The bridge’s white expanse was just as he remembered it from a decade before, when he’d stood in its center with Eduardo Hernandez and looked down at the blackened bodies that floated in the fouled waters of the Rhone, bodies with tortured expressions and swollen necks, all crying out through their masks of death to be laid to rest. But there were not enough living to collect them, not enough graves to accept them, not enough priests to mutter over them. The feelings of that day came back to him like the glancing blow of a mace, heavy and stultifying, and he stopped his horse, as he and Hernandez had done so long ago.
He’d been terrified then, and he was terrified now, but it was a different sort of fear that held him in its grip on this gray day. On his first crossing of the bridge, he’d been afraid of life away from his protective family, frightened of the journey, uncertain of what lay ahead. He hadn’t known if he was man enough to face the road ahead of him, but he’d found that he was. And in the time between his first passage over the bridge and the one he made now, he’d come to know that inner man far more intimately than he’d ever thought possible, than he’d ever really wanted to know him. He longed for the naivete of that first passage, for his youthful ignorance, because now what lay ahead of him was clear: that portion of his life in which he would miss, and long for, the daughter whose child he had strapped to his chest.
Ah, Hernandez, he mused in thoughtful silence, my dear companion, how I have missed you! How innocent they had both been when they first crossed that bridge. I knew nothing of life, nothing at all, and you, with all your worldly experience, could not even imagine what awaited me.
If only they had stayed on the other side—might Hernandez be alive today? Could such an adventurer as that great Spaniard have lived through the decade that followed his untimely death?
Half of everyone had died, he remembered.
But look down from your Christian heaven, my friend, and take note of how well you instructed me! I have lived, against the very will of God!
I have made another friend, you know, though I did not recognize his affection for me until it was nearly too late to enjoy it. And he has helped me on my journey, as you did, though he did not have to give up his soul to do so.
The child moved against his chest.
And yes, I nearly forgot, I have a daughter. I stole her from a king. She taught me that there is much to love in this world, if only one looks … and she has presented me with this fine grandson, though I am still such a young man!
But sadly, she has never brought him to her breast …
He opened the top of the swaddling and looked into the pinched pink face of the stirring infant. “You know nothing of what lies before you, little man,” he whispered, “but I swear on the life of your mother that I will do what I can to keep you safe.” He rubbed the child’s back, and in a few minutes the baby settled down again. He kneed his mount gently in the side, and the beast began to move forward, with slow, sure steps.
“We shall find you a suitable wet nurse as soon as we are on the other side.” He looked back at the nanny goat who trotted behind the horse at the end of a tether, her full teats swaying as she scurried along. The animal looked immensely unhappy and bleated in a most disturbing manner. He had paid the princely sum of two gold pieces for the aggravating beast, but she had provided warm milk to nourish the child and for that Alejandro would have paid ten times the sum. “Then when a proper nurse is found, we shall put this annoying nanny out to her reward at pasture, with our undying gratitude for her good service.”
The papal palace still dominated the vista, its white spires striving heavenward toward that ethereal place all Christians believed lay beyond the miserable bonds of life. He looked up and imagined the new pope, whose name he did not know, and did not care to know, ensconced in his private tower, surrounded by advisors and sages, though Alejandro could not imagine that any of them could be so shrewd as de Chauliac had been on behalf of his patron Clement. The current ambassador to the Christian God would be firmly seated in the glorious might of the Church, with its unending reach and limitless mandate. He could disrupt the lives of Avignon’s Jews, and many more, by scribbling a few words on a parchment scroll and pressing his seal into a bit of heated red wax on its surface—and despite the suffering he could cause with such a simple act, he need never give it another thought. Would this one turn out to be as unfathomably considerate as Clement had been, against all advice, when de Chauliac served him? He would find out in short order.
The streets of Avignon were far cleaner than he remembered them to be. “Ah, young Guillaume,” he said to the baby, “you cannot imagine the filth of this place before! It shines now in comparison.” And it was true; he saw no rats, and very little garbage.
He found himself in a large, open square. He did not remember it from his first time in Avignon, but unlike Paris, which suffered under the pall of a war, Avignon had prospered quietly under the protective wing of the Church, and the means to beautify it had been found. The wide expanse of cobblestone was aflutter with the despised pigeons, who swooped down to poke through the occasional droppings of the horses, and alive with pedestrians. Goat still in tow, he scanned the plaza, looking for some sign that there was a natural route one ought to take. But people were walking in all directions, and nothing inspired him.
The baby began to stir again, this time more vigorously, and he would not be comforted. So Alejandro got down off the horse and led the animal to the edge of the square, where he tethered it to a tree. He untied the goat and bent down next to her. Her milk sac was nearly full; it would be time to empty her, anyway. He massaged the sac with one hand, while patting Guillaume’s tiny back with the other, and soon her milk began to flow. “Here comes your dinner, little one,” he said, and he set a small pail from his pack underneath her. Slowly and patiently he filled the pail, for to rush would sour the milk or spook the goat, and neither was a desirable result.
Then he sat down on a stone wall and placed the child in his lap. He dipped the corner of a small white rag in the warm milk, and laid it gently on the child’s lip. The tiny baby sucked lustily and made quick work of draining the rag. He did this over and over until the child was satisfied, and then he dipped his own finger in the milk and offered it, so the infant might know the warmth of flesh between his lips. “When we have found you a nurse, you must know what to do,” he cooed. “She will not come with rags for teats.”
All he had done in the time since he had left Paris, it seemed to him, was ride and feed the child, and change his swaddling when it was required. When he was not doing any of those things, he would try to sleep. But it felt to him that he had closed his lids no more than a few hours altogether. Imagine, he thought to himself, being a woman alone with an infant … how would one survive? More often than not in such cases, he knew, neither the mother nor the child lived.
But this would be the last time this child would eat his dinner from a bit of fabric, for if all went according to his plan, he would find a temple, and there seek a Jewess who would take pity on them and offer herself in hired service as a nurse.
When the child was cleaned and swaddled and back on his chest again, he retied the goat to the horse. He walked out into the square and stopped the first intelligent-looking passerby.
“Please, sir,” he said, “where might I find the section of town where Jews live?”
The man stared suspiciously at him. He held out a scroll that he himself had written in Hebrew. “I am owed a debt, and I must collect it.”
The man looked at the scroll with disdain, then turned and pointed in a southerly direction. “That way,” he said, and he started to walk away.
“What street should I seek?” Alejandro called after him.
“Rue des Juifs,” the man said.
It was, like Rue des Rosiers, a dark and narrow street, thoroughly unlovely but clean and uncluttered and alive with familiarity. And on the door frames he saw not the leftover traces of mezuzahs, but the symbols themselves. He got down off the horse and led the animal along, and as he worked his way down the street he reached out and touched each one.
He went two or three blocks, attracting vague but not unfriendly stares from those he passed. This would be a tight-knit community, where the denizens all knew each other, where everyone knew his place. As watchfulness, his constant companion for a decade, slowly ebbed out of him, he felt oddly light and uncontained. And though his attire was completely European, he was not immediately taken for an outsider. Cautious nods of greeting were given to him as he proceeded, toward what he did not know, and he found himself smiling and nodding back with genuine friendliness and a complete lack of suspicion.
And suddenly, as if God Himself had led him there, he found himself in front of a small building that could only be a temple. He brought the horse and goat to a halt and stood there for a moment regarding the neat facade.
“Well, young Guillaume,” he said, “I believe this is where we wish to be.”
There was no place to tether the animals so he stopped a passing youngster and offered a sou for their temporary care. The boy happily accepted, and when handed the rein, stood there gravely, the pride of a working man on his small face.
Clutching the baby firmly to his chest, Alejandro bent over and entered through the small door. The floor was sand, to soften sound for those who would meditate deeply on the wonders of God. And there at the front of the small room were two old men, doing just that. Their heads moved rhythmically in a bobbing sort of motion while their lips poured out a steady stream of worship. It was the classic stance of a devout Jew at prayer, something he had seen many thousands of times in his youth. But the eyes of the man who had been across Europa noticed something he had not observed as a youth.
How curious this practice looks.
One, Alejandro assumed by his attire, was a rebbe, likely the leader of this congregation and the greater community itself. The other seemed to have no special significance beyond his obvious devotion. So deep was the concentration of these two men that they did not notice him.
Surely the rebbe will know of a nurse, he thought. And when he spoke aloud, the Hebrew rolled off his tongue with uncanny fluidity.
“Shalom, Rebbe,” he said quietly.
The rebbe turned slowly and faced him. “Shalom, my son.”
“Might I ask you a question? I am a traveler in need of advice.”
“If I can be—”
But his words were cut short by a sudden moan from the other elderly worshiper, who turned around and now stood facing the tall intruder. On uncertain feet, he took a few steps forward through the sand. He steadied himself by placing a hand on the wood railing and squinted through the dim light at the new visitor. And then, in a trembling, shaky voice, he whispered, “Alejandro?”
Alejandro thought for a moment that God had commanded him to give up his tongue; he could not make it move. All spit deserted him. But somehow, in his shock, he managed to utter the one word that needed to be said.
“Father?”
The old man started to teeter, so he rushed forward to support him. And then, with the child still against his chest, he took the old man into his trembling arms as hot tears of joy streamed uncontrollably down his cheeks.
The baby Guillaume Karle screamed inconsolably as he did what the sons of Jews had done for centuries before him: he gave up a bit of his manhood to God, and received in return God’s promise to remember him. And though the child was not the blood son of Alejandro, the rebbe had decided that it would accomplish nothing to hold this shortcoming against him. He is just a baby, the wise man said. We shall teach him how to be a good Jew.
And when the brief ceremony was over, Alejandro brought Guillaume to a woman nearby, a young widow with a child of her own newly weaned, but plenty of milk left to service Kate’s infant son.
“Ah, Leah,” Alejandro said with a smile as he handed the child to her, “what wonders you have worked. See how he thrives in your care!”
She bounced the child gently in her arms and felt his warm weight against her. Alejandro noticed the ease with which the woman carried him, almost as if the child had been born her own.
“He seems made of hunger,” Leah said. “But I think he is content. He sleeps well enough.”
And Alejandro found himself thinking that even at the babe’s tender age, a man recognizes welcoming arms …
He traded one last smile with the striking young widow as the rebbe approached them. With a shy glance, she left, Guillaume clutched to her breast.
“A letter has come for you,” the old man said. He produced a scroll from the sleeve of his robe and held it out.
So soon? he thought as he took it. He noticed that his hands were trembling.
De Chauliac’s fine hand was firm and clear on the parchment. The strokes, in keeping with the man, were bold and well formed. He had added flourishes in Elizabeth’s red ink, an unmistakable sign of his esteem. He could only hope that the news contained in the letter would be as fair as the hand that conveyed it. He took a deep breath and read.
My dear colleague,
I hope this news finds both you and your grandson safe and in good health.
They, by which I mean Prince Lionel and the lady Elizabeth, have taken Kate into their household, naturally against the girl’s own will. She has yet to recover completely from her labors in bringing the infant forth, but the Irishwoman stays at her side and does good work on her behalf. I have looked in on her three times since you left. She was nearly delirious with fear for the first day, and suffered a fever, until I assured her privately that your escape was accomplished.
Young Chaucer is beside himself with grief over your circumstances—though I know not why! He seems to feel some vague complicity, undeserved, in my opinion. The boy has taken your position to great heart and has made himself nearly my accomplice. Through him I know that there is talk of returning Kate to England, though when this shall occur has not yet been decided. She is not a hostage of the Dauphin, as are Lionel and his entire Court, and may be brought out of France at Edward’s discretion. I dare not think what Edward Plantagenet’s pleasure will be in this matter.
If you send word of yourself and the child, I will see that it gets to her—Chaucer has sworn he will assist me in this. No doubt your daughter is as eager to know your fate as you are hers, and it may speed her recovery to have a message.
As for myself, I am praying, and will continue to pray, for good fortune to bless you. I would welcome a word now and then; indeed, I crave it. Do not deny me.
We shall meet again, I am certain of it.
Your faithful servant,
Guy de Chauliac
He wrote back, telling de Chauliac all that he could of his journey south and of the unexpected joy he had found at its end. He told of the child’s progress and growth, that the news might be conveyed to Kate and strengthen her spirit for the trials that were surely ahead of her.
Slowly, Alejandro found a place for himself and his grandson among the Jews of Avignon. But Avram Canches was slow to welcome the fair, blue-eyed child his son had brought out of the north.
“I shall not have a son of my own, Father. You must accept him.”
“You do not know what God has in store for you, Alejandro. There are many good women here who would accept you, despite the foreign child … indeed, this Leah who suckles the babe lacks a husband, and she would be a worthy match for you.”
“She is a fine woman. A good mother. I would be honored to have her, were it not for …”
“For what?”
He sighed deeply before he told his father that he had loved once, and he would not love again.
“What does this love matter?” the old man wanted to know. “A good woman is a good woman, and you are a fine man. Far finer than I dared dream when you were taken away from me. You need only open yourself to the will of God, and I am certain you will know contentment, as I did with your mother, may she rest in peace. In time you will learn to love a woman, if you are of a mind to. I know of these things, you must listen to me.”
“I loved one woman, Father, and I am not of a mind to love another.”
“But you will leave nothing behind, no legacy, no son to carry on after you, to pray for your soul.”
“So be it. I shall leave my work behind me. It will be legacy enough.”
“Then sadly the name of Canches will come to an end. When your flesh passes, the world will never again know the flesh of our flesh.…”
“So be it,” Alejandro said finally. “If God sees fit for the flesh of a Canches to be brought into the world, He will surely find the means to do so. Without our help.”