by Ann Benson
“It is my father,” she explained quickly. “He is ailing!” And before Karle could protest, she rushed to Alejandro’s side and kneeled down next to him.
“Be careful,” Alejandro whispered to her, “there is danger here.…”
“What shall I do? He says there are no English.”
“We can never know when Edward’s agents may be at hand.”
One of the injured men began to wail. Kate turned to go back to him, but Alejandro grasped her by the shawl and held her at his side. “Wait!” he said in a low voice. “Do nothing, but watch what he does.”
“Midwife!” Karle called. “What keeps you? You must come now!”
She turned to face him and said, “My father—”
But the cries of the maimed—the pain of their wounds, the agony of knowing that they had been cut down by the swords of their own countrymen—overwhelmed the sound of her words. Finally Alejandro could stand it no more. Muttering curses, he threw off his cover and rose up from the pallet. He went straight to where the two men lay and knelt down beside them. “Give me light!” he said. Kate thrust the candle up so its light would be cast where he needed it.
Karle stared down at the physician, then glanced back at the daughter. “You make too light of your skills,” he said. “You seem to have worked a miracle on your ailing father. Midwife.” The title was spoken with an unmistakable sneer. “But perhaps I should be addressing your father as such, and not yourself.”
Alejandro cut off his examination of the groaning warriors and stood up abruptly. He held out a bloody hand, which Kate knew from years of assisting him to mean that her père wanted a cloth. Alejandro took the one she found and wiped the blood from his hands, and then came nose-to-nose with the younger man. “Address me as you like,” he warned, “but you will not speak to my daughter in such a tone.”
They stood with their eyes locked in a combative gaze and took each other’s measure. Neither seemed to find the other lacking, but it was the intruder who stepped back first. “I meant no disrespect,” Guillaume Karle said, “neither to you nor her. Nor is it my intent to harm either of you. I came here seeking help, expecting only a midwife. Your circumstances are of no interest to me. I need to stay out of sight, for I am known to all around here, and as you can see, the night has brought—difficulty.” He gestured toward his fallen comrades. “I will be grateful for anything that you or your daughter can do for these two.” He swallowed hard. “Now you have looked at them,” he said. “What say you?”
Alejandro’s defensive posture relaxed a bit. He put the bloody rag down on the table and took Karle by the elbow, then led him out of the injured men’s earshot. “One will live; I will have to take his arm, but he will live.”
“You possess the skills to do this?”
Slowly, warily, Alejandro nodded. “I am a physician.”
The look he received back from Karle was one of genuine surprise. “You have hidden yourself well, then, sir. It is said there are no physicians hereabout.”
“Not well enough, I think, since you seem to have found me. But had you not, you would have found the skills to take the arm yourself, had the need to do so arisen. Of this I can assure you.”
Karle’s expression was full of doubt. “I cannot say that I would have it in me. What of the other?”
Alejandro sighed and shook his head slowly from side to side. “Are you a merciful man?” he asked.
As if insulted, Karle raised his chin and said, “To a fault.”
“Then you must show the other your best mercy by dispatching him quickly. He shall not survive more than a few hours, and those, I promise you, will be agony. I have laudanum enough to quiet the one whose arm must come off, but not enough to ease the pain of the other. It will best be eased with the sharp thrust of a sword.”
Karle glanced nervously over Alejandro’s shoulder in the direction of his two prone warriors; Kate was comforting both as best she could by gently wiping the sweat off their brows and cleansing their faces with cool water.
“You have no poison?” he asked quietly.
Alejandro studied Karle’s eyes again. He recognized in them the same expression he had often seen in his own reflection, the fear and uncertainty of a man on the run. He decided he had nothing to lose by speaking frankly.
“I am trained in the healing arts, and I have sworn an oath to do no harm. I have broken that oath more times than I care to recall, but I am not of a mind to do it again right now. And I have no skills with poison. Such things are the business of the apothecary. Or the alchemist. Practitioners of a different cloth than I.”
“I meant no offense—”
“I took none. Now, this man is your comrade, is he not?”
Karle looked down with stricken pity, and the image of the man’s falling rushed undesired through his memory. “Aye. A worthy one.”
“Then be as worthy a comrade to him, and dispatch him.”
Reluctant horror spread slowly over Karle’s face. “I have killed many soldiers in battle,” he said, “but never one of my own. I have seen it done, but I do not know if I have the will to do it myself.”
Alejandro put a hand gently on Karle’s chest, just above his heart. Karle stiffened, but did not move away. “Angle the sword horizontally so it will slip between these ribs,” he said, demonstrating the exact location with his fingers, “then give one quick thrust.”
Karle winced as if he could feel the sword between his own ribs.
“It is no different in method than slaying a boar or other such beast,” Alejandro said sympathetically. “Though it will seem far more abhorrent to you. But if the dying one is sent swiftly to meet his God, we can concentrate our efforts on the one who may yet live.” He stared directly into Karle’s eyes. “I think we must do this quickly, eh?”
The amber-haired man knew Alejandro was right, and nodded.
They lifted the man who could be saved off the travois and placed him on the long table in the center of the dark cottage. Alejandro handed the bloody rag to Karle and whispered, “Place this around the sword to soak up the blood before you thrust. There will be blood enough when we take this one’s arm. Now hurry, or we will lose them both.”
The physician turned away. Guillaume Karle stood over his mortally wounded comrade, a rag in one hand, his sword in the other. Tears filled his eyes as he placed the tip of the sword on the man’s chest. He crossed himself, then pressed down with all his might. The dying man arched his back upward and let out a sharp breath, but did not cry out. He fell back limp, and blood began to ooze out of his open mouth.
Alejandro gave Karle a sympathetic nod and said, “You have shown courage. And the man died well and honorably. Now move him aside and come here; your help is needed.”
Karle was too stunned even to consider protesting and did as he was bidden, then came back to the table, where Kate and Alejandro were busy at work. They had already cut away the cloth of the warrior’s sleeve to expose the mangled, soon-to-be-removed appendage, and had slowed the bleeding by tying a torn strip of the sleeve cloth tightly around the upper arm. Blood no longer spurted, but instead oozed; still, the man’s skin was ghastly white.
The physician said, “There is little time—I have already dosed him with laudanum, but its effects will not last long. He will feel something of what we do, so you must lean on his chest with all your weight to keep him still.” He touched the handle of a wooden spoon gently on the lips of his patient, who took it between his teeth almost instinctively and bit down. “Scream if you like,” he told the frightened warrior, “but keep the stick in your mouth and no one will hear it outside these walls. I will do this as quickly as I can.” He touched the man’s sweaty forehead briefly. “God be with you.”
Karle held the man down but turned away, for he could not stomach the look of raw terror on his comrade’s face. He let his eyes wander; they came to rest on the tools laid out on the edge of the table, a sight no more appealing. More than once he had seen similar
tools used to draw and quarter a man with slow and deliberate cruelty. But the physician’s motions were mercifully swift and far more practiced than Karle expected, and remarkably the soldier did not writhe. Instead he lost consciousness, for which blessing Karle whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
“We are done,” Alejandro said. He touched Karle on the shoulder. “You need not hold him down anymore.” He went to the hearth and pulled an iron out of the coals. He pressed the glowing tip against the oozing stump of the upper arm. The hiss was quickly followed by a loathsome stench, and all three turned their heads away. When the cautery was complete, Alejandro poured wine over the blackened stump and wrapped it in clean cloth bandages.
His work finished, he sat down on a bench and buried his face in his hands. He breathed deeply a few times, then looked up at the other two. “The air in here is foul,” he said.
He went to the door and opened it a crack, then looked outside. “The shadows are still,” he reported. He beckoned with his hand to Kate and Karle. “Come out into the air. It will clear your senses.”
But Karle was reluctant to leave his comrade on the table, so Alejandro reassured him. “He will not move, for his body has suffered a grave insult.”
The daughter followed the father out into the night air and stood beside him. Alejandro placed a consoling arm around her shoulder. Through the darkness, the stunned Karle watched as comforting was passed between them. The night was now velvety black and he could just make out their silhouettes; he was surprised to see that the young woman was a shade taller than the man he had heard her call Père. He watched as the physician stroked her hair in a soothing, fatherly manner, and tried to calm her as she wept against his shoulder.
And though the night’s events had left him in a state where cogent thought felt almost unnatural, he found himself momentarily disturbed by how unalike the two seemed.
As the light of day filtered into the small cottage, Guillaume Karle sat on a bench and watched as his unconscious companion’s chest slowly rose and fell. What remained of the man’s left arm was wrapped in a bloody bandage, but the color of the seepage was not the bright red the physician had warned him to watch for; instead, it was the pale, dullish color that indicated all was going as well as could be expected.
He glanced over at his two benefactors and allowed himself, now that the need for urgency had passed, a moment of curiosity. The physician lay on a straw pallet, apparently sleeping, but with one eye half-open. Karle had the sense that the man was well used to incomplete repose. Beyond him lay the maiden Kate on her own pallet. The physician was a lean, angular man, dark and olive-complected, with softly curling locks the color of coal. He was oddly handsome, with long limbs and finely shaped hands. And while Kate too was long and well-shaped, she was fair and pink, almost Nordic in her coloration, with eyes that had sparkled blue even in the light of the candle the night before.
As if he knew he were being watched, the physician stirred and opened his eyes fully. He rose up on one elbow and met Karle’s gaze. “What of your man?” he inquired immediately.
“Quiet,” Karle replied. “He sleeps. I have kept him from moving as you said I should.”
“Well done,” Alejandro said as he rose from the bed. He took a quick look at the bandage on the stump, then said, “Good. There is no fresh bleeding. This bodes well.”
He took a basin down from a cupboard and filled it with water from a large pitcher that sat on the edge of the hearth, then stripped off his shirt and began to wash himself, first his face, then the upper part of his body, and finally, with painstaking attention, his hands. Though Alejandro angled his body so his chest could not fully be seen, Karle caught a quick glimpse of what he thought might be a scar. The Frenchman gave a moment’s thought to inquiring about it, but decided to leave it be.
But the physician made no attempt to contain his own curiosity. As he dressed himself, he said, “I have heard of no battles hereabout. How came these men to be wounded? And contrary to what you may have heard, it is rumored that there is a physician in the next town. Why did you not seek his services before those of a midwife?”
“Which question would you have me answer first?” Karle asked warily.
“Whichever you like,” Alejandro replied with similar wariness. “But answer them both.”
Karle looked him straight in the eye. “As you wish,” he said, “but when I am through with the telling, I will likewise want some answers from you.”
“No doubt,” Alejandro said. “We shall see if you get them. Right now you are far more in my debt than I in yours.” He glanced at the sleeping, one-armed man. “You will pay by speaking. Start by telling me your name.”
The amber-haired man hesitated a moment, then said, “You heard my man speak my name last night.”
“He called you Karle,” Alejandro recalled.
“Guillaume Karle,” he said, and nodded his head. “There are many who would pay handsomely for knowledge of my whereabouts.” He grinned bitterly and said, “But here I am, as you say, in your debt. Now permit me the honor of knowing to whom I am speaking, and why you are hiding as well.”
Karle’s quick and accurate appraisal of their situation caught the physician by surprise. He raised one eyebrow and said, “In due time. How were these men wounded?”
Karle drew in a breath. “They rode with me against the oppression of the nobility. They caught their wounds in the battle to claim their rightful portion of the soil of France.”
Alejandro saw a zealot’s fire in the eyes of the young man, and in his brow, the tight weariness that was the fire’s inevitable toll. “What remains of France to be portioned?” he asked. “All is gone to the Free Companies, is it not?”
“They have taken all that is gold or silver,” Karle said indignantly. “But France herself, the good earth of France, is there still and will always be there. We want only that share of land that will allow each man to live decently. And freedom from the excessive taxation the nobility forces upon us to finance their despicable wars.”
“Ah,” Alejandro said, “I see. Simple requests, then.”
Karle gave him a caustic look. “But one must be hiding in a cabinet not to know of these things. How is it that you do not?”
Alejandro’s mouth curled in the faintest smile. “We shall speak of my circumstances when yours are more fully explained.”
Karle took in a breath and continued. “We rose up against the royal palace at Meaux last night. Against Charles of Navarre. He was far better prepared than we thought he might be, and many more than these two were wounded. Those who could, scattered.”
Alejandro considered the walk from Meaux. He had done it many times. Unburdened and in daylight, it took well more than an hour. But this man had dragged two wounded companions behind him with only the moon to guide his steps. His opinion of the intruder improved.
“Some may escape to their own homes,” Karle went on. “They will take what wounded they can. But some who are hurt will have been left. God alone knows what will happen to the bodies of those who fell in the battle. We could not stay behind to gather them up.”
“Who will see to this one?” Alejandro pointed to the dead man on the travois. “He will shortly be unpleasant company.”
The ghastly remains were beginning to bloat as putrefaction took hold of his inner organs. “I suppose it shall be upon me to see to him,” Karle said with resignation.
“He cannot be buried near this cottage,” Alejandro said quickly.
Karle sighed. “I will take him into the forest to bury him, then.” He looked up at the one-armed man still sleeping on the table and added grimly, “Along with Jean’s arm.”
They heard a stirring behind them as Kate sat up. “There is a clearing in the wood to the north,” she said. “There are many berries there, but I saw no signs of anyone having passed through recently. It is not holy ground, but it seems otherwise fit for a burial.”
“There is no holy ground left in all
of France, I fear,” Karle said. “But I thank you for telling me of this place.”
She nodded in the direction of the corpse. “All brave men deserve a good end, do they not?”
Alejandro watched Guillaume Karle’s eyes digest the sight of Kate, then reluctantly break away. When the two men faced each other again, Karle’s skin was flushed, as if he had been caught in an indecent thought.
“Perhaps, if you are of a mind to do so, your père will allow you to show me this clearing,” he said quietly.
She answered too eagerly for the physician’s liking. “I shall be glad to.”
“We shall all go together,” Alejandro said.
“What of my man?” Karle said.
“We will see to his needs before leaving,” the physician said. “Clean him, give him water and the little bit of laudanum I have left. And if he is made fast to the table, I am not concerned to leave him alone.”
Not nearly as concerned as I am to have you alone with Kate, he thought.
2
2007
Janie Crowe was out in her backyard trimming shrubs to the soaring strains of Maria Callas when the tiny phone in her pocket began to vibrate. She’d been waiting for the call, but the music’s distraction was so complete that the sensation made her jump a little, and when she yanked off her earphones a few hairs got caught in one of the pads. Wincing, she untangled the captive strands as the bird-squawk of the too-warm spring day assaulted her freshly uncovered ears. She looked up at the treetops and snarled, “Be quiet!” There was a moment of silence from the canopy before they started in again.
But these birds, who daily decorated her precious flowers with their odious droppings, did have one rather endearing habit: they ate the huge, disease-laden mosquitoes that had migrated north all the way into her area of western Massachusetts. With their food supply so plentiful, and with legislated improvements in air quality, the birds had managed a nice comeback from near demise a few years earlier.
