When Alejandro opened his eyes again in the morning, he saw Abraham’s manuscript lying on a table near the window, and at its side, ink and quill. To add to his surprise, there was a tray of inviting morning refreshments—a beautiful red apple, a slab of cheese, a loaf of crusty golden bread. Next to the porcelain basin were a pitcher of water and a clean white cloth.
Did I sleep so soundly that I was unaware of someone’s entry? It disturbed him to think that he had. And he realized with considerable chagrin that the treatment he was receiving as de Chauliac’s prisoner was equal in quality to the attention he had been given as King Edward’s guest at Windsor Castle. He means to have me grow used to it, Alejandro thought. He wants me complacent.
An easy task, he thought unhappily. I have become so resigned to the harsh uncertainty of living on the run that the simplest kindness undoes me entirely. His life had been harsh, sometimes almost unbearably harsh. But through it all, he had raised a child, against all the rules of nature, who would have him see to his own self-preservation before that of another man’s offspring. That he still had all his own teeth was a wonder to him, for a man with less will might be dipping his crusty bread in water before downing it and eyeing that wonderful apple with little more than wistful memories of the pleasure of chewing it. He was still strong and prepared to do what was necessary to survive. And though he was not the man he had once been, the strength lost had departed from his soul, not his body.
But who can blame me for allowing myself a moment of enjoyment? It was bad enough to spend so much of the night in unconscious, futile pursuit of reunion with the ones he loved, or running from the closing reach of some long-dead giant with vindictive intent, but then to open one’s eyes on the cold dirt of a hovel floor as he had done morning after cold morning—he could only believe that it was the stinging joke of the Christian God, who must have been staring down from heaven and laughing at the predicament of this wretched wandering Jew, pulling on the strings of fate, taking divine pleasure when he jumped and jerked like a puppet. To awaken in a clean bed, without mice scampering so close to his ear that he could hear the rustling of the straw and feel the tiny wind of their passage, their highways only a finger’s breadth from his very flesh—what luxury! He sat up on his elbow and looked around at his comfortable surroundings. If I am to be a prisoner, let it be under conditions such as these!
He cleaned himself, then filled his belly, chewing gratefully with intact teeth, and turned his attention to the manuscript. The papyrus began to fill with his beautifully rendered writings. Abraham’s words crossed the ages with miraculously fresh wisdom. When done with patience and careful thought, which he applied to it now, the deciphering went smoothly, and soon he found himself nearly smiling at his own cleverness.
Then he stumbled upon a passage that defied sense.
Take care of your bones, it read, not to let them break. There are those among you who lack—but what was this word? Enshrouded as it was in archaic symbols, he could not make its meaning out. Bones of back, was the literal meaning. In the context of the passage, it could only mean spine. Why such a detailed and specific admonition, when no other issues of personal health were addressed so minutely? And what had de Chauliac said that now tickled his brain when he read these words?
He left a space to accommodate the word when he would finally glean its meaning. Which I will, he assured himself. He was just tackling the first few words of the next passage when he heard a knock on the door.
There was no handle on the inside—de Chauliac had had it removed by the same clumsy carpenter who had filled the open window with bars, so the knock was a mere courtesy. His ever-present guards controlled all passage and after a few seconds one of them entered, his gaze downcast.
It made Alejandro angry, the way they refused to meet his eyes with their own. Why do they never look at me straight on, any of them? Am I simply an object to be escorted here and there, at the will of their master? It was discretion, perhaps, that led them to do it … surely in a household of such elegance, even the guards would be expected to behave in a discreet manner.
And then a stabbing realization hit him: They fear me. But not because I can harm them.
The guard offered up an armful of clothing, but still kept his eyes directed elsewhere. “For tonight’s entertainment,” he mumbled.
Alejandro stood motionless, silently challenging the man to look at his face. He wondered bitterly, What do they think they will find—some exotic beast, with vile and unthinkable habits? His resentment grew with every passing second. Do you fear that you will enter and find me with my manhood stiff in my hand, a look of ungodly pleasure on my face? Or shall I bare my teeth and show you the fangs your priests say all Jews have, dripping with the blood of Christian infants? He reached out and yanked the clothing away, and the guard quickly left.
He inspected the offerings in a cloud of discontent. De Chauliac had presented him a handsome suit of apparel, and an insulting notion entered his mind: One’s toys must always be displayed in the best possible state. There was a fine blue linen tunic, and a pair of elegant black breeches of a length to reach just below the knee. He held them up to himself; they looked to be a perfect fit. He wondered briefly if de Chauliac had sent a tailor in to measure him as he slept in the night.
But never mind, he thought with a smile, for when I escape, I will be most admirably attired.
Charles of Navarre accepted the proffered letter from Baron de Coucy’s page and then dismissed him with a quick wave of his hand. The red seal was one that he now recognized at a glance, for he had seen it on countless correspondences of late. Another communication from my “ally” in Paris. To think of the horses they had worn down with their daily letters! It was a sinful waste, but necessary.
He read Marcel’s words with eager interest.
Guillaume Karle arrived here last night, as you predicted he would. I find him to be an especially intelligent man, if slightly overzealous, but this passion is well directed toward insurrection and can serve us well. To my surprise he is accompanied by a young maid, who I suspect is a great comfort to him by the fine look of her, and what man could be blamed for treating himself to the attentions of a woman in times such as these? We must have our pleasures, after all. I am happy to report that he does not allow her to distract him from the cause of rebellion, his devotion to which seems unequaled among his fellows. It is my carefully considered opinion that with the proper persuasion, he could be quite successful in gathering an army of peasants to assist in our cause.
But I regret to tell you, although I suspect you will not find this declaration surprising, that he detests you with as much passion as he loves the notion of freedom. And if what he has told me of your escapades in the countryside is true, then I cannot honestly say that I find fault in him for feeling as he does. Perhaps, dear sir, it is time for you to reconsider the ferocity of your raids on the peasantry. Make trouble, certainly, for this is only to be expected. But do not slay them with such obvious enthusiasm. You must convince those nobles who support you to amend their behavior likewise.
And I beseech you to reconsider your pursuit of Karle himself, for it will not do us any good to have him dead or in chains. It will benefit us greatly, at least for the moment, to bring him to our side against those who would deny you your claim. If you are fighting both him and the supporters of the king, your forces will be unnecessarily divided.
Of course such a respite must be reconsidered from time to time, and if after you have claimed your rightful place you find him too much of a threat, you should do what is needed to ensure your position.
There were other bits of news, but none of it nearly as important. “I am pleased,” he told the Baron de Coucy later, “with the doings of Marcel.”
But he does not do these things out of any loyalty to me, Navarre thought. He does them because he thinks that when all is said and done, he will still rule Paris.
Such arrogance from a man of his bourgeois birth was not to be permitted. When I am king of all France, perhaps I will let him keep it. If it pleases me.
The light of the sun had never seemed more benevolent, nor any pallet of straw so much a comfort.
Kate turned her head toward Guillaume Karle, who still slept. She traced the outline of his jaw with her finger, and on feeling her delicate touch he opened his eyes. The corners of his mouth curled in a little smile, and he pulled her close to him.
Contentment flooded through her, and she thought, Could there be more joy than that which I know right now?
“What a sweet night it was,” he whispered softly. “The sun came far too quickly for my liking.”
“And here I was, just thinking how beautiful its light is today.” She laughed softly. “It would seem we are already at odds, and over a matter we cannot hope to influence.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, “A matter that will take care of itself, regardless of our thinking on it. The sun will leave and return again, without concern for either of our wishes.” And then his smile faded. “There are other matters that will not resolve themselves so easily, I think.”
As soon as those words left his lips, Kate found herself acutely aware of the passing of time, of the tragic and inevitable death of each precious moment. The night was already gone, the day marching inexorably forward. They would emerge from their straw womb and go about the lives they had known before, their doings on this day oddly unaffected by what had passed between them in the night. There was a rebellion to be seen to, a father to be found. No night of first love would grab those two hanging swords, put there by God Himself, out of the air above them, and then fling them away.
And when Père was found, she knew that he would not fail to recognize the difference in her. She felt it herself, with terrible and confusing keenness. Could she keep such a change from showing on her face? Not with the help of the Blessed Virgin herself. He would know with one look that she was no longer entirely his daughter.
He cannot think that I will eternally be his child. He must know that it cannot be.
When Karle got up on one elbow as if to rise, Kate clutched at his arm.
Please not yet, she thought desperately. “Must you leave my side so soon?”
He lay back down again and pulled her close to him and whispered into her ear. “Were it only mine to choose, I would never leave your side. But one cannot slay dragons while languishing in the arms of the lady one wishes to protect.”
“The dragons will wait.”
“But they must still be slain.”
She pulled him closer. “They will wait.”
And now the rays of that beautiful sun were lengthening again as it made its way toward yet another rendezvous with the horizon. A heavy silence hung between Kate and Karle as they progressed once more toward Rue des Rosiers, and Kate found herself having to almost force each leg to move forward, for her steps were weighted with confusion and regret. What strange new body has my soul occupied? she wondered to herself. In one day, it has acquired a will of its own, one quite foreign to me.
But what luscious disobedience, what sweet shame! She was unusually aware of her own womanly parts as she walked, for the first time used as God had intended. As God intended! she repeated in her mind.
Why, then, was it a matter of shame?
She was filled with questions she had never thought to ask before. When a man and woman lie together, did the homunculus always pass from him to her, and plant a child? Surely not, she reasoned, or women would always be with child! But what if it did? Where did those homunculi go, if not welcomed into the female womb? Is there a special place in the hereafter for the unused contribution of a man to fatherhood? It seemed only sensible that there must be. And what should a lady do if her lover wishes to know her, but her menses are upon her?
She yearned, briefly, for a reunion with her departed mother, or even her old nurse, or the midwife Mother Sarah, any one of whom would have an answer for this question and would deliver it with a kindly wink and the glint of understanding in her eye. Père had said, in their infrequent and strained discussions of womanly matters, in his sweetly bungling attempt to be both mother and father to her, that the Jews had strict laws governing the activities between a man and a woman in their bed. “In this the Christians are more sensible,” he had reluctantly admitted. “They hold no restriction but that the man and woman must be wedded before their God.”
She keenly felt the sting of that one sacred restriction, in light of her own blatant disregard of it. And suddenly she felt unaccountably fearful. Would she burn in hell for this? Please God, no! Have I not suffered enough by Your whimsy?
Where was the fairness in it? How many women had her true father bedded, while being wed to only one of them? No one had kept an actual count, to the undeserved benefit of his reputation. He made only the most transparent attempts to hide his infidelities. And had her own mother not been Edward’s lover, albeit unwillingly, without benefit of marriage?
She was certain that her lady mother was nestled in the arms of God Himself, being consoled by angels with promises of an eternal life less tragic than her earthly one. Any other fate for one so poorly used was simply unimaginable. God makes allowances, she assured herself, despite what the priests would have us believe.
But Père had taken the Lady Throxwood to his bed; the outcome had not been good.
I shall have to pray for forgiveness, she thought.
But what delicious sin! She would pay the pardoner, without complaint, if only it could be made all right.
And as they returned again to Marcel’s house, having not found Alejandro, Kate felt strangely relieved.
De Chauliac’s servants scurried about the house in frenzied preparation for the night’s festivities. Alejandro sat at one end of the table in the Frenchman’s study, watching the madness swirl around him. Abraham’s manuscript was open before him. De Chauliac himself sat at the other end with a volume of medical lore in his hands, but his eyes could not seem to keep to the pages. They looked instead over his long nose and sternly judged the progress of the preparations. By the look on his face, the Jew guessed that his captor found the progress wanting, and wondered why de Chauliac had no mistress to see to such needs. And why was he himself required to be a witness to it? I would have you present during my studies, the French physician had explained when he’d had Alejandro brought out of his small room earlier. The need to discuss some point may arise.
Then summon one of your students, Alejandro had said. Surely they all clamor for the privilege of studying at your feet.
Indeed they do, but I much prefer the company of equals during my reading, de Chauliac had countered.
“You are fretting, Frenchman, not reading. Why then must you have my company?”
“Because I would have it. Spaniard.” He smiled caustically. “Although it seems worth little at the moment.”
Because I will not satisfy you with conversation. Except for his recent complaint, Alejandro had spoken not a word unless first addressed by his host, though he ached for a decent discussion of something, anything, that would take his mind off his present difficulties. The puzzling word he had found earlier was still undeciphered, and there was so much more in his manuscript that begged clarification, yet he would not allow himself the simple pleasure of engaging in repartee, because to do so would give the same to his captor, and he would not be party to anything so repulsive as de Chauliac’s pleasure.
As the shadows lengthened and the evening’s activities grew nearer, those who would provide the entertainment began to arrive. First came musicians and a fool, and then an exotic-looking woman with dark hair and a swarthy complexion, not unlike his own, who de Chauliac vowed would thrill him with her dancing. “She rotates her belly in a most enticing manner,” he said with a naughty, almost boyish smile. “She is glad to have employment in these lean times, so she will do her best to please her audience.”
Alejandro followed her with his eyes as she crossed the vestibule. A small grin worked its way through his reticence and he said, “And how shall the ladies take to this entertainment?”
De Chauliac laughed. “There will be none tonight. Most have been sent away until Paris is itself again.”
Alejandro thought of Kate, who must now be somewhere in Paris. He prayed silently, though it galled him to do so, that she was still with Karle. “Is it really so dangerous for women here now?” he asked.
“Only for noblewomen,” de Chauliac replied. “Those of the lower classes still come and go as they please.” He glanced out the window, judging the time. “I think perhaps it is time for you to return to your room now,” he said. “Though I do not wish to give up our inspiring discussions. You should rest for a while, and then prepare yourself.”
For what? he wondered as the guards led him away.
Perhaps an hour later, de Chauliac himself appeared to escort Alejandro downstairs again. “You look quite handsome, Physician,” he said. “But then, you cut a noble figure when I sent you off to England in all that finery. You have not lost your dash with the passing of the years. I must say, one would never suspect you are a Jew.”
As you yourself did not, he thought. But he kept his sentiment to himself, for it would only agitate his keeper, and he wanted him as placid as possible. It would not serve his purposes to have de Chauliac angry tonight.
As if he could read Alejandro’s thoughts of escape, the Frenchman said, “I will now do you the kindness of warning you. Do not try to take advantage of my occupation with my guests by attempting to run from here. There will be many guards posted tonight. You may move about the house as does any other guest, but you will be watched. Carefully. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do,” Alejandro said.
“Now, as to the matter of presenting you to the other guests, I will introduce you as Dr. Hernandez.”
Are there any Jews among you? he remembered hearing de Chauliac say years before. This elegant fiend looked little different than he had in the papal palace in Avignon, where he had addressed all the physicians of Avignon who had somehow contrived to escape the plague’s clutches. If so, step forward. He had not, declaring himself instead to be his companion, the Spaniard Hernandez, who had been stolen from him only the day before by the dreaded plague. Still numb from the bitter loss, he remembered watching the other Jews with terrible envy when they were dismissed, judged to be unfit for the work of His Holiness Pope Clement VI. He remembered wishing with all his heart and soul that he had let his foot do what it had ached to do. One step, leading to an entirely different path.
De Chauliac failed to notice his distraction, and kept on with his warnings. “I have faith that you will not embarrass me, because such folly will not come to any good. I would advise you just to enjoy the company, for you shall not know the likes of it again soon.”
“And if anyone asks of our association?”
“We shall say, quite truthfully, that you are simply a former student of mine, now a physician of some importance in your own land.” He made a sugary smile and said, “Perhaps we shall say that you have returned to Paris for a visit to your mentor. It is not entirely untrue.”
Not if one adds, under extreme protest.
“Nothing more need be said. But do not doubt that you will know great discomfort if I am shamed in any way by your actions.”
The admonishment issued, de Chauliac turned and led the way. Alejandro followed, plotting madly.
The entire house was awash with the light of torches and candles, and the air was filled with music, not the strange and haunting sounds that filled the churches of the Christian God, but lilts of a more lively and secular tempo. The entire manse smelled of the rare spices and exotic herbs de Chauliac’s cooks had used with the intention of pleasuring the palates of his guests. A pair of liveried menservants stood at the entry door, and all throughout the house Alejandro saw more, far more than would be needed to keep him prisoner. Positioned conveniently at all possible sorties, they stood motionless and grim, just as de Chauliac had promised they would. Every time he looked, he found their eyes upon him, watching, waiting with their instructions for him to do something foolish.
One by one the luminous celebrants entered the sybaritic realm de Chauliac had arranged for them, and Alejandro was presented to each one according to the scheme his host had concocted earlier. When six gentlemen were already deep in conversation, a short and portly man, far less impressively attired than the others, stepped through the door. Alejandro was surprised to see that it was to this man that de Chauliac gave the most attention.
The greeting was almost overbearingly solicitous. “Ah, Monsieur Flamel,” de Chauliac oozed, “How delighted I am that you have come! I was beginning to fear that you would not be with us this evening.”
As he handed his cloak to a servant, Nicholas Flamel said, “Je regrette, Monsieur le Docteur, my tardiness. It was unavoidable. My wife, you see, does not take kindly to being left alone.” The little man made an exaggerated, unpracticed bow, and Alejandro was reminded of his own clumsy first efforts in Edward’s court, and of how Kate, then barely seven, had subsequently taken it upon herself to teach him the fine points of courtly behavior.
She was my only friend for a time, he reminisced.
Flamel elaborated on his explanation, though Alejandro was sure, by the look on de Chauliac’s face, that the host could have done without it. “I was forced to see to her demands before she would allow me to make my exit.”
“I understand her anger at the loss of your inspiring company. We shall be certain to send you home with your arms full of sweets to make amends. One hopes that such a gesture will ameliorate her loss.”
“Only if I feed them to her morsel by morsel,” Flamel said with a chuckle.
Another unnecessary tidbit, but de Chauliac remained engaged. For some reason Alejandro could not determine, he seemed to want the strange little man’s attention. “Then permit me to encourage you to do so,” de Chauliac said with a wink. “One hopes you will find some pleasure in such activity yourself.” He took Flamel by the arm and drew him toward Alejandro. “And now I would have you meet another colleague of mine, the honorable Dr. Hernandez, a man whom I hold in nearly as much esteem as I do yourself, for he too is especially learned and wise. But how could he not be? He was once my pupil.”
“At the university?” Flamel inquired unexpectedly.
And before de Chauliac could change the dangerous and unanticipated direction of the discourse, Alejandro said, “In Avignon. During the first year of the pestilence.”
Flamel’s face lit up with curiosity. “Were you one of those sent out, then, by His Holiness Pope Clement, may he rest in peace?”
And as de Chauliac looked on in speechless horror, Alejandro smiled and said, “Aye. I was among them.”
“How very marvelous! And to which court were you sent?” Flamel asked.
He saw the color drain from de Chauliac’s face, and smiled inwardly. Your games will not always go as you wish, my friend, he thought. “I did a good deal of roving from place to place. I was, one might truthfully say, rather prone to wandering.”
At this artful answer, de Chauliac seemed to recover some of his composure. “I am most eager for you to see a manuscript that Dr. Hernandez has brought with him,” he said to Flamel, “for it contains symbols of alchemy in the language of the Jews, and is sure to fascinate you.”
Flamel’s red face nearly exploded with excitement. He foamed as he spoke. “Then the surprise you wrote of in your invitation is at last revealed!” He smiled broadly. “Truly, sir, at first I did not understand the reason for your kindness. This is more than I hoped for!” And then, for a moment, he took on a pensive look, which changed quickly into one of great excitement. “Dear God,” he said, “Monsieur de Chauliac … dare I hope … is this the manuscript of one called Abraham?”
Feigning innocence, de Chauliac looked at Alejandro and grinned. His eyebrows raised, he said, “Colleague?”
Alejandro’s heart dropped into his stomach. “It is,” he finally answered.
“Praise be to all the saints!” Flamel almost cried. “I have heard of this book and sought it for years!”
De Chauliac glowed almost victoriously. “And tonight you shall see it,” he said, “when my other guests are gone. It requires one’s complete attention. If you can contain yourself until after we have dined and seen our entertainment, we shall look upon it together.”
“You had best prepare a wagonload of sweets for my wife, then,” he said almost giddily.
“It shall be arranged,” de Chauliac said.
More gentlemen arrived, but de Chauliac did not make such a point of introductions. Still, he was in his most charming and gracious glory as the house filled with revelers and the mirth increased. Alejandro found himself unwillingly caught up in the festivities, and was almost beginning to enjoy himself when a slight young man, who might more reasonably have been called a boy, came through the door.
He was dressed in the attire of a page or a valet, and stood looking around with a piece of parchment in his hand, clearly wanting to deliver it. He seemed terribly out of place, far more so than even the groveling Flamel, and very nervous.
And then Alejandro thought his eyes were betraying him: emblazoned on the page’s mantle was the symbol of the house of Plantagenet. His senses rose to full alert when this page questioned the guards in French that was clearly influenced by another language.
English!
De Chauliac came forward and extended his open hand. “Am I to assume that this message is for me?”
“If you are, as my patron calls him, ‘The Illustrious and Magnificent Monsieur le Docteur de Chauliac,’ then it would be for you, indeed.”
De Chauliac beamed. “And from your mantle, I judge that you are sent by the illustrious and magnificent Prince Lionel, young page.”
Alejandro felt himself trembling; he looked around for someplace to hide. But where would he go? There were guards and other guests who would all observe whatever attempt he made to secret himself away. All would make note of his behavior; all would find it strange and curious.
Lionel! The younger brother of Isabella!
But then the boy spoke again. “Geoffrey Chaucer, at your service, O illustrious and magnificent physician. I am instructed to bid you the most hearty and enthusiastic good evening from that notable prince.”
The older half-brother of Kate!
“And might I inquire, young Chaucer, why your prince does not deliver this well-said greeting himself, as I have invited him to do?”
“My prince begs your indulgence, sir. He regrets that he cannot be here tonight,” the page said.
Alejandro’s horror began to drain away, but with agonizing slowness.
“And yesterday he promised his presence!” de Chauliac said, pouting with disappointment. “I am most grievously offended!”
The page went down on one knee and played out his prince’s apology in abject drama. “Have pity on him, sir! He has taken to his bed with an episode of gout. He is suffering much pain and vows not to rise again tonight.”
“Oh, dear,” de Chauliac said sternly. “You must tell me, young man, if his keepers are mistreating him.”
“Gracious no, sir,” the page said. “I daresay that the Dauphin has done himself proud in seeing to Prince Lionel’s confinement. And that of the rest of us, who are not royals, and therefore far less deserving of luxury. But we all find the arrangements to be most satisfactory.”
De Chauliac motioned for the page Chaucer to rise. He was clearly pleased with the length to which Lionel had gone in instructing the page to beg for forgiveness.
“Good,” he said. “I am greatly relieved. But then we French have refined the art of treating our captives with tenderness and affection, have we not?” And though de Chauliac did not turn his eyes away from Lionel’s page, Alejandro knew that the comment was directed at none other than himself.
Chaucer seemed only too happy to agree with him. “Indeed, sir, the French seem very … affectionate.”
De Chauliac laughed. “The Dauphin has charged me with seeing to Prince Lionel’s health and vigor while he is a guest on our soil. Apparently, I have failed, and I am sincerely sorry. Oh!” he said dramatically. “The shame of it! We cannot send the good prince back to his doting father with his vitality sapped by our profligate French ways, can we? No, no. This must be corrected.”
“If you know of some cure for gout, good physician,” the page said, “then give it over to my lord’s benefit.”
“Cure? Ah, well. There is none, I am sad to say. But one may take precautions. I shall visit your prince again quite soon and reissue the precautions I have already given him. Advice he has clearly, and I hasten to add, imprudently ignored in favor of having his pleasures as he will. You must tell him that though I love him well, he is a most aggravating patient, and you must convey my annoyance. As well, of course, as my most sincere wishes for a speedy recovery from his affliction.”
The young man nodded and said, “I shall do so, my lord, straightaway.” Then he bowed and turned toward the door.
De Chauliac reached out and took him by the arm. “But there is a place set for him at the table, and it will go empty now. With so much want in the world, God will not look kindly upon me for failing to fill it.” He regarded the page for a moment. “You seem an affable lad. You must stay and take your liege’s place.”
Chaucer seemed flustered by this offer. “But he expects me to return.”
“Then he shall be disappointed, as I am that my table lacks his fair and dear presence,” de Chauliac said. “It seems a reasonable exchange.”
“I am unqualified to fill the chair of a prince, sir. Of that there can be absolutely no doubt. And what of the guards who escorted me here? They have instructions to see me safely back.”
But de Chauliac would not be denied. He put an arm around the young man’s shoulder and said, “We shall feed them well while they wait. I shall see to Lionel’s satisfaction on the matter personally. Now tell me again, for I have already forgotten, what is your name?”
“Geoffrey, sir.”
“Have you a surname, young Geoffrey?”
“Yes, sir. Chaucer.”
“Aha! ” de Chauliac said. “I have heard your name in Lionel’s household. You have made a marked impression on your prince, young Chaucer—he speaks highly of you! He tells me that you often amuse him with tales of great imagination. In English, he says. You must be clever indeed.” And as if he could not help himself, he shot a sly, sarcastic glance in Alejandro’s direction.
“Do you speak English, sir?” the page inquired with excitement.
Alejandro looked quickly at de Chauliac, who seemed to be enjoying his discomfort greatly. But the Frenchman made no attempt to change the subject, so Alejandro answered, “A bit.”
“Then I am doubly glad to make your acquaintance,” Chaucer said, pumping Alejandro’s hand. He slipped into English. “I have had no one to talk to.”
He struggled, but the words came back to him, harsh and guttural. “An affliction I understand only too well myself.”
“How did you acquire it?”
And though the Jew was liking the young man more and more with each passing moment, he hesitated to answer. “In my travels I have run across an Englishman or two,” he finally said. “It has been forced upon my ears, and I have taken it up, albeit against my own choosing. It is a talent of mine, somewhat unwanted.”
“Everyone seems to have an opinion of our language. Tell me,” he said, “what is yours?”
It was a dangerous subject, but would this curious fellow Chaucer make more of Alejandro’s refusal to answer than his unlikely knowledge of English? There was a risk that he would. “I find it difficult,” Alejandro reluctantly said. “And confusing. It is unlike any other language I have learned. I often find it lacking in words for proper expression.”
“In time it shall be more worthy,” Chaucer said.
Alejandro could not help but smile. Too bad he is not a Jew, he thought cynically. One hopes the English royals will learn to appreciate him. “Do you mean, my young friend, to improve it all by yourself?”
“If need be,” young Chaucer said with a grin.
There were still two seats empty at the huge oak table when all present were seated; de Chauliac ignored them pointedly and went about the business of seeing to the comfort of his prompt guests. Alejandro was pleased to find himself seated next to the friendly young page, but a bit unhappy to discover the overly inquisitive Nicholas Flamel on his other side.
But soon they were far too distracted for him to notice his tablemates, for the dark young woman entered the dining hall, followed closely by the musicians, who accompanied her sensuous glide toward the table with a reedy, almost oriental air. She swayed in time to the dark thrumming of the drums; with each step forward, one hip was thrust out invitingly, the other angled back, a teasing position meant to tantalize de Chauliac’s guests, an intent the dark woman accomplished with great facility.
And then to Alejandro’s surprise, she placed a bare foot up on one of the empty wooden chairs and nimbly hoisted herself to the tabletop. Her toes were encircled with rings of gold and silver, and she wore voluminous pantaloons of the filmiest, most transparent fabric Alejandro had ever seen. Like a virgin’s veil, he thought, an incongruous comparison.
“Once I saw a woman of Romanie dance for King Edward,” Adele had told him. “She was dripping with ornaments of silver and gold, chains and charms that jingled as she moved, and her plump breasts were contained only in circles of cloth of gold, held together by the thinnest of strings tied at her back.” Adele had drawn rounded shapes in the air with her hands as she described it, and he had felt his heart speed up. “And yet,” Adele had said with girlish giggles, “this dancer covered her face like a shy maiden! One could almost see the king’s manhood rise beneath his tunic.”
“And the queen did not object?” he had asked.
“The queen arranged it,” his lover had replied with a blush. “It was a gift, for the anniversary of her husband’s birth. Royal ladies are accustomed to such exotic displays. And everyone wishes to be the first to show them some new and exciting thing, so they see these things often!”
Far more often than the Jews of Aragon, he had thought at the time.
Chaucer tapped his arm lightly and said, “In court I saw such a woman dance, from Romanie, I think.” Alejandro wondered if the youth had been reading his thoughts.
And as if summoned, the dancer was suddenly before them, her knees slightly bent, her thinly covered womanly parts less than an arm’s length in front of their faces. She raised one foot, balancing easily on the other, and touched one toe to the tip of Alejandro’s nose, even as her hips still worked their rhythmic magic. He blushed full crimson before her foot met the tabletop again. The room came alive with cheering and applause, and out of the corner of his eye he could see de Chauliac’s wicked grin of satisfaction. Had this sultry demoiselle been instructed to entice him specifically? He thought it likely that she had. She smiled seductively and parted her lips, and showed her pink tongue, to the great appreciation of the gathered men, who whistled and pounded on the table and called for him to meet her challenge. And then she lowered herself and leaned forward, her breasts fairly bobbing in front of his face.
In an act of self-defense, he grabbed the page at his side and thrust the youth upward until his face was buried in the woman’s cleavage. Shouts of encouragement and lewd suggestions rose up, and wild laughter. The music swirled, the air grew hotter, the din of voices nearly unbearable, and Chaucer had one knee on the table, ready to hoist himself up to join his would-be paramour. And then it all came to a sudden stop as de Chauliac stood, his eyes fixed toward the door to the dining hall. Everyone else’s eyes followed.
The last of his guests had finally arrived. There in the door, somewhat breathless from their hurried pace, stood Etienne Marcel and Guillaume Karle.