The Unfortunate Son (13 page)

Luc shook his head.

“No, I didn’t think so. Tonight you shall hear me play the
bendir
. You can
hear
music? With only one ear?” asked Bes, cupping his ear and holding up one finger.

Luc did not respond.

“A rock is better company.”

Luc shrugged. Bes narrowed his eyes and hissed. He cut slits in the lamb, jamming the pockets with spices and herbs and slivers of garlic. Then he threaded the meat on a spit and set it over a low-burning fire.

“Turn the spit. If you burn the meat, I will beat the soles of your feet. Most masters flog their slaves every day. The old man is far too kind.”

Bes dumped a basket of dates onto the table.

“Remove the stones and stuff each date with an almond. Can you handle that, wordless swine?”

The fragrance of roasting lamb drifted through Salah’s
house. Bes pressed the filleted fish with crushed almonds and mustard greens and rolled the stuffed fillets. He layered slices of lemon on the fish and poured vinegar into the pan. He sprinkled the cut carrots over the top.

Bes wrapped a turban around his head, and Luc copied him. He was growing used to this Arab custom, which hid his missing ear and what remained of his golden hair. What would Beatrice think of him in this Moorish head wrap?

Later, as he served Salah and the elderly physician in a niche off the courtyard under the stars, Luc thought of the simple meals back home on a bench outside the cottage on a summer night. How he would love to show Beatrice the unimagined luxuries of this exotic place! The diners lounged on thick silken cushions. Oil lanterns hung from the trees, lighting the low dining table. Salah and his guest talked and ate with deft fingers, sharing beautiful, fragrant platters of fish and lamb. Bes whisked away the empty dishes, and Luc presented an alabaster bowl of sugared orange slices with shaved cinnamon and a silver tray of almond-stuffed dates and fresh figs.

Bes appeared leading a snake charmer to entertain.

The snake charmer glided in, holding a covered basket in his outstretched arms. He bowed to Salah and then to the other physician. Salah nodded, and the snake charmer slid to the ground, kneeling. He settled back on his heels, removed the basket top, and raised a wooden flute to his lips. Red and yellow tassels dangled from the instrument.
Swaying and dipping his head and shoulders, the snake charmer played a high-pitched trill. He closed his eyes and threaded his tune with deeper notes; one snake slithered from the basket, then another, and another. Three snakes lined up in front of the man. The cadence shifted, and the notes accelerated; the serpents edged up vertically until they stood on their tails. They swayed to the music. Luc watched from a corner of the alcove. He hated snakes, but he couldn’t look away. The snake charmer began to play a mellow, slow song, and two of the snakes slipped back to the ground and up into the basket. The remaining snake, the largest of the three, brown-speckled with a cream underbelly, slid into the flute player’s lap and then rose, gliding up his chest, across his shoulders, and encircling his neck. The song was achingly sweet, and except for his fingers, the snake charmer was motionless. The snake’s lidless eyes caught the lantern light, and a pink tongue flicked from its mouth.

The man opened his eyes and stopped playing, and the snake uncoiled from his neck and glided over his shoulders and down to the ground. The snake charmer nodded to Bes, who began to tap his fingers on his
bendir
, a small wood-framed drum strung with three strings under its goatskin drumhead. Bes’s fingers moved quickly, and the
bendir
buzzed and thumped. Bes rolled his shoulders rhythmically and tapped one foot. The speckled snake moved toward Bes, who struck the drum more loudly and more quickly. Slowly, the snake slid over Bes’s other foot and climbed up his leg,
disappearing under the little man’s robe. Bes danced more quickly, beating the drum more loudly. The
bendir
vibrated and hummed, and the snake charmer took up his flute and launched into a sharp, fast tune to the beat of the drum. The snake appeared, headfirst, slithering out from the left sleeve of Bes’s robe.

Suddenly the music stopped, and the only sound was the splash of the fountain. Bes dropped the drum and snatched the snake in his fist. Then he put the head of the serpent in his mouth and bit down hard. He dropped the writhing carcass and spit out the creature’s head. The severed snake head opened its mouth, hissed, and then its jaws clamped shut as it rolled across the floor to Cat, who pounced on it and carried it off to the kitchen. Bes bowed to the snake charmer. He bowed to Salah and his guest.

Then he turned to Luc, drew a finger across his neck, and winked at the boy.

PONS RARELY FISHED that summer. When the moon was bright, he sometimes left home just after midnight, but he returned by dawn because the sun was hot, his hands hurt, and he missed the boy. From Oubert, Pons learned of agents who would search in Africa for captives and arrange for ransoms, but the cost was beyond any sum that Pons could even dream of.

One midsummer afternoon, while Pons slept, Beatrice sat sewing under the linden tree. Mattie whittled a hollow stick of hazel wood.

“Ever smell anything better than linden blossom?” asked Mattie, looking up at the thick, dark leaves and remembering the yellow blossoms of early July.

“Lily of the valley,” said Beatrice. She bit her lip as she pushed a needle through the rough linen cloth she was holding.

Mattie leaned over the girl’s work. “Tsk, tsk, Beatrice. Make those stitches smaller. And don’t pull the needle through unless the stitch comes up in line.”

Beatrice puffed out her cheeks and put the sewing down in her lap. “It’s no use.”

Mattie put her arm around the girl. “Just takes time. And patience. Put it away for now. It’s too hot for anything except sitting.”

“And thinking,” sighed Beatrice.

“Thinking about what?”

“About Luc,” said Beatrice.

Mattie nodded and notched the wood. “It was good having a young person here for you. For all of us.”

“I miss him,” said Beatrice, rolling up her sewing. “Mattie, do you think we could talk to Luc’s mother about what Alain said? If Luc
is
really Sir Guy’s son, perhaps that family would pay his ransom.”

“Sir Guy is dead.” Mattie shook her head and added, “What’s done is done. Besides, do you think the old knight’s family would care that his bastard was kidnapped?”

Mattie put down her knife, and mopped her face with her apron.

“What other chance does Luc have?” asked Beatrice.

“I don’t think there is any hope for the boy. But I
wouldn’t mind hearing about those secrets Alain spoke of,” said Mattie. “Perhaps we
could
pay a visit to Luc’s mother ….”

“Today?”

Mattie shook her head. “In this heat?” Mattie looked at Beatrice’s face, and patted her hand. “All right. Let’s go while Pons sleeps. We’ll just pay Luc’s mother a call to say how much we miss the boy. Let’s pray the woman’s husband is napping. I don’t want him lurking about.”

“And we’d better not bring Cadeau.”

Mattie held up the hazel-wood stick she’d been whittling. “I made this flute for the older of Luc’s two brothers. Made a whistle for the little one last week. I thought we might be heading up there soon.”

Beatrice smiled. “I’ll pick Luc’s mother a bunch of lavender.”

“You watch for spiders.”

“You didn’t need to remind me, Mattie.”

Beatrice stood and smoothed her gray dress. It was a plain kirtle of light wool, laced in the front with darker gray ribbon, over a linen smock with sleeves upon which Mattie had embroidered yellow flowers. Unlike Mattie, who wore wooden clogs, Beatrice wore good leather shoes that Mattie bought for her every fall from the cobbler who came to the village fair.

Mattie mopped her face again and said, “Wear that big straw hat I made you. Remember who you are.”

“I know who I am, Mattie.” The girl’s hair was loose, and she pushed it back behind her ears.

“You are a lady, Beatrice. Never forget that.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, but she fetched the wide-brimmed hat and tied it under her chin.

“I should braid your hair, Beatrice.”

“I’ll tuck it up under my hat,” she said.

Mattie and Beatrice looped their way under trees, wherever they found patches of shade. Neither had ever seen the olive grove or the stone house.

“This is a mighty nice place,” said Mattie with a whistle. “Far grander than I imagined. And they let the boy work as a swineherd?”

Beatrice nodded. “Luc must have mattered very much to Sir Guy.”

Mattie sucked in her top lip. “It might have nothing to do with Luc, Beatrice.”

Beatrice put her arm around Mattie. “I pray it has everything to do with him.”

Luc’s mother answered their first knock. Two boys appeared behind her, and Mattie handed the whistle to Pierre and the flute to Hervé.

“Did you bring the dog?” asked Hervé.

“Shoo!” said Luc’s mother to her sons, who disappeared happily to try their presents. Blanche buried her nose in the lavender Beatrice gave to her, and breathed deeply.

“Thank you. Come where we can sit in the shade,” she said, leading them to the courtyard, where there were two benches under a large chestnut tree. “My husband is asleep. Just as well, if you have come to speak of Luc.” She laid her palm flat against her chest. “I am Blanche. You must be Mattie and Beatrice.”

At first the women talked of the hot summer weather, the lavender, and about Mattie’s carving.

“Luc said your cottage is a marvel,” said Blanche, tucking under the ragged cuffs of her sleeves.

“We miss the boy,” said Mattie.

“Very much,” added Beatrice.

Blanche blinked hard and put her hand to her mouth. “He was happy with you.”

“A special boy,” said Mattie. “Wise beyond his years.”

“Most of the time,” added Beatrice.

“Luc was clever. And handsome. People didn’t really notice his ear, not right away,” said Blanche, shaking her head. “I loved him,” she added.

Mattie nodded. “We do too.”

“He needs your help,” said Beatrice.

“Help?” Blanche frowned. “Luc is dead. Pascal says he fell overboard. The old man couldn’t save him, so he made up that tale about pirates.”

Mattie shook her head. “Pons is more honest than sunshine. The boy was stolen, just as my brother said.”

“Even if what Pons says is true, isn’t it the same as if the boy drowned?” asked his mother. “Maybe worse.”

“No,” said Beatrice. “Luc could be ransomed. There are men in Africa who hunt for captives. But it’s very costly.”

“Costly? Who would pay for the boy? I’ve nothing of value,” said Blanche.

“But,” said Beatrice, “the olive grove—this house …” She motioned to the courtyard and the sturdy yellow stone farmhouse with its double roof of baked earthen tiles.

“My husband will never part with the grove or our home.”

“Does it belong to him or to Luc?” asked Beatrice.

Blanche glared at Beatrice. “It belongs to my husband. It will belong to my sons one day. What stories have you heard?”

“Sir Guy—”

Blanche frowned. “Sir Guy is dead. This has nothing to do with him.”

“We heard he was Luc’s father,” said Beatrice.

Luc’s mother hissed, “Sir Guy was nothing to the boy.”

Mattie rose. “That’s enough, Beatrice.”

“Won’t you help your son?” begged Beatrice, ignoring Mattie.

“My son?” Blanche replied, covering her face, her voice breaking into sobs.

Mattie sat down next to the weeping woman and put an arm around her. Through Blanche’s worn dress, Mattie felt
the sharpness of the woman’s shoulders and the knobbiness of her spine. “Hush, now,” said Mattie. “We only came tell you how much we miss your son.”

Blanche began to cry harder.

Her face was still covered by her hands when Blanche finally spoke.

“Luc is not my son.”

AS MATTIE AGAIN rose to leave, Blanche wiped her face with her apron and motioned for her to sit. “I shouldn’t be telling you. If Pascal knew—”

“We’ll go now, before he wakes,” said Mattie, motioning to Beatrice to get up.

“Stay; Pascal’s done for the day,” said Blanche bitterly.

“Whose son
is
Luc?” asked Beatrice, as she stood up.

“Hush! Come, Beatrice,” said Mattie, taking her by the arm.

Blanche shook her head. She gulped a few times and dabbed her eyes. “Stay. I
need
to tell someone. This terrible secret has dried up my heart, chewed at my soul. Now that
Luc’s lost, I don’t know what will happen. I fear we’ll lose everything anyway.”

“Will you tell us the whole story?” asked Beatrice.

Blanche looked at the girl and said, “I don’t know if keeping this secret matters anymore. Now that Luc is gone. But it may, so you must promise to never tell a soul. Swear it.”

“I swear,” said Mattie.

“Me, too,” said Beatrice.

Mattie and Beatrice sat down. Blanche blew her nose and continued.

“I’m not Luc’s real mother. I was only his wet nurse.” She began to rock back and forth as she talked. “He was such a beautiful baby.

“But when I saw that he was born with only one ear? I didn’t know what to do. Who ever heard of such a thing?” Blanche crossed herself. “No one else had noticed. I had just bathed him and wrapped him when the count stormed into the birth room, demanding to see his son.”

Beatrice gasped, “The count?”

“Count de Muguet?” asked Mattie. “Luc is the son of Count de Muguet?”

Blanche nodded.

Mattie pounded her hand with her fist. “Poor Luc. To have such a father.”

Beatrice winced. “And the countess is his mother?”

Blanche nodded.

Mattie patted Blanche’s knee, but Beatrice said, “Wait, if you were his wet nurse, you ought to have another child, a child near Luc’s age.”

Blanche nodded and took a deep breath. Again, she began rocking as she spoke. “When he first saw his son, the count was very pleased. But the child was swaddled, so he had no idea that anything was wrong. He ordered me to get the baby ready for the priest and tossed me a cloth to wrap him. I remember it was gold, stitched with pearls.”