Authors: Gael Baudino
“I'm no prince,” he said at last. “I'm a businessman. I buy and sell. I buy and sell wool. I buy and sell jewels. I buy and sell spices. I buy and sell . . . people like you.” He scowled. Paul Drego, his eyes hollow with what must have been a sleepless night—or a sleepless week—wore the face of a man who was watching his house burn down. James, the furrier, still had pasted on his face that same damned silly grin he always seemed to wear, though right now it had a bewildered edge to it. The others were much the same. Only Simon the Jew remained inscrutable. Lending money, collecting interest, being burned alive in their houses . . . Jews, Jacob had found, seemed to be like that.
But, beside him, Francis—whose face, until now, had been anything but smiling and cordial—had suddenly begun to look hopeful.
Jacob regarded his son with the sneer reserved by the unsubtle for the outright transparent. Yes, it all came down to money. It always came down to money. Popes, kings, merchants, beggars: I t was money. Money he had. Money they wanted. And Francis and his entire family were no different.
Jacob fingered his wine cup. No, Francis himself was a little different. The second generation of wealthy Aldernachts numbered three: one nitwit who squandered his allowance on musical instruments and books of poetry . . . and waited for his father to die; one mercenary who spent his days breaching Italian fortifications and his nights breaching Italian maidenheads . . . and waited for his father to die; and this one here, a gutless viper . . . who was probably unwilling to wait.
No such luck, Francis. You'll take your turn just like all the rest. If your mother were alive
. . .
His thoughts brought him up short. He did not know for certain that Marjorie was dead. She might be alive. Somewhere. Suddenly, amid so many expressions of so many emotions, he missed her. But he had driven her away.
And the faces about him—Francis's included—were still waiting.
“I'm no prince,” he said again, wanting to tell them all to go to hell. “You'd all better understand that. If I've got money, it's because I earned it. With my hands. With my sweat. I didn't lah-di-dah it around and get it from my father.”
The faces about him had turned pale. Even James had lost his grin.
“You want to know who my father was? He was a weaver, just like me. We wove wool.”
Natil, who had silenced the musicians with a glance when she had seen her master rise, was watching him. Jacob could see her blue eyes even from across the room. She was sitting down, her harp on her lap, but she was sitting proudly, and her head was—as usual—uncovered. She still had that damned eagle feather, too.
He laughed suddenly. A sharp little girl, one who knew exactly when to nod and when to smile and how, at the same time, to keep her wits about her and her dignity intact. Simply by being herself, she had bested him. Already! Quite a woman!
He wished that Marjorie had been like that.
“Wool,” he said aloud. “That's what I've got to offer. You want wool?”
Silence. He had frightened them. Well, he was going to frighten them some more.
He leaned forward, plunked his cup down on the table with enough force to make the boards rattle. “I said:
Do you want wool?
Speak up, dammit!”
From the merchants came a hushed flurry of stirring and breathing: a chorus of whispers. Yes, they wanted wool.
“You want
money
?”
Yes, they wanted money. Everyone in Furze wanted money.
“Show me.” Jacob's voice was flat. “Let me hear you shout for it.
You want it?
”
The reply came in whispers. “Yes.”
“Louder.”
Hesitation. A collective breath. “Yes!”
“
Louder!
”
Face pale, eyes clenched as though he were being stretched upon an inquisitorial rack, Paul Drego led the reply, his voice all but sobbing. “
Yes!
”
Jacob was implacable. “
You goddamn peasants, I've come to make you rich! You want that?
”
A chorus of voices, male and female, poor and poorer: “
Yes!
”
“
LOUDER!
”
“
YES! YES! YES!
”
Had he told them to bow down, Jacob knew, they would have bowed down. Had he told them to rise, they would have risen. Had he told them to fly, they would have made a valiant effort, and some were so desperate that they might have succeeded. He could have ordered them to dance, yelp like dogs, laugh, cry . . . anything. And they would have done exactly as they were told.
But Jacob had had his fill of toadying for the night. “All right then. We'll meet tomorrow morning and discuss details. You'll have your money.” He paused, examined faces that were, at once, hopeful, despairing, and ashamed. “On my terms.”
A sigh from the banqueters. Francis—red-faced, angry—would not look at him, but Jacob caught Natil's eye. The harper looked sad. Well, the thought, that made two of them.
And, that night, at bed time, he did something that he had never done before. Instead of simply putting down a glass of wine and a crust of bread and crawling beneath the comforters, he asked Natil to play for him. She had not shouted, she had not crawled. She was proud, proud and sad both. Again, she had bested him, just like Marjorie had (he realized now_ bested him, too . . . in her own way, on her won terms.
He could respect that; and for the sake of his sadness, and for the sake of the bitter gall that his money had become, he listened to the chime of harpstrings that night, trying to hear what Natil played.
***
“What do you think of the new girl?”
“She has the haunches of an ox.”
Edvard and Norman, Francis's sons, had gotten into their father's study, pillaged his wine cabinet, broke open his small store of Spanish tobacco, and were enjoying themselves greatly. Smoke, wine, and women: the cardinal pleasures of two young men.
“But what haunches!”
Edvard was the blond. Norman had brown hair and a hint of a beard. In all other ways, though, they were more or less interchangeable, for they held the same opinions, shared the same desires and the willingness to satisfy them.
“Oh, I'll admit they're considerable.” Edvard speaking here, sending his words up in a cloud of blue smoke to join the much larger cloud that had collected just beneath the ceiling beams. “Why, a man could get himself crushed between them.”
Which made Normal fall abruptly silent and thoughtful. “What,” he mused, “do you think it would be like to die that way?”
“What? Crushed?”
Norman was impatient. “Between a woman's thighs, dammit. Drat this pipe! Father spends a fortune on this New World weed and then he skimps on the equipment required to enjoy it.”
“Just like Pierre, isn't it?” said Edvard. The young men always called their father Pierre. Sometimes they called him Pierre to his face. “A bit short of the mark, as usual. I'm surprised, actually, that you and I are here at all!”
They both howled at the joke, which called for a refilling of the wine glasses. As might be expected, this delay caused the pipes to go out, and it took a few minutes for them to get resettled.
“Now,” said Edvard, “where were we? Oh, yes: the thighs.”
“Her name's Omelda.”
“Hmmm . . . not at all as exotic as . . . say . . . Dinah.”
“Well, Dinah is one in a thousand. She can be exotic. If we pay her.”
“Is she coming tonight?”
“Did we pay her?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then: yes.”
“Good,” said Edvard, sucking at his pipe. “I've a mind to be cultivating some Venus plots as soon as I can. I want to root down there in the good . . . moist . . . earth.” He sucked again. “Dinah will do.”
For a time, Edvard and Norman hummed in a toneless, two-part harmony as they propped their feet up on their father's desk, shoving aside the piles of curious old books that Francis had collected. Poisons. Drugs. Cabala. Edvard and Norman had not the slightest idea what their father was doing with such foolishness, but perhaps this was another area in which Francis fell a bit short of the mark.
More wine. Really, this was quite good. Father was gone. So was Grandfather. Aside from Claire—a source of amusement, no more—there was no one in the house to get in their way. They could do as they wished. If Francis found out about their depredations in his study, he might rage a little, of course, but he would do nothing more about it than he did about anything else . . . including being called Pierre.
A bit short of the mark there, also.
“I was thinking . . .” they both began at once. They stared at one another for a moment, startled, then laughed.
“After you,” said Edvard.
“No, after you,” said Norman.
“All right,” said Edvard, “since you say so. I was thinking that Dinah is . . . sufficient. Wouldn't you say that, Norman? Sufficient?”
“Yes. Sufficient.” Norman was getting an erection. “But only just sufficient.”
“She is accommodating.”
“Accommodating, indeed.”
Edvard giggled like a schoolboy. “You can stick anything you want into her, and you can leave it there as long as you like. That's my Dinah!”
“
Your
Dinah!”
“Well,
our
Dinah.”
“Much better.” Norman squinted at a particularly large book bound in heavy leather.
Commentaries
, read the spine.
Elijah del Medigo. Aldine Press.
Whatever the commentaries in question were about, they were in the way, and so Norman kicked them to the floor. There was a small explosion of dust, a crack of bindings.
“Nuhhh,” said Edvard. “Pierre won't like that.”
“Naaah,” said Norman. “Ask me if I care.”
Edvard smiled, relit his pipe, refilled his wine cup. “
Our
Dinah.”
Norman smiled, too.
“Anyway,” Edvard went on, “I do think Omelda's thighs are a little scary, but can you imagine what they would feel like wrapped about your neck?”
Norman tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, completely lost in the magnificence of the thought. His erection, flagging as a result of its exposure to Elijah's
Commentaries
, was suddenly revitalized.
“Could she . . . be bought?” he wondered aloud.
“Dammit, Norman, she already
belongs
to us. We don't have to buy her!”
Norman lifted his head. “They're much better if they go along with it freely, Edvard. You know that. Dinah acquiesces because she is paid. Omelda . . .” He fell again into wonder. “Oh my . . .”
Edvard was warming to the idea. “She's already in the house, and I know the passages to the servants' quarters. I even marked the panels so that I know which lets you into what room. We can get in any time if we wish.”
The young men fell back into considering Omelda and her tremendous thighs.
“Like an ox.”
“Very like an ox.”
“Have you . . .” Edvard raised his eyebrows at Norman. “. . . ever tried an ox?”
Norman spat a mouthful of wine at his brother. “How dare you!”
“Well . . .” Edvard fell to cleaning, reloading, and lighting his pipe with a great deal of unnecessary fuss. “. . . you seem fairly transported at the idea of fucking one!”
Norman stared, then snorted, then giggled, then laughed out loud. “Very good, Edvard. Very good. But what will Pierre say?”
“About an ox?”
“About Omelda.” Norman swung his feet down, planted his elbows on his knees, regarded Edvard seriously. “She hasn't been in the house for more than a few days. Father might not like her being . . . used . . . right away.”
“He didn't say anything about that kitchen girl.” Edvard spat in the corner. “Stupid thing. A bit of blood, and she leaves: imagine that!” He shrugged. “We're better off without her. In any case, Pierre didn't bother to let Grandpa know that she'd left without leave because he didn't want to waste the money on hunting her down. He went down to Furze with Grandpa for the same reason.”
“Wasting money?” Norman prodded at the books. “He doesn't seem worried about wasting money on
these
.”
Edvard shook his head. “He's afraid that Grandpa will give away the whole family fortune. I've heard him mumbling to himself about it.” He abruptly fell silent, frowned. “Don't you . . . don't you ever worry that . . .” He sucked on his pipe, discovered that it had gone out, shrugged. “. . . something like that might happen?”
Norman was incredulous. “
Grandpa?
”
“No, I'm serious.” Edvard's eye fell on a slender volume about Arabian poisons. He puzzled over it, then shrugged it off. His father had some peculiar reading preferences, indeed. “Pierre doesn't like this Furze deal at all. His tobacco farm in Spain is foundering because of the Inquisition.” Edvard pulled the pipe out of his mouth, examined it. “There's an Inquisition in Furze, too.”
Norman preferred talking about Omelda and her thighs, but he shrugged philosophically: there would be time for Omelda later. “Grandpa knows how to make money. He knows how to keep it, too.”
“I wonder. He's old.”
“Yes.”
“And old men . . .” With an abrupt, savage kick, Edvard sent another stack of books to the floor. “Old men ought to die and get out of the way.”
And, on the floor, now heaped in a pile as confused and meandering as the house that contained them, their leather bindings split and their pages torn, lay Francis's books. His books on drugs, poisons, and magic.
A bit short of the mark. But close. And, perhaps, getting closer.
Hadden and Wheat awoke to a world as new as their names. The night receded like gray mist before the sun as though for the first time, and, out in the shabby parking lot below Wheat's apartment window, the potholed and littered asphalt seemed a wonderful thing, alive with the random sparkles of mica flecks, gritty with dust blown in from the life about it, undulating not with the carelessness of a penny-pinching contractor, but with the very shape of the enshrouded earth.
The sky took on color and clouds. The horizon appeared in a gray haze. The traffic on the interstate sounded, yes, like the faint gurgles of an infant. And Hadden and Wheat stood at the window—arms about one another, coffee growing cold in their untouched cups—staring and listening, just staring and listening.