by Ann Benson
The girl came forward and poured the two goblets full. Marcel made a toast: “To the downfall of all the nobility.”
Karle tapped his goblet against Marcel’s. “And to our success in seeing Navarre himself eventually among those who fall, for my head will roll in the dust by my own hand before I call him king.”
Marcel rose up halfway in his seat and shook a finger in Karle’s face. “We shall use him as needed, and you are a fool if you cannot see the wisdom of it!”
Their conflicting words met in a midair tangle. They agreed, then they disagreed, they insulted, then soothed. They drank, then drank some more. How very French, Kate thought as she watched them go at each other with words and goblets. They toasted and cursed each other in the same breath. Theories of revolt were tossed back and forth like hot coals, each new lob eliciting a stronger response. Finally, Kate could no longer hold her tongue.
“Gentlemen!” she cried. “You slash at each other from the same side of the battle line! Marcel is right, and Karle is right. But I think perhaps Karle is a bit more right.”
“You see?” Karle slurred. “Even a woman understands this.”
Through half-slit eyes, Marcel peered at her. “Eh? What is this nonsense your wench offers?”
“His wench has seen the handiwork of Navarre,” she said. “And were I a peasant, I would sooner follow the devil straight into hell than bend myself to the whim of Charles of Navarre.”
Marcel gave her a curious, drunken look. “But you are a peasant. And a lovely one, I think.”
Karle winked at Kate and raised his goblet drunkenly. “A toast to the beauty of the peasant wench!”
She did not know whether she ought to feel grateful or insulted. But she was red with embarrassment.
They toasted her, and then the pitch of the argument rose again as its intelligence diminished. Finally, when Kate could stand it no more, she threw up her hands and interceded.
“Messieurs!” she hissed. “It is no longer yourselves but the wine that speaks for you! And very little of import is being said.”
Marcel stared drunkenly at her. “Beautiful and audacious,” he said. He peered through hazy eyes at Karle and said, “Where did you say you found her?”
Karle reached out and took hold of her arm, then pulled her toward him. She struggled briefly against his embrace, but landed in his lap. “This is no wench,” he said with fuzzy pride. “This is a midwife. And she has been put in my care by her own père.”
Horror flooded through her. Would Karle now drunkenly give her away, after protecting her only moments ago?
But Marcel burst into laughter. He slapped his hand down on the table and slurred, “Mais oui, of course, but under the veil of this wine I mistook her for the recent results of a midwife’s effort. She looks still a babe herself. She is fresh, and pink, and plump like a newborn, no?”
Kate’s cheeks burned with shame and resentment. How dare these drunken sots treat her skills so lightly, and speak of her as if she were not there to hear it? She glared at the two of them. Karle failed to notice, for his eyes were beginning to cross.
Then Marcel laughed and said, “And now it is time for this drunken fool to retire to his soft bed.” He made a halfhearted attempt to rise, then thought better of it and plopped back into his wooden chair again. He slowly slumped forward and rested his head on his own arm. His lids fluttered shut, and in a few seconds he was snoring.
The serving girl quietly came forward and took the goblets away, returning with a pair of lit candles. She stared back and forth between the two men in frank disapproval of their besotted state and shook her head in disgust. “Follow me,” she said to Kate. “Bring your ‘gentleman.’ ”
“He is not my gentleman,” Kate said as she slid off his lap and out of his grasp. With considerable effort, she dragged and shoved the limp-limbed Karle to his feet. “At the moment, he seems more a sack of flour, and just as cooperative.”
“I am no one’s sack of flour,” he protested drunkenly.
“Least of all mine,” Kate said. She supported him on one shoulder, trying not to breathe the odors of unwashed travel and strong red wine, as the servant led the way up a narrow flight of stairs.
At the top of the stairs they were shown to a tiny chamber with one straw bed pushed up against the window and a chamber pot in one corner. There was barely enough room for a person to stand next to it. And when the maid saw the look of dismay on Kate’s face, she said, “It is all there is. Except the master’s room.”
Which the master will probably not enter tonight unless he is carried there. And this girl was too small to do it. So his ample bed will be occupied by a servant while I sweat next to this drunken pig.
“Please help me get him on the bed,” she pleaded, and together the two young women managed somehow to arrange the imposing figure of Guillaume Karle lengthwise on the straw. Kate stepped over him on the mat and threw open the shutters on the small window. “Can you bring me a bowl of water and a cloth, please? I will not lie down next to this dog without cleansing him first, for I should surely rise up with fleas.”
Marie returned a few minutes later with the requested items. She gave them to Kate, then bowed backward out of the room wearing an ironic smile of sisterhood. “Bonne chance, mademoiselle.”
Left alone with her inglorious hero, Kate struggled to strip him of all his clothing, raising his arms and legs as needed and pulling the garments off bit by tedious bit. The boots were the most difficult, for the leather was old and had molded itself to the shape of his leg. She stood at one end of the pallet and tugged, grunting as she strained to free his feet, which must be sore and blistered after so much travel. Her own were—and her shoes did not fit nearly so tightly as Karle’s. The breeches required unlacing, and as she was pulling the cords out of the guide holes, Karle drunkenly tried to roll away, so she was forced to hold him flat with one hand while the other did the work. His hair became tangled in some frayed threads of his tunic as she pulled it over his head—the tattered garment would require significant mending were he to wear it much longer. The clothes were soiled and sweaty and smelled quite rank, so she stuffed everything into a corner near the window. He lay on the straw, naked and helpless, unaware of the fine service that was about to be done for him by a young woman, who in a different turn of fate …
She looked him over in the candlelight, cautiously admiring his strong body, while a blush rose up on her cheeks. The night seemed suddenly to have grown inexplicably warm, so she dipped her fingers into the pitcher of water and patted a few drops onto her own forehead to cool herself. But it had little effect.
If Père could see her now … what would he say? She wondered if Alejandro would chide her for first rendering this poor man naked, and then gazing upon him when he had not the means to cover himself.
He would understand, in view of the improvement in Karle’s condition, especially his cleanliness, because Père is so enamored of cleanliness.…
A shaft of moonbeams streamed in, so she blew out the candles and set them aside, allowing Karle a small bit of modesty. She poured some water into the bowl and wet the cloth, then squeezed out the excess, and slowly began to wipe away the accumulated grit from the man’s damp flesh.
He groaned in his stupor, and she thought for a moment that the feel of the wet cloth was disturbing to him. But in the moonlight she saw that though his eyes were closed, his lips were open in a most inviting smile. The cool of the water feels good on his skin, she surmised, and she looked forward to washing herself when she had finished with him. She rinsed the rag in the bowl and started working on him anew, but as she worked her way down his chest, a slight movement caught her attention.
Bon dieu, she thought, so this is what they mean when they talk about … She sat back on her haunches, staring at Guillaume Karle’s rising appendage in wary admiration. Her curiosity burned, making itself known by a rush of warmth in a part of her that had never spoken before. She looked at his face; he was l
ost to the world, stuporously drunk. Very slowly she reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and touched him in his private place.
She let her fingers rest upon him for a moment, and then suddenly, that part of him moved again, ever so minutely, and with a small gasp she pulled her hand away and clutched it to her own chest.
But the feel of his skin was still on her fingertips, and she held the hand out for a moment and examined it in the candlelight. It looked the same, and she was sure that it was her own familiar hand. Nevertheless, it felt somehow different.
Slightly shaken, she rinsed the dirty rag as best she could, then tossed the used water from the bowl out the window. She refilled the bowl from the pitcher, and then quietly removed her own clothing and washed herself, looking back over her shoulder every now and then at her sodden gentilhomme. She pulled on her light shift and lay down, and as the straw rustled beneath her, Guillaume Karle reached out, as if it were the most natural thing for him to do, and put his hand on her arm. He opened his eyes just a slit. “Was I dreaming,” he murmured hazily, “or were your hands upon me just now?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “You stank, so I washed you. They gave us only this one bed.”
He seemed confused and wrinkled his brow.
The hand he had placed on her arm was warm and the touch was tender, and quite against her will Kate felt herself warming to him. But she recovered her self-control and said, in a low but stern voice, “We have no choice but to bed together. I will trust you to be honorable. If you are not I will be forced to pour the remaining water over you.”
“But I,” he slurred, “I could have sworn—”
She reached out and put a finger on his lips to shush him. “You are drunk, Karle,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep now.”
He closed his eyes again and began to drift away. “Ah, yes. You are right.” His words ran together so she could barely understand him. “I am drunk.”
But the last few words he sighed out before slipping away were unmistakable. “And you are beautiful.”
Alejandro belched, which somewhat relieved his discomfort, and worried for a guilty moment that Kate might be going hungry somewhere in the streets of Paris while he himself was stuffed near to bursting in this handsome mansion.
Where is she now? Is this rogue Karle seeing that she is well cared for?
He wondered also if de Chauliac felt any embarrassment over the richness of his table when so many French peasants were starving in the countryside, but decided it was not in the man’s nature to concern himself with such things. But he will want to be complimented. ”I thank you for your hospitality,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. “I have not seen a meal the likes of this since my time in Edward’s Court.”
“I am much flattered, Physician, for Edward is a notable host.” Then he raised an eyebrow and said, “But surely you could have afforded to live well.”
And now, by virtue of your possession of my fortune, I may not, but you surely shall. ”It was not a matter of cost,” the Jew said. “I did not wish to attract notice with ostentatious behavior.”
“Eating well can hardly be considered ostentatious. Do not forget that you are in France. Everyone here eats as well as possible. Some better than others, of course.”
Alejandro wondered if de Chauliac had any real notion of the starvation that was occurring in the French countryside. Anger welled up inside him toward his arrogant captor, but through some miracle of will he managed to keep it in check. He remained outwardly calm, though inside he was all turmoil and uncertainty. All he could think of was escape and reunion with Kate. And if he could not reclaim his gold, so be it. He would still survive.
But what of Abraham’s book? Surely de Chauliac would understand its value and treat it with due reverence, but in the Frenchman’s possession its critical message would not reach the intended audience.
Perhaps he would give it back.…
No. It would be ridiculous to ask. De Chauliac would never consent.
Yet he cannot unlock its secrets without the help of a Jew. And I am the only Jew he has.
He was arguing with himself again, in the presence of another human being, and that would not do.
“The manuscript I brought …” he began, choosing his words carefully.
“Ah, yes,” de Chauliac said. He sat back expectantly and waited for Alejandro to continue.
“It is a piece of some value to me.”
“It is a handsome volume, I will admit.” He made a curious face. “But it seems no more valuable than any other. Wherein lies its importance?”
Again, de Chauliac was toying with him, for enough had been translated to reveal the nature of its secrets.
But he would hear me say it. “It contains messages of wisdom for my people.”
“Messages from your God?”
“No.”
De Chauliac’s questions suddenly took on the tone of an interrogation. “Then from whom?”
Alejandro was silent.
“From whom, I ask again.”
“I do not know from whom!” he nearly shouted. “I only know the man’s name is Abraham, and that he claims to be a priest and Levite.”
“There are symbols of alchemy on those pages, colleague. Is this Abraham a practitioner of that art?”
“I have not deciphered enough of the text to know the answer to that.”
De Chauliac was quiet and contemplative for the next few moments. Alejandro watched as the elegant Frenchman sat motionless in his carved chair and stared off into some thought-filled distance, seemingly oblivious of his guest’s presence.
Then the elder physician rose up from the table and began to pace around the room. Still he was quiet, apparently lost in his own considerations. Finally he glanced in Alejandro’s direction and spoke. “Tomorrow I shall invite some guests to dine with me. Among them will be a man who is familiar with the craft of alchemy.”
Alejandro gave de Chauliac a frosty stare. Tomorrow? he thought. No, not tomorrow, for tomorrow I shall be gone, even if it costs me a broken leg. ”As you wish,” he said with a solemn nod. “I shall look forward to it.”
When he was returned to his small room that night by a fresh pair of guards, Alejandro saw to his great unhappiness that the window had been fitted with wooden bars. It was a hasty job, none too carefully done, and the carpenter had left small bits of wood on the floor below. He reached down and picked up one of the chunks and twirled it between his fingers for a moment.
So he will keep me here, he thought to himself as the wood rolled against the skin of his thumb. I will not be turned over to any other authorities.
And then he bitterly laughed aloud. There are no other authorities right now.
He tried to look out, but his head would not fit between the bars. At least he could have given me that much, he thought unhappily. A view of the river. Something to hope for.
12
Birds. Sunlight through the blinds. The smell of coffee.
Tom must’ve programmed the coffeepot yesterday before he left, Janie thought. Her gratitude was immense. She surprised herself by thinking, Too bad he isn’t here to make breakfast again.
But then the wonderful aroma of pancakes caught her attention. He did stay, she thought; the notion was unexpectedly pleasing to her. Perhaps he’d slept on the couch. She slipped a robe over her nightgown, tied the belt loosely, and following the trail of scents, headed for the kitchen.
There was a plate of pancakes on the counter, with a pat of butter sliding down the side of the golden pile. Next to it was a mug of coffee, with a saucer placed over it. And next to the mug was the note.
Bruce called—I love you.
She held it out in front of her, fully arm’s-length, and stared at it.
She heard noises coming from the living room, and turned her head in that direction.
“Tom?” she said.
No answer. Still clutching the note, she headed into the large, high-ceilinged roo
m, anticipating a warm good morning.
But it was not Tom, familiar friend and advocate. Instead it was a total stranger, a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, a person Janie could not remember having seen anywhere before, certainly not in her own home. The girl was humming to herself as she bent and rose, picking up the remnants of the thief’s work from the day before. She was long-limbed and rather bony, with massively curly dark-blond hair tied into a bandana and an apron wrapped around her waist. She was benign-looking and busy, and could have been a housekeeper or maid engrossed in her tasks.
But she was still an intruder. Janie gasped and swore, and, still clutching the note, ran back into the kitchen in search of something sharp and menacing.
The young woman dropped the things she’d gathered up and ran after her.
“Wait …” she called out.
As the stranger stepped into the kitchen, she was greeted by a bright, shiny carving knife, gripped firmly in Janie’s right hand, held high and ready.
“Get out,” Janie hissed.
“No, wait, This isn’t what you think—”
“You didn’t get enough last time?” She flashed the knife.
“No, Dr. Crowe, wait a minute—I’m not a thief, if you’ll just put—”
Janie made a quick stabbing motion with the knife in the air, this time with more menace. The young woman cringed backward.
“Who are you?”
There was a nervous pause. “I asked you that question once.”
“No, you didn’t. I’ve never met you before.”
“Not in person, no. Now, please. Put down the knife.”
“No. Not until you give me one hell of an explanation for what you’re doing here.” Her voice was trembling with fear, but she stood her ground firmly. “And if you’re lucky I’ll decide not to use this.”
The girl backed away a little farther, holding one hand out protectively. “Do not be afraid,” she said quietly.
“What?” Janie demanded.
