by Ann Benson
There was silence around the table as each man gave private thought to what was before him. The flame of the candle flickered as de Chauliac carefully turned the seven pages of the first section of the manuscript—pages that already bore Alejandro’s elegant scrawl. At the end of that folio, he came to an image, beautifully rendered in soft colors overlaid with gold, but its evil subject was not in keeping with its inviting appearance. Into the mouth of a vile and odious-looking serpent a virgin was disappearing, and her tiny painted face seemed alive with the pain and horror of her terrible fate.
“Colleague,” de Chauliac said to Alejandro, “what words are these around this drawing?”
He had finished translating the page, but he had neglected the caption. He passed his eyes over the Hebrew writing. “One or two come quickly,” he said, “but the rest will require study. I will need to sit and work at this in order to bring out the words.”
“How long?”
“Only to translate this line? An hour or two, perhaps. But what is the sense of that, when there are two sections of the manuscript yet to be revealed, with images of their own?” He turned the pages of the second section forward until he came to the image of the same terrible serpent nailed to a cross. “What can this mean?” he said.
“I do not know,” Flamel said reverently. He crossed himself and pushed his hands together, then muttered a quick prayer. “But God in His wisdom will reveal it in due time.” He turned to Alejandro and said in a solemn voice, “He has chosen you as His instrument of revelation. I am certain of this. That is why He put this treasure in your hands.”
“Praise God!” de Chauliac whispered. “This is an honor, colleague, a very great honor.”
To free the words of an ancient Jew in order that Christians might use the wisdom they conferred, perhaps against those Jews? A tortuous honor, a burden! The serpent on that cross is me, he thought. I will be the writhing betrayer of my people.
Yet if not me, then someone else will do it, and I will lose all hope of controlling the destiny of these words. One or two, or ten, could be mistranslated, so no formulae would work … until this tome falls into the hands of a Jew again and can be corrected.
Flamel’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “And might you give me some hint of how long it will take for you to complete your work on the next two folios? ”
“A fortnight, perhaps, or longer, considering how much is already done.”
Flamel looked disappointed at first, but gradually his face brightened. “I have waited many years to find this treasure; it will not be my undoing to wait a bit more.” Then his expression sobered. “I will use that time to prepare myself to go before God as a Creator, if He will have me. I shall begin to pray tonight.”
It was perhaps Marcel’s longest and most detailed letter to date, and when he finished reading it Charles of Navarre sat by the fire and contemplated its contents. That the Paris contingent had come to a decision about where to stage the uprising meant that there would be no more uncertainty. Karle would gather his forces over the next few weeks and outfit them to the best of his abilities, and then he would train them to behave like warriors, not the stinking, cowardly peasants that they were. He read it a second time, committing the important parts to memory, then tossed it into the fireplace. It hissed and shriveled and gave off an unholy stink.
“Marcel thinks it best to gather at Compiègne,” he said to the Baron de Coucy. “And so we shall.”
“The Countess Elizabeth requires your attendance,” Chaucer said. “She is feeling inexplicably faint.”
With a long sigh, de Chauliac replied, “Then I shall ride out within the hour.”
“She would have Dr. Hernandez as well.”
“I fear he is otherwise occupied in the work of translation at this time.”
“The countess will be sore distressed to hear this, sir. But if it is impossible, then of course, she will simply have to understand.” He reached into the pocket of his mantle and extracted a sealed parchment. “But would you be kind enough to give the good physician this note? It describes her symptoms. Perhaps you can confer prior to your departure, and carry with you his thoughts about her mysterious condition.”
De Chauliac accepted the note. “Very well,” he said. “I will give it to him immediately.”
And as soon as Chaucer left, he slipped into his library and broke the wax seal.
“You see? I told you this would happen. We shall be required to visit these whining English every day to see to their false afflictions. There will be no time for your work.”
Alejandro read the note, then looked at de Chauliac and smiled. “The work will wait.” He closed the Abraham book carefully. “It will be there long after the countess and you and I have turned to dust. And in all fairness, colleague, these symptoms do not sound false to me. She writes, in descriptive terms and exceptional rhyme, I must say, of pallor, faintness, lack of appetite, shortness of breath, general unhappiness—these are the symptoms of lovesickness.”
“Since when is love an affliction?”
“It has been so for all time, de Chauliac. It is an affliction of the soul and the spirit, rather than the body and the mind, though it manifests itself by weakness and general dyspepsia in the body and confusion in the brain. Have you never been in love?”
“Not to the point that it bends my body to its will.”
Alejandro smiled cynically. “A pity. It should be required of all physicians to love at least once so they might know its symptoms from more dangerous maladies.”
De Chauliac raised one eyebrow and sneered. “It is a dangerous malady, wisely avoided, I think.”
“Only by those who would not know its sweetness. But we might debate this ad infinitum and never come to a conclusion. It afflicts women far more viciously than men, for some reason. You must explain this to her.”
“I shall not.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not believe one word of it.”
“Oh, come now, colleague—be kind to her. If you cannot find such kindness in yourself, then you are not the superior physician I believed you to be. One must always be compassionate and have pity on those weaker than oneself, especially the ladies.”
“You will not convince me.”
“Then I shall have to leave my work and accompany you. Otherwise she will just send for me again because she will be dissatisfied with your efforts on her behalf. You will tell her that she suffers from malaise, and that the cure is rest. And the next day she will send for you again, with the same complaint.”
De Chauliac looked terribly bothered, but finally agreed. “Come along, then. Let us be done with it.”
They were ushered into her private chamber, in the middle of which stood a giant canopy bed with the curtains drawn on all four sides. The servant who led them in took hold of the bed curtain and rustled it, then said, “Madame?”
“Oui?” Her voice was weak and frail-sounding.
“The physicians have arrived.”
There was a muffled sigh of relief. “Oh, praise God.”
“Shall I pull back the curtain?”
“In a moment.”
They heard the brief rustling of fabric, then the countess’s voice. “You may open it now.”
The servant pulled back the drape to reveal Elizabeth propped up against several pillows. Her hair was loose and she wore a thin silk shift tied at the neck. She placed one hand dramatically against her forehead and closed her eyes. “Oh, thank all the saints that you have come, at last!” she moaned. “I have spent this morning in misery. I simply do not have the wherewithal to raise myself up.”
“Take comfort, lady,” Alejandro said. He neared the bed and gestured toward its edge. “May I?”
“Please,” she said, “seat yourself.” She patted the bed with her hand.
He sat, and took hold of one of her hands. “You are clammy, dear Countess,” he said.
“Another symptom! Oh, the distress! What can be ailing me?
”
He patted her hand reassuringly. “We shall know what ails you shortly and prescribe the necessary treatment.”
“Oh, that such treatment should exist.”
De Chauliac cleared his throat impatiently and said, “Dear Countess, I believe you are in good hands with my colleague. I shall look in on Prince Lionel to determine the progress of his toe while Dr. Hernandez tends to you, which he will surely do quite magnificently. That is, of course, if the lady has no objection to receiving the attentions of only one physician.”
Elizabeth raised her head up off the pillow and looked at de Chauliac, who waited quietly at the far side of the room. “You are so attentive to my husband, kind sir. How gratified he will be to know that your first thought was of him! Go, indeed—we will try to manage somehow without you.”
Alejandro smirked at his colleague. “Somehow,” he said.
And as soon as the French physician had taken himself out of the room in a billow of robes, Alejandro turned his attention back to the countess. “Now, tell me again what your specific afflictions are.”
She breathed out. “Oh, I am blighted by the most terrible lethargy. I lie in bed pining for I know not what, and I cannot seem to make myself rise up. My heart feels as if it has abandoned me entirely.”
“Then I shall need first to examine your heart.” And with a warm smile, he reached out and untied the bow at her neck. The shift fell open and revealed her delicate collarbone. He let his eyes wander over her white skin, and said, “You do not exaggerate. You are as pale as the finest pearl.”
He took his rolling parchment out of his bag and pressed it against her chest, then listened for a moment. “I cannot seem to hear what I need to hear,” he said, feigning dissatisfaction. “Sometimes it is best just to place the ear directly over the heart, and then it may be heard more fully.” Then he looked directly into her eyes. “But I shall do so only if you would not be offended by such intimacy.”
She quickly shook her head no, and then whispered, “Suddenly my cheeks feel warm. What can that mean?”
“In due time, we will know.” He leaned over and put his ear against her chest.
She made a small gasp of pleasure and placed her hand on his head, twirling her fingers lightly through the waves of his black hair. And when he rose up again, he said, “Your heart has taken on a small flutter.”
“Is this a terrible thing?”
“No affliction of the heart is ever wanted, but this is one, fortunately, that may be cured.”
“Say you so?” she said.
“Do not fear, it is true. When I read your note I thought I knew what your condition might be.”
She lowered her eyes, and smiled coyly. “Do you mean to keep me ignorant?”
“And aggravate your condition? It would be the furthest thing from my mind.”
She leaned forward and took hold of his hand. “Tell me, then.”
“It is my opinion, dear Countess, that your heart suffers from an excess of love.”
“Oh, ” she said, “what a noble affliction …and what, dear Physician, is the cure?”
“You must take care to see that this excess finds regular release, and you must call for your physician whenever you feel the need.”
There was a light tap on the door; they turned toward it and found de Chauliac standing there, looking terribly impatient. The Frenchman did not wait to be invited, but strolled in with his usual majestic determination. “I am pleased to report that by releasing the humor from your husband’s toe, we have succeeded in diminishing his pain quite considerably. And the appendage seems to have shrunk a bit, almost to normal.”
“By all the saints,” Elizabeth said, “I am beginning to loathe the notion of returning to England. Where shall we ever find such marvelous physicians there? You must both stay and take your supper with my husband and me.”
“You are feeling well enough to eat, Countess?” de Chauliac said, one eyebrow raised.
She smiled at Alejandro. “I am much improved, yes, enough to take a bite or two of nourishment.”
“This is quite marvelous news. My colleague seems to have worked another of his miracles. But sadly, we must decline. There is work we are doing that must be attended to.”
“ Experiments?”
“Work that will lead to experimentation eventually, if all goes well.”
“Oh, how exciting! I would hear all about this work.”
“It is still very secret,” de Chauliac said. “We dare not speak of our new theories. On our next visit, perhaps we will have made enough progress to report on it. But now, I’m afraid, we must actually do the work.” He glared at Alejandro.
The Jew rose up from the bedside. “My colleague is right. We must depart.” He leaned over and whispered, “Though I would stay and watch the progress of your improvement. But another time. This malady you suffer from is known on occasion to repeat itself. Send your page Chaucer, and I shall give you further advice on its course.” He winked and straightened up again, and they departed.
They sat at the table in de Chauliac’s salon, the cold greasy remains of their supper between them. De Chauliac, to Alejandro’s amusement, had muttered his way through the meal, never directly addressing his captive. Finally he looked up from his plate and nearly shouted, “You are engaging in an exceptionally vile deceit to encourage this flirtation, Canches.”
“Ah,” Alejandro said, “the cause of your annoyance finally reveals itself. You must take care not to let such things fester. It is very bad for the constitution. And in truth, I see no harm in what passes between me and the countess.”
“No harm? This lady is the wife of a prince of England and a noblewoman of considerable stature herself! She stands to inherit the entirety of Ulster on her father’s death. How can you think yourself a proper match for her?”
“Oh, come now, de Chauliac, no one is looking to a match, least of all the countess herself. She has already made a fine match, perhaps as good as any match she might have made. But that does not necessarily mean that the arrangement satisfies her completely. When I look upon Prince Lionel I see a man who would attract few women, save for the accident of his royal birth. He bears all the marks of a Plantagenet, but in him those qualities have expressed themselves in a rather uncomely form.”
“They have a goodly number of children, so there must be some affection between them.”
“There must always be affection between husbands and wives, if not for each other, then for their common end. But I am led to understand that among royals it often takes on a rather bland form. This lady is simply indulging in a little excitement.”
“But you … you are …”
“A Jew, and therefore unsuitable even for a flirtation?”
“Yes!”
“She will not know unless you tell her. And I daresay it will do you as much damage as me should my ‘deficiency’ be revealed.” He tossed down the remains of a goblet of wine and stood up. “Now, with your permission, keeper, I shall retire to my chamber and continue my work on the translation. Good Flamel seems ready to burst with impatience. He is probably on his knees right now as we argue, pouring his soul out to his God in the hopes of being found worthy. Who knows when that determination will be made? It may be quite soon, if he is as pious as he would have one think. I would not want to keep him waiting.”
“As you like, Physician.”
As he passed through the salon door, he turned back and said with a bitter smile, “Tell me again why you would keep me here with you—is it for the pleasant stimulation of my company?”
“ Something akin to that.”
Alejandro sighed. “I thought that was what you said.” But that was no longer true. Now he was being kept until the secret of riches hidden in Abraham’s manuscript had been revealed. It was time to start making mistakes.
Another leaf revealed itself that night, and the first small error was made. Alejandro translated the symbol for “ green” to mean “red” but all el
se was flawless. He will have no reason to suspect it is not correct, he thought with an inward smile. As he was wiping the tip of his quill, a small missile sailed through the window and landed on his bed with a soft whump.
He rushed to his bars. It was a moment before his eyes adjusted, but he saw two figures in the darkness, and as his focus cleared he knew they were the ones he wanted to see.
“Wait while I read your words,” he whispered incautiously.
He took his treasure to the candle and unwrapped it. One side, as he’d requested, was blank, and the other full of Kate’s beautiful writing.
Marcel has made us welcome, though he knows not who I truly am, and Karle has not betrayed me to him, nor anyone else. I too am well, and we are well sheltered, especially from the prying eyes of those who might question us. Karle and Marcel spend all their time plotting for their revolution, and I have managed to be of some assistance where I might. And well I ought, for they would have made terrible mistakes of strategy had I not pointed out their follies.
Our journey to Paris was protracted, as you no doubt know. We were delayed by tasks that Karle said could not wait—and in truth, they could not. There were many women told of their widowhood, many messages left for warriors who would return, many calls to arms delivered. There was so much sickness and death, Père, and there was never a lack of horror to be seen.
In one farmhouse we found a man who had the cholera—I did as much for him as I could by recommending the dandelion, and the woman was with child, which was eating her flesh as it strove toward life. But in this house a more heinous thing had occurred—an older son had died of plague, not a month before we arrived. I questioned the woman, but she gave me little information; she would only say that the Death came and went, but always took someone. I asked her of rats, and she told me that the boy often hunted on his own and that he might have eaten one out of desperation to fill his belly. We found his grave and I took one of his hands—may God forgive me—for I know such flesh might one day be needed. It is wrapped and safely stowed.
