Usually Luc stood behind Salah to observe as the old man examined and treated his patients on a high wooden table in a corner of his room. One afternoon in early December, Salah handed Luc a scalpel and instructed him to lance a swollen boil on a patient’s back. The patient, a prosperous carpenter with a large shop in Bizerte and many apprentices, protested when the boy took the instrument, but Salah put his hand on the man’s well-muscled shoulder and spoke.
“The boy has sure hands. Mine are old.”
Luc was afraid, but Salah waited until Luc pressed the silver point in, popping the angry flesh as he had seen Salah do.
Salah leaned over the boy. “Good, good. Just right,” he said.
Luc looked up from the patient. For a moment he felt powerful. And proud. He remembered rowing Pons’s boat: as he got stronger, he had felt a surge of pride as the little boat rose in the water and rushed forward with each of his strokes. Mastery. Except now it was less about physical competence. Luc could feel the gain in his intellect. He knew his questions were sharper, and his understanding was deeper. Salah recognized this change too. More and more, the old man looked forward to the lessons. So Salah began to teach the boy more than medicine; he introduced him to mathematics, geography, and history. Luc was quick, hardworking, and curious. And he was talented.
As the fall gave way to winter, Salah was increasingly impressed with all that the boy could do. Only Luc’s reading lagged; Luc was easily exasperated with the written word and often lost his temper. The old man had no patience for impatience, and he would scold the boy.
“The key to all things is determination,” said Salah one overcast December morning when Luc stumbled repeatedly over the same word.
“I am not good at this,” fumed Luc.
“Only with patience do mulberry leaves become silk,” said Salah.
“I will never get this,” said Luc, pushing the papers away.
“Then leave. My head hurts today, and I’ve had enough of your mewling. Go to Bes.”
Luc rose, bowed to the old man, and went to the kitchen.
Bes looked up when Luc appeared.
“What have you learned today?”
Luc said nothing.
Bes shook his head and continued, “It is no different from training a dog. You’ve learned some tricks. But you are still a dog.”
Luc did not reply.
Bes pulled a sack of dried lentils from a shelf and dumped them on the floor, startling Cat, who squalled and fled to the garden.
“Look what you’ve done. Lentils are dear this season; waste none, slave,” he said, tossing the boy the empty bag.
Luc was not surprised. Ever since he had begun studying with Salah, Bes often had punished him in a similar way. The little man would spill olive oil on a floor that Luc had just washed, or he would knock over a potted plant in the courtyard. Luc knew this was the price he had to pay for Bes’s jealousy. He was down on his knees, muttering and scooping lentils from the floor as Bes watched, when they heard loud knocking at the front door.
Bes hurried to the door. Hearing voices and moans, Luc rushed to Salah’s office. He found the old man asleep, with his head on his desk. Gently, Luc nudged him.
“Salah, wake up. Someone is here. An emergency.”
The old man stirred, but he was confused; he did not seem to recognize Luc. He rubbed his eyes. Luc took a basin and ran for water. He washed the old man’s face, and slowly Salah wakened, but his hands trembled, and he did not rise to meet his visitors.
Bes led four dusty men into the study; two of the men carried an injured man, who held a bloody cloth to his face. The fourth man followed, wailing and shaking his head. Luc rushed forward and helped lay the patient on the high table. Salah remained at his desk. He said nothing and made no attempt to stand.
Luc peeled the injured man’s hand away from the cloth and looked underneath. Meanwhile, Bes tugged and pushed Salah and tried to get him to stand. The old man shook his head. He clutched the edge of the desk and closed his eyes. Luc looked at Salah before he turned to the visitors. From their sooty long robes, the dirt-covered feet, and the elaborate, long head wraps, Luc guessed that the men were camel drivers.
“What happened?” he asked.
The man who had been wailing spoke. “I’ve never had trouble with my camel. Not like this. Ibi was standing next to him, and the camel lunged. Ibi screamed.”
“The animal had Ibi’s cheek in its teeth,” said one of the other men. “But Ibi’s cry was so loud, the startled beast opened its mouth. And Ibi fell to the ground.”
Luc examined the wound. Just below his eye, Ibi had two ragged gashes in his cheek. A triangular flap of his face hung open, exposing the cheek muscle. Luc took a deep breath and looked again to Salah for guidance. The old man was motionless. He was slumped over his desk with his chin resting in his palm, but he was watching Luc.
“Bes, get clean water, vinegar.”
Bes scowled at Luc. The boy had never before spoken to him; now he was issuing orders.
“Hurry, Bes, please!” said Luc. “Bring me Salah’s tools. Bandages. The silver needles and the gut thread. First clean water. Fill the silver pitcher. Make sure you use that pitcher.”
Bes looked at Salah and back to the wounded man, and he said, “Ibi is my friend.”
Luc looked at Bes. “I can do this,” he said, pressing a cloth against the wound.
Bes frowned at the boy, but he fetched all that Luc requested, while the other men spoke among themselves.
“We don’t want the boy,” said the owner of the offending camel. “We need a doctor, not some infidel slave.”
Bes shrugged. “My master is the best doctor in Bizerte, perhaps the best doctor in Africa, but he is unwell today. He has trained the boy. Can one of you fix Ibi’s wound?”
The visitors shook their heads.
“No? Nor can I. I have not been trained by Salah. But this boy works with Salah every day. The boy is all Ibi has.”
Salah remained hunched at the desk with his head resting in his hands. He barely moved. Luc put a basin under the patient’s head and flushed the wound with water from the silver pitcher. At first Ibi screamed, and two of his friends held him still. Luc placed a wad of cloth in his mouth.
“Bite down on this when it hurts. I apologize for the pain,” said Luc, touching the patient on his shoulder.
Then the boy took an obsidian scalpel and gently trimmed the rough edges of the wound. Ibi trembled and squeezed his eyes shut. His friends looked away. Bes squatted near the door, rocking on his heels, watching. Luc worked quickly. He flushed the wound again, but this time, he added vinegar to the water. Ibi winced, but he did not cry out.
“Your wound is deep, but your eye is unhurt, and the cheek muscle was not torn. That is good,” said Luc.
Luc pulled a silver needle in and out, pricking the flesh of Ibi’s cheek, drawing the flaps of skin together, and closing the wound. His stitches were small and even, and he sewed carefully and quickly. As Luc finished, Bes rose and examined the work. He nodded and patted Ibi’s hand. Luc wrapped Ibi’s face and head in a clean cloth, tying the ends.
“Keep this bandage dry. Come back tomorrow. Perhaps my master will be feeling better. Stay quiet. You will look like a warrior after this heals. You are a brave man, Ibi,” said Luc.
“Should we pay the boy?” asked one of the men.
Bes frowned and asked, “Has Ibi’s wound been attended to?”
But Luc shook his head. “No. Not this time.” He looked over at Salah, who was watching. Bes led the men out.
Luc went to Salah. The old man was shaking his head.
“I couldn’t move. My head felt as though it would burst,” Salah whispered, and rubbed his face. “It’s a struggle to pull the past hour into words.”
“Are you feeling better?” asked Luc.
“A little.”
“Can I help you to your bed?”
“Yes,” said the old man. “I’ve never been more weary
.”
“Are you hungry or thirsty? Shall I bring you something?”
“Water.”
Luc filled a cup, holding it while the old man sipped. With the boy’s help, Salah climbed into bed, where he slept until almost midnight. When he awoke, Luc was still at his side.
“Was it my fault, master?”
“What?”
“Your head. Because I lost my temper?”
Salah smiled and spoke.
“No, Luc. I had a terrible headache when I woke this morning.”
“Forgive me, master. I will be better.”
Salah put his hand on Luc’s head. “Every day of your life is a page of your history.”
“My history?”
“Yes,” said Salah. “Remember this day. You became more than you were yesterday. I became less. But you became more.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Alain
IN LATE NOVEMBER, as the air cooled, and the days became short, Pons bound the fattened pig’s feet and slit its throat. Mattie held a bowl to catch the blood pumping from the dying animal. When the pig was dead, they covered its carcass with straw and lit a fire. After the straw burned itself out, Mattie used a knife to scrape away the burned hair; this firing and scraping was repeated until the hide was clean. Then the pig was hung, draining, from a thick tree branch overnight. Cadeau stood guard beneath. In the morning, they set about skinning and butchering. The cut-up pork was soaked in seawater for three days and then smoked over a slow fire in a stone chimney behind the house. Mattie and Beatrice took turns feeding the fire.
Meanwhile, Mattie cleaned out the animal’s intestine for sausage casing, soaking it in buckets of salted lemon water until the water was clear. Mattie was famous for the boudin noir that she made from the pig’s blood and scraps of pork mixed with garlic, salt, and herbs, stuffed and tied into fat finger-length sections. After it was boiled, most of the sausage was smoked, but on the first night after it was made, Beatrice fried rounds of fresh sausage in butter with slices of apple and onion.
In the late afternoon of the following day, Pons, Mattie, and Beatrice were sitting at the table; the firelight flickered, and the shadows of the overhead fish swayed in the draft from the shuttered windows.
“Well,” said Pons, “I expect we’ll make it through the winter. Even if the fishing is only fair, we’ve a good amount of pork.”
“Won’t Alain arrive soon?” asked Beatrice.
“By week’s end, I should think,” said Pons.
“He’ll be here any day,” said Mattie. “That man can smell my boudin from over the mountain.” Then she wagged a finger at Pons and Beatrice. “I don’t want Alain to see Beatrice; I don’t trust him.”
Beatrice picked at a piece of bread. She did not look at Mattie.
“I know, Sister, but the boy?” asked Pons, pushing back from the table. “I could say something about Luc. I didn’t promise Blanche anything. I could say I heard this rumor.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie. Luc is in God’s hands,” said Mattie.
Beatrice nibbled at her food. She didn’t want to argue with Mattie anymore—it was no use. Mattie’s mind was made up. Now and then, the girl tried to catch Pons’s eye, but he never looked at her. For the rest of the week, she kept the low fire burning under the smoking hams and sausages in the outdoor chimney. Pons tended the fire overnight and sometimes fished in the early mornings.
Alain and his young aide, Henri, showed up on Friday just as Pons was walking up the path from the beach. Cadeau barked at the soldiers.
“Shhhh!” said Pons, shifting his net and patting the dog’s head. “Good dog.” Then he added loudly, “Hello, Alain.”
“Good day, Pons. So Luc is still with you?” asked Alain, pointing at Cadeau.
Pons put down his net and took a deep breath.
“Come inside, Alain. We have new cider,” he said.
“And Mattie’s black sausage, I hope?” asked Alain, handing the reins of his horse to Henri.
Pons nodded, and Alain followed him inside. Mattie was standing in the middle of the room, and Beatrice was nowhere to be seen.
“Hello, Mattie. I am hoping that you have made your boudin.”
“You must have spies here, Alain. Just this week.”
Grabbing a mug and sitting down, Alain asked, “Where’s the boy?”
Pons stroked his chin and said, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Something happened to Luc?”
Pons nodded.
“Has he drowned?” asked Alain, holding up the mug.
Pons shook his head. “No.”
Mattie put a trencher of bread in front of Alain, slid a thick slice of black sausage onto the bread, and poured him a mug of hard cider.
“This food rivals anything at the castle. I hope there’s a lot more,” said Alain, taking a big bite of sausage. “Now tell me about the boy.”
So Pons told Alain about the dreadful day when Luc was lost.
“That child has had more than his share of misfortune,” said Alain.
Pons shook his head. “That wasn’t the way I saw it. I found that luck followed Luc. As soon as he stepped into my boat, my nets filled with fish like never before. All the time he was here, we had nothing but good fortune.”
“Old man, look at the boy’s life. He was born with one ear. And a bastard.”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” said Mattie.
Alain raised his eyebrows and smirked. “No?”
“Anyway, luck or no luck, Luc was taken. I am a poor man,” said Pons. “If I were rich, I would try to find the boy and ransom him. But it takes a lot of gold, and I have none.”
“You see, Luc is unlucky. If Sir Guy were alive, then maybe. But Sir Guy died without acknowledging the boy,” said Alain, washing down the last of the sausage with a big gulp of cider.
He leaned back, patted his stomach, and belched. Pons said nothing. Mattie was pouring more cider when she saw Beatrice descending the ladder. Alain looked at the girl.
“My God! Who is this?” He turned to Pons. “Who else is hiding in this cottage?”
“No one else,” Beatrice said softly. “Just me.”
“Is this another bastard?” asked Alain, still turned to Pons.
“I am no bastard. And neither was Luc.”
Alain whipped around and looked at Beatrice.
“What’s going on here? Who’s this girl?” he asked.
Beatrice answered, “It doesn’t matter who I am.”
“No,” added Mattie, glaring at Beatrice. “It’s Luc we are talking about.”
“First things first,” said Alain, staring at the girl. “I insist you tell me who this maid is, Pons.”
“You won’t care who I am once I tell you about Luc,” answered Beatrice.
“That’s enough, child. Leave us. This is no concern of yours,” said Mattie, pointing to the ladder.
Alain frowned at Mattie. “She’s a brazen one. I will have my question answered.”
He turned to Beatrice. Unblinking, she met his gaze.
“Luc is not Sir Guy’s son,” she said.
Alain shrugged. “I thought there was a chance he might be. But it matters little now.”
“It matters more than ever,” answered Beatrice. “Because Luc is the second son of the Count de Muguet.”
“Hold your tongue, girl!” said Mattie as she stood up. “I’m sorry, Alain. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. This is nonsense.”
Alain nodded and began to laugh. “Well, it’s most certainly an outrageous claim. The old count’s son, eh? If he were alive, you’d lose your pretty head for uttering that nonsense.”
“I have no doubt that the count killed people for less. But he’s dead. And as for the new count, Luc is his brother,” said Beatrice.
Alain shook his head. “This is madness. Do you think your lie will get the boy’s ransom?”
“It’s no lie,” answered Beatrice.
“What proof do you have
, wench?”
Beatrice looked down at her feet and sighed, “I have no proof.”
“And the olive growers? That drunk and his scrawny wife? What would they say?” asked Alain.
“They won’t say anything. I had to vow not to say a word of this.”
Alain frowned. “So you are not only impudent but also untrustworthy?”
“I have to help Luc.”
“And you would say anything, do anything?” asked Alain. “Am I supposed to believe you and not Pascal?”
“He and his wife have everything to lose. But there was a priest, Father Thierry,” said Beatrice.
“He is dead. Maybe five years ago,” said Alain, licking his thumb and smoothing his wild eyebrows.
“You see, Beatrice? You’ve said enough. This is just a tale. Leave us, child,” said Mattie. “Forget this whole matter, Alain.”
“Am I supposed to forget this beautiful maid as well?” he said, grabbing Beatrice’s arm.
“Please,” said Pons.
Alain shook his head.
“Who is she?”
“No one,” said Mattie. “Just an orphan from the village. She helps with the chores. Leave us now, girl.”
“You were hiding her, weren’t you? Who is she?”
Mattie glared at Alain.
“You insult me,” said Alain, still holding the girl’s arm, looking at her from head to toe, at her dress and her leather shoes. “Do you think I don’t remember you, Mattie, from the old days? You worked in that knight’s household. The knight who stole from the count. I was there when the count killed the thief.”
“My father did not steal,” said Beatrice.
“Your father?” said Alain, pulling Beatrice closer.
The heavy soldier looked at the girl’s face and began to nod his head.
“I recall now. There was a child. I remember her screaming at the execution.”
Mattie sat down and covered her face.
Alain continued, “So you are Sir—? Ayiii! I cannot remember the unfortunate scoundrel’s name.” Beatrice was furious, pulling and struggling but unable to shake her arm free of Alain’s grip. “Étienne!” said Alain, nodding. “I remember now. So you’ve lived here with Mattie ever since? And your mother?”
The Unfortunate Son Page 12