“What happened to Luc’s mother?” asked Beatrice.
Blanche shrugged. “There is an ugly history there. I didn’t return to her chamber; after the baptism, I took Luc straight to the nursery. I never saw her again, but it was an easy birth.”
Mattie said, “She was young and strong. I was surprised to hear that neither she nor the baby survived. Of course, by then, I was with my Beatrice in Sir Étienne’s house. I wasn’t hearing much of the castle.”
Blanche untied her cap and then retied it. She smoothed her dress and looked at Mattie. “The baby and the countess survived the birth. What the countess didn’t survive was her husband’s temper. Count de Muguet was furious, crazed even. Pascal heard he killed his wife and the midwife.”
“All this because the child was missing an ear?” said Mattie. “May Muguet rot in hell.” She spit on the ground.
“What happened to your baby?” Beatrice asked softly, kneeling in front of Blanche.
Blanche covered her face with her apron. Then Beatrice reached up and wrapped her arms around Blanche’s neck, and she and Blanche wept together. Blanche pulled Beatrice to the seat beside her and took her hand before speaking.
“The next day, two soldiers came to the nursery for me and Luc. One was Sir Guy. He led us outside the castle wall. My husband was there. His eyes were red, and he was alone. No one said anything. We got into a mule cart with Luc. Then the guards mounted, and Sir Guy rode in front and the other followed.” Blanche dropped Beatrice’s hand and smoothed her apron. She continued.
“The only thing Pascal said? ‘He is gone.’ Over and over. I knew he meant our son. Later I learned how. Sir Guy came to our home for Pascal and my baby and took them to the count. Pascal was so proud of our little son. He couldn’t help bragging; he had no idea why he was there. He thought the count was going to reward him, but the count began to laugh and said, ‘This peasant thinks he has a perfect child. Take the boy’s ear.’ He ordered the other soldier, not Sir Guy, to cut off my son’s ear. So much blood.” Blanche shook her head. “Our baby didn’t live through the night.”
Blanche pointed to the house and swept her arm all around. “This was the price he paid us for our son and for our silence. Land. As though I would trade my child for the moon, let alone a piece of land. But here it is, a fine stone house with a grove of olive trees, and it is ours, for always and for our children.”
“And so you took Luc,” said Mattie.
Blanche shrugged. “We were told to take him.”
“Then that was the count’s plan. He made Luc your son,” said Beatrice. “With the theft of an ear.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Skills
IT WAS AFTERNOON, just after the the muezzin’s midday cry. Luc had grown accustomed to hearing these calls to prayer, sung out from every mosque in the city, five times throughout each day. The heart of the summer’s heat had finally broken, and the late September days started warm but cooled once the sun set. Salah sat at his desk, where he had been reading. Luc rubbed a lemon-soaked cloth on the silver pitcher Salah always used when he treated patients. Salah knew from practice and observation that there were fewer infections when silver, rather than a base metal, was used for medical tools and vessels. The precious pitcher’s polished surface gleamed under Luc’s cloth. When he saw the shine, Salah nodded.
“This is the third season you have lived here, Luc.”
“Yes, master.”
“You understand every word of our language now, don’t you?”
“Almost every word, master.”
Luc reached for Salah’s tools. The blades of some of the scalpels were obsidian, a black, hard stone that could be honed to the sharpest point. The rest were silver: tweezers and tongs, picks and needles; Luc began to polish each one. Salah watched the boy.
“The unguent for skin disease?” asked the old man.
Luc looked up and said, “Olive oil and garlic. I made the paste this morning.”
“What would I ask you to hand me for a patient who complained of flatulence?”
Luc looked up from polishing for a moment with a half smile. “Peppermint and dill seed. I shall try that on Pons when I return home.”
“Home?” Salah frowned. He leaned back and twirled his beard with his long fingers. “You are more than I hoped for, Luc. You work hard, and in a short time, a remarkably short time, you have learned so much beyond the language,” he said, pointing to the jars of dried herbs and powdered potions. “You have a fine mind and as strong a character as any lad I have ever known. You are made of iron, I think. But are you flexible?”
“I am a slave,” answered the boy. “What does it matter?”
“Metal that will not bend is metal that cracks.”
Luc shrugged. “I do know that I am fortunate to have you as my master.”
“But you are my slave?”
Luc met Salah’s eyes and said nothing. He put down the polishing rag and rolled the tools in a clean cloth before replacing them in the leather-covered box on Salah’s desk.
Salah clasped his hands and rested them across his chest. “A tree is best measured when it is down, Luc,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “Do you ever speak a word to Bes?”
Luc studied his master’s face, searching for anger.
The old man continued. “Not a single word. I am right, am I not?”
The boy sucked in his cheeks and nodded.
“A traveler to distant places should make no enemies.”
“I am not a traveler. I was taken.”
Luc swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, fighting the bitterness that threatened to undermine the amity that he had recently felt from Salah.
“The remedy against bad times is to have patience. I have traveled to many places, Luc. I have spent much of my life, perhaps too much, as a stranger, living alone among foreigners, often among infidels. I even lived among your unwashed people. You are unlike them. You are unlike anyone I ever met. I am surprised by you.”
“I was born different,” said Luc, reaching his hand to his ear.
The old man smiled. “Yes, but that is just the obvious difference. You are different in many ways.”
Luc put his shoulders back and stood up straight. “I don’t understand what you mean, master.”
“No?” asked Salah, raising his brows. “Your hearing is excellent.”
The boy nodded. “Good enough.”
“Yes, and you see things at a great distance, before others.”
Luc nodded.
“Up close, you can discern the smallest of things?”
“Yes.”
Salah held out his fist, palm up, and opened his hand for a single moment before snapping it shut.
“What is in my hand, Luc?”
“Coins.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“Silver?” asked Salah.
“Three silver, one gold.”
“Anything else?”
“A small stone carving,” answered Luc.
“A carving of what?”
“A flower.”
“What kind of flower?”
Luc shook his head. “I do not know.”
“You saw the flower, but you do not know the name of the flower?”
“Yes, I do not know the name.” Then Luc added, “But …”
“But?”
“The flower has three outer petals.”
“And?” asked Salah, leaning forward toward the boy.
“And three inner petals.”
Salah leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Your vision is remarkable.”
“I have always seen things as I see them.”
“I suspect that all your senses are exceptional. These are gifts, Luc. Gifts to be thankful for.”
The boy bowed his head.
“You accept things, but do you appreciate them?”
Luc met the old man’s eyes. He said nothing.
“You are like a distant shore, L
uc. We both have much to discover about you. I do know that you have sure and steady hands. I have watched you in the kitchen with a knife. With your dexterity and your extraordinary eyes, you could be of use to me in surgery. Are you willing to learn?”
The boy hesitated. “How will Bes take this?”
“A curious response,” said Salah. “Bes has an envious nature. He has envied you from the beginning.”
“Me?”
“Of course—you are a tall, handsome lad.”
“But I’m a freak.”
“What is Bes?”
Luc did not reply.
“Never mind. It will not be easy. Not for any of us,” answered the old man. “But understanding develops by degrees. I shall take care of Bes.”
“As you wish,” said Luc.
“An old man who has no children has nothing more than wishes.”
“A slave does not even have wishes.”
Salah frowned. “Listen to me, Luc. I am not offering you freedom. I am offering you knowledge. Unlike freedom, knowledge can never be taken away. If you work hard, you will have valuable skills. You will have a better future than fishing.”
“I was happy fishing.”
“Bloom where you are planted. Do not bore me with your past life. I offer you a wider world. Are you too stubborn to understand that? Perhaps you are too willful to be anything more than what you are.”
Luc stood silently, head down, staring at the floor.
“One day your life will pass in front of your eyes. Make it worthy to look at,” said Salah.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Autumn in Mouette
MOUETTE BUSTLED WITH harvest-fair preparations. Lemons, figs, and plums had been stewed in honey, candied, and preserved in sealed crocks for the lean winter season. Large wheels of cow’s-milk cheese and small rounds of goat and sheep cheeses from upland herds were stacked alongside sacks of chestnuts and walnuts. Farmers carried baskets of cabbages, carrots, and cauliflowers. Tinkers arrived with packs of pins and pots and ribbons. The itinerant cobbler set up his stall. Everything would be sold for coins or bartered for salted fish. Mattie had worked for weeks carving more than a dozen pairs of wooden shoes that people would fight to buy from her. Soon she would set out for the fair with Beatrice, but first, she had other concerns.
“Come here, Beatrice. I won’t have your hair looking like a sea monster.”
“Turn me into a mermaid,” said Beatrice, straddling the bench by the front door. Mattie sat behind her, and combed the girl’s long hair. The chickens clucked about the yard, scratching in the dirt for insects. The swineherd had taken the pig for fattening on beechnuts and acorns in the hills above the village. Cadeau rested his head on the bench in front of Beatrice, and she patted him while Mattie worked the wooden comb.
“You are my mermaid,” said the old woman, holding the comb between her teeth as she picked at a knot with her fingers.
“Can a mermaid make wishes come true?” asked Beatrice.
“I don’t know.” Mattie laughed, and took up the comb. “But if I had a wish, do you know what I’d wish for?”
Beatrice nodded. “I do.”
“What would that be, my lady?”
“You’d wish for a husband for me. A lord, no doubt, who’d whisk me away on his fine steed to live in a hilltop castle.” Beatrice held out her hand, trying to catch a twirling yellow leaf as it floated from the overhead branch.
“Sounds like a fine wish to me,” said Mattie.
“But not to me,” sighed Beatrice, dropping her hand to her lap. “What would I do all day? Sew? I prefer this life, here with you and Pons.”
“So you don’t have anything you would wish for?” asked Mattie.
“I have one wish,” said the girl. “To bring Luc home.”
Mattie stopped combing and patted the girl’s shoulder.
“We all want him back. But you can’t make wishes come true, and there’s nothing we can do for him.”
Beatrice shook her head. “What about the new count? Luc is his brother. What if he knew?”
“Do you think anyone will believe Blanche’s story?”
“I believe her story, and it might save Luc.”
“Your belief isn’t enough, Beatrice. Now sit still so I can finish.”
“There must be a way to prove who Luc really is,” said Beatrice, flinching as Mattie caught a knot in her comb.
“Ouch!”
“Your hair is all tangled, Beatrice.”
“You’re not very gentle today, Mattie.”
“You aren’t very reasonable. The story of Luc’s birth died with the old count and Sir Guy. You heard Blanche. She doesn’t want to bring up the past. Can you blame her? She and her husband could lose everything. Remember, they paid a terrible price.”
“But what about Luc?” asked Beatrice.
“Blanche is right. We don’t even know that he’s alive.”
“But—”
“The count made sure no one would ever speak about this. Certainly not Blanche and Pascal. No one in the castle is going to listen to an old fisherman and his sister.”
“Or the daughter of a disgraced knight,” added Beatrice bitterly.
“If Luc is alive, all we can do is pray that he has figured out a way to survive. Maybe even thrive.”
“If anyone might, it’s that boy,” added Pons, who had returned from fishing in time to hear the end of their conversation.
He carried a basket of late raspberries and a string of gray-feathered thrushes, which he handed to Mattie.
Mattie examined the string of little birds and said to her brother, “Odd fish, here.”
“Cost me two fish,” said Pons. “No problem making a trade today. The fair is already bigger than last year. Everyone’s asking when you’re coming with your shoes.”
“What about the old priest?” asked Beatrice.
“You just won’t let it be?” said Mattie. “The old priest had to be Father Thierry.”
“Father Thierry?” said Beatrice. “I remember when he told me that I would have to leave home and go with you.”
“Yes, Father Thierry was a good man but very old. I doubt he’s still alive.”
“Can we find out?” asked Beatrice.
“What good would it do? When the count killed Blanche’s son, don’t you think her child was buried as his son? Everyone who knows this history is dead or bought off.” Mattie rose, handed Beatrice the comb, and took the string of birds and the berries. Beatrice stood up with a sigh.
“Poor Luc,” said Mattie, walking with Pons and Beatrice into the cottage. “Pons always thought the boy was lucky. I guess he was wrong.”
“Lucky? What does luck have to do with anything?” asked Beatrice, opening the wooden shutters to bring light into the room.
“Luck is often everything,” said Mattie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Education
LUC COULDN’T READ. Salah railed, not at the boy, but at his ignorance. It was a clear October morning, and they sat on cushions in the courtyard. Branches drooped under fat red pomegranates, and golden dates cascaded in strings beneath palm fronds. The old man made Luc try to read the same words again and again.
“Pay attention, Luc. You cannot remain illiterate.”
“No one in my family can read.”
“The ignorance of your race is breathtaking. We are supposed to be the three people of the book: Muslim, Jew, and Christian. My people read. The Jewish people as well.” Salah shrugged. “Not the Christians. But where should I begin?”
“Teach me only what I need to know,” said Luc. “Just the words I need to help you as a physician.”
The old man shook his head and muttered. “Not to know is bad. Not to wish to know is worse. I have no time for you.”
Salah snapped the book shut and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Can Bes read?” asked Luc softly.
“Bes worships his Egyptian gods. Or none at all.
He has no use and no desire for reading. I had higher hopes for you.”
Luc was frustrated. The surgery lessons had begun almost four weeks ago. Now, as he looked about the lush, flower-filled courtyard, heard the gurgling fountain and the songbirds, smelled the jasmine-scented air, and touched the smooth silken cushion where he sat, every sense told him that this beautiful place was his present and his future. The Arabic language was pushing into his thoughts and dreams. But as he sat struggling to read with this wise and generous man, Luc rubbed his thumb around one of his metal ankle bands. The cool steel proclaimed a larger truth: he was still a slave. Then he remembered something Salah had said: freedom could be taken away, but not knowledge. Luc looked at the old man, who sat with his fingers drumming on the closed book.
Bloom where you are planted, Luc thought.
“Teach me,” he said. “I want to know.”
Months passed, and Luc studied and learned. He was more than diligent. The old man drew pictures. The boy copied each drawing over and over until his were as good as his master’s. Salah demonstrated the workings of the human body. During surgery on a chest wound, Salah captivated Luc by showing him a beating heart. Luc memorized the names of the organs and their functions. At first, the boy’s medical tasks were simple. Luc handed surgical tools as the old man requested. Later Luc anticipated the need and handed Salah the appropriate instrument unasked.
“Listen to each patient. Ask questions. Examine carefully. The best way to treat the illness is to look for the cause.”
Luc assisted in bandaging wounds. By the end of November, Salah did not need to tell Luc whether to put vinegar or honey on a wound. The boy learned to make poultices with herbs from the garden and spices from the souk; he bargained for stitching sinew from the butchers in the market. Wherever he went, Luc wore his gray cap or a turban pulled down low, so that he was simply known as a boy with sea-colored eyes, not the boy with one ear.
Luc began to do more. He removed splinters. He splinted broken bones. As predicted, Salah found his student was gifted, but the boy’s love of the work and the science surprised both the teacher and the student. The teacher found his student soaked up education the way the dry Tunisian earth soaked up rain.
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