“That is interesting. Sir Guy, eh?” asked Louis.
“Alain said the puppy was a gift to Sir Guy from the count,” said Beatrice.
Louis cocked his head and frowned at the girl.
“From your father, my lord,” she said to him. “You have the same eyes as your brother, Luc.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Louis
WHEN BEATRICE CONFRONTED the young count, he didn’t respond. He said nothing more to anyone. He simply stood up and left the cottage. Bertrand and his friend Louis—who Beatrice had rightly guessed was the new Count de Muguet—had ridden four days, over the mountains and to the sea, to meet her: the beautiful but stubborn Beatrice who had refused her uncle’s Christmas invitation. She was far more beautiful than either had expected. Bertrand was amused when the young woman quickly deduced his friend’s identity, but he was surprised by the count’s silence, and worried when Louis insisted on an abrupt departure.
When they had planned the trip, Louis was simply curious to meet his friend’s long-lost niece. Now his thoughts were spinning from the strange, almost magical cottage with the carved fish and the beautiful girl. His father had killed the young woman’s father. Wrongly. And the boy named Luc? Louis had hardly listened when the gossipy Alain told him that outrageous tale. Now he was mystified about Luc, and he was intrigued by the boy’s dog. Could anyone unravel this tangled history? Since his father’s death, Louis had no family. He’d lost his only sisters to the plague; his little brother, Francis, had died after a birth that had taken their mother as well.
Could it be that I have a living brother?
He was afraid to hope.
“My niece didn’t offend you, did she, Louis?” asked Bertrand as they mounted their horses.
The young count shook his head but said nothing.
“My niece is exquisite, isn’t she?” asked Bertrand as they trotted away from the fishing village. “I had no idea she would be so lovely.”
Louis did not respond.
“You’re a talkative companion, my friend. Do you promise that Beatrice did not offend you with that absurd talk of a brother?” asked Bertrand.
Louis nodded, but he held up his hand, signaling Bertrand to be quiet.
They rode in silence. For four days, Louis said almost nothing as they traveled, stopping only to eat and sleep, homeward over the mountains and into the valley where both Beatrice and Luc had been born. The branches of the oaks, elms, and beeches had puffed out green buds, and the willows were sending out yellow shoots. Louis’s dog trotted happily along, detouring to chase rabbits and squirrels.
When they reached the outer wall of Louis’s castle, Bertrand tipped his hat. “You’ve barely spoken for four days, my friend. What is it?”
“Forgive me,” said the young count.
Bertrand smiled. “No need to apologize. Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. I hope to persuade Beatrice to join me in my home,” Bertrand said, turning his horse to ride home. “Do you approve?” he called back.
“Yes. That would be good for both of you.”
Louis nudged his horse forward, then he pulled back on the reins.
“Bertrand?” he called, turning his horse back around.
“Yes, my lord?” answered Bertrand, stopping and turning in his saddle.
Louis closed his eyes. “Louis, just Louis.”
Bertrand grinned, but Louis did not smile. “How many people do you think my father killed?” he asked.
Bertrand looked away from Louis. “With his own sword?” asked Bertrand softly.
“A weighty question,” Louis snorted. “You do not have to answer. Farewell, Bertrand.”
Louis pulled his horse around again, and trotted into the courtyard. A groom ran to take the horse. Another servant rushed from the château with a mug of wine.
“Fetch Alain. Have him meet me in the large hall,” ordered Louis, dismounting and taking a swallow before wiping his mouth on his shoulder.
“Yes, my lord,” said the servant.
Louis strode inside, with his dog growling playfully and nipping at his boot heels.
“Good to be home, isn’t it?” said Louis, reaching down to scratch behind his dog’s ears.
The hall was a large room with tall glass windows and a gilded coffered ceiling. A huge wool-and-silk tapestry hung on one wall showing a life-size hunting scene. Iron torches with thick wax candles guttered on each side of a massive stone fireplace. In front of the hearth were two high-backed wooden armchairs and a polished bench. Louis dropped into a chair and stretched his boots across the bench. His dog lay at his feet. A servant appeared and added logs to the fire.
Another servant bowed and asked, “Are you hungry, my lord?”
“No. Where is Alain?” asked Louis, sipping from the mug.
“Here I am, my lord,” said Alain, who had just entered the room. He bowed to Louis. “I trust my directions led you to the fisherman’s cottage?”
“Sit,” said Louis, sitting up and pointing to the bench. “Tell me everything you know about the boy called Luc. Anything you’ve heard.”
Alain dropped onto the bench, his large belly settling on his thighs, stretching the cloth of his tunic.
“For his last six years, I was Sir Guy’s trusted aide. We visited the boy’s house two times every year.”
“Was Sir Guy collecting rents for my father?”
Alain cleared his throat. “Not really, my lord. That was the only place where he was involved with your father’s rents. That little village of Mouette where Pons lives.”
“You collected rents at the olive grove. That wasn’t in the same village.”
“No, sir. It was odd. The olive grove where the boy lived was in the next village, on a hill, right above Mouette. There were three farms where we collected rents in the hill village. Then we would go down to the fishing village and gather salted fish from your father’s tenants there. But we never collected rent at the olive grove. I never thought the rents in either village were anything more than an excuse for Sir Guy to visit the olive grove.”
“Why did you think that?” asked Louis, settling back in his chair. His dog sat up and rested his head in his master’s lap. Louis stroked his muzzle.
“Well, sir, your father had men whose job it was to collect rents. He didn’t waste knights for that. Not someone as important as Sir Guy. And then, of course, when we went to the grove, like I said, we didn’t collect rent. We brought gifts.”
Alain cleared his throat a few times. His stomach growled, and he patted it and smiled sheepishly.
“Gifts?” asked Louis, sipping from his mug.
“Yes, my lord. Generous gifts. Hams, woolen cloth, casks of wine. That sort of thing. I began to suspect that Luc might be the bastard of Sir Guy.”
Louis sat up straight and asked, “Why did you think that?”
“Aside from the gifts and Sir Guy’s interest in this family?”
Louis nodded.
“Well, my lord, Sir Guy always talked to the children in the family. The olive grower had three sons, but the oldest, Luc, was different from the other two.”
“How?”
“In every way. Sir Guy always spent extra time talking to Luc; he was very partial to that child. He gave the boy that valuable puppy from your father.”
Louis nodded and sat back in the chair.
“Luc looked nothing like the younger sons. He had light hair, and he was more delicate. Pascal, the olive grower, and his younger sons are stocky, with heads of dark curls, and dark eyes. Luc had very light eyes.”
“Like mine?” asked Louis softly, looking away from Alain and into the fire.
“My lord?”
“Never mind,” said Louis, resting his chin in his hand.
“And of course, Luc had only one ear.”
“Yes,” said Louis, turning to Alain. “Strange.”
“That is certain, my lord,” said Alain, nodding. “Peculiar to look at—startling, actually—but the
boy heard well enough. I got used to it, and there was nothing strange about him otherwise. A handsome, well-spoken lad, but he and the father never got along.”
“How do you mean?”
“The father, Pascal, drinks heavily. Never once offered Sir Guy and me a drink, either.” Alain looked at Louis’s mug hopefully and cleared his throat a few times. “Sorry, my lord, my throat’s very dry.”
Louis nodded. “Go on, Alain. About the father?”
“Yes, my lord. The father is a mean, unfriendly sort. Over the years I knew him, he got worse. Sir Guy worried that Pascal mistreated the boy. I think he spoke to Pascal about it. But not in front of me. Still, I was shocked to find Luc apprenticed to the old fisherman.”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, the olive farm is substantial. A good stone house, too. It seemed odd for the eldest son to leave his father’s household and go to that humble cottage. Of course, that happened after Sir Guy’s death. I never saw Pascal again after that. I still went to the hill farms and to Mouette, but there were no more gifts, so I didn’t visit the olive grove. Even now I still collect the rents like before, because no one knows why it was set up that way. Probably should use a rent collector, my lord. It makes more sense.”
Louis nodded. “I shall look into it.”
“Anyway, I like the old man, Pons, so I can see how Luc might prefer him to that father. And then there’s that beautiful girl. I mean the lady Beatrice.”
“Sir Guy never told you anything about Luc?”
“Never, my lord. Just the opposite. I was ordered never to mention the boy. Not our visits and, especially, not the boy. Or his lack of an ear. Like I said, there was no order to continue the gifts. Probably because it was all so secret. But I kept my word to Sir Guy. I never said anything about Luc. Except, of course, to you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Alain. You may go. Stop in the kitchen, and get some food and drink if you like.”
Alain grinned, bowed, and left.
Louis called for his steward. He was a middle-aged man of middling height with wispy brown hair. He was dressed in the dark-blue livery of the Muguet family, but unlike the other servants, his tunic was trimmed with silver braid, and he wore a wide leather belt from which dangled a large iron ring with keys of all sizes. He was a quiet man who stepped lightly and spoke softly, but the keys clanked and jangled, so that his presence was always announced before he appeared.
“How long have you worked in this household?” Louis asked, pointing to the bench.
The steward sat on the edge of the bench with his knees locked together and his hands folded tightly in his lap. “Twenty-three years, my lord,” said the steward proudly. “I’ve served as steward for six years, sir.”
“Do you remember the last infant my mother bore, before she died?”
“I remember that there was a son who died within days, but I never saw the baby.”
“Did you hear anything unusual about the infant?”
“No, my lord.”
“Who would have been present for the birth? The midwife?”
The steward started to say something then stopped. He swallowed and picked at a piece of lint on his sleeve.
“What is it?” asked Louis. “What about the midwife?”
“Well, my lord, the midwife died shortly after the birth of the child.”
“Died?”
The steward nodded.
“How?” asked Louis.
The steward grimaced.
“Was her death sudden?”
The steward hesitated. “I believe so, my lord.”
Louis nodded. “Was the baby baptized?”
The steward pulled at his ear. “I think so. Named, wasn’t he?”
“Yes—Francis.”
“My father was steward then. He would know more, if he were alive.”
“The priest, Father Thierry, is no longer living, either. Who else might have helped with the birth or with the infant?” asked Louis.
The steward put a finger to his lips and thought. “Well, Father Thierry had an assistant, but he’s been gone at least fifteen years. Left around the time your mother died, I think. And the wet nurse moved away, about the same time. I can’t recall her name, but maybe I can find that out.”
“Check with everyone who was here. Let me know if there is anyone who might know about the baby.”
“Anything in particular my lord?” asked the steward, keys banging as he stood up.
“Everything,” answered Louis.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Promises
THE GRAY-AND-RED parrot sat on Luc’s shoulder, where it had perched ever since it had been given to Salah by Tariq five weeks earlier. Luc had constructed a hanging roost in a corner of Salah’s room and another in the kitchen, high enough to be safe from Cat. But usually, the bird sat on the boy’s shoulder.
Luc had begun teaching the bird greetings and small talk in French.
Salah sighed. “I should punish you, Luc, for teaching the bird anything but Arabic.”
Luc tipped his head. “But then the bird could talk to Bes.”
Salah frowned. “Ah, Luc. He who seeks a flawless friend remains friendless.”
“Master, you have said that the rain wets the leopard’s skin, but it will not wash out the spots.”
“I also said, if there were no fault, there would be no pardon. Bes has tried to be civil with you for months, but you remain unfriendly.”
“But—”
“No, Luc. I know Bes was cruel to you.”
“Very.”
Luc was dusting the books on Salah’s desk. He turned his face to the bird on his shoulder, and the parrot nuzzled the boy.
Salah steepled his hands. “Bes felt threatened.”
“By me? A powerless slave?”
Salah put up a hand. “Your relentless self-pity blinds you.”
“Blinds me to what?”
“To what you have. I no longer blame Bes. It is you who are wrong.”
“He still has my ear.”
“Your ear?” Salah pushed himself back from the desk, and the chair legs squealed on the tile floor.
“My wooden ear,” said Luc.
“Have you asked for it back?”
“No.”
“Because you rarely speak to him?”
“He knows I want it back. It’s mine.”
Salah shook his head. “He waits for you to ask, and you wait for him to give? Allah has no mercy for those who have no mercy for their fellow man.”
Luc frowned and brought the bird to the perch, where it sat whistling and singing. Salah was rubbing his hands together, blowing into them.
“Shall I light a fire, master?” asked Luc.
Although it was a mild day in April, and the room was comfortable, Salah nodded. As Luc knelt to light the charcoal in the iron brazier, Salah handed the boy a brown nugget.
“Drop this into the fire, Luc.”
“What is it, master?” asked Luc, examining the opaque lump in his hand.
“Myrrh. The tears of a thorn tree.”
“Tears?”
“It is the sap of an Arabian tree. The myrrh soothes, and the charcoal warms. I am very cold today.”
Bes entered the room, and the parrot began to squawk. The little man stood on his toes and spoke gently to the bird, but when he extended his finger, the parrot chomped down and drew blood. Bes yelped, and put his bleeding finger into his mouth.
Luc said nothing.
“Damn both you and that infernal creature,” the little man snarled at Luc. Before he could say any more, there was a crash, and Salah slumped to the floor.
Luc and Bes rushed to help the old man, who had struck his head on a corner of his table; blood pulsed from a gash on his forehead. Luc pressed a cloth against the cut to stanch the flow. Bes positioned a pillow under Salah’s head and tried to make him comfortable on the floor.
“Press this against his wound,” ordered Luc, handing the cloth to Bes. Luc t
ucked a blanket around the old man and rushed to fill the silver pitcher. He washed Salah’s bloody face. Salah’s eyes fluttered, and he looked at the boy fearfully for a moment. Then he closed his eyes again. Luc checked the wound. Bes watched.
Luc said, “It’s not a deep cut.”
“But there was so much blood,” said Bes, wrinkling his nose.
“The bleeding has already stopped. I’ll clean the cut and wrap his head. The wound doesn’t need to be stitched.”
“The master has never been the same since that day you treated Ibi’s cheek,” said Bes softly.
Salah opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Luc bent close.
“Can you speak, master?” asked Luc.
Salah tried, but he only uttered garbled sounds.
“Raise your right hand,” said Luc.
The old man closed his eyes, and lifted his right hand just barely above his lap.
“The left hand?” asked Luc gently.
The old man closed his eyes again, and nothing happened.
Luc took Salah’s left hand in his own.
“Can you squeeze my finger?” he asked.
Nothing happened. Salah closed his eyes.
Bes whispered in Luc’s ear. “It’s much worse this time, right?”
Luc chewed his lip. “I don’t know.”
Bes began to sob. “Salah is my life. What am I to do?”
The old man stirred and looked at Bes. He tried to talk, but still nothing came out as a word.
“Hush,” said Luc to both Bes and Salah. “You need to rest, Salah. We’ll stay right here with you.”
“Good night,” piped the bird in a baby voice from his perch. “Pretty bird.”
Bes shook his head. “Damn bird.”
Luc half smiled at the little man. “At least he hasn’t broken into song.”
Bes took a deep breath and smiled back. The old man was watching Bes and Luc, and he smiled crookedly—only the right side of his mouth turned up.
Luc squinted at Salah, and Salah closed his eyes.
“He might sleep now,” said Luc. “Stay with him, Bes. Call me if he stirs. I’ll brew him some willow-bark tea. Then I can take over the watch.” Luc offered the bird his finger, and the creature hopped on and toddled up his arm to his shoulder.
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