Читать книгу The Breath of the Rose - Андреа Жапп - Страница 10

JOSEPH, Artus d’Authon’s old Jewish physician, masked his contentment. He felt flattered that young Clément possessed such a rare ability to learn and could express his awe so openly to him.

And yet it had taken all of the child’s powers of persuasion and the Comte’s insistence to convince him to take the boy on as an apprentice. The mere idea of having to explain, repeat, din the beauty of science into the young boy’s head exhausted him.

Joseph had soon been surprised by how much Clément already knew. He had even lost his temper with the boy, ordering him to be silent when he mentioned certain medical facts known only to a small number of scholars – facts which, if openly talked about, ran the risk of provoking religious reprisals.

‘But why lie when one possesses true knowledge that could prevent suffering and death?’

‘Because knowledge is power, my child, and those who control knowledge have no wish to share power.’

‘And will they always control it?’

‘No, because knowledge is like water: you may try to cup it in your hands but it will always slip through your fingers.’

As the weeks went by, Joseph had allowed himself to become enchanted by the boy’s keen intelligence, and perhaps also by the desire, by the hope, of being able to pass on the vast knowledge he was afraid would die with him.

Why had he left the prestigious university at Bologna? He was honest enough to admit that he had been motivated by foolish arrogance. The works of the great Greek, Jewish and Arab doctors of medicine had been translated in Salerno and Bologna. However, despite the wealth of knowledge generated by these previously unheard-of works, the West had persisted in using practices that owed more to superstition than to science. Joseph had gradually convinced himself that he would be the harbinger of this medical revolution. He was mistaken. He had settled in Paris in 1289 in the belief that his wish to propagate his art for the common good would protect him from the anti-Semitism that was rife in France. Again he was mistaken. A year later, the situation grew worse after the case of Jonathas the Jew,4 who was accused of spitting on the Host, even though so-called witnesses were unable to describe the exact circumstances in which the supposed sacrilege had taken place. Jews were once again portrayed as enemies of the faith in the same way as the Cathars. Besides the everyday humiliations and official discriminatory measures, they lived in fear of being stoned by a hostile mob that would readily tear them apart with impunity. Abandoning his possessions, like so many others, he had chosen the route to exile. He considered going to Provence, which was known for its tolerance, and where many of his people already enjoyed a peace they mistakenly believed would be lasting. But Joseph’s age had caught up with him and his journey had ended in Perche. He had set down his meagre baggage in a small town not far from Authon-du-Perche, and had tried to remain inconspicuous. He had occasionally treated people, though without employing his full knowledge for fear of arousing suspicion, and yet was so much more successful than the local apothecaries and doctors that news of his reputation soon reached the château. Artus had summoned him and Joseph, not without trepidation, had obeyed. The tall, withdrawn, broken man had stood before him and studied him in silence for a few moments before declaring:

‘My only son died a few months ago. I wish to know whether you could have saved him, esteemed doctor.’

‘I cannot say, my lord. For, although I am aware of your terrible loss, I do not know the symptoms of his illness.’ The tears had welled up in the old physician’s eyes and he had shaken his head and murmured: ‘Ah, the little children. It is not right when they die before us.’

‘And yet, like his mother, he had a frail constitution and often became ill and feverish. His skin was deathly pale and he bled profusely even from the smallest scratch. He complained of tiredness, headaches and mysterious pains in his bones.’

‘Did he feel the cold?’

‘Yes. To such an extent that his room had to be heated in summer.’

Artus had paused before continuing:

‘Why did you, a Jew, choose to practise in this part of the world?’

Joseph had simply shaken his head. Artus had gone on:

‘To be a Jew at this time in the kingdom of France is a frightening thing.’

‘It has long been the case and in many kingdoms,’ the physician had corrected, smiling weakly.

‘Together with the Arabs you are reputedly the best doctors in the world. Is such a reputation justified?’

‘Our patients must be the judges of that.’

For the first time in many months, Artus, whose grief had been unrelenting since Gauzelin’s death, allowed himself a witty rejoinder:

‘If they are able to judge, it is because you have cured them, which is more than can be said for the majority of our physicians.’ He had taken a deep breath before asking in a faltering voice the question that had been plaguing him all along: ‘He, my physician, was fond of bloodletting. It worried me and yet he swore by its effectiveness.’

‘Oh, how fond they are of bloodletting! In your son’s case it was pointless, I fear, though, judging from your description of his symptoms, the little boy would have died anyway.’

‘What was he suffering from in your opinion?’

‘A disease of the blood mostly found in very young children or those over sixty. It is quite possible that the same sickness in a less severe form also took your wife. The condition is incurable.’

Strangely, Joseph’s diagnosis had eased the Comte’s terrible suffering. Gauzelin’s death had not been due to his physicians’ – and consequently his own – shortcomings, but to a twist of fate that they had been powerless to prevent.

Joseph had subsequently found sanctuary at the château. The Comte granted him full use of the library and the freedom to come and go as he pleased and this, together with the Comte’s influence, made him feel secure. Gratitude had gradually given way to respect, for Artus d’Authon was a man of his word and, one day, in the course of conversation he had said to Joseph:

‘Should your people’s plight worsen – as I fear it may – then I strongly advise you, for appearance’s sake, to convert. My chaplain will attend to it. Should the idea prove abhorrent to you, Charles II d’Anjou, King Philip’s* cousin, whilst complying in Anjou with the monarch’s severe treatment of the Jews, is far more tolerant in his earldom of Provence and his kingdom of Naples. Charles is a cautious but shrewd man and the Jews bring him wealth. Naples seems far enough away to offer more safety. I would help you travel there.’

Joseph could tell by the solemn look in the eyes gazing intently at him that, come what may, he could trust this man’s word.

The Comte enjoyed such robust health as to make him the despair of any doctor wishing to practise his art. And so Joseph treated the minor ailments of the Comte’s household or the more serious illnesses afflicting the serfs, which were mostly caused by deprivation or lack of hygiene. The old physician had long given up trying to fathom the contradictions in man and had reached the conclusion that it was a futile search. His patients showed their gratitude by bringing him small gifts and bowing as they passed him on the street. They took him for an

Italian scholar or powerful sage, called upon by their master to look after their health. Children would run along behind him, taking hold of his robe as though it were a lucky charm. Women would stop him, shyly informing him in hushed tones of a recovery or a pregnancy, and slip him a basket of eggs, a bottle of cider or a milk roll sweetened with honey. Men would bare an arm or a leg to show him that a skin ulcer he had treated had disappeared. Joseph chose not to scrutinise their smiles, their awkward speech, their faces, to avoid identifying those who would have denounced him to the secular authorities had they known he was a Jew.

He walked over to the large lectern where Clément, his mouth gaping in astonishment, was in the process of devouring a Latin translation.

‘What is it you are reading that so surprises you?’

‘The treatise on fraudulent pharmaceutical practices, master.’

‘Oh yes, the one by Al-Chayzarî that dates back two centuries.’

‘It says here that in order to increase their earnings pharmacists were in the habit of cutting Egyptian opium with Chelidonium or wild lettuce sap or even gum arabic to make it go further. The deception can be detected by mixing the powdered form with water. Chelidonium gives off a smell of saffron, lettuce a slightly sickly odour and gum arabic makes the liquid taste bitter.’

‘Fraudulent practice has existed since time immemorial, and I suspect it always will – there is much money to be made from being dishonest. A good physician, or pharmacist, should know how to detect it in order to be sure of the effectiveness of the medicine he prescribes to his patients.’

Clément looked up and, unable to contain himself any longer, asked him the question he had been burning to put to him since their first meeting:

‘Master … Your knowledge is so vast and so varied … Have you ever heard of a scholar by the name of Vallombroso?’

Joseph knitted his bushy grey eyebrows and replied:

‘Vallombroso is not a man but a monastery in Italy. I am told they have carried out some astonishing mathematical and astronomical studies there, and that the friars are excellent at medicine.’

‘Oh …’

Disappointment was written all over the child’s face. Now he would never be able to understand the scribbled notes in the big red journal.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I …’ Clément stammered.

‘Is it as bad as all that?’ Joseph coaxed him gently.

‘I read somewhere that … but please do not imagine for a moment that I give any credence to such nonsense, I read that Vallombroso was the name quoted in a theory according to which the Earth is not fixed in the heavens …’

The colour drained from the physician’s face and he ordered sharply:

‘Be quiet! No one must ever hear you speak of such things.’

Joseph glanced around nervously. The large, bright room, freezing cold in winter, which they were using as a study, was empty.

He moved closer to the child and bent down to whisper in his ear:

‘The time is not yet ripe. Mankind is not ready to hear and accept the truth … The Earth is not fixed. It spins on its own axis – thus explaining the existence of day and night – and moreover it rotates around the sun, always following the same course, which is what produces the seasons.’

Clément was stunned by the perfect logic of it.

‘Do you understand, Clément, that this is a secret? If anyone were to find out that we share this knowledge, it could cost us our lives.’

The child nodded his agreement then spoke in a hushed voice:

‘But does this mean that the astrologers are all mistaken?’

‘All of them are. What is more, it seems logical to assume that other planets exist which we do not yet know about. And this is why you should not put your faith in astrological medicine’s current teachings.’ Joseph paused briefly before continuing: ‘It is now my turn to ask you to let me into a secret … young woman.’

Clément’s cry of astonishment rang out in the soundless room.

‘For you are indeed a girl, are you not?’ Joseph continued in a whisper.

Clément, still speechless, was only able to nod.

‘And you will soon be eleven … Has anybody ever explained to you the … physiological peculiarity characterising the fair sex?’

‘I don’t know. I know I’ll never grow a beard and that there exists a fundamental physical difference between boys and girls,’ the child ventured.

‘I thought as much. Well now, let us start with that – cosmogony can wait!’

Clément’s shock quickly gave way to panic, and in an almost inaudible voice he tearfully implored:

‘No one must know about it, master. No one.’

‘I realise that. Do not fear. We are joined together by dangerous secrets now, as well as by our thirst for knowledge.’

They turned as one towards the door as it creaked open. Ronan ventured a few steps into the room before offering an apology:

‘I trust I have not interrupted you in mid-experiment, revered doctor.’

‘No, indeed. We had just finished a demonstration.’

‘My Lord Artus has asked to see young Clément.’

‘Well, run along, my boy. The Comte wishes to see you. You mustn’t keep him waiting.’

‘Thank you, master.’

‘Come straight back whenever it pleases His Lordship. We have not finished for today.’

‘Very good, master.’

The Comte was working in his beloved rotunda. When Clément came in, he looked up from his ledgers and nodded gratefully to Ronan.

‘Zounds! What a thankless task is that of a paymaster. It puts me in a most foul mood,’ he muttered. ‘And yet I should be overjoyed and grateful that we have avoided disaster. The harvests were good and the calving season more encouraging than last year.’

As he finished writing a sentence, Clément could not help noticing the elegance of his cursive script.5 It was then that he recalled the bold handwriting in the notebook – the rotunda lettering reserved for scientific, legal or theological treatises; in brief, for scholarly works in Latin. If, as he had always suspected, it was the knight Rioux’s script, could this mean he had been a theologian in the Hospitaller order? And if he had been, how would that knowledge further Clément in his investigation? He did not know, but he felt instinctively that it was important.

The Comte replaced his quill in the beautiful silver inkwell shaped like a ship’s hull that was sitting in front of him. His face, already pensive, became tense, and the child was filled with apprehension. Why this hesitation? What news was he holding back? The Comte spoke in a faltering voice which he tried unsuccessfully to control:

‘Madame de Souarcy has arrived at the Inquisition headquarters at Alençon where she is being held in murus strictus.’

Clément leaned against a bookshelf, trying to catch his breath. His whole body seemed to tremble. A firm hand grasped his tunic just as he felt his legs give way under him. The next thing he knew he was sitting in one of the small armchairs dotted around the circular room.

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ he stammered as he regained consciousness.

‘No. It is I who should apologise. I fear that keeping the company of men and farmers has left me wanting in manners and consideration. Stay seated,’ he insisted as Clément tried to stand up. ‘You are still young, my boy … And yet you must be aware that some people are obliged to leave behind childish things sooner than others. I must ask you as a matter of urgency to search your memory. You told me how that rascal Eudes de Larnay and his loyal servant plotted to have Agnès arrested by the Inquisition. It would appear that she unwittingly gave refuge to a heretic, a certain …’

‘Sybille.’

‘Yes.’

Clément bit his lip before blurting out:

‘She was my mother.’

The Comte looked at him and murmured:

‘Now I understand why Madame Agnès was so keen to send you away from her entourage.’

A curious tenderness welled up in Artus, who for days had been gripped by fear. He had known men, soldiers, who would willingly have denounced a child to the Inquisition in order to spare themselves the threat of a trial. And yet she, a helpless woman, or so she thought, had stood up to them. She must know of the conflict that raged in the minds of certain friars. Torn between their carnal desire and their vow of chastity, they feared or loathed women and their seductive powers, and absolved themselves of the temptation they felt in their presence by holding the devil responsible. However, having met Florin, Artus did not believe he was the sort to be troubled too much by self-denial. Yet, indeed, this loathing of women, this need to exercise a destructive power over them, was itself a form of carnal desire.

The Comte felt sickened and angry by turns. Ever since he had first seen Agnès dressed in peasant’s breeches calming the bees as she harvested honey, he had dreamed in the early mornings of that long pale neck, of breathing its scent, of brushing its flesh with his still-slumbering lips. He dreamed of her long, fine hands holding the reins gently but firmly, like a true rider. He dreamed of them holding his belly and his loins. The image had become so vivid, so inappropriate, that he would banish it from his thoughts, knowing that it would creep back the moment he lowered his guard.

‘In the letter you brought with you, Madame de Souarcy suggested a hidden influence far greater than that of her scheming half-brother.’

‘Indeed, my lord. We came to that conclusion. Eudes de Larnay could pay the inquisitor but not guarantee him any influential backing. His power extends no further than his tiny estate and is far less than your own. It stands to reason that someone intervened to reinforce Florin’s position.’

Artus walked over to one of the windows with their tiny asymmetrical leaded panes, unusual for the time. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood gazing out at the gardens ablaze with the russet browns and ochres of autumn. In the distance, a pair of swans floated on the pond, so perfectly elegant in their watery element and yet so ungainly on land. One day he would walk there with her, holding her arm. He would introduce her to the capricious swans, the proud peacocks and the albino deer who would peer at them shyly with their big brown eyes as they approached. One day he would recite to her: ‘I love to walk among this fragrance and behold the marvel of these flowers,’6 and she would reply, imbuing the words of Monsieur Chrétien de Troyes* with all the strength of her feeling: ‘I was testing your love. Be sad no more, for I love you even more as I know you love me from the very depths of your heart.’7 One day. Soon.

Defeat Florin. Kill him if necessary.

He found himself speaking to the child as though he were a man of his own age:

‘And yet Florin must be aware of my childhood association and friendship with the King of France. His impudence, his … immunity must come from Rome. Remember, though, that the Pope is dead and we do not know who his successor will be. It comes as no surprise, then, that it is not a pontiff, but somebody who wields great influence in the Vatican. The late Benoît* was a merciful man, a reformer. He might have advocated compassion and clemency in our case. They gave him no time. His reign lasted but eight months … I am convinced that its brevity was intentional. And … I sense that his enemies are also ours.’

‘But who?’ Clément asked.

‘We will find out, my boy, I promise you. Go now.’