by Ann Benson
They tied the horse to a tree that they knew would be visible from the window and went inside with their few belongings. When they had settled into the chosen room, Kate began to look about, displaying to Alejandro’s delight the grown-woman version of the curiosity that had defined her childhood. With a grin, he offered his daughter the support of his arm. “My lady…shall we?”
She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. “Indeed, sir.”
As he led his daughter through the rooms, Alejandro knew that the shock and struggle of their escape could not have worn off her any more than it had himself, but there was a calm in having each other’s presence that put off all fears, however temporarily. Glancing up into the heights of the main hall, Alejandro said, “What ghosts are watching? Surely there must be some.”
“Let us hope they keep to themselves tonight.”
They followed a stone staircase to the upstairs. One of the rooms appeared to have been used by ladies for sewing and embroidery. There was a handsome wood frame on which a cloth might be stretched for decoration, left in disconsolate solitude. Yet another room had many shelves. Alejandro ran one finger through the dust, leaving a line in its path. “This room might have been a library. How forlorn…” he said, his voice echoing in the room’s emptiness. “Not one volume remains.”
They worked their way back to the other side of the landing and came upon another series of rooms that had likely been bedchambers. Just as they were leaving the last one, Kate hesitated; she knelt down and put her hand under one of the beds, left sadly naked of straw or feather mattress. She pulled out a single small shoe, its laces untied. It looked to have been worn by a child of perhaps six or seven years of age. She stood slowly and turned to Alejandro.
He saw tears threatening in her eyes and wondered that it had taken so long for them to come to the surface.
They found straw enough in one of the stables to mattress two of the beds, though the padding was thinner than either of them would have liked. Kate arranged the straw for herself and her father, saying, “It will not be a featherbed…. I’m afraid I’ve grown lazy, Père. Even the most rebellious royal child is accorded a certain level of comfort.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. “But the freedom I feel in this moment erases all cravings for that comfort.”
She pulled off her boots before slipping under the thin blanket but set them down next to the bed, so if the baying of hounds should awaken them, she could recover her garments quickly for their escape. Then she turned on one side and gazed at Alejandro. “Now, while we are safely at rest, tell me more of my son.”
After a deep breath, Alejandro began. “There is so much to tell. He favors you strongly, though often I think he looks very much like his father, as I remember him to look. He is tall for his age—at least he appears to be so among the Jews of Avignon—and strong, in his own small way! His hair is the same gold as yours, and his eyes are blue.” He smiled when he said, “He calls me Grand-père.”
That seemed to please her; she smiled as well. “Is he quick-witted?”
“Remarkably so! He is reading Latin already and has acquired a bit of Greek, and he loves to stay by my side as I do my work. Often he mimics what I do, and it touches my heart. His hands are clever—he is very fond of whittling in wood. He seems almost to have a magic touch with the knife, as if it is just an extension of his own hand. He makes the most remarkable little things.”
He continued to speak of the wonders of Kate’s son, until finally she said, “God bless you, Père, for taking such good care of him. It seems a dream to me that I will see him again!” She closed her eyes and said quietly, “I have never felt such fatigue as I do now. I long so for the time when I can go to sleep without fear and awake to see my son smiling at me.”
“Those days will come, sooner than you think.” He reached over and tucked a stray wisp of her hair behind her ear. “Sleep now, daughter, and I will watch.”
“Just as before, when I was a child.”
“Always in my heart, you will be my child. Now, go to sleep.”
“You must promise to wake me when you grow tired of the watch, Père. I will take my turn.”
Alejandro nodded, though it was fully his intent to lie on the opposite bed and stare at his beloved Kate for the rest of the night, so no one could take her away from him, ever again.
When Kate awoke, the dawn was just about to break. Alejandro was standing at the small window, looking out into the gardens behind. He was already fully dressed in the same common clothing he’d worn on his ride from Paris; his dark hair was tied into a tail at his neck. When he heard his daughter stirring, he bade her good morning. “These gardens—they must have been lovely,” he observed quietly.
Kate rose up on her elbows. “We should depart immediately.”
She smoothed the wrinkles out of the clothing she’d worn to bed, then put on her boots. Once again, she tucked her wondrous hair into a cap to hide it.
The gesture reminded him of Philomène. He grabbed the small satchel that contained his few belongings, and they headed toward the door that led out into the garden. As always, the horse seemed glad to see him; the animal had chewed down all the grass within his reach. Alejandro mounted with one strong step, then pulled Kate up behind him. They set out into the forest, just as the sun was making its first peek through the trees.
Sir John Chandos chose ten of his best fellows, all of whom he knew to be loyal and brave, to accompany him on the hunt for the Jew physician and the young woman. The rugged group assembled in the lower keep near the gate, all fully armed and ready to depart. The master of the hounds struggled to keep hold of the leathers against which his fine animals strained; they danced about with their tails wagging and dewlaps frothing. As the group saw to the last details of armor and weapons, a young woman came running through the cobbled yard, holding a bundle out in front of her as she ran. She came up to Sir John and dipped low in respect, still panting, and handed him the bundle.
“Her bedsheet, m’lord.”
He brought the sheet to his nose and sniffed; the scent of Kate was detectable even to him. “Very good. Thank you.”
The girl curtsied again, then ran off quickly. When she was well away, Sir John called out to his men. “Gather ’round,” he said. The entire lot of them formed a circle near the old warrior, who surveyed them with a certain pride, despite his distaste for their mission.
“We are given an honorable quest by our king,” he said. “We will ride out immediately and bring back his daughter. She has been stolen away from him again by the same Jew who took her from Canterbury so many years ago, when she was but a child. Now her sister, our princess Isabella, mourns the loss of her kin and is nearly inconsolable.” He heard the sound of hooves and stopped speaking to look in that direction. He saw de Coucy approaching, with Benoit trailing close behind.
“Look, it is the bridegrooms.” His voice, through the entire recitation, was flat and completely void of enthusiasm.
There fell a pronounced silence among the men; Chandos understood why, without having to be told. Each one of them knew of the young woman in question, and all had admired her from afar. It was no secret that had she gone to the altar, it would have been against her will. She was a lush, ripe beauty who could command a man of the highest caliber, had her life not taken so many savage twists and turns. The dark and beastly Benoit had made an ass of himself time and again during the armsplay; no one looked forward to his continued presence during the jousting season, which was not far off. His humiliation at the masque had brought upset to no one but himself and de Coucy.
Chandos hated the task the king had set before him, but he knew only too well that if another knight led the hunt, the treatment the fugitives would receive when captured might well be far less generous than what he himself would afford them.
De Coucy brought his horse to a halt next to Chandos. He looked at the troops, inspecting their readiness. They were perfectly uniformed and armed almost to ex
cess. “Well,” he said to Chandos, “you have assembled a handsome lot. One hopes their skills in hunting are equally attractive.”
“Only time will tell,” Chandos said. He turned to his troops. “Assemble!”
The men lined up in proper order.
“Our quarry are bound for France,” Chandos said as he drew on his gloves. “They will head east or south, with the notion of finding passage.”
The standard of King Edward waved in a light wind as they thundered over the planks with the hounds baying hungrily in the lead. Once outside the gates, the hounds lowered their heads to the ground, shifting left and right in unpredictable jerks as they followed the scent from the bed linens.
“Follow,” Sir John shouted to his troops. “We must bring back the king’s daughter.”
And her Jew captor. The words bore a sinister innuendo, and therein lay part of the shame. Chandos knew Alejandro to be a man of honor and spirit, who treasured truth beyond almost anything else in this world. But in the end, none of that would matter, for he had sworn to serve his liege until the day when his services were no longer required.
May it please God, he prayed silently, that such a day will never come.
“Sir John,” he heard. It was the master of the hounds who spoke. “The trail leads north.”
“Not east?”
“No, sir. North.”
She was baiting them, the knight realized, tempting them into a direction that seemed illogical. He had played chess with her many times; she was a brilliant player, and now they were engaged in a match of the finest sort. Regardless of the outcome, he thought to himself, it would be a hunt worthy of remembrance.
It went against all his inclinations, but he said, “North, then. And God help us if we are wrong.”
When the sun was directly overhead, Alejandro and Kate stopped by a brook to rest and eat. Alejandro tied the horse to a tree and rubbed him down with a chamois as Kate went into a nearby field in search of greens and roots. She returned with the tail of her shirt full to the brim with things edible—all of them green, all of them in need of washing. She bent to the stream and put them in the water and rubbed her treasures clean.
“Lamb’s-quarters,” she said to Alejandro. “’Tis too bad we have no means to cook them.”
“Then we shall eat them raw and ignore our bellies when they complain later.”
They ate in the still of the woods, with thin streams of sunlight touching the ground all around them. Kate sat with her back against a tree and watched as her beloved Père fell into a light slumber. She rose up and walked quietly away, but stayed in sight of him. She searched among the branches of the trees until she found a suitable one, then cut it away with her knife and went back to where Alejandro was sleeping.
As she removed the bark from the branch with her knife, he twitched now and then; What dreams visit your mind in this brief rest? she wondered silently. Do you dream of a woman? She resolved to ask him when the moment seemed right. Her own dreams were often of Guillaume Karle, of his tender touch on her skin. Her husband had not been a laborer but a man of numbers, whose knowledge of his overlord’s duplicity led to the revolt that cost him his life—while Kate was ripe with their only son. He would come to her in the deepest parts of her sleep and smother her with his kisses—such sweet, warm kisses as could not be described. Guillaume had been a common man with many uncommon qualities and a vision that served his fellows well beyond their own understanding. For as the Great Mortality had changed the life of each human being who had witnessed it, so had it also changed the course of history; serfs who would never have dared to rise up against their masters now understood their value, and the power that came with it. Without their labor, there could be no agriculture, no commerce, no trade or travel. They could, for the first time, command a wage on which they might prosper. Guillaume Karle, a man of numbers, had understood this and had gathered them into a fighting force. He led them—with undeniable bravery—in their first failed steps toward freedom. How long, Kate wondered, would it be before the common folk of France and Bretagne rose up against their rulers again and set a course toward independence?
Centuries, she told herself. It was a sad realization.
She felt her own chin nodding onto her chest. She forced herself to remain awake; the sun was just beginning its downward arc.
“Père,” she said as she gently touched his shoulder.
Alejandro came awake with a start.
“It is time to be off again,” she said.
He rose without a word and shook off his sleep.
“I was dreaming,” he said.
“We must go,” she said. “They will surely have the hounds after us by now.”
“What is that?” Alejandro said, pointing to the denuded branch.
“The start of a bow,” she said. “We have need of weapons beyond our knives. Arrows are easily made. Now we must keep our eyes open for something suitable.”
He nodded. “To the north,” he said.
“North,” Kate concurred. They mounted the horse and rode out of the woods, with the sun now to their left.
“They have stepped in and out of the stream,” the houndsman reported to Chandos. “Are you sure this man she travels with is a Jew?”
“Yes, and he is very clever and cunning, like all his race. But it is just as likely she who would think to do that,” Chandos said. “You must behave as if you were tracking two men. In this way, we may stand a chance of catching up with them.”
He saw the doubt in the eyes of his men. “She is, after all, the daughter of our king. As his offspring, she possesses many of his attributes. Our king is an intelligent man, is he not?”
There was an immediate chorus of agreement.
“He possesses many skills in war, would you not agree?”
There were enthusiastic ayes all around.
“Then so is his daughter skilled, certainly far more so than her sister, perhaps even in a league with her brothers.” He cast a glance at de Coucy and Benoit, neither of whom made comment.
Surely, Chandos thought as he regarded the pathetic little count, the lands in Bretagne cannot be so important that King Edward would give his own daughter to him….
Murmurs of doubt could be heard among the troops, for the Black Prince was a genius at combat; Chandos’s assertion that Kate was alike in that regard bordered on blasphemy.
“Oh, come now, my fellows—many a good Englishwoman has taken up the sword and made a splendid job of it.” He glanced from man to man. “Many of you may recall the Countess of Salisbury, who held off a siege of her husband’s lands for more than a fortnight while he fought in France. And some of you, if my memory serves me, were there to see it.”
One and all went silent with shame. Chandos did not need to remind them that the brave and beautiful countess had successfully held off the attacking forces of the man who would take over her husband’s land and wealth—King Edward himself—until her food and water were finally exhausted.
Quiet ayes went through the lot of them. Chandos gave the signal to proceed. “North,” he murmured to himself. “Though God knows why.”
Twenty-four
Kristina tucked a wisp of hair behind one ear and cleared her throat nervously. “Double delta is a genetic mutation,” she said. “A very specific one.”
“That does what?” Steve asked.
“A lot,” she said. “I’ll explain as well as I can. There are some details I don’t know. But there’s a story behind it. There’s a town called Eyam in northern England. You know about the Black Death in the Middle Ages—well, plague showed up there too, around the same time as all the other outbreaks, theoretically from fleas in a bolt of fabric from London.”
Janie sat up straight on hearing this, and thought to herself, Fabric from London is a perilous substance.
“It could just as easily have come from a different source. But the historical records say that a shipment of fabric bolts arrived just before the outbreak
began. Well, they’d managed to keep plague out before then and they felt very blessed, so in return for what they called ‘God’s good grace,’ the people of Eyam did something incredibly right and moral—they quarantined themselves so plague wouldn’t go beyond their own town. They didn’t really understand the mechanism of it, but they knew that it spread geographically. They all agreed that no one should go in or out of Eyam until the plague was over. When someone took ill within the town, that person and all his or her family were put into complete isolation, in a jail or something. I don’t know where they specifically put them—it was a really small town and I can’t imagine that they had a jail that big. Maybe they used a church or some other public building.”
“Dear God,” Steve whispered. “I wonder how many people who might otherwise have lived ended up dying of plague because they were shut in with people who had it.”
“A lot, for sure,” Kristina said. “But that’s where it gets interesting. You’d think that pretty much everyone would contract plague under those circumstances. There are hundreds of recorded cases where everyone was infected in a closed system—monasteries and abbeys, the colleges…”
Janie tuned out momentarily; she recalled a passage from Alejandro’s journal about a monastery he’d come upon in his first journey to England. Only one priest among dozens remained alive, and when Alejandro found him—insane and babbling—the man had just buried the last of his brothers. But he was alive.
She recalled as well a passage about a place called Eyam, and when she heard Kristina say the name of the town again, it brought her back.
“There were a significant number of people in town who didn’t ever get plague.”
Janie felt Kristina’s eyes linger on her for the briefest moment before she continued speaking. “And considering how it’s transmitted—which they of course didn’t understand at the time—that was pretty amazing. And then there were a lot of people who got plague and lived through it, a much higher percentage than what it seemed to have been in most other places. They recorded everything, so it would seem strange that they wouldn’t have recorded something as significant as a cure. There was one woman who was so delirious with thirst that she thought a jar of bacon grease was water, and she drank it. She lived, so a whole bunch of other people tried it too, thinking it was a cure, had there been one. They thought a lot of strange things were cures—bats’ eyes, ground-up bones, all sorts of icky stuff. The one thing that actually might have worked—the ‘dust of the dead,’ with the power to prompt an immune response—was never mentioned. Some of the people who drank the bacon grease did live, but that wasn’t what kept them alive. It was something else.”
