by Ann Benson
He thrashed awake, and rolled violently off the tabletop, landing with a thud on the stone floor below. There he remained, his heart pounding, his skin clammy and cold, his shivering body motionless, until the welcome dawn.
Alejandro resumed his practice of medicine, and every day at least one person from the surrounding countryside came to him with an ailment needing his attention. One day he set the broken arm of a young boy, whose futile attempt to preserve the balance of an overloaded cart had failed disastrously. Alejandro winced when he remembered his own past experience with a toppled cart, so many months ago in Aragon, and sincerely hoped that the boy’s life would not be as dramatically altered as his own had been after that fateful event.
“I have seen many such injuries, and I fear I will see many more,” he said to the boy’s angry father. “The bone is broken.”
“I had hoped it would only be a bruise, but the boy claims it is useless.”
“As well he should,” the physician said. “I fear that the boy will require at least one full turn of the moon to rest, sir. Thereafter his arm will be sufficiently mended that he can work again, but he is of a tender age, where the bones can fail easily. My advice would be to put him to less strenuous tasks when he is healed.”
“Aye,” said the unhappy man, “if he doesn’t starve before he mends. I cannot get a crop in without his help! He’ll have to do his share. I cannot excuse him for his poor arm.”
“Then be warned that he’ll be of little use to you next year with a bent and fragile limb at his side. Best you let it rest, and soon he’ll be well again. God gives young children the gift of quick mending, where those well on in age require much more time.”
“Then why is it,” asked the angry farmer, “that so many of the young have perished by the pestilence? Just last week another was taken in the village north of my pastures. The landlord is complaining that none will be able to pay the rents if all the tenants perish.”
Alejandro, who had been giving his attention to wrapping the child’s arm in a cast of clay and hemp fibers, stopped what he was doing immediately and grabbed the man by the shoulder.
“What say you now? Another taken by the plague? Are you certain it was the same pestilence?”
“I know only what I was told by the boy’s mother, who begged me for some nails to close the coffin. She told of the neck swellings, and the blackened fingers, and I doubt not that it was the plague.”
The physician quickly finished his work and washed his hands, then dug the hardening clay out from beneath his fingernails with the tip of his knife. “I will ride with you,” he said, “for I would question the woman at greater length.”
“Suit yourself, Physician, but I do not doubt her word. She has lost seven of her nine children now, and she knows the pestilence well enough when it strikes down another of her offspring.”
Alejandro bade them ride his extra horse, for the man and boy had walked the long distance to his house, and he knew that his own impatience would not allow him to travel slowly.
When they reached the woman’s farm an hour later, Alejandro saw the seven freshly dug graves, with only new sprouts of greenery growing, and his heart ached in sorrow for this family’s deep suffering. He tethered his horse to a tree and walked up to the window of the wattle-and-daub cottage, and peered through the cracks in the window shutters. Though his vision was impaired by the bright outside light, he could make out three motionless human forms. The largest, whom he took to be the mother, was on the straw bed, and two smaller ones, both little girls, were slumped on the dirt floor nearby. Swarms of flies circled around each one, and even through the crack Alejandro could see the dark discolorations about the necks and throats.
“It is as I feared; they are all dead,” he told the farmer, describing the scene within. “We must halt the spread of this outbreak by purging the site with cleansing fire. Have you any oil in your possession?”
“Only at my own farm, which we passed on our journey here.”
They rode back to the farmer’s longhouse, which he shared with his livestock, and soaked a rag with some of his precious supply of oil.
“Enough!” the man said. “The price of oil is dear!”
Angered that the man would protest the use of oil to such good purpose, Alejandro proposed a barter. “I will trade my services to your son for your oil. It seems a fair exchange.”
The farmer grumbled but accepted the offer. Alejandro rode off with the oil-soaked rag strapped to the saddle of his extra mount, knowing that the father would have the child back to work again as soon as possible, and that the boy would be forever disfigured as a result of his father’s shortsightedness.
When he reached the cottage again, he wasted no time. He lit the oiled rag with his flint, and tossed it up onto the dry thatched roof. It caught quickly, and soon thick smoke was billowing into the sky. Quickly he jumped onto his waiting mount and grabbed the reins of the other horse. Then he rode a short distance away, stopping to look back briefly before returning to his own home. As he squinted through the sunlight at the growing inferno, he could see rats scampering quickly out of the house, squeezing through the remains of the cracked outer walls, scurrying off to find some new hiding place.
Rats. Always rats, everywhere.
Always rats, where people are afflicted. Rats on ships, rats in houses and barns. Rats with their accursed fleas, tormenting any poor soul standing still long enough.
And with the same sense of revelation that had rushed through him when he saw Carlos Alderón’s hardened lung, he knew that rats and their fleas were a part of the curse of plague.
He heeled his horse and rode off at a fast pace, wishing to put as much distance between himself and the horrible scene as possible.
Safely back at his own house, Alejandro quickly settled his horses and cleaned himself of the road’s debris, then went immediately to the large table with quill, ink, and parchment.
To His Majesty King Edward III,
In a village north of my fine home, for which I am in your great debt, a family of ten has died, all showing signs of the pestilence that we thought had finally deserted us. While I have seen no other cases, I cannot discount the possibility that this incident will not remain isolated. I have taken all precautions against the spread of the malady by burning their cottage, but as it was being consumed in flames, I saw dozens of rats escaping. I have noticed the presence of these vermin almost everywhere that plague shows itself and I cannot help but conclude they may transport the disease to its victims. Surely this is how the pest migrated to England; I cannot imagine that there is any lack of rats in the holds of the ships that regularly cross from France. You must therefore take immediate measures to rid your palaces and fleet of rats.
I have also learned from a wise old woman, a most venerable healer, that a powder can be made from the remains of one who has succumbed, which, when administered to a living victim, imparts the power of the spirit of the departed so the victim may live! I humbly request your permission to desiccate the corpse of one who lost the battle for life to plague, that we may have the means of keeping the newly afflicted alive.
Pray God that this occurrence is only the last gasp of a pest that is as reluctant to die as its unfortunate victims. It would be my honor to be of service to your family again, should it become necessary; may it please the Almighty that such necessity does not arise, and that the eradication of rodents may put an end to this scourge.
I await your reply with great eagerness.
Your most humble servant,
Alejandro Hernandez
He sent it by hired messenger that day. And for the next few days he asked around his region if anyone had heard of the reemergence of the plague in the surrounding countryside. He received no reports of the pestilence, though he had patients enough with other complaints. Still, he was not entirely reassured.
Well, perhaps it is just my nature to see doom ahead where others see the light of hope, he thought. Still, i
t would be a comfort for once to feel truly safe, and I wish this sense of foreboding would leave me.
“Blast this scourge!” the king cried. “Will its destruction never end? I cannot walk the streets of my own city without stumbling on the dead body of some poor soul, nor breathe the air for the foul stench! Send at once for the lord mayor! I will have an explanation for these vile conditions.”
His joyous mood upon returning to London had soured as soon as he went about to inspect the city, and saw the truth of its condition. Rotted bodies from the plague’s autumn rampage through the city were in many places still lying uncollected in the gutters and the Thames was a solid mass of sludge composed of garbage, feces, and bodies, all of which left little room for water. And despite the delight King Edward took in governing his fair realm, the problems that faced him now were far too numerous to attend to immediately. So when Alejandro’s letter arrived in the hand of a breathless courier, His Majesty was not amused.
“Rats!” he bellowed. “He would have me rid the palaces of rats? An impossible task. I could rid all my palaces of stones with less effort. Have you ever heard such nonsense, Gaddesdon?”
His regular personal physician, having rejoined the king in London after a year-long banishment to Eltham Castle with the younger royal children, scoffed at the danger and tried to minimize the threat. “We cannot allow this Spaniard to set the kingdom into renewed panic! I have not seen one new case of the pestilence since the frost moon. I believe that he speaks too soon and with too much conviction. It is my firm belief that we have nothing to fear. I assure you that we can safely proceed with plans for the archbishop’s investiture before the Solstice. Do not allow this foreigner to dissuade you from your planned course.”
But the king was uncertain. He was a shrewd man, accustomed to weighing one risk against another. He gave more thought to the contents of Alejandro’s letter. “Master Gaddesdon,” he said, “perhaps we are too hasty in our judgment. Please remember that the good Dr. Hernandez, while admittedly an otherwise ignorant Spaniard, was infuriatingly correct in his predictions regarding the pestilence during his time at Windsor. And as I ride around London, I see thousands of rats! Perhaps this theory of his may not be so mad as we seem to think! And if there is a cure, should I not grant him his request to use a corpse?”
“The archbishop will not permit it, Sire.”
“There is no archbishop,” Edward reminded him, his voice terse. He stood up to his full and imposing Plantagenet height; all of the courtiers in the room jumped to their feet immediately, including Gaddesdon. “He was felled by this plague, or had you forgotten? And if there were an archbishop, is this not my kingdom, wherein I may do as I see fit?”
“Sire, I beg you to listen …” Gaddesdon said.
“Give me good reason why I should listen to you rather than the Spaniard.”
Stung, Gaddesdon replied, “I, too, protected your family, though not in your presence. All of your younger children lived well and thrived under my tutelage at Eltham. And in Eltham we had no lack of rats. And, Sire, even without the advice of an archbishop, how can a Christian king permit such desecration as the uprooting of the earthly remains of one who has already suffered?”
“We do not lack for dead peasants, Gaddesdon. Look about you on the streets of this once fair city! There are corpses rotting everywhere! Why not put them to good use, if Hernandez is right?”
“Have not those dead ones suffered already? Why add to the curse by endangering the holy rewards of those who are not even buried?” In a hurt voice he added, “I have seen no cure for this scourge, and I bristle at your willingness to make light of my achievements in protecting the health of your other children.”
“Do not misunderstand me,” the king replied in an exasperated tone. “I do not belittle your good work. But there is a fear that springs from my gut, not my intellect, that our lives shall once more be interrupted by the horror of this scourge, especially now when I am finally back at the business of ruling this weakened realm.”
“Then, I pray you, Your Majesty, do not allow his tales of doom and fantasies of a cure to get in your way. Do what you must do, and let the plague reveal itself, if it shall. God will provide a cure, if it is His will to do so.”
He sighed, revealing his frustration to those all around him. “All right. Enough of this arguing; we shall have no more of it.” He ordered that a letter should be sent to Alejandro thanking him for his vigilance but declining his offer of assistance and refusing his request. Then he sent for his daughter Isabella, hoping that the good news he had just received would be as joyful to her as it was to him.
“Father,” Isabella cried, “I beg you! Do not do this to me! I shall forever be unhappy in that backward land!”
“Isabella, I warn you,” the king said angrily, “do not challenge me on this, for I shall not renege on my promise. You shall wed Charles of Bohemia as soon as I can make the arrangements for your travel.”
“Dearest God, have pity on me,” cried the frantic princess, “for my heartless sire sends me on two months’ cruel journey into the arms of an unenlightened savage!”
The king sprang up from his seat. “Silence!” he hissed, now more angry than ever at his headstrong progeny. “You speak of the future emperor of Bohemia with that vicious tongue of yours!”
“As I recall, he is yet uncrowned,” the princess countered defiantly.
His anger crested, and he rushed forward, raising his hand as if to strike her in the face, but stopping his feigned blow just short of it.
Shocked by her father’s violence, Isabella turned her cheek and squeezed her eyes shut. When the feared blow did not materialize, she opened them again and saw her father’s large hand hovering inches from her nose. Everyone present in the court saw clearly the ancestral origin of Isabella’s notorious temper.
“Do not contradict me, child, for that is all you are, my child, to marry off at my whim, at which time you shall become your poor husband’s cross to bear! I shall wed you to the very Prince of Darkness, if that is my pleasure, though I doubt that the Evil One himself would have you for fear of your shrewishness! Now return to your quarters and begin to prepare for your bridal journey. Spend even more of my money on baubles! I shall tolerate your ungrateful presence no longer.”
Her pride completely crushed, Isabella wept openly before the assembled court, and stayed where she was against her father’s direct order to do otherwise. She walked closer and pleaded, “Father, I beg a private word with you before I depart this room.”
Edward looked at the unhappy girl, his favorite child, the cherished daughter who had grown into the very image of his formidable mother, and for all his rage, he could not find the heart to refuse her request to be heard. With a swift wave of his hand he dismissed the court. Those present made haste to leave the hall, amid hushed whispers and the rustle of robes.
Isabella knelt at her father’s feet and made a dramatic plea for clemency. “My lord and father, why do you punish me with this distant and wretched banishment? Have I displeased you of late? Tell me my sin against you; is there nothing I can do to attenuate my unknown offense?”
Edward’s heart was breaking. He did not truly wish to send his daughter so far away, but the opportunity to wed her into such an alliance was too great to be passed over.
In a voice that he hoped would convey more determination than he actually felt, the king said, “You denigrate your position as princess of England with such behavior as you have shown today. It is already said among my advisors that I pamper you and forgive your failure to perform the royal duties for which you were raised, which duties include the willing acceptance of advantageous nuptials, regardless of your distaste for the bridegroom. My enemies will think me weak, and contrive cunning methods for swaying me from my chosen course. Would you be the cause of this malfeasance?”
The girl had no answer for her father, who was undeniably correct in his assessment of the effects of her behavior. She hung her
head in shame before him, and wept once again, desperately trying to win his sympathy. And while the king had never been unsympathetic to his willful daughter’s desires, in this instance he neither could nor would shift his policies to her benefit.
Isabella’s mind raced with desperate ideas for manipulating this situation to be more tolerable. Shaken by the failure of her attempt to change her father’s mind, she decided to try to make her banishment as comfortable as possible. And to this end she became as clay in her father’s hands, willing to please him and help his cause abroad. For the better part of an hour they talked privately of his plans for her, leaving the waiting members of Edward’s court wondering about the outcome of the earlier dispute. Edward was delighted with his daughter’s sudden and unexpected change of heart, and privately thought that he should have been firm with her long ago, if this blissful accord was the result of such rough treatment.
When their discussion neared its natural end, Isabella rose and, after kissing her father on his forehead, thanked him for tolerating her childish outburst. But before departing she added, “There is one more thing that will greatly ease my pain at leaving my beloved family.”
“Only name it, and if it is within my power, you shall have it.”
“Please send Lady Throxwood to Bohemia with me as my companion.”
The king hesitated. “I had thought to arrange a favorable union for her as well, and there are many good candidates whose allegiance will be welcome in our quest to reclaim France. After all, you are no longer little girls in constant need of each other’s company.”
“Father, please,” she begged. “How can I be expected to learn to love my husband if I am otherwise miserable? She will be a great comfort to me. And there is yet time before her age becomes a consideration.”
