The Unfortunate Son (16 page)

“Water.”

Luc filled a cup, holding it while the old man sipped. With the boy’s help, Salah climbed into bed, where he slept until almost midnight. When he awoke, Luc was still at his side.

“Was it my fault, master?”

“What?”

“Your head. Because I lost my temper?”

Salah smiled and spoke.

“No, Luc. I had a terrible headache when I woke this morning.”

“Forgive me, master. I will be better.”

Salah put his hand on Luc’s head. “Every day of your life is a page of your history.”

“My history?”

“Yes,” said Salah. “Remember this day. You became more than you were yesterday. I became less. But you became more.”

IN LATE NOVEMBER, as the air cooled, and the days became short, Pons bound the fattened pig’s feet and slit its throat. Mattie held a bowl to catch the blood pumping from the dying animal. When the pig was dead, they covered its carcass with straw and lit a fire. After the straw burned itself out, Mattie used a knife to scrape away the burned hair; this firing and scraping was repeated until the hide was clean. Then the pig was hung, draining, from a thick tree branch overnight. Cadeau stood guard beneath. In the morning, they set about skinning and butchering. The cut-up pork was soaked in seawater for three days and then smoked over a slow fire in a stone chimney behind the house. Mattie and Beatrice took turns feeding the fire.

Meanwhile, Mattie cleaned out the animal’s intestine for sausage casing, soaking it in buckets of salted lemon water until the water was clear. Mattie was famous for the
boudin noir
that she made from the pig’s blood and scraps of pork mixed with garlic, salt, and herbs, stuffed and tied into fat finger-length sections. After it was boiled, most of the sausage was smoked, but on the first night after it was made, Beatrice fried rounds of fresh sausage in butter with slices of apple and onion.

In the late afternoon of the following day, Pons, Mattie, and Beatrice were sitting at the table; the firelight flickered, and the shadows of the overhead fish swayed in the draft from the shuttered windows.

“Well,” said Pons, “I expect we’ll make it through the winter. Even if the fishing is only fair, we’ve a good amount of pork.”

“Won’t Alain arrive soon?” asked Beatrice.

“By week’s end, I should think,” said Pons.

“He’ll be here any day,” said Mattie. “That man can smell my
boudin
from over the mountain.” Then she wagged a finger at Pons and Beatrice. “I don’t want Alain to see Beatrice; I don’t trust him.”

Beatrice picked at a piece of bread. She did not look at Mattie.

“I know, Sister, but the boy?” asked Pons, pushing back from the table. “I could say something about Luc.
I
didn’t promise Blanche anything. I could say I heard this rumor.”

“Let sleeping dogs lie. Luc is in God’s hands,” said Mattie.

Beatrice nibbled at her food. She didn’t want to argue with Mattie anymore—it was no use. Mattie’s mind was made up. Now and then, the girl tried to catch Pons’s eye, but he never looked at her. For the rest of the week, she kept the low fire burning under the smoking hams and sausages in the outdoor chimney. Pons tended the fire overnight and sometimes fished in the early mornings.

Alain and his young aide, Henri, showed up on Friday just as Pons was walking up the path from the beach. Cadeau barked at the soldiers.

“Shhhh!” said Pons, shifting his net and patting the dog’s head. “Good dog.” Then he added loudly, “Hello, Alain.”

“Good day, Pons. So Luc is still with you?” asked Alain, pointing at Cadeau.

Pons put down his net and took a deep breath.

“Come inside, Alain. We have new cider,” he said.

“And Mattie’s black sausage, I hope?” asked Alain, handing the reins of his horse to Henri.

Pons nodded, and Alain followed him inside. Mattie was standing in the middle of the room, and Beatrice was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello, Mattie. I am hoping that you have made your
boudin
.”

“You must have spies here, Alain. Just this week.”

Grabbing a mug and sitting down, Alain asked, “Where’s the boy?”

Pons stroked his chin and said, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Something happened to Luc?”

Pons nodded.

“Has he drowned?” asked Alain, holding up the mug.

Pons shook his head. “No.”

Mattie put a trencher of bread in front of Alain, slid a thick slice of black sausage onto the bread, and poured him a mug of hard cider.

“This food rivals anything at the castle. I hope there’s a lot more,” said Alain, taking a big bite of sausage. “Now tell me about the boy.”

So Pons told Alain about the dreadful day when Luc was lost.

“That child has had more than his share of misfortune,” said Alain.

Pons shook his head. “That wasn’t the way I saw it. I found that luck followed Luc. As soon as he stepped into my boat, my nets filled with fish like never before. All the time he was here, we had nothing but good fortune.”

“Old man, look at the boy’s life. He was born with one ear. And a bastard.”

“We don’t know that for a fact,” said Mattie.

Alain raised his eyebrows and smirked. “No?”

“Anyway, luck or no luck, Luc was taken. I am a poor man,” said Pons. “If I were rich, I would try to find the boy and ransom him. But it takes a lot of gold, and I have none.”

“You see, Luc is unlucky. If Sir Guy were alive, then maybe. But Sir Guy died without acknowledging the boy,” said Alain, washing down the last of the sausage with a big gulp of cider.

He leaned back, patted his stomach, and belched. Pons said nothing. Mattie was pouring more cider when she saw Beatrice descending the ladder. Alain looked at the girl.

“My God! Who is this?” He turned to Pons. “Who else is hiding in this cottage?”

“No one else,” Beatrice said softly. “Just me.”

“Is this another bastard?” asked Alain, still turned to Pons.

“I am no bastard. And neither was Luc.”

Alain whipped around and looked at Beatrice.

“What’s going on here? Who’s this girl?” he asked.

Beatrice answered, “It doesn’t matter who I am.”

“No,” added Mattie, glaring at Beatrice. “It’s Luc we are talking about.”

“First things first,” said Alain, staring at the girl. “I insist you tell me who this maid is, Pons.”

“You won’t care who I am once I tell you about Luc,” answered Beatrice.

“That’s enough, child. Leave us. This is no concern of yours,” said Mattie, pointing to the ladder.

Alain frowned at Mattie. “She’s a brazen one. I will have my question answered.”

He turned to Beatrice. Unblinking, she met his gaze.

“Luc is not Sir Guy’s son,” she said.

Alain shrugged. “I thought there was a chance he might be. But it matters little now.”

“It matters more than ever,” answered Beatrice. “Because Luc is the second son of the Count de Muguet.”

“Hold your tongue, girl!” said Mattie as she stood up. “I’m sorry, Alain. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. This is nonsense.”

Alain nodded and began to laugh. “Well, it’s most certainly an outrageous claim. The old count’s son, eh? If he were alive, you’d lose your pretty head for uttering that nonsense.”

“I have no doubt that the count killed people for less. But he’s dead. And as for the new count, Luc is his brother,” said Beatrice.

Alain shook his head. “This is madness. Do you think your lie will get the boy’s ransom?”

“It’s no lie,” answered Beatrice.

“What proof do you have, wench?”

Beatrice looked down at her feet and sighed, “I have no proof.”

“And the olive growers? That drunk and his scrawny wife? What would they say?” asked Alain.

“They won’t say anything. I had to vow not to say a word of this.”

Alain frowned. “So you are not only impudent but also untrustworthy?”

“I have to help Luc.”

“And you would say anything, do anything?” asked Alain. “Am I supposed to believe you and not Pascal?”

“He and his wife have everything to lose. But there was a priest, Father Thierry,” said Beatrice.

“He is dead. Maybe five years ago,” said Alain, licking his thumb and smoothing his wild eyebrows.

“You see, Beatrice? You’ve said enough. This is just a tale. Leave us, child,” said Mattie. “Forget this whole matter, Alain.”

“Am I supposed to forget this beautiful maid as well?” he said, grabbing Beatrice’s arm.

“Please,” said Pons.

Alain shook his head.

“Who is she?”

“No one,” said Mattie. “Just an orphan from the village. She helps with the chores. Leave us now, girl.”

“You were hiding her, weren’t you? Who is she?”

Mattie glared at Alain.

“You insult me,” said Alain, still holding the girl’s arm, looking at her from head to toe, at her dress and her leather shoes. “Do you think I don’t remember you, Mattie, from the old days? You worked in that knight’s household. The knight who stole from the count. I was there when the count killed the thief.”

“My father did not steal,” said Beatrice.

“Your father?” said Alain, pulling Beatrice closer.

The heavy soldier looked at the girl’s face and began to nod his head.

“I recall now. There
was
a child. I remember her screaming at the execution.”

Mattie sat down and covered her face.

Alain continued, “So you are Sir—? Ayiii! I cannot remember the unfortunate scoundrel’s name.” Beatrice was furious, pulling and struggling but unable to shake her arm free of Alain’s grip. “Étienne!” said Alain, nodding. “I remember now. So you’ve lived here with Mattie ever since? And your mother?”

Mattie looked at Alain and answered, “Her mother left the child. There wasn’t anyone to take her. Her grandparents died from the pestilence when she was small. She had no one else but me.”

“So all these years you’ve hidden that disgraced knight’s daughter in this peasant household? Oh and, of course”—Alain thumped his forehead with the heel of his free hand—“there was Luc, the count’s secret son. And, of course!
He
was helping Pons fish? You’re all mad.” Alain shook his head. “What will become of the girl here in this village? Even if her father was a criminal, she is quite a beauty. I could make inquiries. Find her a position in a household back home. That would be more fitting. This is no place for someone of her class.”

“My father lost his knighthood. That makes me as common as you.”

Beatrice grimaced as Alain tightened his grip on her arm. “You don’t know your place, girl. You should show me respect,” he snarled.

“Please accept my apology,” said Beatrice, glaring at Alain and finally freeing her arm. Her eyes filled; she was angry, but she was also scared.

“I beg you, Alain, forget you saw her,” said Pons, stepping in between Alain and the girl.

“I promise only that I shall not repeat her outrageous claim about Luc. Thank you for the
boudin
; I must be going.”

Alain rose to leave and stopped.

“What about the dog?” he asked.

“The boy’s dog?” asked Pons.

“I’ll pay you for that animal.”

Beatrice wiped her eyes. “He is Luc’s dog,” she said. “And Luc will be back.”

SALAH WAS SEATED on floor cushions in a corner of his room, reading by lantern flame and by the winter sunlight that filtered through the iron grillwork of a high window. A charcoal fire glowed in a brazier at his feet. Books were jumbled at his side. A paper scroll rested across his lap. He looked up when Luc entered carrying a bowl of dried apricots and almonds.

“It is a lovely December morning, Luc, is it not?” said the old man, pointing to the stripes of sunlight that patterned the floor.

Luc nodded and slid the bowl in front of Salah.

“Praise Allah,” added Salah, nibbling an apricot. “I am as old as the mountains, but today I am as young as your eyes and your hands.”

Luc tilted his head and smiled. The old man unfurled the scroll, and Luc knelt beside him.

But before Salah could begin, Bes ushered in an unexpected visitor from the nearby city of Tunis: a balding, bearded European with a small black cap and heavy-lidded eyes. When Salah saw the visitor, he smiled broadly and clapped his hands.

“Bring refreshment for my honored guest, Bes.”

The little man bowed and turned.

“Abraham, my esteemed colleague, it has been too long,” said Salah to his visitor.

“Good morning, learned friend,” said Abraham. “Your face is a wonderful sight.”

“My face? It is anything but.”

“Ah, Salah, your smile is almost as famous as your wisdom.”

“So much flattery, Abraham? You must want something.”

“I want only your friendship, old man. And to see that you are in good health.”

“I am alive, and that is enough at my age. Sit,” said Salah, snapping his fingers at Luc, who pushed aside the brazier and scrambled to pile cushions across from Salah.

Abraham lowered himself onto the pillows just as Bes reappeared with a bowl of dates and two clear glasses of water, sweetened with sugar and infused with rose petals and mint.

“Thank you, Bes,” said Salah.

When the little man bowed and took a step backward,
Luc turned to follow, but Abraham pulled Luc’s sleeve.

Abraham asked Salah, “Your student?”

Salah nodded.

Luc made a slight bow to Abraham.

“You are most fortunate to have the great Salah as your teacher,” said the visitor.

Luc nodded and began to back out of the room with Bes.

“Stay, Luc,” said Salah.

Bes waited, but Salah said nothing. He bit his lip, glared at Luc, and left. Luc knelt next to Salah.

“Luc, this is the great Abraham Zacuto, a famous astronomer.”

Abraham shook his head. “Not as famous as you, Salah.”

Salah said, “Abraham,
your
fame will outlive a hundred generations.”

“But not the smallness of man,” said Abraham. “There are very few homes where a Jew is welcomed as a friend.”

Salah clasped his hands in front of his chest and studied his visitor.