The Unfortunate Son (21 page)

Louis nodded. “Go on, Alain. About the father?”

“Yes, my lord. The father is a mean, unfriendly sort. Over the years I knew him, he got worse. Sir Guy worried that Pascal mistreated the boy. I think he spoke to Pascal about it. But not in front of me. Still, I was shocked to find Luc apprenticed to the old fisherman.”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, the olive farm is substantial. A good stone house, too. It seemed odd for the eldest son to leave his father’s household and go to that humble cottage. Of course, that happened after Sir Guy’s death. I never saw Pascal again after that. I still went to the hill farms and to Mouette, but there were no more gifts, so I didn’t visit the olive grove.
Even now I still collect the rents like before, because no one knows why it was set up that way. Probably should use a rent collector, my lord. It makes more sense.”

Louis nodded. “I shall look into it.”

“Anyway, I like the old man, Pons, so I can see how Luc might prefer him to that father. And then there’s that beautiful girl. I mean the lady Beatrice.”

“Sir Guy never told you anything about Luc?”

“Never, my lord. Just the opposite. I was ordered never to mention the boy. Not our visits and, especially, not the boy. Or his lack of an ear. Like I said, there was no order to continue the gifts. Probably because it was all so secret. But I kept my word to Sir Guy. I never said anything about Luc. Except, of course, to you, my lord.”

“Thank you, Alain. You may go. Stop in the kitchen, and get some food and drink if you like.”

Alain grinned, bowed, and left.

Louis called for his steward. He was a middle-aged man of middling height with wispy brown hair. He was dressed in the dark-blue livery of the Muguet family, but unlike the other servants, his tunic was trimmed with silver braid, and he wore a wide leather belt from which dangled a large iron ring with keys of all sizes. He was a quiet man who stepped lightly and spoke softly, but the keys clanked and jangled, so that his presence was always announced before he appeared.

“How long have you worked in this household?” Louis asked, pointing to the bench.

The steward sat on the edge of the bench with his knees locked together and his hands folded tightly in his lap. “Twenty-three years, my lord,” said the steward proudly. “I’ve served as steward for six years, sir.”

“Do you remember the last infant my mother bore, before she died?”

“I remember that there was a son who died within days, but I never saw the baby.”

“Did you hear anything unusual about the infant?”

“No, my lord.”

“Who would have been present for the birth? The midwife?”

The steward started to say something then stopped. He swallowed and picked at a piece of lint on his sleeve.

“What is it?” asked Louis. “What about the midwife?”

“Well, my lord, the midwife died shortly after the birth of the child.”

“Died?”

The steward nodded.

“How?” asked Louis.

The steward grimaced.

“Was her death sudden?”

The steward hesitated. “I believe so, my lord.”

Louis nodded. “Was the baby baptized?”

The steward pulled at his ear. “I think so. Named, wasn’t he?”

“Yes—Francis.”

“My father was steward then. He would know more, if he were alive.”

“The priest, Father Thierry, is no longer living, either. Who else might have helped with the birth or with the infant?” asked Louis.

The steward put a finger to his lips and thought. “Well, Father Thierry had an assistant, but he’s been gone at least fifteen years. Left around the time your mother died, I think. And the wet nurse moved away, about the same time. I can’t recall her name, but maybe I can find that out.”

“Check with everyone who was here. Let me know if there is anyone who might know about the baby.”

“Anything in particular my lord?” asked the steward, keys banging as he stood up.

“Everything,” answered Louis.

THE GRAY-AND-RED parrot sat on Luc’s shoulder, where it had perched ever since it had been given to Salah by Tariq five weeks earlier. Luc had constructed a hanging roost in a corner of Salah’s room and another in the kitchen, high enough to be safe from Cat. But usually, the bird sat on the boy’s shoulder.

Luc had begun teaching the bird greetings and small talk in French.

Salah sighed. “I should punish you, Luc, for teaching the bird anything but Arabic.”

Luc tipped his head. “But then the bird could talk to Bes.”

Salah frowned. “Ah, Luc. He who seeks a flawless friend remains friendless.”

“Master, you have said that the rain wets the leopard’s skin, but it will not wash out the spots.”

“I also said, if there were no fault, there would be no pardon. Bes has tried to be civil with you for months, but you remain unfriendly.”

“But—”

“No, Luc. I know Bes was cruel to you.”

“Very.”

Luc was dusting the books on Salah’s desk. He turned his face to the bird on his shoulder, and the parrot nuzzled the boy.

Salah steepled his hands. “Bes felt threatened.”

“By me? A powerless slave?”

Salah put up a hand. “Your relentless self-pity blinds you.”

“Blinds me to what?”

“To what you have. I no longer blame Bes. It is you who are wrong.”

“He still has my ear.”

“Your ear?” Salah pushed himself back from the desk, and the chair legs squealed on the tile floor.

“My wooden ear,” said Luc.

“Have you asked for it back?”

“No.”

“Because you rarely speak to him?”

“He knows I want it back. It’s mine.”

Salah shook his head. “He waits for you to ask, and you
wait for him to give? Allah has no mercy for those who have no mercy for their fellow man.”

Luc frowned and brought the bird to the perch, where it sat whistling and singing. Salah was rubbing his hands together, blowing into them.

“Shall I light a fire, master?” asked Luc.

Although it was a mild day in April, and the room was comfortable, Salah nodded. As Luc knelt to light the charcoal in the iron brazier, Salah handed the boy a brown nugget.

“Drop this into the fire, Luc.”

“What is it, master?” asked Luc, examining the opaque lump in his hand.

“Myrrh. The tears of a thorn tree.”

“Tears?”

“It is the sap of an Arabian tree. The myrrh soothes, and the charcoal warms. I am very cold today.”

Bes entered the room, and the parrot began to squawk. The little man stood on his toes and spoke gently to the bird, but when he extended his finger, the parrot chomped down and drew blood. Bes yelped, and put his bleeding finger into his mouth.

Luc said nothing.

“Damn both you and that infernal creature,” the little man snarled at Luc. Before he could say any more, there was a crash, and Salah slumped to the floor.

Luc and Bes rushed to help the old man, who had struck
his head on a corner of his table; blood pulsed from a gash on his forehead. Luc pressed a cloth against the cut to stanch the flow. Bes positioned a pillow under Salah’s head and tried to make him comfortable on the floor.

“Press this against his wound,” ordered Luc, handing the cloth to Bes. Luc tucked a blanket around the old man and rushed to fill the silver pitcher. He washed Salah’s bloody face. Salah’s eyes fluttered, and he looked at the boy fearfully for a moment. Then he closed his eyes again. Luc checked the wound. Bes watched.

Luc said, “It’s not a deep cut.”

“But there was so much blood,” said Bes, wrinkling his nose.

“The bleeding has already stopped. I’ll clean the cut and wrap his head. The wound doesn’t need to be stitched.”

“The master has never been the same since that day you treated Ibi’s cheek,” said Bes softly.

Salah opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Luc bent close.

“Can you speak, master?” asked Luc.

Salah tried, but he only uttered garbled sounds.

“Raise your right hand,” said Luc.

The old man closed his eyes, and lifted his right hand just barely above his lap.

“The left hand?” asked Luc gently.

The old man closed his eyes again, and nothing happened.

Luc took Salah’s left hand in his own.

“Can you squeeze my finger?” he asked.

Nothing happened. Salah closed his eyes.

Bes whispered in Luc’s ear. “It’s much worse this time, right?”

Luc chewed his lip. “I don’t know.”

Bes began to sob. “Salah is my life. What am I to do?”

The old man stirred and looked at Bes. He tried to talk, but still nothing came out as a word.

“Hush,” said Luc to both Bes and Salah. “You need to rest, Salah. We’ll stay right here with you.”

“Good night,” piped the bird in a baby voice from his perch. “Pretty bird.”

Bes shook his head. “Damn bird.”

Luc half smiled at the little man. “At least he hasn’t broken into song.”

Bes took a deep breath and smiled back. The old man was watching Bes and Luc, and he smiled crookedly—only the right side of his mouth turned up.

Luc squinted at Salah, and Salah closed his eyes.

“He might sleep now,” said Luc. “Stay with him, Bes. Call me if he stirs. I’ll brew him some willow-bark tea. Then I can take over the watch.” Luc offered the bird his finger, and the creature hopped on and toddled up his arm to his shoulder.

“I’ll be back soon,” Luc told Bes.

So they took turns sitting with the old man as he slept
fitfully through the morning. At the call for the midday prayer, Salah awoke and sipped the tea that Luc held to his lips. He was bewildered; he raised his right hand to his head and touched the bandage. His left arm dangled, and the left side of his face drooped. Luc reached for Salah’s right hand, and the old man’s fingers tightened over the boy’s hand.

“Are you feeling any better, master?”

The old man locked eyes with Luc. “Worse thith time,” he whispered.

Luc nodded. “Yes.”

Salah let go of Luc’s hand and tapped his bandage.

Luc said, “You hit your head. The cut is clean and shallow. It should heal quickly.”

The old man whispered, “Promith.”

“Promise what?” asked Luc.

The old man blinked. “Stay till I die.”

“I am your slave,” said Luc. “You don’t need my promise.”

“No. Promith.”

“I promise, Salah. For the rest of your life, I shall be right here. Even if I could, I would not leave you,” said Luc, and he covered his heart with his right hand.

Salah nodded. “When I die, you’ll be free.”

The old man closed his eyes. Luc said nothing, but he felt the rush of heat to his cheeks and the quickened beat of his heart. He took a deep breath and looked at Salah, but the old man was already asleep.

SPRING WAS ENDING, and heat thickened the air. Salah improved, but he did not recover. His speech had returned, but his left arm and the left side of his face were paralyzed; he could shuffle only a few steps with a cane. One morning in late May, with Bes’s help, Luc settled Salah in the courtyard, where they piled pillows in an alcove that faced the bubbling fountain. The caged birds sang, and the garden was filled with bright roses. Luc was reading aloud a story about Sinbad the Sailor from a glorious manuscript that Salah had acquired in Egypt many years before. It was richly illustrated with depictions of sea voyages, monsters, and treasures. Though he stumbled often, Luc was growing to love reading these tales of adventure.

“Well done, Luc,” said Salah when the boy reached the tale’s end. “It’s lovely to listen to Sinbad while sitting here on a silk cushion, but if I were a young man, I would travel. I would venture beyond the ends of the known world. When I am gone, Luc, cross the Atlantic. I would give anything to be a part of that adventure.”

Luc closed the book. “I may, Salah. But first I will return and see Pons and his sister and Beatrice.”

“Is she beautiful, this Beatrice?”

“Very,” said Luc, blushing.

“The whisper of a pretty girl is heard farther away than the lion’s roar.”

“Was there never a pretty woman for you, Salah?” asked Luc.

Salah closed his eyes. “I was always too deep in my studies. I never bothered to know anyone very well.”

“Except Bes.”

The old man smiled at Luc. “Yes. And now you.”

Luc was silent for a while.

Salah tugged at his beard. “After you have visited the fisherman and his wife—”

“His sister,” corrected Luc.

“The fisherman and his sister and the beautiful Beatrice—after you have visited them, Luc, what will you do?”

“I shall visit my mother and my brothers.”

“And your father?”

“I don’t know if he is my father. But yes. Even him.”

“Can it be, my boy, that you have learned to forgive?”

“I don’t know, master.”

A lopsided smile spread on Salah’s face.

“The wisest man is the one who can forgive,” said Salah.

Luc smiled. “Do you know whom I really miss?”

Salah asked, “Is there yet another girl?”

Luc shook his head. “I miss my dog.”

“Such an odd race, with your pet dogs. How you cling to your primitive ways, Luc! Stubborn you remain.”

“But not obstinate?”

“You have a fine mind, Luc. Much too fine to just fish and repair nets.”

Luc said, “I think I would have been a good fisherman.”

“I have no doubt of that,” said the old man. “After I am gone, I know you will go home, but not to fish.”

“No, not to fish. I don’t know what I’ll do. But I still have much to learn from you. I don’t expect to go home soon.”

“Death rides a fast horse.”

“In your case, I hope he has fallen from the horse.”

“At least for a little while longer, yes, my boy?”

“Yes, master.”

Salah nodded. “It is in the hands of Allah. Will you consider a proposition from me?”

Luc raised his eyebrows. “A proposition?”

“Yes, there is something I want you to do after I am gone.”

“Of course.”

“Take Bes.”

“Bes?”

“Yes.” The old man nodded. “He will be lost without me.”