The Burning Road

by Ann Benson

  “Maybe not in the United States, no. But in England, it might.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “It’s not in England anymore. And no one there is even aware that it exists. At least as far as I know.”

  “They didn’t get much of a chance.”

  She stared at him, perturbed.

  “If it were back there and someone knew about it,” he said, “it would probably become part of the literature. Certainly the literature of the healing arts.”

  She looked away for a moment, confused, and wondered precisely what it was that he was trying to intimate. Why did he always seem to want her to get rid of it?

  “Do you think I should’ve left it there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know if I’d say that. I have my doubts occasionally about whether you should have it at all—I think that’s what really bothers me. And I think the thing is trouble.”

  “In what way?”

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “I’m not completely clear on it. But I’m still not sure you should be giving it to this book depository.”

  “It’s in Hebrew. I think it’s pretty appropriate for it to go there. It needs a home, Bruce.”

  “Part of it is in Hebrew. But most of it is French or English. And most of the techniques are from English folk medicine.”

  “Some of the techniques are English folk medicine. A lot of what’s in there is Alejandro’s, and we know for sure that he was a Spanish Jew. He learned a good deal of what he wrote down from this fellow de Chauliac in France.”

  “But it did spend the better part of its existence in England. I just think a case could be made that it belongs there.”

  “No. You’re wrong. It doesn’t belong in England any more than France. And it’s not trouble, not at all. I’ve had many hours of pleasure looking through it. So has Caroline.”

  “I can recall a few very unpleasant hours that got spent with that journal open.”

  “They would’ve been a lot more unpleasant if we hadn’t had it.”

  They began walking slowly toward another exhibit. Janie was shaken by the disagreement, and wanted desperately to get the matter behind them, to neutralize the negative influence of this inanimate object on their relationship, which seemed suddenly more fragile than she remembered from their last visit. She wondered silently if this was just the strain of separation showing, and if Bruce had picked the journal as something tangible to focus on in letting that strain reveal itself.

  “Look,” she said with more firmness than she actually felt, “I’ve got the journal now. I took the risk of bringing it out of hiding, so for the moment it’s going to go where I want it to. Which is just where it is right now. At the depository.”

  He stopped and stood still. “Well,” he said stiffly, “I guess I’ve been told.”

  Janie felt a little stunned by this sudden evidence of a gap in their understanding at a time when they ought to be reveling in each other’s presence. A strong desire for everything to be all better again came over her. “Come on,” she said softly, “let’s not let this spoil our time here. If we really need to argue, we can probably find much better subject matter—something where one of us might even win. And I’m sure we will—another time. In fact I hope we’ll have the luxury of many in-person arguments. But right now, we’re on a time budget, so let’s give it a rest and enjoy ourselves, okay?”

  A few seconds passed, then he said, “Okay. You’re right.”

  “My two favorite words from a man.” She smiled, and hoped it was convincing. “Now will you let a pigheaded middle-aged woman buy you dinner? Please say yes. I’m hungry after all that bouncing around we did before.”

  The hard look on his face softened. “Me too. Let’s go.”

  The smell was evident for blocks around, the fear-inspiring odor of wet, charred wood with a nauseating undertone of firefighting chemicals. Michael Rosow stood in front of the ruined house and shook his head sadly from side to side while Caroline cried beside him. He’d been in the station when the call came through from a neighbor, but by the time the fire crew had gotten there, it was already too late to save Janie’s house. What remained of the home she’d once shared with her husband and daughter was little more than a dripping pile of rubble, with steam rising from the stillhot embers. Bits of floral-printed upholstery, miraculously unburned in what had once been the living room, were the only color to be seen in the blackened mess.

  He rubbed Caroline’s back as she sobbed into one hand. “When did she say she’d be home?” he asked softly.

  “She wasn’t sure. A few days, maybe.”

  “I think someone ought to call her.”

  Caroline wiped away tears and said, “Why? The house isn’t going to get better if she comes back now.”

  “She’ll want to know.” He sighed heavily and pulled a phone out of his pocket. “I think we should let Tom do this.”

  Tom stood outside the immigration area in the international arrival area at Logan Airport, and tried to shove away the memory of what it had felt like the last time he’d come there to fetch Janie. This time, at least, he wouldn’t be subjected to the same stunning blow. He’d been holding a bouquet of flowers when he came to fetch her after the trip to London, but when he’d read the message she sent out with another passenger he’d put the flowers on a nearby chair and simply left them there. Now he was empty-handed. It seemed a shame. At least the same could not be said for his heart.

  23

  As de Chauliac had predicted, and Alejandro had prayed for, the Countess Elizabeth’s symptoms mysteriously returned the next morning. So they set out again to see to her, for de Chauliac would not renege on his promise of care to the king, no matter how silly the illness.

  Alejandro rode alongside Geoffrey Chaucer, with the guards behind them. De Chauliac stayed a good distance back from the rest of the entourage, stewing and fretting and muttering his resentment of their trivial mission. Now and then the Jew looked back over his shoulder and gave the Frenchman an annoying smile, which only heightened de Chauliac’s ire.

  About halfway through the journey, Alejandro leaned over and spoke to Chaucer in low tones. “You love an intrigue, young Chaucer, am I right?”

  “Do I wear this love so plainly, then?”

  “Plain as the pocks on a whore’s ass, I think,” Alejandro said.

  He was not accustomed to such talk, but the lad seemed to have an appreciation for the bawdy, and he wanted to create a brotherly sort of intimacy between them.

  Chaucer laughed. “Not plain enough, then.”

  “Well, I will give you the chance to engage in an intrigue of the most sublime sort.”

  “Oh, do reveal it, sir!”

  “Are you a loyal fellow, Chaucer, to your lord Lionel?”

  “ ’Tis to the Lady Elizabeth that my true allegiance belongs, though when my lord requires it, my assistance is always available.”

  “But were you to swear fealty, it would be to …”

  “The countess, sir. It was through her household that I first came into service.”

  “She was astute in her choice of pages. You are a most able fellow. And clever.”

  “Your words are kind, Physician. But there is cleverness within me that has not escaped as yet. I long for the day when my service is complete and I may devote myself entirely to words.”

  And Alejandro was surprised to hear this admission. Their hopes were so similar. “You are a man of my own heart, I think.”

  “There may be truth in that. But tell me, Physician, what of this intrigue?”

  “Ah! I nearly forgot. Do you remember Jacques, the nephew of le provoste Marcel?”

  “I do. A rugged amber-haired fellow with a bit of a swagger. Were it not for the timely arrival of him and his uncle, my virtue might have been forever compromised.”

  Alejandro chuckled. “Your virtue will only be safe until the next time the opportunity for compromise presents itself, lad. As I recall, the opportunity presented
itself in a comely package that night.”

  “Rather. But what of this Jacques, who was my unwitting savior?”

  Alejandro gave Chaucer a conspiratorial grin. “He has promised to assist me.”

  “In what regard?”

  “In arranging to meet a certain lady.”

  Chaucer’s expression livened. “Might I know this lady, Physician?”

  “Intimately, young page. Intimately.”

  He broke into a wide grin. “And will this lady want this meeting?”

  “I had hoped you might tell me whether or not she did, in view of your intimacy with her.”

  “In my opinion, kind sir, all ladies would do well to desire a meeting with you, in view of your handsome presentation, your keen wit, and a certain, shall I say, seductive air that you have about you.”

  Seductive? Absurd!

  But he took the observation well, and continued. “Your flattery is well noted. But you have not answered my question. I pray you do so, and directly.”

  He made a little shrug and said, “She would not be displeased. But wherein lies the difficulty in making these arrangements for yourself?”

  Alejandro tilted his head backward. “De Chauliac. He is jealous of the time such meetings might take away from our work. And I daresay, he is as nosy as an elephant.”

  “An elephant! Have you seen one of these fine beasts?”

  “Only in a book, I fear.”

  “But tell me what it looks like.”

  “Another time, Chaucer. There is a plot to be hatched and time is wasting.”

  “Ah, yes. Forgive me.”

  “The excitement of youth may always be forgiven. At any rate, I am guarded night and day by these two ruffians who follow us—de Chauliac has set them upon me to make sure I do not waste any time so we may get on with our work—”

  “Which work, in its secrecy, gives rise to intrigue in and of itself, if I may say so.”

  “You may, and we shall address the nature of the work at another time. I am too preoccupied with the present intrigue. Now, de Chauliac’s jealousy leaves me no chance to meet with this certain lady without undue observation.”

  “Are you certain that the jealousy is only for the work, and that de Chauliac is not jealous of you in some other way? Perhaps he does not wish you to see the countess because it rankles him in some place other than his intellect.”

  Alejandro stared at Chaucer for a moment.

  “It was merely an observation, Physician, do not look so shocked. His eyes never leave you.”

  If he had noticed it, he had pushed it away, but Chaucer was right: de Chauliac did watch him more closely than was called for, even considering that he was a prisoner.

  “And this is Paris, where God seems often to look the other way.”

  Alejandro shifted in his saddle. “God’s discretion is a subject we will not properly address between here and Lionel’s manse.”

  Chaucer laughed. “Too true. On to conspiring, then.”

  “Jacques has agreed to help me get away from de Chauliac, if only for a day, so that I may spend some time untethered with this lady we speak of. He is willing to come in disguise and abduct me. Your help is needed in seeing that he knows of my next sojourn to the lady’s side. Which I hope to arrange today. Then, if you will, you can carry a message to him telling of the time. We will choose a good place on the route, when I might be around a corner and my guards still not yet turned. And if all goes well, it will happen swiftly, and I will meet the lady in question, in privacy at last.”

  “Simple enough, I think. But really, not that great an intrigue. An abduction in Paris these days,” he mused, “is not the subject of which legends are made. So I will agree only if I may be there when this supposed ‘abduction’ takes place. I long to see such an event with my own eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “The better to describe it later, sir. Who knows when the need might arise.”

  “You have just said it is not the sort of subject from which a legend might be born.”

  “Not unless I choose to make it such,” the youth said with a confident smile. “I am fond of embellishment, and skilled at it too. Think of it, Physician … the fair countess, languishing in staid wedlock, swept off her feet by the handsome and exotic Spanish physician, a man of great mystery, who wins her heart with his gentle ministrations, an escape from bondage, perhaps a tragedy.”

  Alejandro thought Chaucer a curious young man at that moment, but smiled and laughed, for he was enjoying the subtle patina his participation had brought to what would otherwise simply be a dangerous escape attempt. “It all suits me well,” Alejandro said, “except the tragedy part. There is a great poet in you, Chaucer. Do not let the page keep him at bay.”

  “Have no fear, Physician. The poet already rises.” He laughed aloud and glanced briefly backward. “The look on de Chauliac’s face will be worth something too, will it not?”

  Alejandro winked. “Something, indeed.”

  “Now, let the rising poet guide you for a moment. You must be sure to flatter her. Tell her you must see her in the purest daylight in a garden, where she will be surrounded by like beauty, God’s other fine handiwork.”

  Marcel grimaced as he read the scroll from Charles of Navarre. The further he read, the wider his eyes opened, and the more furious he seemed. When he had finished, he swore aloud and flung the parchment at Guillaume Karle, who read it for himself with similar reaction.

  “We must convince him otherwise.”

  “Using what persuasion?” Marcel demanded.

  “Another message, stronger entreaties, sounder logic, whatever it takes!” Karle flung the scroll back at Marcel. “But to meet at Compiègne is not to our advantage.”

  “Navarre sees no disadvantage in it.”

  “From his position, he would not. And in truth, his own forces stand little chance of harm from the king unless his armies show up with a far larger force than anticipated. Navarre’s men are weaponed, mounted, and armored. Only the foot soldiers are at serious risk. But any forces I gather will have no such advantage, and must have the means of escape if they are not to be slaughtered.”

  “That is only if things do not go our way. If Navarre crushes the king’s forces, then your troops will be in no danger at all.”

  “Save from Navarre.”

  “But he has already promised to ally himself with you. He has given his word to speak to your demands after the battle is won.”

  “I think perhaps we must ask him to speak to these demands before. I am suddenly less willing to pay my penny first.”

  Marcel heaved an unhappy sigh. “Much negotiation has gone into this, Karle. It is a delicate alliance, and must not be jeopardized by your short-of-the-candle doubts.”

  “ ’Tis a fresh candle, when the terms are altered.”

  “This is not an alteration of the terms. Merely the strategy. You and Navarre will still join forces against the king. You will have your demands heard and answered when the battle is won. That the site of the battle changes has no bearing on that result.”

  “No? What if the battle is lost because of the difficulty of the site?”

  “Navarre seems to have faith in Compiègne.”

  “I do not share his faith.”

  “Why? Because your young lady says it is not worthy?”

  “We agreed that she was right in her thinking.”

  “And now, we hear from Navarre that he finds it flawed.”

  “Write back, Marcel, and tell him he is wrong.”

  Marcel stared quietly at Karle for a moment, considering the challenge. “No,” he finally said, “I will not. He was quite firm in this response. Compiègne it will be. Whether it suits you or not.”

  Alejandro stood at Elizabeth’s door and smiled warmly, with de Chauliac a pace behind him.

  The countess sat up from her pillows and waved away her servants. “Oh, Chaucer, do wait yet,” she said as the retinue was filing out. “I would have you esc
ort de Chauliac to the nursery. Nurse says there are complaints aplenty among my children, and as long as Monsieur le Docteur is here, shall he not see to them?” She glanced around Alejandro and looked at the Frenchman who stood behind him. “Dear de Chauliac, will you mind? These little ones are so very precious to me.”

  It was a banishment, which de Chauliac accepted with his usual grace. But not with cheer: he did not smile when he said, “Of course, Countess, I shall see to them immediately.”

  With a complicitous grin to both the countess and Alejandro, Chaucer led de Chauliac away, and closed the door to the chamber. He nodded to the guards, who posted themselves against any escape attempt.

  “At last, we are alone,” Elizabeth said softly.

  Alejandro wondered how a woman in such excellent health could force herself into a state of such pallor. “And none too soon,” he said gently, “for you are alarmingly pale.”

  The countess took hold of his hands and pressed them to her heart. “Am I? I thought as much. I feel that I am pale inside and out.” She let his hands slide out of hers and reached out to touch his cheek. “But you do not suffer from such debilitating fairness—look how fine and rich the color of your skin is.”

  Her hand came a bit too close to his neck, only inches above his still-visible brand. He took hold of her small hand and brought it to his lips, then kissed each finger gently in turn. And though it was all a ruse, this supposed passion he had developed for her, the act of pressing his mouth against her warm skin sent waves of confusing emotion through him. Warm flashes of pleasure, radiating out from his heart, reaching all the way to his fingertips. He found himself feeling slightly unsettled.

  When he was finally able to stop he gazed into her eyes and said, “I know of no medical tome that speaks of fairness as an affliction. It is simply your Norman heritage that makes you so. And the will of God, may He be blessed for creating such a vision as you.”