Authors: Claire Letemendia
“I was.”
“Hmm. What have you to show for your travels?” Laurence took from his doublet a small package wrapped in oily sackcloth and tossed it to Seward, who uncovered a hard, dark brown square, sticky yet crumbled at the edges, like dried fruit comfit. He began to chuckle, a wheezy sound rising from his hollow chest. “I’ve a pipe,” he muttered,
searching amidst the piles of books and manuscripts. “Aha! Here it is. Wherever did you obtain this fruit of dreamers?”
“From a Moor in Spain.”
“A Moor in Spain!” repeated Seward reverently. “Was he handsome?”
“No, he was old and wrinkled just like you.”
Seward broke off a piece of the brown substance, held it over a candle flame until it smoked gently, then filtered it through his fingers into the bowl of his long pipe, blended it with a pinch of coarse tobacco from a pouch within his gown, lit it, and inhaled. “Very pure,” he declared, snorting slightly as he exhaled an aromatic cloud. “Have a taste yourself,” he added, and passed over the pipe.
“Seward,” said Laurence, after they had exchanged and answered many questions, “there’s something else I brought back that I’ve been waiting to show you.” He reached into his doublet again and pulled out the letters. “Even with all you taught me, I can’t make sense of these.”
Seward took them to his desk, where the candlelight was brighter. Watching him peruse them, Laurence fancied that his expression altered, and his hands trembled a little more noticeably.
“Have you ever seen anything like this code?” Laurence asked.
Seward was still studying the sheets of paper. “How did you acquire them?” he said, after a while.
“They were stolen. The thief gave them to me.”
“Stolen from whom?”
“I don’t know. If you can break the code, we might be able to find out.”
“They are certainly interesting.” Seward flicked his gaze from one page to another. “We have two correspondents, both educated, judging by their hand. This author must be a man of violent passion. Witness the large strokes and bold pressure upon the parchment. And the parchment itself is of particularly good quality.” He laid them on his desk and went to his cupboard, from which he produced a bottles
covered in mould and a couple of stained glasses. “I’ve kept this since we last drank together, hoping to drink with you again,” he said, as he poured for them. “Now, what were the circumstances of the theft?”
“It happened in February, around the time I had to get out of The Hague. There was a man threatening to kill me. I’d come close to losing an arm because of him, so I wasn’t taking any chances.”
“You were always into one scrape or another.” Seward sat down, drew the cat onto his lap, and began to stroke it rhythmically. “Well, go on, Beaumont, I’m listening.”
The day after Saint-Etienne had been banished from Simeon’s house, Laurence became feverish. The cuts he had sustained were oozing pus, and the surrounding skin was swollen and discoloured. Simeon said that they should be cleaned out properly and summoned the woman who tended to his household’s medical needs; an experienced abortionist, he assured Laurence, though he did not say whether her skills extended to other operations. She dosed him with a poppy and cannabis tincture, and unwrapped a bowl she had brought with her which contained several fat white maggots. “My beauties here will make short work of this infected flesh – it is their favourite meal,” she informed him, and dropped them neatly into the gaping incisions. He lost consciousness temporarily, but when he regained it and had the courage to look, her beauties were back in the bowl and she had sewn him up tidily with catgut.
“Whatever next, good lady?” Simeon asked weakly.
“A paste of spiders’ webs, honey, dried sage, and rock alum. The stitches can be plucked out if he heals, but if the wound festers again, call me. And don’t wait too long, or the poison will spread. I know a surgeon who can hack off a leg at the thigh in twenty seconds, so an arm will take him no time at all.”
“I thank you, madam, but if by some happy chance Monsieur Beaumont were to survive, he’d be worse than maimed without his left hand. His skill at cards depends on it. You must get well, Monsieur, or you’ll be short of a livelihood,” Simeon told Laurence.
Laurence was frankly terrified; he had witnessed more amputations than he could count. But the circumstances of his convalescence were very different to those of an army hospital, and gradually he started to mend.
“You look bored, Monsieur,” Simeon said, visiting a few days later.
“I am. What happened to the gypsy? I haven’t seen her since the night she arrived. Is she still here?”
“Alas for us all, yes. She refused to leave until you were out of peril, so I consigned her to the kitchen to chop vegetables. She’s too high and mighty to earn her keep like the rest of the women. She said she’d rather suffer a hundred lashes than be fondled by a
gadjo
.”
“What’s her name?”
“Juana, but I call her the little minx, it suits her better,” Simeon said, rolling his eyes comically. “Why, that first night, when we gave her a bath, she fought like a demon, biting and scratching. She had never washed from head to toe in her life before, and thought it would be the death of her. I had to make her a present of some gold earrings, just to shut her up. All she did was stick her tongue out at me, and say that we
gadje
could scrub ourselves with soap and water for as long as we wanted, but that we’d never get clean, with all our dirty habits. She can’t believe we allow cats in the kitchen. ‘You let them lick the plates you eat off, when they have just licked their own bums,’ she keeps complaining. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to catch you eating out of the privy.’ In short, Monsieur, she’s an ingrate, and I shall soon send her packing. Now,” Simeon added, “I can see that your hand is out of action, but do you think you might be well enough to keep an eye on the tables?”
Laurence said that he was, and so Simeon had a daybed made up for him downstairs.
In her idle hours, Juana would sometimes sit with him. She was constantly eating, with the air of a stray animal expecting to be chased away from its meal. He too knew what it was to starve and did not blame her for making the most of her opportunities. Although she remained thin and grey-complexioned from want, her long, heavy black hair shone from repeated brushings, and the women had given her a dress to replace her boy’s attire. In her face he saw a quick intelligence and a singular beauty, particularly in her large eyes and expressive mouth. It was difficult to judge how old she might be: perhaps twenty, perhaps less. She had no clue herself, when he inquired.
“Have you a wife in your country?” she asked him one day.
“No,” he replied.
“I had a husband, but he died of the plague,” she confided, with a shade of sorrow. “Monsieur,” she went on, “Simeon says you come from a good family. Why, then, are you just a whore’s whore, lying with these disgusting trollops after they have opened their legs all night for other men?”
“They’re honest in what they do, and they do it well,” he answered, obliquely.
“But when are you going to marry a decent woman, and father sons to look after you in your old age?” He shrugged, smiling. “Let me read your palm and I’ll tell you how many children you will have. Which hand do you use most?” He held out his left, wrapped in bandages. “
La mano izquierda. Qué mala suerte
,” she declared, in a portentous tone.
“You’re wasting your time,” he told her, in the same language. “I don’t believe in that nonsense about bad luck. And your fortune telling is only a trick for you gypsies to make money.”
“
Oye, hombre
, so you’re no Englishman!” she retorted. “Simeon told me your mother was a Spaniard, and I bet every last drop of your blood
is from Spain. That I could see by your face, and now I hear you talk, I am certain of it.”
“I’m only speaking Spanish to you because I can’t understand your horrible Dutch.”
“Well, as for us gypsies, you can’t hold yourself above us, when you cheat at cards!”
“Should I regret cheating Saint-Etienne?” Laurence said, still smiling at her.
She did not smile back, appraising him with the utmost gravity. “I know what is wrong with you, Monsieur. You don’t respect yourself.” And with that she swept off to the kitchen.
As the winter snow melted and the ground thawed, giving way to a sea of mud, the house received alarming news: Saint-Etienne was back in The Hague and had announced publicly that he had come to wreak his revenge on Monsieur Beaumont.
“A pity you haven’t recovered your full strength,” Simeon remarked to Laurence. “It might at least narrow the odds between you.”
“No it wouldn’t,” Laurence said. “I’m the worst swordsman that I know.”
“Then buy yourself a fast horse and have your bags ready,” Simeon counselled. “I shall be sad to see you go, yet I should be sadder still to see the Frenchman fulfil his threat. And I cannot shelter you any more, now that the armies are reassembling for the spring campaign.”
“I’d never ask that of you, my friend,” Laurence assured him. “You’ve done so much for me as it is.”
In low spirits, Laurence retired to his chamber to practise dealing with his wounded hand. It was a humiliating experience, interrupted by Juana.
“Monsieur,” she said, entering hesitantly and closing the door behind her, “Simeon told me that you have to leave, because of the
Frenchman. If the Frenchman comes here and finds you gone, he will take his wrath out on me. So I would like you to take me with you.”
“Would you, now,” he said.
She started to cry, which rather moved him; he had not yet seen her shed a single tear. “If I travel without anyone to protect me,” she wailed, “I shall be raped and murdered, and my body will become carrion.”
“You’ve defended yourself thus far.”
“I am only alive because you rescued me.”
“It’s Simeon you should thank. He could have kicked you out that night.”
“You know he detests my kind, and I am so tired of living with strangers, Monsieur. I want to find my people.”
“And where would they be?”
“To the south of the mountains which the Jew calls ‘Pyrenees,’” she said, blowing her nose on her skirt.
“Ah. Then you should have no problem at all.”
“Of course not, I’ll see their signs,” she insisted, his sarcasm lost on her. “It will be easy for us, I promise.”
“For you, you mean. I’m going no further than Paris. On my own.”
“Oh, Monsieur, would you just travel with me to Paris?”
“How would you reach the Pyrenees from there? Have you any idea of the distance?” She shook her head, gazing at him with wet, imploring eyes; no one now could mistake her for a boy, he thought. “How did you come to be here in the first place, Juana, and why are you alone?”
“I was not, at the beginning.” She paused, as if wondering whether to trust him with her story. “I was with several big families who had followed the Spanish armies north, to cadge a living off their scraps. The soldiers said we were like fleas on a dog, but we were useful to them in our way, fetching wood and water, and so forth. Then plague broke out in the camp and we were blamed for bringing it, though it killed more of us than it did them. That is when my husband died. Not long after,
while we were still nursing our sick, the Spanish surrounded our tents and butchered every man, woman, and child. I was the only one to escape. I drenched myself in spilt blood and kept from moving. Finally those bastards tired of their sport and went away. So, now you must understand why we fear and hate the
gadje
, Monsieur.”
He examined her, trying to remind himself that her tale of woe was as likely a complete or part fabrication as the truth. “There are many other gypsies hereabouts. Can’t you seek refuge with them?”
“No. They are not from my tribe. They are
marime
.”
“What’s that?”
“They are impure, as polluted as the
gadje
.”
“As I am, then.”
“Monsieur, I can see inside you, and you are a gentleman with a heart of gold,” she said, switching to a humble, wheedling tone.
“Save your flattery for someone who’ll be deceived by it. I’ve seen
your
act a thousand times, and it always makes me laugh.”
“But will you take me?” He shrugged, which she clearly interpreted as an affirmative. “Thank you, Monsieur, thank you!”
He picked up the cards, anticipating that she would depart since she had achieved her object, yet she stayed. “What else?” he asked brusquely.
“I must tell you before we set out, Monsieur, that I will not be your whore.”
“How peculiar you should mention that,” he said. “I was just about to tell you the same thing.”
She seemed confused, then gave him a wary smile. “What will you do in Paris, Monsieur?”
“What I do here, if I have the opportunity.”
“You should choose a different path.” He paid no attention, shuffling the cards, but he was clumsy, and they shot from his hand to the floor. “It is an omen,” she said, in her fortune-telling voice. “You must take another path, before it is too late.”
“Oh, please. You’ve got what you came for. Now leave me in peace.”
She bent to gather up the fallen cards and placed them back in his hand. “I’ll provide for myself on the journey. I won’t be a burden to you.”
“If you are, you’ll find yourself alone again.”
To this she merely nodded, and hurried from the room.
Not a week later, early in the evening, a boy from the nearest tavern came to warn Simeon that Saint-Etienne was drinking there with a party of his fellow officers. They had ordered wine, and were talking of a trip to the brothel once it was finished.
In a chill sweat, Laurence raced upstairs to collect his saddlebag and pistols, hoping to slip away without Juana. But on descending, he found her in loud altercation with Simeon, watched nervously by the other women.
“Don’t tell me you have agreed to travel with her, Monsieur!” cried Simeon. “Has she bewitched you? Don’t you see that she will slow you down, and Saint-Etienne will catch you both?”
“That’s not true,” Juana protested. “I am more used to running in fear of my life than either of you! Every day since I was born, I have been driven from place to place, cursed at, spat upon, treated worse than a mad dog.”