The Unfortunate Son (7 page)

“Crimson, eh? What would the neighbors say if I showed up at Saint Olive’s in crimson? Ah, but I would love it,” said Mattie.

“What would you bring for Beatrice?” asked Pons.

“A silk dress. The color of the sea,” said Luc, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked toward the beach.

“Buttercup yellow,” corrected Beatrice. She had a rough brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and she drew it tightly against the breeze.

“Buttercup yellow it will be,” said Luc, turning to Beatrice and smiling again. He pulled his blanket tight around himself.

“A crimson cape for me and a yellow silk dress for Beatrice?” asked Mattie, raising an eyebrow. “Do you really think you’ll get rich enough fishing?”

“I think he might. Never had so many fish in my nets,” said Pons. “Luc’s already a skilled fisherman, and what’s more, he’s good luck.” Pons crunched down on a sardine, and oil dribbled down his chin. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and leaned against the cottage wall.

“Father said I was cursed,” said Luc, leaning back next to Pons.

“No, Luc.” The old man closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. “Mmm. Feel that warmth? Spring will be here soon. Lent is coming. The price of fish always goes up. Good times, my lucky boy.”

Mattie squinted against the sun as she scanned the skies. She bit her lip and sighed.

“What is it?” asked Beatrice.

Pons sat up, and Mattie pointed with her chin but
said nothing as the other three looked up at the sky.

“The devil take it,” said Pons, spitting on the ground. “Not what I want to see.”

“What?” asked Luc. “That’s a stork, isn’t it? I thought they were good luck.”

“No, Luc. You’re looking too far out. See right over there?” said Beatrice, pointing to a bird that had just landed nearby. “The heron. It’s too close to the house. You don’t want a heron near.”

“It’s a sign of something bad to come,” said Mattie.

“Pshaw!” said Pons. “I’m not going to worry now that I have my good-luck boy,” he said, rubbing Luc’s head. “He sees a lucky stork over there. Come on, Luc, finish up eating so we can sleep. Tomorrow we’ll spot your dolphins, and then we won’t worry at all.”

Luc and Pons napped; when Luc woke in the late afternoon, he joined Mattie and Beatrice, who were planting peas.

“What did you do all day, Lady Beatrice?” asked Luc, bowing at the waist as he took a sack of seed peas from her.

“Are you asking what
I
did while
you
slept half the afternoon?” asked Beatrice.

“I worked on the roof all morning with Pons, and I’ll be out fishing before dawn while you’re snug in your feather bed,” said Luc.

“I just sleep the day away,” said Beatrice, yawning and stretching her arms.

Luc laughed and dropped to his knees. Crawling down
the rows, he released one pea into each hole that Beatrice punched with a stick. Mattie followed, closing the holes with her foot. Now and then Beatrice poked Luc with the stick, and Mattie shook her head and muttered, until Luc popped up to his feet suddenly. He opened his hand under Beatrice’s nose; in his palm was a large, striped, hairy centipede. Beatrice screamed and ran into the house.

“That was not nice, young man,” said Mattie. “You
are
lucky, though. Those darn things sting something nasty. But it didn’t get you, did it?” she added as she hurried after Beatrice.

Luc chuckled and finished planting peas alone. He brushed the dirt from his knees and hands and went inside as the sun set. Beatrice was stirring a pot suspended over the fire. Luc sat next to Pons at the table. She slapped a bowl of soup in front of him. Broth splashed over the rim and puddled around his dish.

“What do
you
do all day except float around in a little boat?” she asked Luc, still furious.

Luc bit his lip and grinned. Pons shrugged his shoulders and picked up his spoon.

Mattie was at the hearth tending oatcakes that sizzled on a flat stone. Using the heel of a wide knife, she slid a hot cake in front of Pons. When she got to Luc, she said, “Not a word from you, Luc. Just eat up, and hush up.”

Beatrice sat down without speaking; she finished her meal, rinsed her bowl, and climbed into the loft.

Luc helped Mattie, fetching water and sweeping the floor. It was dark when he and Pons rolled the net to ready it for the next day.

Luc said good night, curled up on his pallet with Cadeau, and fell asleep.

Hours later, but well before dawn, Luc was sitting with Mattie and Pons in front of the fire in the dark early morning.

“Time to fish,” said Pons, standing up. “Ready, Luc?”

As Luc stood, he saw Beatrice backing down the ladder.

“What are
you
doing awake?” asked Mattie.

“What can I do to help?” asked Beatrice, yawning.

Mattie rolled her eyes and laughed, “Sit down, Luc; the fish can wait a little. I’ll pour more linden tea for you, Pons.”

Pons nodded and held up his mug. He sat down next to Beatrice. Luc sat across from the girl, facing the hearth.

“I’m sorry about the bug,” he said.

Beatrice stuck her tongue out at Luc, but then she smiled.

“This is nice,” he said. “Having you here in the morning, Beatrice.”

Mattie leaned down and kissed the girl’s head. “Yes, but don’t you make a habit of it.”

Beatrice yawned, “I don’t think I will. Aren’t you tired, Luc?”

“I’m used to it,” he answered.

Mattie handed Beatrice a steaming mug. She took it in both hands and held it under her nose.

“Mmm, I love this tea. Don’t you, Luc?”

He nodded.

Beatrice watched him over her mug. “Yesterday you said that you like this fishing life, right?”

Luc rubbed his brow with his palm; he looked at his lap and sighed.

Mattie patted his head. “Something troubling you, boy?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Tell us,” said Beatrice.

“It’s two things,” he finally said.

Pons cocked his head and rubbed his chin. “Two problems?”

Luc nodded.

“Out with it,” said Mattie, sitting down.

“Pons is a wonderful man,” said Luc.

“The best,” said Beatrice, yawning again.

“But?” asked Mattie.

“He breaks wind something fierce. Even in the open air of the boat, I worry I’m going to die. I’ll just fall over dead in the boat.”

Mattie opened her eyes wide, then she noticed the growing smile on the boy’s face. “You rascal.”

“I am not joking,” said Luc, sucking in his cheeks.

Beatrice began to laugh. “He’s been like that as long as I’ve lived here.”

Mattie began to laugh harder. “I could carve a plug for him.”

Pons looked at all of them. “You are meaner than a nest of hornets.”

Mattie nodded but had to stop laughing before she could reply. She wiped her eyes. “Well now, I hear a spoon of fennel seed and honey taken morning and night might help.”

Pons smiled. “Honey, eh? Not going to argue with that cure.”

The fire flared and spit, and a spark popped and sizzled in the dirt near Beatrice’s foot. Luc smothered it, pushing earth over it with his heel.

“You said there were
two
things,” said Beatrice to Luc, yawning again.

“Are we keeping you awake?” asked Luc.

“Yes.”

“Poor Lady Beatrice,” said Luc, standing and adding a log to the fire.

Beatrice frowned. “You said there were two problems.”

“It’s nothing,” answered Luc, without turning. He stared into the hearth.

“Out with it, Luc,” said Mattie.

Luc turned and plonked down next to Beatrice. She elbowed him, and he elbowed her right back.

“Ooof,” said Beatrice, pinching Luc.

“Ow, that hurt,” he whined.

Beatrice sucked in her cheeks, imitating Luc. “What’s the
other
thing?” she asked.

“Well,” said Luc, rubbing his arm where he’d been pinched, “it’s about you, Beatrice.”

“About Beatrice?” said Mattie. “The perfect Beatrice?”

“I thought
I
was near perfect,” muttered Pons.

“You are,” said Mattie. “
Nearly
perfect. Beatrice is just plain perfect.”

“Tell us, Luc. What’s wrong with Beatrice?” asked Pons.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“No,” said Pons. “Nothing I can think of.”

“Me neither,” said Mattie.

“Beatrice snores,” said Luc.

“I do not,” she insisted.

“Yes, you do. Louder than you could imagine. Like a big noisy storm,” insisted Luc.

Mattie raised her eyebrows. “Well, now.”

“Luc is lying, right, Mattie?” asked Beatrice.

Mattie shook her head. “Oh no. Some nights you’re like thunder.”

Pons added, “We never wanted to hurt your feelings.”

“It’s a wonder you don’t loosen the roof,” added Luc.

Beatrice shook her head. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. I snore?”

Luc asked, “Mattie, anything you could carve or brew up for snoring?”

Mattie drummed her lips with her fingers. “I could maybe carve some plugs for our ears.”

“Lucky me,” said Luc, “I’ll only need one plug.”

Beatrice frowned at Luc.

Luc elbowed her.

“Stop it,” said Beatrice.

“We’re just joking,” he said.

“What?” asked Beatrice, her face reddening.

“You don’t snore. You’re perfect. Just like everyone says,” said Luc.

“You’re anything but,” said Beatrice, but she was smiling.

“No one ever said I was perfect. Not even nearly,” said Luc.

Mattie suddenly reached out and plucked more than a few hairs from Luc’s head.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?”

Mattie took the hair and held it in the firelight. “Pretty hair.”

Luc was rubbing his head. “Thanks.”

She leaned over the hearth and dropped the strands onto the embers—the fire grew brighter for an instant as the hair coiled and disappeared in the flame.

“Good, good, good!” said Mattie, rubbing her hands together.

“What’s going on?” asked Luc.

Beatrice answered, “Mattie says if your hair burns brightly, your life will be long.”

“And lucky?” asked Luc.

“It already is,” said Beatrice.

THROUGHOUT FEBRUARY AND into March, every afternoon when Pons and Luc returned with their catch, Beatrice and Mattie spread the fish in big wooden tubs. Pons coated each fish layer with salt until the tub was filled. Mattie topped the tubs with wooden planks, and Luc weighted the planks with heavy rocks. After two weeks, the salted fish were washed in seawater and hung to dry in the front of the house with Cadeau standing guard. In this manner, they prepared the fish Pons owed to the count.

Winter ended with more fish in the nets each day, and as the days lengthened, the sun grew warmer. Luc would sit in the bow, cleaning the catch. First he sliced off the fins, and then, using the back of his knife, he flaked off the scales from
the skin before slitting each fish lengthwise along its belly. He scooped out the guts, sliced off the tail, and pulled out the gills. After flipping these discards to the circling gulls, Luc rinsed each carcass in seawater. It was messy work, and Pons was impressed with the boy’s skill.

One morning in early March, Pons presented Luc with a new knife. It had a fine steel blade, a yew-wood handle, and a leather sheath. Luc was speechless.

“It’s time you had a good knife of your own, Luc. You’ve earned it.”

Luc was quiet the rest of the day; Pons watched him take the knife from the sheath again and again, turning it over, weighing it in his palm. At one point the boy held it so that the sunlight hit the blade, and light danced in a patch on the floor of the boat.

When Luc and Pons returned from fishing that day, they found two soldiers in dark-blue tunics sitting at the table with Mattie. Luc recognized one of men as the soldier who had always accompanied Sir Guy on his biannual visits to Luc’s family. He was a big-bellied man with unruly eyebrows and an easy laugh. With him was another soldier, a skinny, pigeon-toed youth whom Luc had never before seen.

“Hello, Pons,” said the burly soldier, turning to snag a loaf of bread from the windowsill. He pointed to the young soldier. “This is Henri, my aide. See to our horses and the mule, Henri.”

As Henri left, Pons nodded and sat down. “Hello, Alain. This is my helper, Luc.”

Alain jammed a chunk of bread into his mouth and raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Luc? The boy from the olive orchard?” he asked between chews.

“The same,” said Pons.

“I thought he looked familiar. Of course, the dog outside,” Alain said, whacking his head with the heel of hand. Alain unbuckled the pouch on his belt and produced a wedge of leaf-wrapped cheese. “Help yourselves,” he said, peeling the cheese and slicing himself a large piece. “How about some wine, Mattie?”

Alain turned to Luc. “What are you doing here?”

Luc answered, “Learning to fish. What are you doing here, and where is Sir Guy?”

“I’m here collecting the Muguet rents. We didn’t visit your place last year, so you probably haven’t heard about Sir Guy.”

“What about him?” asked Luc.

“I am very sorry to tell you, he died last winter. One of many changes up north,” said Alain breaking off more bread.

“And the count?” asked Pons. “Last spring you told us he was taken with a fit about the time Sir Guy died.”

“Muguet is too mean to die,” said Mattie, setting a mug of wine in front of Alain.

Alain took a big swallow and wiped his mouth on his
sleeve. “He lingered for a year, but the count finally passed this January. It was a bad death.”

“Sir Guy worked for
that
count?” asked Luc.

“He did, and they’re both dead now.” Alain shook his head and offered Mattie a wedge of cheese. He cut another piece for himself

“What do you mean by a bad death?” she asked.

“Well, after that fit, Muguet couldn’t speak a word or move his arms. Helpless and hated? You can wager his final days weren’t filled with comfort. You ever hear about the count’s hands?”

Pons shrugged, and Mattie nodded.

“Count de Muguet had huge hands, but tiny thumbs. Like a baby’s thumbs. He hated anyone to see his hands. Always wore gloves or kept his hands balled into fists. Except after the fit, he couldn’t make a fist. I heard the servants used to prop him up in bed with his hands spread out on a pillow right in front of him. He had to look at those ugly thumbs every day for the last year of his life.”