Yet it
She had always known, and still knew it, that romantic love was not for her; in that respect, she was as bound to chastity as any nun married to God. As long as that chastity had been cloistered in the Medical School of Salerno, she had envisaged its untroubled continuance into a quiet, useful, and respected old age, contemptuous-she admitted it-of women who surrendered to flailing passion.
Sitting in this tower room, she accused that former self of plain damned ignorance.
The hours during which she had labored to save the man had been a privilege; saving anybody’s life was a privilege; his, her joy. She had begrudged being called away from his side to treat the patients whom the Matildas redirected to the castle so that she and Mansur could heal them, though she had done it.
Now it was time for common sense.
Marriage was out of the question, even supposing he offered it, which was unlikely. Adelia had a strong estimation of her own worth, but she doubted it if he could recognize it. For one thing, to judge from the color of the pubic hair he had described during his more lubricious ravings, his preference was for brunettes. For another, she could not-would not-enter the lists against the likes of Zabidah.
No, a reserved, plain-faced woman doctor was unlikely to attract him; such yearning as he had shown for her in his fever had been a request for relief.
In any case, he thought of her as sexless or his account of his crusade would not have been so frank and so full of swear words. A man talked to a friendly priest in those terms, to a Prior Geoffrey perhaps, not to the lady of his fancy.
In any case, with a bishopric in his sights, he could not offer marriage to anybody. And a bishop’s mistress? There were plenty of them, some being ostentatious, shameless strumpets, others a rumor, a thing of gossip and sniggers, hidden away in a secret bower, dependent on the whim of their particular diocesan lover.
Welcome to the Gates of Heaven, Adelia, and what did you do with your life? My lord, I was a bishop’s whore.
And if he became a baron? He would look for an heiress to increase his estates, as they all did. Poor heiress, a life devoted to store cupboard, children, entertaining, and setting one’s husband’s bloody deeds to song when he came back from whatever battlefield his king had dragged him off to. Where, undoubtedly, said husband had taken other women-brunettes, in this case-and fathered bastards on them with the concupiscence of a rutting rabbit.
Deliberately, exhausted, she worked herself into such a fury at the hypothetically adulterous Sir Rowley Picot with his hypothetical and illegitimate brats that, Gyltha now coming into the room with a bowl of gruel for him, Adelia told her, “You and Mansur look after the swine tonight. I’m going home.”
Yehuda waylaid her at the bottom of the steps to inquire after Rowley and to drag her off to see his new son. The baby nuzzling at Dina’s breast was tiny but seemed to have all its requisites, though its parents were concerned that it was not gaining sufficient weight.
“We’ve agreed with Rabbi Gotsce that Brit Mila should be delayed beyond the eight days. Do it when he is stronger,” Yehuda said, anxiously. “What do you think, mistress?”
Adelia said that it was probably wise not to subject the child to circumcision until it was a better size.
“Is it my milk, do you think?” Dina said. “I don’t have enough?”
Midwifery was not Adelia’s field; she knew the principles, but Gordinus had always taught his students that the practice was better left to wise women of whatever denomination unless there were complications in the case. His belief, based on observation, was that more babies survived when delivered by experienced women than by male doctors. It was not a teaching that made him popular with either the general medical profession or the Church, both of which found it profitable to condemn most midwives as witches, but the death toll in Salerno not only among babies but their mothers whose accouchement had been attended by male physicians suggested that Gordinus was right.
However, the baby
“And where do we find one of those?” Yehuda demanded with an Iberian sneer. “Did the mob that drove us in here make sure we had lactating mothers among our number? They overlooked it, I don’t know why.”
Adelia hesitated before saying, “I could ask Lady Baldwin if there is one in the castle.”
She waited for condemnation. Margaret had originally been her wet nurse, and Adelia knew of other Christian women employed in that capacity by Jewish households, but whether this stiff- necked little enclave would contemplate its newest recruit being put to a goy’s breast…
Dina surprised her. “Milk’s milk, my husband. I would trust Lady Baldwin to find a clean woman.”
Yehuda put his hand gently on his wife’s head. “As long as she understands that it is not your fault. With all you have suffered, we are lucky to have a son at all.”
As she left them, Yehuda followed her out. “Doctor…”
Adelia turned on him fast. “You must not call me that. The doctor is Master Mansur Khayoun of Al ‘Amarah. I am but his helper.”
Obviously, the tale of the operation in the sheriff’s kitchen had circulated, and she had enough troubles without the inevitable opposition she would encounter from Cambridge ’s physicians, let alone the Church, if her profession became generally recognized.
Perhaps she could put down the presence of Mansur-he had stood by during the procedure-to that of a master overseeing the work. Claim it had been a Moslem holy day and that Allah wouldn’t allow him to touch blood during its hours. Something like that.
Yehuda bowed. “Mistress, I only wish to say that we are naming the baby Simon.”
She took his hand. “Thank you.”
Though still tired, the day altered for her; life itself had altered with a swing. She felt, quite literally, uplifted by the naming of the child-she experienced a curious feeling of bobbing.
It was being in love, she realized. Love, however doomed, had the capacity to attach buoys to the soul. Never had seagulls circled with such purity against the eggshell-blue sky, never had their cries been so thrilling.
Visiting the other Simon was a priority, and on her way to the sheriff’s garden, Adelia toured the bailey, looking for flowers to take to his grave. This part of the castle was strictly utilitarian, and its roaming hens and pigs had stripped it of most vegetation, but some Jack-by-the-hedge had colonized the top of an old wall and a blackthorn was flowering on the Saxon mound where the original wooden keep had stood.
Children were sliding down the slope on a plank of wood, and while she painfully snapped off some twigs, a small boy and girl came up to chat.
“What’s that?”
“It’s my dog,” Adelia told them.
They considered the statement and animal for a moment. Then, “That blackie you come with, lady, is he a wizard?”
“A doctor,” she told them.
“Is he mending Sir Rowley, lady?”
“He’s funny, Sir Rowley,” the little girl said. “He says it’s a mouse in his hand but it’s a farthing really, what he gives us. I like him.”
“So do I,” Adelia said helplessly, finding it sweet to make the confession.
The boy said, pointing, “That’s Sam and Bracey. Shouldn’t have let ’em in, should they? Not even to kill Jews, my pa says.”
He was indicating to a spot near the new gallows on which stood a double pillory with two heads protruding from it, presumably those of the guards on the gate when Roger of Acton and the townspeople had gained entrance to the castle.
“Sam says he didn’t mean to let them in,” the girl said. “Sam says the buggers rushed him.”
“Oh, dear,” Adelia said. “How long have they been there?”
“Shouldn’t have let ’em in, should they?” the boy said.
The little girl was more forgiving. “They free ’em of nights.”
So bad for the back, the pillory. Adelia hurried over to it. A wooden sign had been hung about each man’s neck. It read: “Failed in Duty.”
Carefully avoiding the ordure that was collecting round the feet of the pillory’s victims, Adelia placed her posy on the ground and lifted one of the signs. She settled the guard’s jerkin so that it formed a buffer between his skin and the string that had been cutting into his neck. She did the same for the other man. “I hope that’s more comfortable.”
“Thank you, mistress.” Both stared straight ahead with military directness.
“How much longer must you remain here?”
“Two more days.”
“Oh, dear,” Adelia said. “I know it cannot be easy, but if you let your wrists take the weight from time to time and incline your legs backwards, it will reduce the strain on the spine.”
One of the men said flatly, “We’ll bear it in mind, mistress.”
“Do.”
In the sheriff’s garden, the sheriff’s wife, who was at one end overseeing the division of tansy roots, was holding a shouted conversation with Rabbi Gotsce at the other, where he bent over the grave.
“You should wear it in your shoes, Rabbi. I do. Tansy is a specific against the ague.” Lady Baldwin’s voice carried effortlessly to the ramparts.
“Better than garlic?”
“Infinitely better.”
Charmed and unseen, Adelia lingered in the gateway until Lady Baldwin caught sight of her. “There you are, Adelia. And how is Sir Rowley today?”
“Improving. I thank you, ma’am.”
“Good, good. We cannot spare such a brave fighter. And what of your poor nose?”
Adelia smiled. “Mended and forgotten.” The race to halt Rowley’s hemorrhage had obliterated everything else. She’d only become aware of the fracture to her nose two days later, when Gyltha commented on the fact that it had become humped and blue. Once the swelling went down, she’d clicked the bone into place without trouble.
Lady Baldwin nodded. “What a pretty posy, very green and white. The rabbi is seeing to the grave. Go down, go down. Yes, the dog too-if that’s what it is.”
Adelia went down the path to the cherry tree. A simple wooden board had been laid over the grave. Carved into it was the Hebrew for “Here lies buried” followed by Simon’s name. On the bottom were the five letters for “May his soul be bound up in the bond of life eternal.”
“It will do for now,” Rabbi Gotsce said. “Lady Baldwin is finding us a stone to replace it, one that’s too heavy to lift, she says, so Simon cannot be desecrated.” He stood up and dusted his hands. “Adelia, that is a fine woman.”
“Yes, she is.” Much more than the sheriff’s, this was his wife’s garden; it was where her children played and from which she took the herbs to flavor her food and scent her rooms. It had been no mean sacrifice to surrender part of it to the corpse of a man despised by her religion. Admittedly, since this was ultimately royal ground, it had been imposed on her force majeure, but whatever she
