The Unfortunate Son

by Constance Leeds

  Alain turned to Luc. “What are you doing here?”

  Luc answered, “Learning to fish. What are you doing here, and where is Sir Guy?”

  “I’m here collecting the Muguet rents. We didn’t visit your place last year, so you probably haven’t heard about Sir Guy.”

  “What about him?” asked Luc.

  “I am very sorry to tell you, he died last winter. One of many changes up north,” said Alain breaking off more bread.

  “And the count?” asked Pons. “Last spring you told us he was taken with a fit about the time Sir Guy died.”

  “Muguet is too mean to die,” said Mattie, setting a mug of wine in front of Alain.

  Alain took a big swallow and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “He lingered for a year, but the count finally passed this January. It was a bad death.”

  “Sir Guy worked for that count?” asked Luc.

  “He did, and they’re both dead now.” Alain shook his head and offered Mattie a wedge of cheese. He cut another piece for himself

  “What do you mean by a bad death?” she asked.

  “Well, after that fit, Muguet couldn’t speak a word or move his arms. Helpless and hated? You can wager his final days weren’t filled with comfort. You ever hear about the count’s hands?”

  Pons shrugged, and Mattie nodded.

  “Count de Muguet had huge hands, but tiny thumbs. Like a baby’s thumbs. He hated anyone to see his hands. Always wore gloves or kept his hands balled into fists. Except after the fit, he couldn’t make a fist. I heard the servants used to prop him up in bed with his hands spread out on a pillow right in front of him. He had to look at those ugly thumbs every day for the last year of his life.”

  “He deserved it,” said Mattie.

  Pons crossed himself.

  “Now I’m in service to the new count. His only son,” said Alain.

  “And what’s this one like?” Mattie asked.

  “He’s young. No more than twenty years. But he’s been away most of his life, serving as a page, then as a squire. I don’t know anything about the young lord.”

  “Well, the old Count de Muguet won’t be missed,” said Mattie.

  Alain nodded; then he looked at Luc, who was standing, leaning against the wall, flipping his new knife from hand to hand. Alain pointed to Mattie’s fish carvings.

  “Ever seen anything like this cottage?” asked the soldier.

  Luc looked up. “No, never.”

  “Me neither. Magic, like. Good food, too. But why are you learning to fish?” Alain asked, draining his mug and holding it up for more. “Fishing is hard, dangerous work. Your father has a fine olive grove.”

  Luc shrugged and looked away.

  “How did the family come by that place?” asked Pons. “People around here always wondered. Didn’t Muguet give it to Luc’s father?”

  “That’s what I heard. I don’t know the history. Sir Guy knew, but he never told me. Something secret in the past. Lots of secrets up in that olive grove.”

  “Secrets?” asked Mattie. “Like what?”

  “Like, Pascal paid no rent to the count. Instead, we brought gifts each year. Then Sir Guy passed away. Poof!” Alain snapped his fingers with both hands, blowing on one, then on the other. “No more gifts. But I’ll tell you, Sir Guy was very partial to this boy,” said Alain, pointing to Luc.

  Luc lowered himself to the end of the bench farthest from Alain and reached for a piece of bread.

  Alain finished his mug of wine. Mattie poured another.

  “Luc looks like he’s thriving here. Dog, too. Now that was a real fine puppy. From the count’s prized bitch. Probably worth more than a year of my wages. I don’t know how Sir Guy got that dog for the boy. Of course, the count trusted that old knight, as much as he trusted anyone.”

  “That’s not saying much,” said Mattie.

  “True. Old Muguet was a mean, unforgiving man. One mistake, you were dead. But then, everyone liked Sir Guy,” said Alain, scratching his neck. “Still, there was something mysterious up at the olive grove.”

  “Mysterious?” asked Mattie.

  Alain tossed the last of the cheese into his mouth and held his mug up for more wine.

  “I thought it had to do with Luc. He looks different from Pascal’s other two boys. Guess it doesn’t matter anymore, but I figured Luc was Sir Guy’s bastard. It’s a mystery, that and the kid having just the one ear. Damned strange. The old knight made me swear never to mention it.”

  Luc stopped eating, and scowled at Alain. “What are you saying? That Sir Guy was my father?”

  “I’m saying it might be so,” said Alain.

  Luc stood, but Mattie put her hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him down, shaking her head at him.

  “Well, we won’t learn anything more from Sir Guy now,” said Mattie.

  “It all seems like a tall tale to me,” said Pons.

  “Probably. I may have said too much, as it is,” said Alain, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, dusting the crumbs from the front of his tunic, and swaying to a stand. “Until the next time, if there is one. Muguet’s son may let his rent collectors take this over. Never made sense that we did it. Like I said, something about Sir Guy and the boy. But I wish you all the best, Luc, whoever you are. Sir Guy was as good a man as I ever expect to know. Good health to all of you,” said Alain, lurching as he turned to rejoin Henri, the younger soldier, who waited in the yard with the horses and the mule.

  Pons and Mattie watched as both soldiers packed two large sacks with Pons’s salted fish. After Henri tied the sacks onto the back of a mule, Muguet’s men trotted through the village; they had other rents to collect before heading north. When she was sure the soldiers had left, Mattie called Beatrice down from the loft.

  “Alain talks too much,” said Pons.

  “And makes himself right at home, doesn’t he?” said Mattie.

  Luc was slumped at the table, resting his chin on his crossed arms. He looked up as Beatrice slipped onto the bench facing him.

  “Were you hiding from the soldiers?” asked Luc.

  Beatrice nodded. “Mattie thinks it’s better if no one up north remembers me.”

  “Why?” asked Luc.

  Mattie shrugged. “We’re just being careful. Her father’s death was a terrible thing. Enough said.”

  Beatrice pursed her lips and looked at Mattie. Luc looked from Mattie to Beatrice, who reached across and patted his arm.

  “How are you? I heard everything he said. It’s a strange tale. About you and Sir Guy. Could it be true?” asked the girl.

  Now Luc was silent. He felt as though he had been listening to a fable, as though all the talk had nothing to do with him. He sat with his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands.

  “You’ve had a long day,” said Mattie, sitting next to Luc, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Who knows if there’s any truth to that story? What I know to be true was what Alain said. Sir Guy was a good man. He collected fish from us for at least a dozen years. Kind and honest, nothing like the count.”

  Then Mattie shook her head a few times; she looked up at Pons and chuckled, “What do you think, Pons? Might we have two noble brats living in our hut?”

  Pons sat down next to Beatrice.

  “I’m no more noble than you are, Mattie,” said Beatrice.

  Luc looked up. “If Alain spoke the truth, I’m just a bastard. A bastard with one ear.”

  “It might explain things, Luc,” said Mattie gently. “About your family.”

  “It would explain why my father, or the man I thought was my father, despises me. Not only am I a freak, I’m not even his son.”

  “Luc, you don’t know if there is any truth to that soldier’s tale,” said Beatrice.

  “Alain never heard a story, true or false, that he didn’t pass on,” said Pons.

  “You can think long and hard, but in the end, what comes of this? It’s a fairy tale. Nothing more. Sir Guy has been dead a year, so
that’s the end of it,” said Mattie.

  Luc clasped his hands across his chest and looked at Mattie. “My mother knows the truth.”

  “If there is truth to Alain’s tale, go easy on your mother. There is pain past and present here for her,” said Mattie.

  “Pain caused by my birth.”

  “But not by you, Luc,” said Mattie.

  “My father said I was his curse. It makes sense.”

  Beatrice came around and sat next to Luc. “It makes more sense to look at how lucky you and I are. Who could have a better home than this? It makes no difference who your father is.”

  “Easy for you say,” said Luc.

  “Me? I watched my father’s execution, and then my mother abandoned me. What counts is that we both are here now with Pons and Mattie.”

  Luc swallowed and looked around at the cottage. He looked up at the carved fish, and then he turned to Beatrice, who was watching him. She took his hand, and he closed his eyes and nodded.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lilies of the Valley

  IN THE LAST week of March, a storm and high winds kept Pons and Luc ashore for several days. Twice Luc started uphill to visit the olive grove, but each time, he turned back. He’d thought about Alain’s story every day, but Luc hadn’t decided how to ask his mother. One blustery afternoon as he turned the soil in the garden and helped Mattie plant cauliflower and cabbages, Beatrice appeared with a large oval basket and an iron pot.

  “Mattie, can you spare Luc?” called Beatrice.

  Mattie straightened, stretched her back, and clapped the dirt from her hands.

  “I don’t like to see you about in this wind.”

  “I thought we might dig tellines. Aren’t you tired of beans?” asked the girl.

  Mattie nodded and licked her lips. “Tasty, but don’t you go into the cold water.”

  “That’s why I need Luc,” said Beatrice.

  “Of course,” said Luc. “Send the pig boy out into the cold water. What are tellines anyway?”

  “Little clams,” said Beatrice.

  “Nothing better,” said Mattie with a smile.

  “Do I have to swim out for them?” asked Luc, putting down the spade and folding his arms across his chest.

  “Oh yes,” said Beatrice, nodding. “You’ll have to dive deep underwater and hold your breath while you dig. Pons says you’re a pretty good swimmer.”

  “Don’t you think we might wait for warmer weather?” asked Luc.

  Beatrice shook her head. “No.”

  “How deep do I have to dive?” asked Luc, picking up the spade again.

  “The girl’s pulling your leg, Luc,” said Mattie, nudging Luc. “You just wade in up to your ankles. You’ll find a basketful in no time, and you won’t even get your knees wet. Beatrice knows the best spots.” Mattie smoothed her dress and tucked her hair into her cap. “You two never stop teasing. Like brother and sister,” she added, taking the spade from Luc.

  “A sister like Beatrice? Now that would be unlucky,” said Luc.

  “And you’re hardly my idea of the perfect brother.”

  “Exactly what any sister and brother would say,” said Mattie. “But it’s very nice having another young person around, isn’t it, girl?”

  “Come on, Luc. Let’s go,” said Beatrice with her hands on her hips.

  Luc wiped his hands on the front of his shirt and rubbed his face on a shoulder. He called Cadeau and took the pot and the basket from Beatrice. The basket had a long leather strap, and he slipped it over his head and under his arm. He hurried after her on a path along the shore, away from the fishing village and any cottages, to a tidal inlet where there was a shallow eddy and sandy banks that were littered with powdery reddish rocks and fuzzy brown clumps of dried sea grass. The sky was leaden, and the wind was raw.

  “How do I find these clams?” asked Luc, stopping at the water’s edge to push up his patched hose. Cadeau licked his legs, and he brushed him away.

  “We’ll wade in, and you’ll feel them with your toes, just under the sand,” said Beatrice. “But tellines are tiny. Smaller than olives.”

  “That small? We’d better fill the basket, because I am hungry.”

  “You eat an awful lot for such a skinny boy.”

  “Skinny?”

  Beatrice nodded.

  Luc looked down at his legs. They were thin, and so were his arms. He sighed then shrugged.

  “What’s the pot for?” he asked.

  “Seawater. After we collect a basketful, we’ll soak the clams in the seawater until they spit out all the sand.”

  The sea was icy, and the wind was loud.

  “Oooow. It’s going to be hard to feel anything in this cold,” he complained.

  “Come on,” said Beatrice, kicking off her shoes and tucking up her skirt so that her legs were bare to her knees.

  “Mattie didn’t want you getting wet,” he said.

  “Mattie is always trying to keep me from dirt and cold and sun. She thinks I am still a lady. But she won’t know if you don’t tell her.”

  “Mother of God, it’s freezing,” said Luc as he waded ankle deep into the choppy water.

  “Stop whining and get some clams.”

  Beatrice reached down and scooped two fistfuls of wet sand that she let drain through her fingers. A dozen or so tiny silver-and-violet clams sat in her cupped hands. Luc held out the basket, and she let the clams slide in. He tightened the strap so that the basket nestled against his chest and stayed upright as he dug.

  The basket was only half full when Beatrice ran from the water. Cadeau barked and rushed to her.

  “Hey, where are you going? We don’t have enough of these clams for a meal,” called Luc.

  “I can’t feel my toes,” she said.

  “Of course, milady,” said Luc with a chuckle, and he kept digging.

  As Beatrice sat on the beach rubbing her feet, Cadeau started licking her face.

  “Stop it!” she said, laughing and pushing the dog away as she slipped on her shoes.

  Luc whistled, and Cadeau bounded into the water, barking and paddling in circles around Luc as he scooped.

  “Call Cadeau, Beatrice. I can’t find anything with him splashing around.”

  Beatrice called, and the dog charged out of the water, running to her. He stood over her and shook his coat.

  She screamed, and Luc started laughing. The basket was full, and he ran out of the water. He lay the basket at Beatrice’s feet, beaming, and grabbed the iron pot and filled it with seawater.

  “I’m soaking wet, thanks to that mongrel,” whined Beatrice.

  “Mongrel? That dog is better bred than you or I.”

  “Certainly than you,” said Beatrice standing up and wringing out her skirt. Then she added, “Whoever you are.”

  Luc puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, and stared at Beatrice. She was brushing the sand from her damp skirt; he leaned forward and dumped the pot of water over her head.

  She didn’t scream this time. She just glared at Luc, wide-eyed and furious. Then she turned and began to run home.

  Red-faced, fuming, and muttering to Cadeau about how mean Beatrice was, Luc carried the basket to the water and rinsed each clam before dropping it into the pot of seawater. Then he strapped on the empty basket, heaved up the full pot, and sloshed along the path to the cottage, where he found Mattie in front of a roaring fire. She was wrapping Beatrice in a blanket.

  “What got into you, boy?” said Mattie, her dark eyebrows low and her voice thick.

  “I’m sorry,” said Luc. “Is Beatrice all right?”

  “I should think you’re sorry. Poor girl was blue and hasn’t stopped shivering yet. And you’re not much better. Leave those clams here, and get yourself dry.”

  Beatrice turned her back to Luc and said nothing.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” said Luc.

  “Don’t you go out, soaked like that,” said Mattie, but Luc was off at a trot, followed by Cadeau, w
hose coat was already half dry.

  When Luc returned, it was dark, and Mattie and Pons were sitting by the fire with Beatrice, who was scrubbed clean and wearing a gray dress Luc had never before seen; her hair was brushed and gleaming.

  “Where have you been?” said Mattie. “You missed dinner.”

  Luc held his hands behind his back. He bowed deeply and presented Mattie and Beatrice each with a bouquet of lilies of the valley.

  Mattie shook her head and took a deep breath.

  “Scamp. Do you know how I love these?”

  “The very first of the season,” said Luc proudly. “I spotted them this morning in a sheltered spot just off the path.”

  “Some say these little flowers are the tears of the Holy Virgin,” said Beatrice. She smiled as she held the white bouquet to her nose.

  “I’m sorry, Beatrice,” Luc said.

  Beatrice peeked at him over the flowers.

  “I’m sorry too, Luc. I shouldn’t have said anything about who you are.”

  “Like a pair of toddlers,” muttered Mattie. “Get out of that filthy old shirt, Luc.”

  Luc stripped off his shirt and stood by the fire rubbing his arms.

  “We saved you a bowl of clams. I’ll get them,” said Mattie.

  Beatrice rose and handed Luc a cloth bundle.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  But he knew as soon as he took the bundle: it was a new shirt, a dark green tunic that fastened at the neck with leather braids. The wool was soft and warm and smelled of lanolin.

  “Beatrice made that shirt for you,” said Mattie, heaping steaming tellines into a bowl.

  Luc smiled; he could see that the stitching was crooked. He pulled it over his head, and Beatrice stepped in and tied the leather laces. One sleeve was too short, and the other was too long.

  “That looks good on you,” said Mattie.

  “Does it make me look like a gentleman?” he asked, flattening his hair and throwing back his shoulders.

  “It’s a shirt,” said Beatrice. “Not a miracle.”

  “Well, it’s a very fine shirt,” said Luc, smoothing the front of it.

  Mattie noticed that the boy had grown taller in the two seasons he had been living with them; his cheeks were rosy, and the sun had burnished and brightened his golden hair;. She smiled and shook her head. “You look very handsome,” she said, handing him the bowl. “That shirt was supposed to be for Easter, but you need it now.”