The Physician's Tale

by Ann Benson

  It was within the chapel that Alejandro had quarantined Matthews and Isabella’s tailor. “I know where it is,” he interrupted. “Only too well.”

  They conspired quickly thereafter on the nature of Alejandro’s costume; it was Sarah who came up with the ideal disguise—one easily accomplished with the things at hand.

  “Then my mission here is done. And now, finally, I am off. There is much yet to do! Good-bye—for now.”

  As Chaucer was turning to leave the cottage, Alejandro grabbed his wrist. “I will not forget this,” he said. “I can never repay your kindness, but I am forever in your debt.”

  “When I see you and Kate reunited, that will be payment enough for me. Mine is but a small part in it.”

  Alejandro squeezed Chaucer’s wrist once more, then let it go. He smiled and nodded, and the young man left. Sarah remained behind in the cottage, but Alejandro went out after him and watched as the poet mounted his horse. He had the horse turned toward the path, but before he heeled him forward, he turned back to Alejandro.

  “A curious thing happened as I came through these woods before,” he said, pointing in the direction of the path. “A vision, perhaps. I should have told you before now, but with all that transpired within…”

  Alejandro had known many “visions” on that pathway. He stepped closer. “Tell me now.”

  “There was a lady with pale skin and red hair,” Chaucer said. “She came to me with—a message for you, I believe.”

  Alejandro’s heart was in his throat. “What did she say?”

  “That you should take care….”

  Of what? “She said nothing more specific?”

  “No.”

  After a moment of silence, Alejandro said, “Thank you.”

  The poet nodded, then spurred the horse and disappeared into the forest. The physician watched until he was out of sight, with the sure knowledge that he had just put his fate and Kate’s into the hands of an Englishman who, if Alejandro had read him right, would weep for joy should the plan fail.

  Sarah wrapped a riding cloak around Alejandro’s shoulders and tied it at the throat. “Thank God there will be a chill tonight,” she said. “No one will find it the least bit odd that you are wearing such a cover.”

  He turned and faced her for inspection, wearing an uncertain expression.

  “No one will know you, once you don the hood,” she said.

  “When I leave tonight, I can never return here,” he said. He waited for a moment, then added, “Once again, I must ask you—are you certain you do not know the whereabouts of the journal?”

  “As far as I know, it is not here,” she said. “This is the God’s truth. But I will give you another gift, one you might find useful.” She turned away and went to a cupboard, from which she took a small flask with a cork stopper.

  “Laudanum,” she said as she handed it to him. “A most useful substance. There are many beneficial things that can be obtained by simply looking at the ground—but not this.”

  “Let us hope it will not be needed, but if it is, I thank you now.”

  He stowed the flask in a pouch and tied it to his belt. They went out into the late day sunlight. Alejandro filled his water flask from her barrel, then brought his horse around from behind the cottage.

  As he mounted, Sarah said, “You remember the road to Windsor?”

  “Too well.”

  She stood in the yard, clutching her red shawl to herself as he disappeared into the path that led out of her private enclave, toward the twisted oaks, through which he would pass back into the harshness that was England.

  As the dust of his departure settled, Sarah whispered, “May the gods watch over you.” She turned and tottered toward the cottage. As she passed through the door, her eyes touched on the small chest her mother had left behind. It tore at her heart to look upon it.

  He will come back, her mother had told her. He will ask you to return that which he left behind. Do not give it to him. If you do, he will take it away from here. There will come a time when it is needed for a greater purpose.

  But if he asks, the daughter had wanted to know, then what am I to say—that it is not here? He is a good man, you have said so yourself. How am I to look him in the eye and tell a blatant falsehood about something that has such great import to him? How shall I do so without his knowledge, by the shame on my face, that I am keeping it from him?

  Her mother had simply smiled. And so the chest had remained closed, secured with a silver padlock. In one of her cupboards, there was a chalice that she herself had used long ago as Queen of the May, before she had come to serve in this place. Inside that chalice was a silver key. Someday, though she could not say when, she would take it out and open the chest, and finally, so long after the old woman’s death, she would have a look at the treasures she left behind.

  She wished her mother had been more specific! I am not so skilled as you, Mother, in knowing when things ought to be done.

  There would come a time when she would have to decide on her own. Certainly it would have to be before she herself left that chest to her own daughter.

  She was now, after all, Mother Sarah.

  Alejandro felt only a small chill as he passed between the oaks. He wondered if the place’s magic had dissipated with the change in proprietress. He was a rational man with a fine education, and yet he believed with all his heart that there was some inexplicable mystery to this place, so close to the seat of England’s power yet a world unto itself. He would never unravel it, for he could not envision any circumstance under which he would return after this departure.

  As he rode toward Windsor, he considered how his life might have evolved if he had followed the path his father would have set him upon: to establish himself within the trade, to enter into an arranged marriage, to procreate—joyfully—and raise well-mannered, industrious, and piously faithful children, to the eternal joy of himself and his wife, as well as the children’s grandparents.

  Physician? Avram had roared the word when Alejandro first spoke of his dreams. Yet, somehow this dream had come to pass. Now he was thundering along a forest path in a faraway land, dreaming yet again of something that seemed impossible to achieve. These next few hours would determine the course of the rest of his years.

  He passed familiar landmarks along the route—the abbey where he had taken his instruction in Christianity, to win the hand of Adele; the fork in the road, where he could choose Windsor to the west, or to the north the estate King Edward had given him in reward. A small roadway came into view ahead on his left. As he neared it, he slowed the horse, finally bringing the animal to a full stop as painful memories overtook him. He felt a sadness he could not describe, as if there lay a great weight upon his chest. Here he had spent a sweet fortnight with Adele and Kate, only to be tortured by its end. Within these walls, Kate had struggled against her own illness, and his devotion to her had solidified.

  Adele’s warning to Chaucer echoed in his mind.

  Take care.

  The horse wanted to move; he let the animal wander forward on the road. His hands trembled so badly that he had to grip the sides of his saddle as they entered the open courtyard. When at last he found the strength to look at the manor house, he saw with a nearly shameful sense of relief that the place was poorly kept, perhaps even abandoned. Though it saddened him to see such a fine estate in a state of disrepair, he gave a few silent words of thanks to God that their sacred place had not been despoiled by another occupant.

  Then he turned the horse around. Windsor awaited.

  More familiar landmarks came into view: a house he remembered, though now it had a barn where none had existed before; a rise in the road, beyond which he knew he would have his first clear view of the castle itself. He rode to the crest of the hill and came to a stop.

  Once before he had sat on a horse and contemplated what lay below, only then he had been allowed to enter Windsor freely. In the distance, he saw the throngs of celebrants, all maki
ng their way toward the night’s festivities. He tethered the horse in a well-hidden spot and began his own descent, wondering how legs so gelid could step one foot in front of the other. The answer, he realized, was simple: It was these legs that would carry him to Kate.

  On this night of things-as-they-are-not, after so many years of separation, they would be reunited, and his heart soared to think of having her by his side again. He had allies in Chaucer and the old nurse, but beyond that he had only his wits and the sharp knife that lay snugly against his calf, in the top of his maligned boots—which, after Sarah’s costuming, might never be restored to their previous fine condition. But if he could be restored to his daughter, that was all that mattered.

  Behind the alms box, he repeated in his own mind. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, and, finding himself quite alone, Chaucer tucked the invitation in the crevice, as promised. Then he hurried off, hoping he would not be late. He arrived at the audience room just as the parties were assembling. Outside the door, he smoothed his garments and tried to compose himself. When he strode into the room, he hoped that the disarray he felt within his heart would not show on his face. The king greeted him with great joviality and introduced his guests, the names of which Chaucer promptly forgot—with one notable exception.

  He eyed Benoit with cold hatred for the briefest moment, just long enough for the man to understand his disdain. Then he turned back to the king, all smiles and readiness. With despair in his heart, he wrote the documents, which were signed and sealed by all the parties. Copies would be made and given to each one in turn after the festivities—Chaucer had no doubt that the task of their creation would fall to him again, due to their sensitive nature. He would be forced to swallow the bitter pill many more times.

  He handed the completed contract to the king and bowed low. “With your leave, Your Majesty, I shall depart to complete my own costume.”

  “At the eleventh hour, eh, Chaucer? Very well, you may leave.”

  He walked out of the audience room with as much dignity as he could manage, while the parties to the agreement raised their glasses in a toast to their future success. Only when he was out of hearing range did he begin to run, as fast as he could, toward Kate’s quarters.

  When he found her, she was standing on her balcony and looking down at the gathering crowds. “At last!” she said when she saw him.

  “I am sorry, but my delay could not be helped—the dowry was not entirely negotiated! They stood over me for the better part of an hour, voicing their demands.”

  “What of Père? Was he there? Did you see—”

  “He was, and I did.”

  She clutched his mantle breathlessly. “Tell me—”

  “He is well, have no fears, and as bold as ever. He insists that he will come into the masque himself. I have already left my own invitation for him, outside the chapel.” He described the costume Alejandro would be wearing.

  “Then all is arranged,” she said quietly. She gathered up the costume Nurse had fashioned for Chaucer and handed it to him. “We will be so alike as to be twins tonight.”

  Chaucer took the costume and held it up, comparing it to the one she wore. “So it seems, lady.”

  “I have dreamed of this moment for every minute of my imprisonment,” Kate said. She turned to face the gathering throng of celebrants below. “Père hates crowds. He always feels so captured within one, with people all around him; it disturbs his fastidious nature. But he will come for me, as I have said all along. I would rather die than go to what awaits me here. And he would rather see me dead, knowing what such a fate would do to me.”

  “Lady, what dark imaginings! Your père would never harm a hair on your head!” He took her face in his hands and kissed her cheek. “I am the poet, you may recall—you should leave such drama to me.”

  She laughed nervously, trying to dispel the dark cloud she had created with those words. “I know; I am certain that neither will come to pass. Tonight, I shall be free, at long last.” She looked into Chaucer’s brown eyes. “I know not whether I ought to be wild with joy or terrified of what is to come.”

  “Of what is there to be fearful? As you have said, tonight you shall be free.”

  “Unholiness,” she breathed. “Evil. Père and I have encountered an inordinate amount of it in this world.”

  “And now, attired as a holy abbess, you seek the very personification of evil as your savior.”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes still on the crowd. “One of those devils who poisoned the wells.”

  Chaucer let her bitter utterance pass without comment. “It is time,” he said. He held up the white costume and regarded it for another moment, then tossed it aside. He took Kate’s face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. “Remember me in your prayers.”

  “I shall, I promise.” She pressed a small pencil portrait of herself, one he had admired, into his hands. “To remember me,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers, and then, with his heart breaking, let go.

  Twenty

  They had no X-ray machine, but Janie knew that she would soon be facing yet another surgery outside her own narrow specialty. Tom’s leg was a pulpy mess of torn tissue wrapped around the jagged pieces of what had been the bones of his lower right leg. She had no titanium or ceramic replacement parts. When she opened the leg up—as soon as his condition stabilized—she would decide on the spot whether or not the leg would have to be removed, based on what she saw there.

  For the first few days, he went in and out of consciousness; when he was awake, his limbs seemed endlessly restless. Finally, knowing that he would never heal if he didn’t stay still, Janie sent Kristina to the lab in search of recipes for something that would keep her father in a state of near-sleep, so his leg could mend.

  May it please the Force that it mends, Janie thought, every time she looked in on him.

  She wondered, as she and Alex did their daily work of caring for Tom, if he could hear the conversations that transpired between his wife and the boy he’d raised as his son.

  Hold Dad’s wrist like this, and press your finger against this spot. There’s a vein right there. Do you feel it pulsing?

  Yes, I feel it!

  Listen to your own heart first, then listen to Dad’s. Is it the same?

  His is slower. But mine is louder.

  That’s because there isn’t as much muscle and flesh in between the stethoscope and your heart. Dad has bigger muscles.

  She didn’t mention that his father’s muscles, once hard and smooth, were rapidly shrinking as his body remained in the same position.

  Look at the color of his urine in the tube. What do you see?

  It’s darker than it was last time.

  He needs more liquid, then. Let’s turn up the drip.

  They cleaned him together, checked his vital signs together, rolled him to one side to change his linens together. Every little thing Janie did in caring for Tom became a lesson for her eager son, who, through some force of will that his mother couldn’t fathom, managed to keep his own sorrow and worry at bay in his father’s presence. Had he learned that from watching her? If so, it would be sheer mimicry, for she hadn’t specifically instructed him in that kind of bedside manner. Had her sweet and innocent son somehow garnered through his “mother” the steel and drive that guided her through dark hours but sometimes made it hard to recognize the light?

  In one moment, she hoped so; in the next, she hoped not.

  As soon as he left the room, he became the little boy again, as prone to crying about his father’s plight as any other child might be under the same circumstances. But in Tom’s presence, no matter what his state of awareness, Alex wore his hopeful face.

  Can he hear us?

  I don’t know. But I think we have to assume that he can.

  One night, two weeks after they brought Tom home, Janie rose up sleepless from her cot and went to Tom’s bedside. She felt hi
s pulse; it seemed a bit rapid. His arm had the familiar warmth and twitched in response to her touch. She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The skin at his temple had the same Tom smell. But when she lifted the covers to look at his leg, a new odor arose, one that brought bad news.

  In the dim light of her candle, she saw the darkening areas. Maggots could not reach into the depths of his flesh to root out the gangrene as they had done with the flesh of the little girl whose diabetes they had conquered. The infection was not of the kind that rose to the surface and festered visibly, like a boil; it permeated the muscle and bone, hiding deep within each cell, eating it to death from within.

  She draped her arms over him and rested her head on his chest.

  “Oh, lover,” she whispered. “What are we going to do….”

  There would be no surgical repair, only an amputation, now that an infection had taken hold. There was nothing she could do until the morning light came, so with her heart leaden, Janie went back to her own cot. The sheets were like ice, and she shivered under the quilt. And after a long while, she drifted into an uneasy slumber.

  In the last cold moments before dawn, she awoke to find Alex touching her arm.

  “Mom—you have to wake up.”

  She rose up on one elbow. “What is it?”

  “It’s Dad—he’s really hot,” he said quietly.

  Without a word, Janie threw off her covers. Before going to Tom’s bedside, she drew Alex into her arms and held him close for a few moments. “Go get Kristina,” she said. “We need to be together as a family.”

  “Is he going to die?”

  The voice was so childlike; it broke her heart to understand that his childhood would be way too short. “No,” she said. “But we need to make a decision about his leg.”