The Physician's Tale

by Ann Benson

  She realized, as she watched him run out of the room, that on this day her son’s medical education would advance at warp speed. She sat down in a chair next to Tom’s bed and just stared at him while she waited for Alex to come back with Kristina.

  It’s only a leg, she told herself. We can make him a prosthesis.

  But even the best prosthesis did not allow for the exquisite variations in balance and spring that were part of the miracle of an intact, functioning limb. And what about his pain—would he spend the rest of his life in a stupor just so he could bear to be alive?

  No! Of course not. And it’s not his mind, she told herself. He’ll still be the same Tom I married. I’ll still love him just as much as before.

  But will I?

  Too many thoughts coursed through her brain.

  Do I love him enough to overcome this trial?

  Is my love for him too centered on what he does for me—providing, protecting, cherishing, all those manly things that make me understand how fine it is that there are two sexes…

  The possibility that her heart would fail to do the right thing—to adore her husband as before even though he would not be whole—so terrified her that Janie could not continue to think about it. When Alex came through the door with a still-sleepy Kristina in tow, she was immensely relieved that she could turn her thoughts to something less frightening—telling these two children that she was going to cut off a piece of their father.

  As she had done before, Janie set up the lab as the surgical suite. No one wore gloves; there simply weren’t any that Janie felt she could trust to be clean enough. Boiling the ones she still had would certainly degrade them to the point where they would be useless anyway, so it was bare fingers for everyone.

  She called upon Caroline, as she had done during previous surgeries, to monitor Tom’s vital signs. To Kristina she assigned the task of hovering over the instruments, to pass what was needed when Janie asked. For Alex, she found a small step stool, and now he stood by his mother’s side, doing whatever she told him to do. When prompted—to her amazement—he pinched a vein while Janie cauterized it. He suctioned off blood with a basting syringe and squeezed it into a bucket. From time to time she would hand him small pieces of his father’s flesh, which he would reverently place in a tray—for later burial—with no visible signs of revulsion.

  Once, between slices, Janie took a moment to rest her hands so they would not cramp up during the two or more hours it would take to complete the procedure. She looked around the lab; with its bucket of blood and tray of flesh and ungloved attendants, it looked for all the world like a medieval surgery. And when it was all over—a resounding success by their minimized standards—Janie oversaw the scrubbing of hands. My kingdom for something antibacterial, she thought as she directed the three other members of her “surgical team” to get into every crevice and crack of their hands, to scrape under each fingernail, to wash and rinse and wash and rinse, and then to do it all over again. Now, when everyone had gone off to recover, Janie sat on the edge of the bed she normally shared with Tom and let her gaze drift along the wood grain of the floor until it met up with the bureau. There, tucked underneath, she saw a pair of his boots. She got up silently and took one away to the closet, where she stowed it behind a box of summer clothing.

  No one seemed to have any notion of what to do, beyond wandering through the compound in search of something to banish the deep and terrible worry that marked the first few days after the amputation. Kristina was the only one who seemed to have a sense of purpose—she had thrown herself immediately into the task of conjuring up a batch of corticosteroids, which might, she believed, have saved Tom’s leg, if they’d been administered quickly.

  It broke Janie’s heart when Kristina berated herself for not having done the work sooner. She said anything she could think of to help ease the girl’s burden of pain and remorse.

  He would have needed them within minutes of the injury to keep the inflammation down. Please, don’t torture yourself like this! We were all so used to working miracles with our medicine in the time before; now the miracles are much fewer and farther between.

  “I’m a goddamned miracle,” she’d cried. “So is Alex!”

  “A different kind,” Janie said.

  She would be in the lab now, Janie knew. It was her asylum.

  Tears dripped off the end of Kristina’s nose and into the petri dish she’d set out on the lab counter. She sniffed and wiped her nose on a handkerchief, then put the dish in the sink for washing. She brought out another one and set it in place. As she was removing the cover, she heard a soft knock on the door.

  Evan Dunbar stood at the edge of the threshold with a tray in his hands.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said. “I thought you might like some lunch.”

  Kristina brushed tears off her cheek. “I’m not really hungry. But you’re not disturbing me. Come in, if you want.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  He brought in the tray and set it down. “If you’re not going to eat it, would you mind…”

  “No, please go ahead. I—I’m just not very hungry.”

  Evan sat on one of the stools and began eating the soup and bread he’d brought for Kristina. “It’s good,” he said. “Sure you don’t want some?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “What are you doing?”

  She wiped her hands on her apron in frustration. “Trying to make some steroids. They reduce inflammation.”

  “My friend Jeff had to take them for a while,” he said, “after Will Durand hurt him.” And then, as if it might console her, Evan added, “He said they were pretty awful.”

  “But they might have helped my father’s leg.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Kristina turned away, saying nothing.

  Evan remained respectfully silent for a moment. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “It was supposed to be me, you know. Durand thought he had me. Jeff looked a little like me, and we were always together.”

  Kristina thought for a moment, as if she were trying to recall something. Then the light of remembrance of what he’d told her about Jeff came into her eyes. “What a terrible thing to have to live with,” she said quietly.

  Evan set down the soup bowl. “Every day I think about it. Some days more than others. But it’s always there, that awful thought: It was supposed to be me.” He hung his head. “I’m so glad that it wasn’t and I’m ashamed to feel that way, in the same moment.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Evan. I mean, really, from what I read, he was a complete monster….”

  “I know. But I felt guilty as hell. I still do.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “And I’m sorry about what’s happened to your father. An eagle, for God’s sake. And your brother saw the whole thing. He’s so little to see something like that, and then going through the woods in the dark…”

  “Yeah. But I think he’s doing okay. He gets a lot of strength from his—from Janie.”

  “My mother was really helpful after Jeff got taken. I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t been for her.”

  Kristina didn’t say anything immediately. After a deep breath, she looked at Evan and said, “Janie’s not really his mother.”

  Evan, too, hesitated before speaking. “Is he adopted?”

  “Sort of.” She looked directly into his eyes. “So am I. In kind of the same way,” she said. “And I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you about it. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me that you won’t stop liking me because of what I tell you.”

  “Why would I stop liking you because you’re adopted?”

  “Just promise.”

  “Okay. I promise,” he said. He moved closer and took hold of one of her hands. “I like you a lot, Kristina. It’s going to take something really terrible to make that stop.”

  “I like you too, Evan.”
She squeezed his hand and said, “But just remember, you promised.”

  Twenty-one

  Nurse had been called away to attend to Isabella, so Kate was alone in her bedchamber when Benoit opened the outer door. Her thoughts were dominated by the last-minute details of her planned escape, so she did not hear him as he crept in stealth across the carpet of her salon.

  He stood in the doorway and watched as she set down the white robe that she would wear to greet her freedom; she turned in surprise on hearing his laugh.

  He stared at her as she stood there in her undergarments. Her traveling breeches—which would surely have aroused suspicion—still lay on the bed. She quickly grabbed up the white abbess robe and held it in front of her.

  “No,” Benoit said, “lay it down again. I rather enjoy the sight of you sparsely clad.” He strode forward and touched her hair, pushing one errant strand behind her ear. “I look forward to seeing you in this condition every day when we are married. Perhaps more than once a day.”

  Though all of her instincts told her to lash out at him, she forced herself to remain calm.

  “I am a man of appetites, as you will soon learn. And I do not speak of food.”

  She glanced downward, saying nothing, with the robe still clutched before her.

  “I think it quite appropriate,” he whispered into her ear, “that I should have a small taste now.” He took the white robe from her hands and tossed it on the bed, blessedly covering the breeches. He pulled her close; she could smell his foul breath and turned her head away. He grabbed her chin and forced her to face him again. She closed her eyes and remained rigidly still, trying not to breathe as his stench filled the air around her.

  “After all, we are to be married soon enough,” he cooed. He took hold of the bow that tied the lacings on her bodice and undid it with one rough tug.

  The urge to kill him swelled up inside her. A silent scream went through her as he pulled down the shoulder of her camisole. The dagger was only inches away, under the breeches.

  She envisioned the motions—grab the knife, lunge at him, rip it across his throat. It would be over in a matter of seconds.

  But she would be covered in his blood, and it would not be long before he was missed. Had he told anyone of his intention to visit her? If so, her chambers would be the first place de Coucy would look for his cousin.

  He had freed one of her breasts, and in the chill air, the nipple stood erect.

  “Ah,” he said as he brought his mouth to it. “Your acceptance pleases me.”

  Tears streaked down her cheeks as Benoit put his putrid self upon her. She prayed to God that it would be quick and that no child would result, for should that come to pass, she would rip it from her womb with her own hands.

  My Dear One,

  Today is the last day of April. By now, if all has gone well, you are nearing Windsor Castle and will soon be reunited with your daughter. My heart soars to think of the joy you will know when this happy event takes place.

  Can it be only weeks that we have known each other? I feel in my heart as though you have been with me far longer. Perhaps you have always been hovering somewhere nearby, waiting for God and fate to cast us together so you might show me the way to happiness. Every day I pray that there will come a time of safety, when you and I can share our lives without fear of losing them. The child that grows inside my belly will be born of love and will bind us together with an unbreakable bond.

  And now to a more mundane subject, though it hardly seems so when I am at it: The work proceeds. This morning de Chauliac and I refined his chapter on dyspepsia, while the subject was fresh in his memory from his own bout. He insists on doing this work, though he is still abed and rests too little, but this is what one has come to expect from him. He speaks of you often, always with praise, and I think sometimes that he is as eager for me to know you as I am myself. “Philomène,” he says, “Jew or not, there is no man more worthy than he in all of Europa.” One thing is sure: His admiration for you will never expire.

  Nor will mine. I have said nothing to him yet of my condition, but I know in my heart that de Chauliac will be filled with joy when he learns of the happy event that will come to pass.

  The last time Alejandro had crossed through the forbidding gate, it was to go in the opposite direction, out into England, in the freedom and prosperity he’d secured through his long winter of service. He rode proudly under an arch of swords en route to a new life, his own estate, the hope of marriage, family, happiness—best of all, there would be endless opportunities for study and learning. Those dreams had evaporated, disappearing like a cloud of mist on the whim of an angry princess. On this eve of May, she would be principal among the revelers, when her engagement to the man who had shattered his daughter’s dreams would be made known to the world. How delicious it would feel to plunge a knife deep into the chest of each one! Such a thing, he knew, could never come to pass without resulting in his own death, perhaps by a method so horrible that he dared not even consider it. The king would surely unburden his executioners from any and all restraints and send him to his Creator in pieces.

  And so he would have to satisfy himself with the joy of simply imagining such an act. But tonight he would have the sweetest revenge—he would slip in beneath their notice and escape into the night with one of their prizes.

  The massive stone lintel loomed overhead as he passed under the raised portcullis. He saw before him the central keep, its tower festooned with standards. Torches were lit throughout the courtyard, though it was not yet full dark. Celebrants poured through the gate in a dazzling assortment of costumes; he found himself engulfed in a sea of fairies and butterflies, bears and beasts, giants and jesters. As more arrived, the crowd began to close in on him; he pushed his way to one side and leaned against a wall for a moment, his heart pounding, to catch his breath.

  He watched for a short time as England’s finest citizens presented their invitations and were ushered into the main hall of the central keep. Dear Chaucer, he said in his own mind, God grant that you were able to hide that precious paper already! Keeping close to the wall, he made his way into the courtyard around the lower keep, where he saw the familiar structure, then a small chapel in which he’d quarantined the soldier Matthews and Isabella’s poor tailor.

  He stopped before the chapel and stood very still while he let the memories of what happened there have their way with him. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the body of the tailor slumped over a stack of Isabella’s drawings, and the terror in Matthews’s eyes to be enclosed with a plagued cellmate. He let his gaze drift to the spot where the young soldier’s arrow-ridden body had fallen. He closed his eyes to banish the sight, but he could not shut his ears to the hard rush of air as each missile spun toward its mark, the thud of each piercing, the crackling of the pyre twigs as Matthews fell upon them. The smell of the man’s flesh burning away from the bones would linger in his memory for all eternity. The shame and waste of a good and brave man would forever burden his soul.

  “Sir.”

  He quickly positioned his mask, then turned and saw a soldier, perhaps of an age with what Matthews had been at the time, standing not ten paces behind him. There was a haunting and uncanny resemblance between the two—as Matthews had been, this soldier was tall and strong-looking, with a ruddy complexion, a man full of the juice of youth.

  The soldier moved a few paces closer. “You have lost your way, sir.” He pointed in the direction of the central keep. “The celebration will take place yonder.”

  Alejandro had not been aware of the man’s approach; the memories of his horror in Windsor had overtaken his senses and left him vulnerable. “No,” he said quickly. “I meant to be here.” His eyes went to the alms box. He saw the slightest hint of ivory-colored parchment peeking out from behind it. “I just wished to make a charity here in honor of the princess’s engagement.”

  “Ah. Indeed,” the soldier said. “You may do so, then. You will have the thanks of the king,
I am sure. And then please go yonder to the great hall.” He pointed again toward the central keep.

  Alejandro nodded, then turned back to the box. As he dropped in a coin, a pleasing thought entered his mind: This is payment for what I take from you. This time, it cannot be called a theft.

  He left the chapel with the precious invitation and rejoined the entering crowd. Soon he found himself being driven toward the main hall as if on the command of some greater will. He let the throng carry him, though the closeness made him more anxious with each minute that passed. When he reached the door, he presented his invitation in turn and hoped that the sentry could not hear his heart pounding right through his cloak. The sentry gave it the most cursory glance, then waved him through.

  Music, layered with laughter, echoed in the cavernous hall. Candles and torches blazed everywhere, making the bright colors of the costumes seem even more vivid. Memories overwhelmed him as he moved about the room in a dream, hearing his own heartbeat.

  Somewhere in this crowd would be his daughter.

  He felt her presence as surely as if she were standing right next to him. Through the slits in his hood, he peered at person after person, judging each one’s height and carriage, passing over those who were clearly not Kate, lingering on those with possibilities. Panic crept into his heart; there were so many people, and there was so little time to find the one his heart craved.

  At the front of the room he saw a raised dais. Several ornate chairs were lined up in a row along its length. Off to one side, there was a long table; servants scurried around it, arranging plates and items of service. He glanced up at the ceiling and saw the huge hanging candelabra, and he began to feel very small, as if he could not possibly accomplish his task under the scrutiny of all this grandeur. He began to feel as if Windsor would swallow him once again as it had nearly done before….

  He felt something brush against him and froze where he stood. Please, dear God in heaven, let this not be a soldier or a guard or, worse, someone who would recognize my face were I to be unmasked. He turned with as much grace as he could muster and saw before him, a mere arm’s length away, a person—he assumed a woman—dressed in the garb of an abbess.