THROUGHOUT FEBRUARY AND into March, every afternoon when Pons and Luc returned with their catch, Beatrice and Mattie spread the fish in big wooden tubs. Pons coated each fish layer with salt until the tub was filled. Mattie topped the tubs with wooden planks, and Luc weighted the planks with heavy rocks. After two weeks, the salted fish were washed in seawater and hung to dry in the front of the house with Cadeau standing guard. In this manner, they prepared the fish Pons owed to the count.
Winter ended with more fish in the nets each day, and as the days lengthened, the sun grew warmer. Luc would sit in the bow, cleaning the catch. First he sliced off the fins, and then, using the back of his knife, he flaked off the scales from the skin before slitting each fish lengthwise along its belly. He scooped out the guts, sliced off the tail, and pulled out the gills. After flipping these discards to the circling gulls, Luc rinsed each carcass in seawater. It was messy work, and Pons was impressed with the boy’s skill.
One morning in early March, Pons presented Luc with a new knife. It had a fine steel blade, a yew-wood handle, and a leather sheath. Luc was speechless.
“It’s time you had a good knife of your own, Luc. You’ve earned it.”
Luc was quiet the rest of the day; Pons watched him take the knife from the sheath again and again, turning it over, weighing it in his palm. At one point the boy held it so that the sunlight hit the blade, and light danced in a patch on the floor of the boat.
When Luc and Pons returned from fishing that day, they found two soldiers in dark-blue tunics sitting at the table with Mattie. Luc recognized one of men as the soldier who had always accompanied Sir Guy on his biannual visits to Luc’s family. He was a big-bellied man with unruly eyebrows and an easy laugh. With him was another soldier, a skinny, pigeon-toed youth whom Luc had never before seen.
“Hello, Pons,” said the burly soldier, turning to snag a loaf of bread from the windowsill. He pointed to the young soldier. “This is Henri, my aide. See to our horses and the mule, Henri.”
As Henri left, Pons nodded and sat down. “Hello, Alain. This is my helper, Luc.”
Alain jammed a chunk of bread into his mouth and raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Luc? The boy from the olive orchard?” he asked between chews.
“The same,” said Pons.
“I thought he looked familiar. Of course, the dog outside,” Alain said, whacking his head with the heel of hand. Alain unbuckled the pouch on his belt and produced a wedge of leaf-wrapped cheese. “Help yourselves,” he said, peeling the cheese and slicing himself a large piece. “How about some wine, Mattie?”
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.