, and sprinted inside. I stared after him, wondering what ailed him, then turned to take my farewell of Monsieur Forez.
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