The Unfortunate Son (20 page)

“No, he belongs to Louis,” said Bertrand. “A remarkable likeness. Where is yours from?”

“A long story, sir,” answered Pons. “Come inside, please.”

The two young men stamped their boots on the stone threshold to knock off any dirt.

“Where is my niece?” asked Bertrand, straining to look beyond Pons, into the cottage.

Beatrice stepped forward.

Bertrand drew in a breath. “Alain did not do you justice when he called you beautiful. For truly, you are astonishing.”

He took her hand and kissed it. Beatrice lowered her head and blushed. “Forgive me. I was a boy when you lost your father. Let me make it up to you. I have our family’s manor, and you must again call it home.” He shook his head. “I do not remember your mother well. I always heard she was pretty, but nothing like you.”

He looked at the girl with dark brown hair that tumbled to her waist in shiny curls. She had clear blue eyes, high
cheek bones, and full lips. Her skin was creamy except for the pink of her blushing cheeks. Bertrand just stared at her.

The other young man said nothing. He was taller than Bertrand, leaner, with fine dark hair and light eyes. He wore a worn beige doublet and heavy black hose. He had a simple cap, but his boots were high and fine.

Bertrand kissed Mattie’s hand. “Dear Mattie, thank you. You must come with my niece, because I was told she will not leave you. You’ll have a place of honor in my household.”

Mattie bit her lip and took her hand back.

“And Pons?” Bertrand said, bowing deeply to the old man. “You, too, will be most welcome. I cannot repay you for your loyalty and service, but I shall take care of you. You took Beatrice because of nothing more than the goodness of your hearts.”

Father Émile said, “Goodness is its own reward.”

“Too few recognize that, Father. In any case, I should like Pons and Mattie to come with Beatrice. I have no other family, and neither does my niece. I must confess that I had forgotten she existed until Alain reminded me.”

Beatrice spoke. “Thank you. But we must talk about this. Mattie and Pons have a life here in the village. And I don’t know if I wish to live close to the Muguets.”

“The Muguets?” asked Bertrand. “Don’t give
that
family a thought.”

“How could I not? I still have nightmares about my father’s death.”

“Well—” said Bertrand.

But Beatrice continued before he had a chance to say more. “And then there is Luc,” she said. “Do you know if Alain told the count about Luc?”

“Ah, yes,” said Bertrand, nodding. “The story about the boy. Perhaps we should take Pons up on his offer of refreshment, eh, Louis?”

Bertrand removed his cape and hung it from a peg. He and Louis sat at the table, and Pons joined them along with Beatrice and the priest. Mattie poured wine and sliced more cheese and bread. Bertrand kept looking at Beatrice and shaking his head. Louis removed his hat and held it in his lap. He looked around the cottage at the fish.

“Who carved all this?” he asked, with a wave of his hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Ever.”

“Mattie,” answered Beatrice.

“Wait,” said the priest. “May I show them, Mattie?”

Mattie shrugged, and the priest pushed a wooden box filled with Mattie’s chess pieces across the table toward the two visitors.

Louis picked up four or five of the figures, examining each carefully. When he got to the queen, he looked at Beatrice and shook his head. Then he turned to Mattie. “This is your work?”

She nodded.

“You have amazing skill,” said Louis. He looked up again at the suspended fish, his mouth half open.

“I’m speechless,” said Bertrand. “Speechless.”

Mattie said, “Thank you, my lords.”

“Oh no,” said Bertrand quickly, shaking his head. “I am family, and Louis?” he said, pointing to his companion. “He’s just a farmer. You needn’t pay him any respect at all.”

“Mattie, if you decide to come north with Bertrand, I will pay you to carve for me,” said Louis, ignoring Bertrand and still looking at the fish. “I have never seen anything like this.”

“You can charge him a lot, Mattie,” added Bertrand. “Louis is a
very rich
farmer.”

Louis sipped his wine and wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his doublet.

Beatrice watched him.

“May we talk about Luc?” she asked. Bertrand nodded, and Beatrice continued.

“Luc was raised in the hills above this village in an olive grove that was given to his family by the last Count de Muguet.”

“That much of the story was confirmed,” said Bertrand. “The property was indeed the Muguets’, and the old count transferred it to a servant. A groom or some such.”

“The count had a second son,” continued Beatrice, going to the door and letting in both dogs. She knelt and patted the new dog. Cadeau whined.

“Yes, he was named Francis,” said Bertrand. “He died shortly after birth. He is buried in the family’s tomb. Except
for the current count, all the old count’s children are deceased. Two daughters died of plague, thirteen years ago. The same plague that took my parents. The count’s daughters are buried in the Muguet tomb with his son, Francis.”

“But the count’s second son did not die. That infant in the tomb must be the son of the servants who were given the olive grove,” said Beatrice, standing and smoothing her gray dress. “Count de Muguet killed their son and forced them to raise Luc, the count’s younger son.”

“That’s absurd. Why would he do such a thing?” asked Bertrand.

“Because the count’s son was deformed,” said Beatrice.

“Deformed?” asked Bertrand.

“He was born with just one ear.”

“Surely someone would be able to confirm that,” said Louis.

“Father Thierry could,” said Beatrice.

“He is dead,” said Louis.

Beatrice watched the two men, especially Louis.

“Is that your dog, Louis?” asked Beatrice.

“Yes.”

“Where did you get him?”

“From my father.”

“Our dog is remarkably similar, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Yes. Surprisingly similar,” answered Louis.

“Our dog belongs to Luc. Sir Guy gave him to Luc.”

“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.”

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.”