by Ann Benson
Alejandro could almost see the blood rising in de Chauliac’s neck. After a light squeeze, he gently drew his hand away from the countess’s grasp. The Frenchman glared at him for a brief moment, then faced the countess again with a polite smile. “I shall try to do so, madame,” he said. “And now, shall we see to your husband?”
Prince Lionel had almost become an afterthought. “Yes, please do,” she said. “I want him well and happy again.”
“We shall do our best.” He turned to Alejandro with a smile that might just as easily be taken for a sneer. “Colleague? What first?”
“The heart, I think,” Alejandro said. He opened his bag and extracted a parchment, which he rolled into a tube. “You must unbutton your tunic, my lord,” he said, “in order for me to hear its beating.”
“What has the beating of my heart to do with the throbbing of my toe?” the prince asked.
“Much can be learned about the general health by listening to the flow of blood. Observation of the vital signs can be most useful in diagnosis.”
He pulled back the coverlet, which was mink or marten and lined in the finest silk. He stopped for a moment before proceeding and looked to the countess. “Is it your custom to sleep under fur, madame?”
“On occasion, sir. With my husband ill, I thought it best to keep him warm.”
“Ah,” he said. “I see.” Then after a brief pause, he added, “Before we proceed, if I may be so bold as to make first an observation.”
“But of course,” the countess said.
“And then a suggestion.”
The countess nodded and said, “And if we find your suggestion useful, perhaps we shall follow it.”
Perhaps, he thought. Of course, in matters of instructing royals it will always be “perhaps.” He continued. “I have observed through careful study over the course of the Black Death that it originates in rats.”
The countess was momentarily speechless, then said, “But what has this to do with our coverlets?”
“Well,” Alejandro said, “though the fur is unquestionably lovelier, the animals from which it is taken are not unlike rats.”
“Oh, dear God! This is a most unsavory discussion.”
De Chauliac stepped forward, mouth open, ready to intercede.
“I am well aware of that, madame,” Alejandro said, “and for that I apologize, most humbly. It is not my intent to upset such a lovely lady as yourself. Only to protect.”
“And how will I be protected by distancing myself from fur?”
“I do not know how it is that rats pass on the agent of plague. Perhaps it lies in the fur, somehow. It is, after all, the most outward part.”
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, her eyes examining the coverlet. When she looked back to Alejandro again, her lovely young face looked worried. “Do you truly believe this, sir?”
“With all my being.”
She looked to de Chauliac, seeking his opinion on the matter. He hemmed and hawed, then finally said, “My colleague has had great success in dealing with the Death. He is an authority to be trusted. And I should add that I do not sleep with a fur myself.”
“Well, then,” Elizabeth said, “when my prince is well enough to part with it, we shall remove all our furs and store them until the temperature absolutely requires their use.”
Alejandro gave her a grateful smile. “I am honored by your indulgence of my theories. Now, let me proceed with the heart.”
He pressed his ear to the rolled parchment and held it against Lionel’s chest. The beat of his heart was strong and steady. When he raised himself up again he offered the parchment to the Frenchman. “De Chauliac, will you have a turn?”
“I will,” he said, and accepted the implement. He bent down and listened.
“Well, what say you?” Elizabeth demanded anxiously.
“Your husband has a vibrant heart, lady,” Alejandro said. “It is my opinion that it is also quite large. This bodes very well for his health.”
“I concur,” de Chauliac said, not to be outdone. “The heart is very large. Very large, indeed.”
“But what of my toe?” the Prince groaned.
It will also be large, Alejandro predicted silently. “Soon enough we will get to it,” he said. “But first, we must examine your liver.”
“My liver?”
“Indeed,” de Chauliac said. “There may be an excess outpouring of bile, or a blockage, even, and such an imbalance could put great stress on the body, which might be manifested in the toe.”
“Ah,” the countess said, quite gravely. She whispered to Lionel, “You must allow this, beloved.” She pulled down the fur coverlet and raised his nightshirt, revealing the royal manhood.
Which unlike the heart, and probably the toe, is not terribly large. Alejandro looked at de Chauliac and said, “You may examine the prince first, colleague.”
“With pleasure. Colleague.” He palpated the prince’s belly. “I detect no abnormalities,” he said.
Alejandro did the same. “Nor I,” he said. He pulled the nightshirt down and the coverlet up, to the obvious relief of the prince. “I think it best that we now proceed directly to the toe.”
The prince obliged by sticking his foot out from under the coverlet, shoving it almost into Alejandro’s face. When the rank smell hit his nostrils, the physician turned his head away for a moment. He met the blue eyes of Elizabeth of Ulster, which were fixed firmly and unabashedly on him. He smiled, took a breath, and turned back to the presented foot.
The toenails were far too long and unkempt, and the big toe was swollen and red. He looked up at the countess and said, “I was right. The toe is very large.” Then, very soberly, he added, “Madame, I am sorry to inform you that I detect an accumulation of a foul humor in your husband’s toe. Praise God we have found it now, for had it gone missed, the foot might have been lost.”
There were gasps from the entire royal entourage, and quiet swears from de Chauliac. Holding back a smirk, Alejandro said to the Frenchman, “Please, colleague, I would have your opinion on this. I dare not make such a critical diagnosis without your sage counsel.”
De Chauliac leaned forward and peered at Prince Lionel’s ingrown toenail. He gave Alejandro a scathing look and said, almost under his breath, “Your diagnosis is correct.”
They would have to clip the royal toenails. “Surgery is required.”
More gasps, combined with whispered prayers. “Yes,” de Chauliac said, his voice an angry whisper. “Surgery.”
Alejandro smiled wickedly. “You brought your knife.”
“And the laudanum,” de Chauliac said with a sigh.
That afternoon, while Marie stole away for a rendezvous with her lover, Kate took over her work. And when she answered the bell, Marcel asked of Marie’s whereabouts. “She is indisposed,” she said, and for good effect, she added, “in a womanly manner.”
It was always enough to dampen the most insistent male inquiry. “Well, then,” Marcel said, “I suppose you will have to do. We require some refreshment, if you please.”
She was prepared, for Marie had said, He will require refreshment. He always does in the afternoon. So I have left a kettle of greens and some bread. Kate ladled out generous portions of greens into two bowls, and carried them up the stairs.
Marcel and Karle were poring over maps and tracts and flattened parchments, applying ink lines liberally to mark gathering places and routes. “If we meet him here,” Marcel said, pointing with the tip of his quill, “we will have the shortest route to where the forces supporting the king are likely to gather.”
When she set Karle’s bowl down, Kate looked over his shoulder and lingered for a moment, surveying the map before placing Marcel’s bowl in front of him. “I see no routes of escape,” she said.
Marcel stared up at her in annoyance and said, “Woman, remember your place. This is man’s work. See to your own.” He gestured toward the stairs. “There is more to serve, eh?”
“Bread and wine,
for your pleasure,” she said smartly. And when she brought the remainder of the refreshments, she leaned over Karle’s shoulder again. And after a moment of silent scrutiny, she pointed to a spot on the map and said, “Here is better.”
Marcel, who was far more affable when drunk, was not amused by her continued intrusion and scowled at Guillaume Karle. “See to your woman,” he said. “She is making a pest of herself.”
“I would hear her reasoning before dismissing her,” he said quietly to Marcel.
Marcel looked suspiciously back and forth between the two of them. “Very well,” he said. He gestured toward the map with his hand. “Give us your strategic opinion, mademoiselle.”
She smiled nervously, looked to Karle for confirmation, and when he nodded, she sat down on one of the benches. She touched the area north of Paris, a village called Compiègne, that Marcel had proposed as the meeting place for the battle to come. “There is but one road in here, and when you face your enemy on it, your only route out will be by the same road. Unless your forces scatter into the woods. But should they be forced to do so, you will lose the advantage of organization. You will become a divided troop of forest rebels. And if the king’s commanders have decent skills of war, they will send a contingent through the woods and around your troops, so they can come up behind you and box you in. You will have no choice but to disperse.” She let her eyes wander to a different place. “Here,” she said, pointing to a town called Arlennes, “is a place where three roads converge. If the king wishes to surround you, he will have to divide his own troops to do so. He will not have the same advantage as in Compiègne.”
Her eyes traveled further over the parchment, settling on a thin blue line. “Is this a river or a stream?”
She had Marcel’s complete attention. “A river, I think,” the provost said.
“Then it too can act as a road for escape, a route for supplies, a place for the horses to water. And before you go into battle, you must designate a place where your troops can re-form, for once the battle begins there will be chaos.”
Marcel sat quietly for a few minutes, scanning the map, thinking about what she’d pointed out. “It seems,” he finally said, “that Alexander the Great has come back in the form of this maiden. These notions of yours are very sensible,” he said to Kate, “though I know not how a maiden should come up with such warrior wisdom. I think we should propose to Navarre that they be followed.”
“The countess would have sent me sooner,” Geoffrey Chaucer explained in the vestibule of de Chauliac’s manse, “but she required assistance with her correspondence. That is, of course, my most critical service to her. She says that I always manage to make her seem a woman of great letters.”
“No doubt she appreciates this,” de Chauliac said.
“I believe so, sir, for she has me writing nearly day and night. But I find no reason to complain.” He smiled broadly and said, “But now to my business. She did not wish to send anyone else on an errand of such importance.”
He produced two small ivory boxes, both ornately carved with flowery images of saints and angels and crosses, one for de Chauliac and one for Alejandro. Chaucer handed each box to its intended recipient. “I am instructed to stay and see your reactions to these gifts, and then to report back to my lady with a description of your sentiments.”
Which will no doubt be delivered in florid excess, Alejandro thought with amusement.
De Chauliac opened his gift first: it contained a fine quill with a sleeve of gold surrounding its shaft, and a small vial of encre rouge.
“She favors this rare color, sir, and hopes you will be pleased to have some.”
“I am most delighted,” de Chauliac said. “It will be a great addition to my medical works to have markings of red for accent. Please tell the countess that her gift is most generous and will be very useful. I shall begin to use it right away. Her largesse is—humbling.”
Chaucer raised one eyebrow in amusement. “She would not have gifted you so had she not thought you deserving, sir.” He turned to Alejandro and waited for him to open his box.
Alejandro expected something of a similar nature, perhaps a seal or a bookmark or, as de Chauliac had received, a quill, but instead he found a small gold ring with an E carved into it. To the right of the letter was a single emerald, and to its left a pearl. He took it carefully out of the box and held it up, and as he turned it in the light, the fire within the green stone sparkled. The gift’s intent was clear.
But of course Queen Philippa has a champion, Adele had told him, and he loves her well, as she does him.
But what of her vows to Edward?
He will not mind her engaging in a bit of courtly love, as long as she is discreet, and he knows that she beds only with him. She and her admirer exchange gifts frequently to show their mutual admiration.
In his hand, he realized, was the signal of Elizabeth’s desire for such admiration. From him. He slipped it onto his smallest finger and held out his hand to display it. De Chauliac’s quill required no response save a hearty expression of gratitude. But a ring … it had a different meaning. The flirtatious countess was sending him a signal.
“Well?” Chaucer said.
“You must tell your lady that her kindness and generosity have left me speechless, as has her beauty.”
“She will be very pleased to know that she has stolen your words. But she will want to have some back from you, I think.” He leaned closer. “And should you see fit to send a gift of your own, she will not be offended, I assure you.”
This was a very young man, Alejandro decided, to be the conduit for such an intrigue. He cast a glance in de Chauliac’s direction and received back a withering glare. But he would not allow himself to be withered, nor would he let his lack of possessions hinder him in an exchange that might serve him very well.
“Have you a parchment that you might spare, colleague?” he said. “And a quill? I would write a few words of gratitude.”
De Chauliac grunted unhappily. He clapped his hands together once and a servant appeared. De Chauliac stated his need and the servant returned in short order. He handed the pen and parchment to Alejandro, who offered them in turn to Chaucer. “Tell her that I cannot possibly match her generosity, so I shall not even try. But I offer her my most heartfelt sentiments of admiration.”
“With your permission, good physician, I shall embellish your words so she will enjoy them all the more. They are a bit dry for my lady’s taste. If you have no objection, that is.”
“Do as you see fit, Chaucer. It is you who are the wordsmith, not I. I am only the admirer, with his tongue tied by the magnificence of the one he admires, who greatly benefits from your service.” He smiled.
Chaucer set the parchment down on the table and bent over it. He thought for a moment, then grinned and began to scribble.
Cherished Elizabeth, fair as a goddess and likewise generous, take to your heart my deepest admiration. Let it burn as a candle in your breast and warm you. Until we meet again, I am your most loyal servant and admirer.
“And how does one write your name?”
He told him.
The page handed the parchment back for approval, and Alejandro read it.
“It is perhaps more direct than I would have written.”
“Precisely, sir. That is what is required.”
“You would know better than I, lad … and now, a gift.” He reached back and untied the black leather cord that held his hair, then plucked a few hairs and tied them into it. He gave the tiny bundle to Chaucer. Then he took the parchment and tore it in half. “She will not appreciate the unfilled space, eh? So we shall remove it.” He tucked the excess piece into the front of his mantle and gave Chaucer the part that had been written on.
“You are wise, sir; the countess would want to see it filled. I shall deliver these things right away,” he said.
“How might she respond?” Alejandro asked.
“She will press it all into her bodice,
I suspect, and hold it near to her heart.”
De Chauliac was nearly groaning by the time the lad Chaucer slipped out the door again. He set upon Alejandro immediately. “You realize, Physician, that she will expect this flirtation you have started to continue.”
“I see no harm in it; if it brings the lady pleasure, why not? And anyway, I did not start it. That was done by the lady herself.”
“You cannot imagine the complexity of such liaisons! She will discover a new ailment for you to treat every day! Or she will persuade her husband to. It will become an untenable situation, completely unmanageable.”
“You have only yourself to blame for this, de Chauliac.”
“It was not I who plucked hairs from his head and sent them to her bosom.”
“You must remember that if you had seen properly to Prince Lionel’s toe, there would have been no need for me to go there in the first place.”
“Do you denigrate how I administer healing? This Lionel is the worst sort of complainer. If I ran to his side every time he had the slightest ague, I should never leave his house.” His eyebrows knitted in dark disapproval. “And you must remember who you are.”
“And who am I?”
“A Jew. An unacceptable admirer, even for a countess of Irish origin.”
“To her I am a Spaniard. A physician of great skills. And perhaps the lady wishes to have a physician in her house all the time.”
“Harumph,” the Frenchman grunted. “Perhaps. But she does not wish for me. She wishes for you. And you are my prisoner.”
“Then why not tell her that? Tell her also that I am a Jew. It matters not to me.”
“Are you mad? It would be your ruination, and even worse, mine.”
“Then you will have to escort me there when she calls for me, I suppose, and keep my inherited vileness to yourself.”
Their pitched argument was interrupted by the arrival of Nicholas Flamel, who had come a bit earlier than was expected. The portly alchemist handed his cloak to the valet and scurried eagerly into the salon on his stubby legs, putting an end to whatever more might be said on the subject of the unsuitable flirtation. “Good evening,” he said almost breathlessly as he bowed. “I am honored to be in such learned company once again.”
