by Ann Benson
“Janie,” Tom said after a minute of reflection, “does any of this bother you at all?”
“Of course it does. I’d be an idiot not to be scared. That seems to be my natural state these days. These little reports of DR SAM are frightening the hell out of me.”
“Well, that’s not unique to you. I’m scared of that too.”
“God, Tom, what would we do if it came back again?”
“I don’t know.”
Janie was quiet for a minute. “But you know what?” she finally said. “Afraid or not, I can’t wait to go home and start looking at the data.”
Tom took hold of her hand and gave it a brief, encouraging squeeze. “But still you say this is all making you crazy. I don’t think that’s what it is. I think you feel alive for the first time in ages, and you don’t know what to do with all that positive energy.”
“But I feel so—conflicted … for so many reasons …”
“Foremost of which is that you’re trying so hard to have this nice, normal life. That may not be what the Cosmic Troll has in mind for you.”
“Well, just for once I wish he would crawl out from under that bridge in a better mood.”
“Not your call, my dear.”
“We could argue about that.”
Tom gave her a wry little smile and said, “We probably wouldn’t get anywhere if we did.”
She took in a long breath, then let it out slowly and deliberately. “So what do you think I should do, O Wise One?”
“Do you want the lawyer answer or the friend answer?”
“We’re in friend mode, aren’t we?”
“Then I think you should do this—investigation, I guess it is—with everything you’ve got. You won’t be happy with yourself unless you do. And I don’t believe you should even think about going anywhere else until you’re satisfied that you’ve finished with it.” He stood up and brushed the dirt off the seat of his pants. “Except,” he said, pointing toward the next crop of rocks, “up.”
“What about Iceland?”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Well, of course, you shouldn’t pass that by.”
He left her at her door with a gentle kiss, which Janie revisited in her mind several times before deciding it was really just a friendly kiss after all and nothing to get excited about. Then she got into the shower and scrubbed her skin until it glowed red and all the grit and sweat and chemicals of the mountain excursion went screaming down the drain like a tribe of banished cooties.
The little mailman on her computer was smiling and waving letters when she checked.
All the ads were marked as required, so she dumped them without so much as a glance and proceeded to the stuff that mattered to her. The personal messages were ordered by diminishing size. From Bruce: I love you, please don’t misunderstand what I’m saying, I think you’re wonderful, and other expressions of apologetic misery. From Caroline: Everything okay? We’re worried about you. Call me as soon as you can. From Wargirl: Later.
She assumed it meant that Kristina would be coming over later that evening. With her hair still wrapped in a white towel, Janie opened the evaluation program and started to do what she’d hungered to do earlier.
But as the sorted data unfolded before her, she found herself feeling disappointed. She had run them through filters for age, place of birth, height, weight, heritage, inoculations, medical history, all the basics. And the sorry truth was that nothing she saw was terribly striking. The most visible common denominator was still the summer camp.
It was both annoying and frustrating. “Okay, be that way,” she said to the computer, as if it had some personal responsibility for the data that had been entered into it. “But now how about you tell me something I don’t already know?” She opened the command window for genetic evaluation. “Here,” she said, touching the screen, “that oughta keep you busy while I get dressed.”
Her phone calls were done, her hair was dry, and a quick dinner was digesting in her stomach when she came back to check on V.M.’s progress a little while later. The little notebook computer was about 80 percent finished with the monumental task she’d assigned him. There were still a number of boys left to go, but there on the screen in front of her Janie thought she saw, finally, something unexpected.
17
I think I may have been saved from my own foolishness by these newcomers,” Chaucer whispered to Alejandro when he was back in his seat again. But the Jew at his side did not respond, for his attention was completely focused on Guillaume Karle, who had taken the seat directly opposite him at the table, and now stared, white-faced, directly into his eyes.
Their concentration on each other was not lost on de Chauliac, who watched the proceedings like an eagle from his high-backed chair at the head of the table. “Marcel,” he said, “you must present your companion.”
Unaware of the intrigue that was unfolding, Marcel stood and placed a hand on Karle’s shoulder. “This is my young nephew Jacques, come to Paris for a visit. At a most inopportune time, I must say, but he would pay respects to his grandmère at my sister’s insistence. I did not see fit to discourage him.”
“Welcome, nephew of my great friend le provoste. I am delighted to know you, and honored that you would tear yourself away from your grandmère to sit at my table. But it seems to me that you may already know one of my other guests.”
Karle looked nervously in de Chauliac’s direction, then let his gaze travel all around the table. He felt himself falling under the curious scrutiny of the other guests, most notably the young man Chaucer. He struggled to maintain his composure while all waited for his response. Finally, he stammered out a denial. “N-no … but for a moment the gentleman put me in mind of someone.” He turned back to Alejandro and said, “I apologize, sir, if my attention gave you cause to take offense.”
Alejandro quickly shook his head no. He sat still and stiff, his eyes glued to the amber-haired rebel, the man who was supposed to be looking after his beloved Kate. What lunacy is this? he had thought when he heard this Marcel’s false introduction. He himself looked around the table, and wondered if everyone there was some sort of imposter; he came quickly to the conclusion that it was as likely as not. When it came time for him to make known his own name to the late arrivals, he rose slightly and joined in the assumed deception. “Hernandez at your service, messieurs.”
Almost instantly, de Chauliac added an embellishment. “There is too much modesty in this room. This is Doctor Hernandez, to be accurate. My former student.”
Marcel’s eyebrows rose in interest. “Then you must be much in demand, sir; there are few doctors left in Paris. So many have perished. I have expended many hours in grievous worry over how our citizens will be provided for.”
On this matter, the lad Chaucer had a word or two to say, and he leapt into the conversation enthusiastically. “My lord Lionel often mentions how his father decries the lack of physicians, and then further bemoans the excess of lawyers.”
Marcel smiled. “Having been subjected to one too many lawyers myself, I can sympathize with the king’s wariness of advocates. But physicians are a treasure.”
“He has not come here for the purposes of treating patients, Etienne,” de Chauliac said, “but rather, to learn. He has brought a fine medical tome for my consideration.” He smiled sweetly in Alejandro’s direction. “I am very grateful for the honor Dr. Hernandez has done me in seeking my opinion.”
“Then I am even more impressed!” said Marcel. He turned back to Alejandro. “Do you realize, sir, that the French royal family often seeks the opinion of your teacher? And the holy fathers themselves, may the departed rest in peace.”
This well-intended reminder of the irony of fate brought a bitter look to de Chauliac’s face, which Marcel could not fail to notice. The provost’s tenor changed in an instant. “Well, let me simply say that you are in fine and noble company.”
By sheer force of will, Alejandro quieted his pounding heart so he could hear the w
ords of his own answer. “Far more than my station would merit, I think.”
Which statement prompted de Chauliac to recover. He said, “Again, I declare, you suffer from a marked excess of modesty, colleague. In my opinion, you are quite fit for service to a king.”
“And what is your natural station, if I may be so bold to ask?”
After a brief moment, Alejandro answered Marcel as truthfully as he could. “I am a Spaniard.”
“I took that from your name, sir. What of your family?”
Then he lied. “They are ordinary folk of Aragon.”
“And yet you are a well-educated man.”
The moment he took to formulate a plausible response felt too long to him. “The town was in need of a physician, and saw in me a fellow who could learn. And for a time, when my education was complete, I served them well.”
“And now Paris is blessed by your presence. How long have you been in our fair city?”
“I have only just arrived.”
“Then the people of your town must miss you greatly.”
“One would hope.”
“One is certain,” de Chauliac said with a smile.
“What prompted you to leave? That is to say, what beyond the beauty of Paris, and the wisdom of your esteemed teacher?”
Alejandro could barely contain himself; he wanted nothing more than to get Karle alone long enough to find out what had happened to Kate. But he forced himself to be cordial. “Those were reasons enough,” he said, “but if there was any other, I suppose that wanderlust could be blamed.”
“The mandate of a young man,” Marcel said. He gestured toward Karle. “Such as my nephew here. The elderly among us, and I refer to our host and myself, must be content to stay at home and see to our obligations. Though I am certain that young Jacques, by nature of his outstanding character, will look to his own responsibilities when the time comes.”
De Chauliac took the rib with an amiable laugh, for he and Marcel were on quite intimate terms. Karle smiled wanly and made a simple nod. Alejandro could see that he was intent on playing the provincial simpleton. Good, he thought. The less attention he attracts to himself, the happier I shall be.
And then the girl danced again, and great platters of sumptuous food began to arrive: fragrant turnips and sautéed greens piled high around a steaming roast of beef, long loaves of bread, and thick slabs of creamy white butter. Flagons of dark red wine were set on the table and the gentlemen invited to pour for themselves, which they did without restraint. As soon as one flagon was empty, it was replaced by another, and in short order the mood was even more jovial than before.
“A handsome feast, is it not?” Chaucer whispered to Alejandro. “My lord Lionel will be sorely displeased that he was forced to miss it.”
“One assumes your lord has had ample feasts, and thus acquired the condition that led to his unfortunate absence.”
Chaucer cast a quick glance toward de Chauliac, and when he was satisfied that their host was otherwise engaged in conversation, he said to Alejandro, “Indeed. And de Chauliac says that he is far too young to be so afflicted. My lord complains that Monsieur le Docteur has no sympathy for his pain. He begs for a draft of laudanum to relieve it, but de Chauliac will not hear of it.”
He refuses wisely, Alejandro was about to say, for it will bind up Prince Lionel’s insides like a bowlful of clay to the great aggravation of his gout. But he held himself back from that statement, for an idea had suddenly come to mind. “Perhaps your lord would benefit from a second diagnosis,” he said instead. “I would be delighted to render one, with de Chauliac’s assent, of course.”
Chaucer looked back at the arrogant Frenchman; even as a mere page, he understood from household whisperings that de Chauliac took himself a bit too seriously. He leaned closer to the Jew and said quietly, “Such a request would have to be handled delicately. With the most tender of words.”
The lad had eagerly taken the bait, and Alejandro found himself admiring the page’s adventurous nature and inquisitive spirit. He admonished himself not to squander the great opportunity before him, but to use it wisely and to his benefit. “You aspire to be a wordsmith, my friend; find the necessary words to bring your lord the relief he craves.”
Chaucer took the challenge. “It is no sooner spoken than done,” he said with a smile. “I will arrange it.”
Alejandro returned the smile, and thought how delightful it would be to bind up the bowels of Isabella’s younger brother. His efforts to keep the Plantagenet innards loose in England had been vastly unappreciated. But this time, what he did would not go unnoticed.
Alejandro’s opportunity to speak with Guillaume Karle came only when dinner was finished and the groaning, overstuffed guests finally pushed themselves drunkenly away from the long table. He had waited with gut-grinding patience, his own goblet barely touched, for de Chauliac to be otherwise occupied. And though his guards would keep sharp eyes on his movements, they would not be alarmed if he spoke privately to another of the guests.
He watched with interest as de Chauliac took the alchemist Flamel by the arm and led him out of the room, up the stairs toward the part of the mansion where his own cell was situated. And he realized with a bit of alarm the likely purpose of their disappearance—de Chauliac would show this Flamel the manuscript. For the briefest moment, he felt a terrible temptation to follow, to hear what the alchemist would have to say about the writ of Abraham. But he could not waste the opportunity to speak to Karle while they were out of his French captor’s scrutiny.
Marcel was occupied in a slightly drunken and very passionate argument with one of the other guests, leaving his “nephew” unattended. Alejandro took hold of his arm, none too gently, and steered him into the vestibule. The guards watched carefully, but did not interfere.
When he judged that they were out of earshot, he hissed, “What of her? Speak.”
“Calm yourself, Physician,” Karle said, “and loose your grip! You will need to repair my arm if you squeeze any harder.”
Alejandro unclenched his fingers. “You have back your arm, now speak. And speak plainly, for there may be little time.”
Karle’s voice was filled with urgency. He looked over Alejandro’s shoulder repeatedly as he spoke. “She is completely well, I assure you. We have gone several times looking for you.”
“To Rue des Rosiers? Beneath the sign of the fromagerie?”
“Exactly.”
“So she remembered, then, after these many years.”
“She did. Better than you, it would seem—for here you are, so close!” Karle said. “Why did you not come?”
Alejandro stared at him in disbelief. His face hardened into anger. “Can you not see that I am prisoner?” he whispered.
“I see no irons on you.”
Alejandro inclined his head briefly toward the door, where the guards stood. “Human irons, he has me in. Do you think I would not come if it were possible for me to do so?”
Karle returned the angry look. “How am I to know what you will or will not do?”
“My daughter would know! Has she not told you of my complete devotion to her?”
“Many times. And she also speaks of her devotion to you. So you need not worry on that account.”
Alejandro moved closer to Karle, his expression now even more menacing. “Is there an account on which I ought to worry?”
A slight hesitation, but long enough for Alejandro to notice. “Well?” he demanded.
“No. She is well, and happy.”
“Happy? How can a maiden separated so long from her father be happy?”
Karle stammered, “W-well, perhaps she is not truly happy, but she seems content.” He struggled for an explanation. “She has a female companion to keep her company, a maid in Marcel’s house where—”
“You have taken her to Marcel’s house?”
“Yes. And he has made us quite welcome—without prying into who she might be or why she is with me. I went there beca
use there was no other safe roof in Paris under which to shelter her. And myself.”
“A stable would be safer for her. Why, all manner of nobles will float in and out of there!”
Karle’s eyes narrowed. He decided that the secrecy had gone on long enough. “I think it is time you tell me why it is that you fear showing her.”
Alejandro backed away a bit. “She has not told you, then.”
“Told me what?” Karle hissed in frustration.
But Alejandro remained silent, his expression stony and unreadable.
“When I return to Marcel’s, I will ask her to reveal this secret to me.”
“She will not.”
Karle took hold of Alejandro’s collar and pulled him to within a hand’s breadth of his face. “Do not be so sure of that, Physician.”
They locked in a stare, each hating the need that he had for the other. In the stark quiet of that moment, Alejandro heard the fall of feet on stone steps, and the rustle of robes. He looked over his shoulder to see de Chauliac and Flamel coming down the stairs, engaged in a deep discussion. He turned back to Karle and whispered, “There is no more time to talk. We must make plans to get me out of here. I am constantly guarded; there is no easy escape from this house.”
“Then how—”
“I think I may have managed to arrange an outing.”
De Chauliac was walking through the salon, his long crimson robe billowing elegantly behind him, the stout and red-faced alchemist at his side. The Frenchman smiled as he approached, and Alejandro knew there would be questions to answer when he reached them.
“There is a barred window on the top floor, facing west. That is where I am being held. I will drop you a letter. Come after dark tomorrow. Do not fail me, Karle, or—”
But he never had the chance to say what he would do in the event of Karle’s failure, for de Chauliac was upon them with his portly companion.
“Such an intimate dialogue! Come now, confess to your acquaintance.”
