Louis sighed, “He is not my brother.”
“You are wrong, my lord,” snapped Beatrice.
“Beatrice, hold your tongue,” said Bertrand.
Louis continued, “My baby brother, Francis, is buried in the family tomb in our chapel. I don’t know who Luc was, but he wasn’t my brother. I agree that he had some connection to my father’s household. Perhaps he was Sir Guy’s bastard.”
“You never questioned Blanche, did you?”
“Blanche?”
“The woman who raised Luc.”
“Alain questioned her husband.”
“Pascal had everything to lose by admitting the truth.”
“Alain assured the man that he would lose nothing.”
“Alain gave him your word?”
“Yes.”
Beatrice smiled. “Your word? The word of Count de Muguet?”
“My word, yes.”
“Those people would never trust your word. They know nothing of you, and they knew the worst of your father. Would they confess that they had lost the count’s son? How terrified they must be to hear your dreaded name, Muguet!”
“Beatrice, you go too far!” said Bertrand, stepping between Beatrice and Louis.
“I know. But I also know what it is to be abandoned, my lord,” said Beatrice, turning away from everyone.
“Can’t you call me by my Christian name?” asked Louis quietly.
“Yes,” said Beatrice, but she did not.
“Do you know why I have searched for the boy?” asked Louis, standing right behind her.
Beatrice turned and looked at Louis. “You said you searched because it was right.”
“Yes. And to secure your forgiveness.”
“Mine?”
“Is it too much to hope that you will forgive me?”
“Forgive you for what?”
“Forgive me for being a Muguet. For what my father did to your father. And for what that did to you.”
Beatrice said nothing. She hid her tear-streaked face in her hands.
“I am so sorry, Louis,” said Bertrand, putting an arm around Beatrice’s shoulders. “She’s very emotional about the boy. About everything. Forgive her. Forgive me.”
Louis looked at Beatrice for a moment, blinking very slowly.
“I’m sorry,” said Louis, holding up his hand and looking down. “Good-bye.”
He turned and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Freedom
SALAH SIPPED FROM a cup that Bes held to his lips. He brushed away the little man and whispered for Luc. Salah was a husk, winnowed to bone and skin. Luc was astonished to find Cat sitting in the old man’s lap, purring. Salah stroked the cat with his good hand. Luc shielded the parrot on his shoulder as he leaned in to hear Salah.
“I must tell you about ransom.”
“I know, Salah. Tariq told me.”
“Forgive me?”
The old man coughed.
Luc nodded and covered Salah’s hand with his. “I owe you everything.”
The parrot hopped from Luc’s shoulder to his head. Cat didn’t move, but he followed the bird with his eyes. The boy rose and put the bird on its perch as Salah turned to Bes.
“Box.”
Bes went to a shelf and, standing on his toes, stretched for a thick leather book and tipped it out. The old man nodded, and Bes opened the book: inside, the pages had been carved out so that the middle of the book was hollow. Bes removed a fitted leather box that held a leather pouch and a folded sheet of paper.
“Cup your hands, Luc,” whispered Salah.
Bes poured the sack’s contents into Luc’s palms: five huge pearls, a handful of large diamonds and rubies, and more than two dozen heavy gold coins.
“This is yours, Luc,” said Bes. “The master has given the same to me. Here is the paper setting you free.”
Salah closed his eyes. His breathing was ragged, and he dozed. Luc poured the treasure back into the sack and tied it inside a larger pouch that hung from his belt. Then he sat on the floor across from Bes and next to Salah.
He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. “This is more than I thought to earn in a lifetime. In several lifetimes.”
“And Tariq has offered to make you far richer,” said Bes. “I heard him.”
“Yes. I thought I had lost everything, but now?” Luc took Salah’s hand and covered it with his other hand. “This is enough for anything.” Luc shook his head. “Maybe it’s enough even for Beatrice.”
“Beatrice? Is that a place?” asked Bes.
“No, Beatrice is the most beautiful girl in the world.”
“And she lives where you came from?”
“Yes.”
“Is her father as rich as Tariq?”
Luc laughed.
“Richer?” asked Bes, wide-eyed.
“She has no fortune.”
“Stupid man. Will you marry her?” asked Bes.
Luc shrugged. “I never thought I was good enough.”
“Now that you are rich, you are?”
“Perhaps.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know, Bes. She may have married someone else. What do I want?” Luc looked around at Salah’s room; then he turned to Bes and said, “I used to want my old life back. But not now. I no longer know what I want. I don’t even know who I am. After Salah is gone, I must go back and find out.”
“Take me. I will serve you.”
“You are as rich as I am. Why would you serve me?”
“I will lose all that Salah gave me, and then I will be on the street.”
“You do not have to lose it,” said Luc.
“I will, though.”
“I thought you were a god.”
“I am Bes,” said the little man. He held a pearl between his thumb and his forefinger. He rolled it in the sunlight, catching the nacreous sheen. “Pearls are wondrous, Luc. Had you ever seen one before?”
“Not before I came to this house.”
“They are formed when an oyster swallows a moonlit dewdrop. Pearls are scarce, but one this large and perfect is as rare as a man with one ear,” said the little man with a half smile. “Take my treasure, Luc. And me.”
“Bes—”
Bes put his finger to his lips and handed Luc the pearl.
Then Bes held out his fist to Luc. He turned and opened his hand, and offered Luc the wooden ear. Luc took the ear and looked at Bes.
Neither noticed that Salah had awakened and was listening, watching.
“Luc,” he whispered.
“Yes, master,” said Luc, leaning in.
“Forgive.”
The old man closed his eyes and coughed softly. Then his breathing sputtered, slowed, and stopped, until the only sound was the purr of Cat. The old man died with Bes and Luc each holding one of his hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Beatrice and Louis
IT WAS AUGUST, and the fields were a patchwork of color: gold wheat, green barley, and purple lavender. Beatrice joined her uncle and his servants to bring wine, cheese, bread, and onions to a wheat-field where the harvesters were binding armfuls of straw into toast-smelling bundles. She wore a new blue silk dress with a rose linen underdress that was trimmed with crimson ribbon along her collarbone and wrists. Her hair was braided, weaving in twists of the same red ribbon, and the braid was pinned up in back so that her long neck was bare. The sun was hot, and, for once, Beatrice wished she had worn a hat.
“Louis never visits anymore,” said Beatrice, taking Bertrand’s arm as they strolled back toward the manor.
“No,” said Bertrand. “He refuses my invitations. When I attempt to visit him at the castle, he’s always away or too occupied to see me.”
“It’s my fault, isn’t it, Uncle?”
“That business about Luc was very painful.”
Beatrice knelt in front of Cadeau, who was walking at her side. She laid her head on the dog’s neck and stroked his head.
“I’ve been very selfish. I never considered Louis in all this. Or you, Uncle. Louis is your dearest friend.”
“Yes, he is.”
Bertrand patted his niece’s shoulder. He was dressed in a tunic of the same blue silk, and he wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a golden feather.
“And you were right, he has nothing of his father in him,” she said, looking up at her uncle.
“Just the burden of his father’s bad deeds.”
Beatrice stood up and asked, “Shall I write to him? To tell him how sorry I am? How unfair I was?”
“That would be very good, I think,” he said, offering her his arm. “That new dress suits you. You look especially beautiful today, Niece. Now let’s see your pretty garden. I love all the yellows and blues.”
Beatrice cocked her head and glanced at him. “The colors, eh, Uncle?”
Before they reached the garden gate, Beatrice heard hurried steps on the pebbled path, and Cadeau barked. When she and Bertrand turned, they found Louis, walking quickly to catch up with them.
“Hello, my friend,” said Bertrand, clapping Louis on the back. “We were just talking about you. I’ve missed you.”
Louis nodded, but said nothing. He fell in next to Bertrand.
“We have,” said Beatrice softly.
“We’re going to see my niece’s garden. Will you join us?” asked Bertrand.
Louis nodded. He was dressed in a muslin tunic and ragged hose. His straight dark hair was damp, and he brushed it back from his forehead. He looked more like a field-worker than the lord of a great castle.
“Beatrice has created a perfect little garden with such pleasing colors,” said Bertrand, opening the gate.
Louis walked ahead and looked about the garden.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Interesting?” said Bertrand. “What sort of praise is that? You don’t find this to be a lovely garden?”
Louis smiled. Beatrice was quiet. He explored the garden, examining the plants. He stopped at a black-barked sapling with yellow-green leaves.
“A mirabelle?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Beatrice.
“Well?” asked Bertrand. “Don’t you find it pretty, my friend?”
Louis turned to Bertrand. “Oh yes, this garden is pretty, Bertrand. And the colors are pleasing. But—”
“But! But what, Louis?” asked Bertrand, disappointed.
“It’s pretty enough, but, really, this garden is all about fragrance. From the honeysuckle on the gate to the lavender growing alongside rosemary hedges.” Louis walked about, pointing. “Between the stepping stones, Beatrice has planted at least two kinds of thyme, and that’s verbena over there and sweet woodruff here under the tree. My every step crushes leaves and adds more scent. Those rose beds are edged with sweet alyssum. It’s lovely to see, but it smells marvelous.”
Bertrand took a step back and rubbed his forehead. He marched about the garden, leaning over, leaning down, sniffing, snuffling.
“Fragrance?” Bertrand muttered, and turned to Louis. “Fragrance?”
Louis nodded. Bertrand turned to Beatrice. She nodded. Bertrand grinned and shook his head. “So I was too wooden-headed to understand this garden? But not Louis. Oh no. He got it right away.”
Beatrice watched Louis. He was leaning down to smell a flower when she finally spoke.
“Louis?”
“Louis?” Louis looked up and smiled. “Not my lord?”
“I was going to write to you,” she said.
“Write to me? Whatever for?” he asked.
“I wanted to apologize—”
“You’ve been avoiding us, Louis,” said Bertrand. “We haven’t seen you for weeks.”
“You thought I was angry?”
“Yes,” said Bertrand. “We both did.”
“No,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Beatrice. “Just busy.”
He walked a little farther into the garden.
“And afraid,” he added.
“Afraid?” asked Bertrand.
Louis leaned over to snap off a verbena sprig; he crushed the leaves between his fingers and held them to his nose.
“All spring and summer I’ve listened as Beatrice insisted that Luc was my brother. To have a living brother? At first I was enthralled. But then, as I thought about it, I didn’t want to believe her. Think, Beatrice. This would be my father’s most monstrous crime, against his own son, against my brother, and against the innocent child of a servant. I might even learn that Father was responsible for the death of my mother.”
Beatrice said nothing, but she remembered what Blanche had said—that there had been rumor, that Louis’s father had indeed committed this heinous act.
A noticeable wind had picked up, and Beatrice felt her skirt fill, and loose strands of her hair whip her face. Cadeau whined. Louis stepped toward her just as a blaze of lightning turned everything white. They all looked up at the sky.
“Don’t worry. It’s just heat lightning,” said Bertrand.
The sky was banded with a luminous violet, and the tree leaves showed their silver undersides. The air was hot, but this wind was cold.
Suddenly, the heavens thundered.
“Run!” shouted Beatrice.
Cadeau broke into a gallop, and Beatrice gathered her skirts and took off with Louis sprinting at her side. They reached the house just as the sky opened. She laughed and coughed and caught her breath. Louis had just reached out to brush a loose curl from her eyes when Bertrand stomped into the house. He was soaked.
“Ruined,” he said, wringing the hem of his tunic. “This silk is ruined. And my shoes?” he asked, lifting one foot to display the sodden leather. “Hopeless.” He looked up. “And you two, dry as can be? Well, I’m glad for Beatrice’s new dress, anyway. You must excuse me, but I need to change.”
Bertrand sloshed off. Beatrice stepped into the hall, and Louis followed. The room went white with another burst of lightning, and this time the thunder followed immediately. Rain sheeted along the windowpanes. Louis walked to the window to watch. Without turning, he spoke.
“Beatrice, I never stopped the search for Luc,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said.
“And I sent my steward to speak with Blanche.”
Beatrice took a step toward Louis.
He continued. “He’s a gentle man. I hope Blanche will be comfortable enough to talk openly with him.”
“Louis, whatever you learn—”
He turned and faced her, “About Luc?”
“And about your father—”
Louis sighed and nodded.
“You aren’t to blame for his deeds.”
He pressed his knuckles against his mouth, stepped toward her and said, “I don’t want to give you a false hope, but there has been another report from Africa. I do not know if Luc has been found alive, but expect I shall know more soon.”
Beatrice took a deep breath that puffed out her cheeks. “I have always hoped …thank you.
Louis smiled at her. “Will you ever come to the castle? To see the room with Mattie’s fish?”
Beatrice looked at Louis and smiled. He put his hands together as though he was praying.
“Please,” he said.
Beatrice nodded.
CHAPTER FORTY
Returning
A WEEK LATER, a servant brought a note from Louis inviting Beatrice and Bertrand, Mattie and Pons to the castle. It was a gentle horse ride on a bright September morning. Throughout the countryside, reapers were swinging their sickles and leveling the last flaxen fields of wheat. The leaves on ripening grapevines striped the hillsides with yellow. Cadeau bounded along, circling widely around Beatrice’s horse.
“I’m starting to enjoy riding,” said Pons proudly, patting his mount on its withers as the castle towers came into view.
“I’m not,” said Mattie. “But it’s better than walking.” She looked up at the sky and pointed to a high-soaring bird.<
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Beatrice looked up as the bird dipped and cried. She turned to Mattie.
“Can that be a gull?”
Mattie nodded.
“Here?” asked Beatrice.
“I never saw one so far from the sea,” said the old woman. “It’s the boy, I think.”
“Luc?” asked Beatrice, watching the bird disappear over the hills.
Mattie nodded. “His spirit. He’s come to see that we are all well.”
Tears filled Beatrice’s eyes.
“He’s with us. And he knows we are safe. It’s a good sign, Beatrice,” said Mattie.
“But he’s gone?” asked Beatrice, her cheeks wet.
Mattie nodded.
They continued in silence. Riding through the castle walls, despite her tears, Beatrice noticed the transformation. Flowers and shade trees filled the dreaded courtyard, and water splashed and flowed over the tiers of a grand new fountain in the center. Louis and his dog stood in the doorway. The dogs jumped at each other and were off at a run, chasing each other around the garden.
“Welcome,” said Louis, smiling. He wore a silk tunic of the same blue but a darker hue than the new dress that Beatrice wore. When he noticed her tears, he said, “What a fool I am. It’s too hard for you to return here, Beatrice.”
She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “No. It was something else.”
Louis exhaled. He was holding a perfect white lily, and he handed it to her.
“Come,” said Louis, taking her other hand and helping Beatrice from her horse. “I can’t wait for you to see the tower room.”
Bertrand hung back and climbed the stairs with Mattie and Pons. He turned to Mattie and said, “You know, the count is in love with Beatrice.”
“You think that’s news to me?” asked Mattie.
“It’s news to me,” said Pons.
“Of course it is, Brother. If it doesn’t swim, you don’t understand it.”
“How does she feel?” asked Bertrand.
“Good sir, she is your niece. You ask her yourself.”
“But the tears?”
“The tears were about Luc. She knows he is gone.”
Bertrand nodded.
The steward stood at the entrance to the room; he smiled at Beatrice but said nothing. She and Louis waited for the others to reach the top of the stairs.
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