Falconer's Quest (16 page)
“Easy now.” Falconer did not test the man’s strength. He did not need to. The servant was wide-eyed and trembling with terror. Keeping his voice level but stern, Falconer said, “You would not want that to go off and hurt someone.”
He doubted the man understood him. Nor did it matter. For the fight was not in him. Falconer removed the pistol, a long-barreled gun with a handle chased in silver. He held the waiter by his collar and trained the gun at a figure seated in a thronelike chair. The ivory mouthpiece of another water pipe dangled from an astonished open mouth. A young woman in Arab dress of balloon leggings sought enough air to scream. “Tell her to be quiet.”
But Raban was too astonished to speak.
“You. Come here.” When the woman did not move, Falconer instead pulled the servant forward by his collar. The servant protested weakly, but only until Falconer glared a warning. He forced the servant behind Raban’s chair. With the gun trained on their master, he used his other hand to press first the servant and then the young woman down until they were seated upon the floor.
“You…you can’t be here.”
“But I am.” Falconer stepped back until he rested against the side wall, able to observe both the trio and the entrance. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“My men—”
“Are on their way to the ship. Where they will engage in some scheme you have cooked up.” A bird with a bell attached to one claw flitted about a gilded cage. The cage was suspended from a ceiling beam, between two silver oil lamps. A lute rested on the wall beside a cushion, where no doubt the young woman was intended to sit and entertain her master. Falconer could not help but ask, “Is she a slave?”
The eyes hooded over. “Don’t tell me you are one of those.” Raban obviously was trying to gain control of the situation.
“I take that as a yes.”
“What an utterly wasted sentiment. She is quite happy as she is.” When Raban adjusted himself in his seat, Falconer’s pistol followed every movement.
He resisted the urge to argue further. “To the matter at hand.”
“Indeed.” Raban’s hiss returned, no doubt now certain Falconer was not there to do him harm. “I assume you are here to make plans to enrich yourself.”
“On the contrary. To enrich you.” Falconer slipped out a leather purse and tossed it over. Raban squealed in genuine fear until he heard it clank when it hit the carpet at his feet. “Open it.”
The merchant untied the knot and released a stream of gold into his lap. His robe was ornate and chased in silver thread, though pale in contrast to the coins in his lap.
“Two hundred and fifty sovereigns,” Falconer said.
Raban let the coins clink between his fingers. The young woman murmured softly. Raban smiled in her direction, a humorless gesture, one that boded ill. The woman either did not notice or chose not to care. Raban glanced at Falconer, his gray eyes scornful. “Here, I shall show you how happy are my little band.”
“Slavery is outlawed in France.”
“But this is not France, John Falconer. This is Le Panier.” Raban handed out a coin each, first to the servant and then to the girl. Raban allowed the young woman to capture his hand and kiss it in gratitude. “Do they appear sorrowful to you, John Falconer?”
Falconer’s voice grated with the strain of keeping his anger tamped down. “Either you will return my gold or you will agree to my terms.”
“But of course, John Falconer.” He turned Falconer’s first name into the French counterpart, Jean. “Only tell me what you wish. If it is within my grasp…”
“How long will it take you to get word to La Rue?”
“Three days, four at the most.” He returned his attention to the young woman, stroking the side of her face, mocking Falconer with his eyes. “Why?”
The young woman’s eyes were as void of life and hope as any Falconer had ever seen. His former sorrow and guilt and rage now fueled a cauldron within his heart. “Tell La Rue exactly this. We will rendezvous with him ten miles off the coast of Tunis. He will bring the two captives. We will exchange them for gold.”
Raban continued stroking the woman’s face as he faked consideration. The woman stared into the nothingness before her, her face a thousand years old.
Raban said, “La Rue will not come alone, John Falconer.”
Falconer gave no indication this was exactly what he was intending. “We will then pay you the same amount again upon our return, so long as the two captives are safe and unharmed.”
The next six days passed pleasantly enough. Harkness permitted his men to disembark to go into Marseilles in groups of at least two, preferably three, when not on watch. The officers, as well as Amelia Henning and the master, never set one foot on land alone. Sailors could not bear arms in a foreign port, but no one could force them to give up their billy clubs or working knives. These they wore in plain view. Ordered to remain outside the Panier district, they all were able to avoid trouble.
Each day Falconer took Matt out for a walk about Marseilles. They visited the emperor’s museum, which was largely given over to prizes taken from Napoleon’s various conquests overseas. They visited ancient churches. They ate in a trio of restaurants. They watched the people. On the sixth day, their last but one at port, Falconer packed a rucksack with provisions and told Matt he would walk the young lad’s legs off. Matt took it as the challenge that it was, responding with a brilliant smile, the first since they had docked in the city. The expression drew Ada into a clarity Falconer had not known for several weeks, sharp and strong enough that he felt anew the dagger of loss.
Four of them left the ship, father and son accompanied by Soap and Bivens. The two sailors claimed nothing would suit them better than a chance to walk in a straight line until their strength gave way.
They left the city by the so-called northwestern gate, though in truth the city’s medieval walls were little more than crumbling relics. Owners of outlying homes had stolen stones from the fortifications, leaving holes big enough to send armies through. Beyond the gate was yet another market, this one for regional farmers who displayed heaps of late fruit and bleating animals and ropes of fresh-made sausages. There they purchased a loaf of rosemary-scented flatbread, a chunk of glistening cheese, and fresh-churned butter. They followed a road that ran through a copse of trees before joining with the first of the neighboring slopes. They finally halted when a pair of hills and valleys separated them from the port. The day was clear, the clouds shepherded by a wind fresh enough to dry Falconer’s sweat as soon as it was formed. They took their water from a swift-flowing stream that meandered through the valley.
The meal completed, Falconer and Matt left their friends lolling beneath an elm and started slowly up the next slope. Sheep bleated in the pastures to either side of the road. Further east, flax grew upon the hillside beneath a crest of blooming myrtle. At least Falconer thought it was flax, with its silver face revealed under the rising wind. Falconer reckoned it late for the myrtle to be in full bloom, but the months ran differently here, he thought. Falconer had sailed the Med any number of times and knew it possessed a woman’s lovely ability to reveal an astonishing variety of moods and seasons.
Falconer waited until Matt selected a seat upon a likely looking log to say, “There’s been something I’ve meant to ask you about, lad.” He planted a boot on the log beside his son. “But shipboard life means that private conversations are hard to come by. If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak about it now.”
He knew he was speaking too formally. But truth be told, he had no idea how to broach such a subject with the boy. It was one of many areas where he sorely felt his lack of experience with children. “The day you climbed to the topsails, when you came down, you spoke of harboring fears. Do you remember that, lad?”
Matt squinted into the distance. The earth dropped away from their perch, tumbling down to where a creek glistened silver and a dusty road climbed the next hillside. He might have nodded. Or perhaps he simply drew himself in more tightly.
Falconer plugged forward determinedly. “I was wondering—that is, would you care to speak with me about the fears you hold?”
A bird not far different from a robin took up station in a neighboring oak. Falconer hoped the birdsong would not be the only response. Finally the boy spoke in a voice that blended with the wind. “Sometimes I don’t know why I’m afraid.”
“And other times?”
“I remember losing Mama.”
“Are you afraid I’ll leave you alone, son?” Falconer resisted the urge to take Matt in a massive embrace. “I have given my word to Reginald Langston that I would try and help free Lillian’s son. But I have other oaths that I must fulfill. Some to God, others to Ada. I confess that it is difficult at times to balance them. This has become one point that I pray most over. That and a true answer to our quests, most especially the one you and I share together. But say the word, son, and I will retreat from the quest to rescue the prisoners.”
Matt turned and looked at him. “Has God ever spoken to you, Father John?”
Of all the things he might have expected to hear from Matt, this was not one of them. “Aye.”
“What was it like?”
Falconer took his time walking around the log. He slowly settled down beside his son. “Do you remember Serafina? Of course you do. I once asked her the very same thing. She told me that God spoke to her most clearly in the small, quiet moments of life, and the most ordinary parts of her day. I do not think I ever heard God’s voice any clearer than in the love your dear mother gave to me every day of her life on earth.”
Matt rubbed at his eyes, two swift motions. “I’ve been so angry with God.”
“I can well understand that, Matt.”
“At first I thought the bad storm was because of me.”
Falconer comprehended the boy’s words all too well. He selected his words carefully. “If God chose to punish us for all the times we fail to act as we should, especially when life delivers its blows, I would be the first to reap the whirlwind.”
This time, Matt’s nod was more fully formed. “I knew it was wrong to think like I did. Master Soap, he was scared too. That’s why I sang. And I saw I couldn’t be angry or scared and still be able to sing. I could be one way or the other. Not both. Master Soap thought I sang for him. But I sang for me, Father John.”
Falconer found it necessary to clear his throat. “Is that why you sang for Mrs. Henning?”
“No…well, yes. In a way. In the storm, I saw how singing helped me push away the anger and the fear. No, not push…”
“You made a choice,” Falconer suggested. “The singing held you to your chosen course.”
“I sang for Mrs. Henning because I wanted to help her hold to God in spite of her worries over Kitty.” Matt glanced over, his tight gaze fashioned by staring toward the westering sun. “Did I do right, Father John?”
“Indeed you did, lad.”
“But one night, I heard her crying in her cabin.”
“One night of worry does not make a life, son. We all have our moments of human weakness. Some nights just seem darker than others. I feel certain Amelia Henning has held fast to her faith and her hope, and that your company has aided her.” His throat felt raw from the effort it required to keep his tone steady. “Sometimes we plant seeds of hope in others. But only God can see when they bring forth fruit.”
The lad said nothing further for a long while. Falconer felt he had given a very bad answer, such that it had pushed Matt away. He resolved to remain as he was until the lad was ready to leave.
Finally Matt spoke into the wind, still facing the lowering sun. “I became very frightened the day we first arrived here, Father John.”
Instantly he knew enough to fill in what his son had not said. “When I went to help the captain and Reginald?”
Matt nodded. “When you left the ship, I saw how the sailors watched you. They were worried. I knew it was dangerous. I went into the cabin and…and I cried.”
“Oh, my dear, sweet son. I would never want to cause you sorrow.”
“I prayed to God. And God spoke to me. At least I think He did.”
Falconer turned from the boy and also stared into the sunlight. “Now I understand your question. The answer is yes, God spoke to me once. It was in the weeks before I met your mother. A time of great distress, in a manner of speaking. One different from what we faced with your mother’s passing. But distressing just the same.”
He knew he was expressing himself badly. Matt had no idea of those days, when Falconer’s entire world revolved around Serafina and the fact that she would never be his. He had certainly loved her. But Ada had revealed to him something else entirely. The gift of a mature woman’s heart, a strong and independent soul who gave freely and totally. It was a form of love beyond anything Falconer might have imagined. No, it was not right to compare. But what he had felt for Serafina had at the time been very real. As had been the moment God had spoken.
“How did you know it was God, Father John?”
He realized Matt was watching him. Falconer stood and took a measured pace away from the log. He addressed the distant hillside. “The message was something that could not have come from myself. It was granted with an unearthly power. And it was in harmony with my study of the Scriptures. All these things came to me over time. At the moment, I tell you honestly, there was no room for such questions. God spoke and I listened.”
“Will the Lord speak to someone as young as me?”
Falconer looked at his son. “For all children everywhere, I cannot say. When I look at you, though, I see a lad who has faced down great fears, who has even greater reasons to rage at God for all your life long. I tell you in all honesty, Matt. Your wisdom astonishes me. You make me very proud.”
There was a change to the manner of silence between them, a comfortable union that went far beyond the setting or the circumstances. Falconer returned to the log, sat, and draped his arm around the boy’s shoulders. They listened to the wind and the sheep and the birds until a halloo from below signaled the others’ readiness to return.
