The Unfortunate Son

by Constance Leeds

  “I traded the carpenter’s wife a couple of mullets for these,” said Pons, holding up the basket of vegetables. “Who made my net good as new?”

  “The mermaid, of course, Brother,” answered Mattie.

  Pons handed the basket to Beatrice, kissed her forehead, and collapsed on the bench.

  “Lord, I am weary. And hungry,” he said. “I’d wager that heaven doesn’t smell as good as this cottage.”

  He rubbed his eyes and began to knead his hands.

  “Your hands are bad, aren’t they?” asked Beatrice.

  “I can barely make a fist,” answered Pons, opening and closing his fingers.

  “It’s time you had a boy to help you,” said Mattie.

  Pons shook his head. “Would you have me spend my days worrying about a boy instead of the fish?”

  “Mattie spends her days worrying about me,” said Beatrice.

  “Worrying about you and about Pons,” corrected Mattie. “And I’d worry less about my brother if he had an extra pair of hands, young hands. Besides, I could use help too. It isn’t right having Beatrice digging in the dirt, under the sun,” she added, gesturing to the left where a garden hugged the side of the cottage. There Mattie grew the cabbages and cauliflower and the beans, peas, and carrots that filled their soup pot throughout the year.

  “Mattie, will you ever understand that I want to work in the garden?” asked Beatrice, heaping a ladleful of mussels into each bowl.

  Mattie raised her eyebrow. “You may like to garden, but I never saw anyone so terrified of a little ant or, heaven forbid, a wasp.”

  Pons laughed.

  “I hate bugs,” said Beatrice.

  “That’s because you’re a delicate lady, who shouldn’t be out in the sun, working like a peasant,” said Mattie, wagging her finger at the girl.

  Beatrice wrinkled her nose and handed Mattie a loaf of bread.

  “The carpenter’s wife told me that our swineherd took a bad fall and won’t be able to work for a month, maybe two. Starting tomorrow, the son of that olive grower from over the hill will be taking the village pigs,” said Pons.

  “Which olive grower from over the hill?” asked Mattie, cutting the bread. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “Yes, you do, Sister. Pascal. The one everyone says is a lazy drunk. I hear he never prunes the trees. Never does anything. Pascal’s mean-spirited and without a friend.”

  “That’s the family from the north, right?” asked Mattie, pointing over her shoulder with the knife.

  “Yes,” Pons said, leaning over his bowl and inhaling. “Pascal served Count de Muguet. Got the place as reward for something. Can’t imagine what. A farmhouse and a grove of trees?”

  “Well, the count ordered deeds you might not reward a good man for,” said Mattie.

  Beyond memory, Pons and Mattie’s family had fished the Mediterranean Sea and lived in the little village of Mouette, a day’s ride east of the ancient city of Marseille. Although his castle was inland, on the north side of the mountains, Count de Muguet had acquired Mouette as part of his wife’s dowry. Every fall the count’s men delivered salt and olive oil so the fishermen of Mouette could preserve mullet and bream, anchovies and sardines. Each spring the count’s men would return to collect the cured fish as rent for the village homes. As a young woman, Mattie had married a foot soldier in the count’s service. But her husband had died in an accident in the second year of their childless marriage, and she had stayed in the north. After serving as a maid in the Muguet household, she became the nurse to Beatrice in Sir Étienne’s nearby manor. When the count executed Beatrice’s father and the child’s mother abandoned her, Mattie took the girl and returned to Mouette. Though far away, Count de Muguet remained an inescapable presence in their lives.

  “Perhaps Pascal’s son will be looking for work when the swineherd’s healed,” said Mattie.

  “Maybe he could help you, Pons,” added Beatrice.

  Pons shrugged. “I hear it’s a big grove,” he said, scratching his stubbled chin. “Dozens of fine old olive trees.”

  “Really? Then why would a boy whose father owns a large grove of olive trees be helping a swineherd?” asked Beatrice. Using a shell half, she dug out a mussel and sucked it into her mouth.

  “That’s a good question,” said Mattie as she stood up and poured wine into their mugs. “I suppose, we’ll find out more tomorrow when the boy comes for our pig.”

  By the flickering glow of the hearth-fire, Beatrice, Pons, and Mattie settled into a cozy supper. They finished the mussels and sopped up the broth with bread that Mattie had baked in the shared village oven early that morning. The sun was setting, and the cottage went from gray to dark. Beatrice sloshed water to rinse the bowls, kissed the foreheads of Mattie and Pons, and climbed the ladder to the loft. For the past seven years, she had slept under the cottage rafters, beneath the little round window from which she could see the moon and the sea. It was snug in the winter, and in the summer, the unglazed window let in a cooling breeze. She was comfortable and content, but Mattie had begun to worry. What would the girl’s future be? It was time they considered a husband for Beatrice, but Mattie could think of no one good enough for the girl. Not in their little village.

  In the morning, laughter woke Beatrice. She crossed herself, stretched, and peered out her little window. The brightening peach sky was noisy with birds, so she pulled her faded slate wool dress over the linen smock that she wore night and day, and climbed down from the loft. Pons was scratching his head and laughing with his sister.

  Mattie wiped her eyes. “Did you notice it right away?”

  “No,” said Pons.

  Mattie sat with her elbows on the table, beaming across at her brother.

  “Of course not,” she said. “If he had three, you would have noticed. But just one?” Mattie shook her head.

  Pons nodded, “Never in my life.”

  “Who are you to talking about?” asked Beatrice, slipping in next to Pons.

  “Good morning, my lady,” said Pons, brushing the girl’s hair back from her face.

  Beatrice’s unbraided hair tumbled to her waist. She rubbed her eyes and combed her fingers through the curls.

  “You’re not fishing today?” she asked Pons. Usually he went out in his boat before the first light of day and didn’t return home until midafternoon.

  He shook his head. “No, I stayed to meet the boy, the swineherd’s helper.”

  “What’s he like?” asked Beatrice.

  “You’ll never guess,” said Mattie, and she pushed a hunk of buttered bread across to the girl.

  “Our new pig boy has only one ear,” announced Pons.

  “He lost an ear?” asked Beatrice.

  “Don’t think he ever had more than one. Just one, on the right,” said Pons, pulling his own right ear.

  “And on the left? Nothing!” said Mattie, snapping her fingers. “No scar, no sign that an ear should be there.”

  “How strange!” said Beatrice, tucking her hair behind her own ears. “Can he hear?”

  “Better than most,” said Pons.

  “You think he didn’t notice when you started speaking so softly to him?” asked Mattie, laughing. “You should have heard my brother,” she said to Beatrice, “speaking soft as a mouse.”

  “Well, I was curious,” answered Pons. “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with his hearing. Can’t tell how old he is. Seems older than he looks. Slight and smooth-faced. Almost pretty, don’t you think, Mattie?”

  Mattie nodded. “Such light eyes. And his hair? I’d like to have had that hair as a girl. Yes, he’s a pretty one.”

  “You’re saying the pig boy, this boy with one ear, is pretty?” asked Beatrice. “I can’t wait to see him.”

  “He was very polite, seemed like a quiet boy. He might do for you, Pons,” said Mattie.

  “Let’s see how he does with our pig for now. I really don’t want anyone in the boat with me.”

  “Not a question o
f what you want, Pons. It’s what you need,” said Mattie.

  “Train a boy who knows nothing of the sea? What if he can’t swim? How many hooks is he going to lose? I’m used to being alone in my boat.”

  Pons shook his head.

  Beatrice looked thoughtful for a moment. “Didn’t you feel the same about Mattie and me coming to live here with you?” she asked.

  Pons smiled. “You two are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “How come you never married?” asked Beatrice. The question had not occurred to her before, but with Mattie talking lately about finding Beatrice a husband, marriage was on her mind.

  “My brother never spent enough time on dry land to find a wife,” said Mattie.

  “Where would I have found a wife who would turn my cottage into a sea full of fish?” asked Pons. “Or a beautiful mermaid who could fix my nets?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rain

  OVERHEAD THE SKY was bright, but the horizon was streaked with green and lavender, and a cool salty wind was blowing. By noon, the autumn rain fell loud and heavy. Pons sharpened Mattie’s knives and wrapped strips of leather around fraying basket handles. Beatrice and Mattie raked the floor and pushed the pile of old rushes outside; Pons shoved aside the table so they could tamp the dirt floor until it was smooth and hard. Pons and Mattie spread fresh rushes while Beatrice sliced a roasted beet into their soup.

  “Wonder how our new swineherd is faring in the downpour? Not an easy first day,” said Pons, blowing to cool his soup.

  “Nasty to be out in this weather,” said Beatrice.

  The rain drummed loudly on the cottage’s stone roof, and rainwater seeped in along the edges of the shutters, streaking the walls and puddling on the floor.

  “The pigs won’t mind,” said Mattie. “Not so long as the beechnuts are plentiful.”

  “I wouldn’t stay out there. He’ll be soaked,” said Beatrice. “Maybe the pig boy will come back early.”

  But the boy with one ear did not return with their pig until dusk. When Pons saw the boy, he insisted he dry off by the fire.

  “You’re drenched, and your hands are white with cold.”

  The boy led the pig to the annex in back of the cottage and fastened the door that separated the animals from where the people lived. When he saw Beatrice, he stopped.

  Mattie laughed. “She’s a mermaid, but you needn’t be afraid. She is very kind. Warm up by the fire. Have you eaten today?”

  The boy nodded, rubbing his hands over the hearth; he kept craning his head to look up at the carvings.

  Mattie winked at Beatrice, who ladled steaming soup into a bowl and offered it to the boy.

  “I’m not really a mermaid,” she said. “My name is Beatrice.” She waited for him to introduce himself, but he didn’t say a word. Or even take the bowl. He just stared. At Beatrice and at the cottage. At the fish suspended from the ceiling. At the smiling old woman and the kindly fisherman. But mostly he stared at the beautiful girl. Beatrice stared back. She was unsure which was more startling, the missing ear or his coloring. His complexion and hair were golden, and his light, wide-set eyes were bluer than any she had ever seen.

  Mattie prodded the boy onto the bench and set the bowl in front of him. Beatrice cut two chunks of bread and watched as the boy slipped one onto his lap before bringing the bowl to his mouth greedily. He mopped every last drop from the bowl with the other piece of bread and jammed it into his mouth. She sliced more bread, and again he slipped one piece into his lap.

  “What’s your name?”

  The boy wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his shirt and looked at her. He swallowed.

  “Luc,” he said.

  “Why are you taking the bread?” asked Beatrice.

  Luc blushed, and he answered softly, “For my dog. He’s had nothing to eat today.”

  “Where is he?” asked Beatrice.

  “Outside with my father’s two pigs.”

  Pons was standing at the doorway, peering out.

  “The rain’s starting to let up, Luc. You ought to head home before your family worries you washed away,” said Pons.

  “Thank you for the soup and the bread.” Luc rose and pointed to the wooden fish overhead. “Did you carve all these, sir?”

  “None of them,” answered Pons. “It’s my sister’s work. That and all the other carving.”

  Luc shook his head. “Would it be all right if I brought my brothers sometime?”

  “Of course. All the village children come knocking to see the fish. Mattie loves to make them smile,” said Pons.

  “The soup was the best I ever tasted.”

  “Well, for that you must thank Beatrice,” said Mattie.

  “Thank you, miss,” said Luc, turning to Beatrice.

  She studied him and wondered what his age was. He was at least her height, but slight, with a child’s smooth skin. She guessed he was a couple of years younger than she, maybe thirteen years old.

  “Your father has olive trees?” asked Mattie with her hands on her hips, staring at the boy and smiling.

  “Yes, he has more than forty trees.”

  “Why are you working as a swineherd?” asked Beatrice.

  “I’m just helping the swineherd until his leg heals, but my father thinks I’m better suited to this work.”

  Mattie scowled. “Does he now?”

  Pons stepped out onto the threshold and pointed to the dog, “That’s a fine-looking dog. What’s his name?”

  “Cadeau. He’s mine,” said Luc proudly.

  His father’s two pigs were backed against the front of the cottage while Cadeau ranged back and forth, growling and pinning them in.

  “He’s doing a good job with those pigs,” said Pons.

  “Lucky they aren’t hungry,” said Beatrice, coming out from behind him.

  “Right,” said Luc. “If they weren’t so full of nuts, Cadeau would have a hard time. But he’s good at everything—herding, hunting, guarding.”

  He rubbed the dog’s head, and Cadeau wagged his tail and shook his wet fur, spraying the boy. Luc wiped his face with the back of his hand. And grinned.

  “Can he fish?” asked Beatrice, taking a step back.

  “Probably. And sail a boat too,” said Luc with a laugh, picking up a long staff that he used to prod the pigs. “I’d better go now. You have been kind to me and to my dog.” He pulled the two chunks of bread from his sleeve. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pascal’s Farmhouse

  DESPITE THE DOWNPOUR, Luc’s first day as a swineherd’s helper had not turned out badly after all. His clothes were half dry, and his belly was full. Cadeau gobbled the bread and trotted along, splashing through puddles and nipping and dodging the two pigs. He was a big, beautiful dog with a shiny brown coat, a freckled cream muzzle, and a long feathered tail. As Luc trudged home in the moonlight, he thought about the remarkable fish-filled cottage and the beautiful Beatrice. He’d never seen anyplace like the fisherman’s home, nor anyone half as pretty as the girl with long dark hair and deep-blue eyes. She was probably his age, but, of course, no one guessed that he was almost fifteen; he looked younger than his brother Hervé, who was two years his junior.

  Hervé was as tall as Luc and already stronger. His upper lip was shadowed, and his voice was deep. Luc’s father often reminded Luc that Hervé could lift the heavy harvest baskets more easily; that Luc was the better climber and picked more olives went unremarked.

  “Maybe you’re missing more than an ear,” said his father all too often.

  Luc was no stranger to his father’s insults, but he was learning to shrug them off. He was a wise, able boy who loved his mother and his little brothers. Until his work as a swineherd in Mouette, he had spent little time with anyone outside his immediate family. They lived a very quiet life; they avoided the fishing village along the shore below and rarely visited the farming village up the road except to attend the tiny hill chapel on Sundays and holy days. F
or as long as Luc could remember, their only visitors were the same two soldiers, who arrived twice yearly, in the spring and fall. The soldiers brought white flour, cheeses, honey, and woolen cloth for Luc’s mother, Blanche. They brought a barrel of wine for his father, Pascal, and sometimes shoes for the boys. They talked to Pascal privately, but before they left, they always spoke with Luc and his brothers, asking how they spent their days and what they needed, or even what they wanted. Four years ago, the older soldier, a knight named Sir Guy, had given Luc a puppy. Sir Guy said the dog was for Luc alone, a gift because Luc was turning into a fine young man. For once, Pascal said nothing.

  The soldiers had not come this past spring, and Luc had asked his mother why.

  “Hush,” Blanche had said. “Don’t say another word about it, Luc. Especially to your father.”

  Luc rarely said anything to his father, but he remembered earlier years when his father had been kinder, and Luc had been happier. His brother Hervé was born when Luc was two, and baby Pierre followed six years later. The three boys were healthy, and the harvests were good, but Pascal began to drink after Hervé was born, and over time, he went from a hardworking family man to a sullen drunk and, increasingly, a mean one. As his father became more difficult, Luc noticed that his mother had stopped singing. His mother used to sing all the time. Before Pierre was born, Blanche would put baby Hervé on her hip, and taking Luc by the hand, she would sing softly to him as they climbed the hills beyond the grove. They would look down at their house, and she would ask Luc if he could see his father in the olive grove. Could he spot their chimney? Could he see the pigs in their pen? Could he see the chickens? Luc loved her games. He squinted and concentrated until he not only could point out the chickens but could tell which was the rooster and which was the spotted old hen. His mother hid tiny pieces of broken crockery in the dirt, and Luc raced to spot them. Blanche was surprised by all that he could do. When Luc was no more than four, Pascal was taking him to hunt because the remarkable little boy could hear a rabbit breathe and see the movement of a whisker. But that changed as Hervé grew. Hervé had never been good at his mother’s games; he did not have Luc’s quickness or his gifts. Now, when he went hunting, Pascal took neither boy, and his mother’s games had ceased. Now, nothing Luc did was good enough for his father.