Easton's Gold Page 2

  “It’s working,” he whispers through welling tears. “The physic is taking effect.”

  __________

  FLEET CROUCHES IN THE PUNT, gripping the oar tight to the rim. He watches the plumes of smoke rise like incense from the houses on the north bank. A dozen or more church crosses show like portends of the night, black against the puffy clouds. Shadows lengthen on the rippling green water. He waits for a sail to drift past and then scans the bank for the Marquis’s home. The sinking sun peeks at the city once more, casting its golden light upon a row of dwellings. Immediately, the Marquis’s house announces itself. Its reddish-brown brick catches the sun’s glow while its neighbours—all timber—fade into the oncoming dusk.

  Fleet watches the house for a moment then suddenly ducks below the rim of the boat. Someone—surely the girl Gabrielle—has appeared at the window and seems to stare directly out at him. The oar bumps against the rim and is about to fall into the river until he lunges for it and hauls it, dripping, into the boat after him.

  Fool! She won’t make you out from there! But his heart thumps hard, and he remains hidden. She seems to notice everything, that girl, and she has spotted him before.

  Fleet shifts onto his back as the oar drips beside him. He stares at a dragon-cloud overhead. He remains there, listening to the gentle bump-bump of the ripples against the planks, trusting the navigation of the other riverboats.

  Soon the dragon-cloud trails ribbons of fire. The surrounding sky darkens, and lantern ghosts skim the water. At last Fleet pulls himself up, repositions his oar and stares out at the newly burning lights of the Marquis’s home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My veins pulsate like roots in spring; my fingers and toes tingle with reawakening power. It’s as though some life-giving elixir has been added to my blood. I can raise my head more easily than I have done for days. I do this now as Gabrielle turns from the window to face me.

  The candlelight flickers upon her face, giving her skin a bronzed hue. Her features are eastern, her nose aquiline, her eyes deep brown. She approaches.

  “Swallows and kingfishers are weaving in flight along the banks,” she says softly. “Fishermen are still at work in sailboats and punts. But the sun is setting fast, and the river will soon be silent and in darkness.”

  I love the rhythm and tone of her voice. Her words are like a lullaby and soothe me to the core.

  “It sounds like summer has come,” I say as she settles down again on the side of the bed. My heart rolls for a second as I feel the dip in the mattress.

  “Yes, we will have long warm days, and you will feel the sun again.”

  I long for the touch of Gabrielle’s breath upon my face. I close my eyes imagining the sensation.

  “Are you comfortable, my lord?” she asks in a whisper. I can hear the sound of her soft lips parting then coming together again.

  “Oh yes,” I sigh, opening my eyes once more.

  “I was afraid you were in pain.”

  “Not pain,” I say.

  “Sadness then?”

  “Gabrielle,” I begin and then pause. I am not sure where my words will lead me, yet it surely sounds as though I mean to reveal something important. I hold back for a moment and weigh the danger. Then I continue. “I was not always an old man…”

  I glance up and catch Gabrielle’s expression; she is smiling.

  “I had suspected as much,” she says.

  “No, listen, Gabrielle. You know what they say about me.”

  “They say you were a pirate!” She leans toward me and widens her eyes as though telling a story to a child. “That you were once feared all over the world, from the Indies to Newfoundland, from North and West Africa to the great English ports of Bristol and Falmouth.”

  “Yes,” I sigh and my breath heats my lips. “It’s true.”

  “So, you have dark deeds that you must tell me about?”

  Her smile has turned to a grin. I wonder if this is really all I am now—an old man with wild stories. Indignation rises for a moment, but then it dies away as quickly as it came. I do not want to be a dangerous man any more, do I? I yearn not for glory but for redemption. Yesterday a fly’s suffering brought me an anguish I had never known. The pain of every living thing in the world seared my soul like red-hot irons. The thought came into my head: I am not Easton. He is merely the man who haunts my memories. Like St. Paul, I am a creature reborn. I have cast Easton aside, just as St. Paul cast aside Saul.

  I look up at Gabrielle’s smiling face once more. “I am paying for my sins,” I say, and I see her face turn from humour to pity again. Hot tears spill from my eyes and roll down to the bedclothes. I was not expecting this at all. I was trying to say something optimistic. “I had to be evil,” I persist, “only so I could understand evil and truly feel the bliss of forgiveness. Only a true sinner can be redeemed.”

  I feel the warmth of her hand on my shoulder, and through the mist of tears, I see her descend toward me. Her warm lips touch my cheek, and I close my eyes again.

  “I don’t believe you were ever evil, my lord,” she whispers. “I believe you were always a good man, as you are now.”

  __________

  GABRIELLE SHIELDS HER CANDLE flame and begins climbing the steps to the servants’ bedroom. Halfway up, she catches Maria’s voice, whispering: “I’m surprised the gypsy hasn’t climbed into bed with him yet.”

  “Maybe she already has,” Philippa’s replies, not in a whisper. Excited laughter follows.

  Gabrielle stops and grips the rail with one hand. She tries to hold the candle holder as steady as she can in the other. The hatch to the servants’ bedroom is open. There is only faint light within, so Philippa and Maria must know from her approaching candle that she is within earshot.

  Gabrielle has overheard them talking about her before, but then it was like the distant howling of a wolf pack. This is different. Now she can see their shadows in the moonlight and hear them breathe and lick their lips. Now they want her to know they are closing in.

  She begins climbing again, and the stairs creak loudly. There is more laughter, apparently at the sound of her timorous approach. When she finally emerges into the hot attic space, Gabrielle feels sick and shivery. She holds her gaze steady upon the candle as she steps onto the floor. She places the candle holder on a trunk then slides the hatch closed.

  “He’ll never get that open, dear,” comes Philippa’s voice again. The tone of it seems kind; Gabrielle looks up to catch her smile, thinking for a second she has had a change of heart. But Philippa is cleverer than she looks, at least when it comes to hurting. The gentleness of her voice and the warmth of her expression are like axe grinder’s tools: subtle, well-maintained but intended to cut.

  Maria stares across the room from her bed to that of her accomplice, her reddened face glutted with the anticipation of some mockery to come. Philippa holds Gabrielle’s gaze.

  “At his age, my dear, you should give him some more encouragement. Try crouching at the foot of his bed with your legs wide open.”

  Maria squeals with laughter and presses the white sheets into her mouth. Philippa grins and continues staring at Gabrielle, her lips glistening.

  Gabrielle reaches for the candle but finds her hand shaking. She leaves the candle where it is and sits down upon her bunk, which is thankfully close by. Her limbs ache as she unwraps her head scarf.

  She knows she is at a crossroads. There are only two directions she can think of to take. She can buckle down and bear it, and wait for what she hopes is her quiet dignity to wear them down. Or she can get up, run across the room and take a flying leap at Philippa, letting her fists fly with all the fury smouldering in her breast. She knows this moment has already slipped past, but she tries to imagine what would happen if she ever took that second course. Would the two of them end up pummelling her? Anger always magnifies a person’s idea of their own strength, she knows that much, and Philippa has broad shoulders and big animal hands. But then, perhaps Philippa wo
uld be too shocked and Maria too cowardly to deal with the situation. She can just picture Maria retreating to a corner and watching horrified, allowing her mentor to take the blows unaided.

  Maria is still watching her leader for the next joke at Gabrielle’s expense, but Philippa has become silent and watchful as Gabrielle unbuttons her day dress.

  Gabrielle moves quickly in the flickering light, slipping her nightdress over her shoulders and letting her day dress fall to her knees and then her ankles. The candle flame bobs and nearly goes out as Gabrielle steps out of the clothes now at her feet then stoops to fold them over her forearm. She picks up the candle in her free hand, opens the trunk and lays her folded dress inside. Then, without looking at the silent women at the other end of the room, she blows out the flame. To her surprise, Philippa blows out the one between her and Maria too.

  Gabrielle pulls back the blanket and sheet then slides between the linen until she feels the tickle of the wool blanket on her chin. Suspicious of the silence, she turns to the side and lies dead still so the bedclothes won’t rustle.

  She hears nothing except her own breathing and a halfhearted titter from Maria that stutters into silence. It is as though the mockery has been swallowed by the night.

  Then suddenly there is a voice: “What do you talk to him about, anyway?”

  It’s Philippa and is neither loud nor a whisper. It belongs to another time and place and seems to have no business emerging from the silence of the attic in this present company.

  There is a rustle of bedclothes from Maria, a confused, enquiring sound; the question clearly wasn’t for her because she is waiting too.

  Gabrielle sighs.

  “You’re talking to me?”

  A pause. “Yes. What do you talk to the old man about?”

  Gabrielle lifts her head from the pillow and half turns so she is on her back. This is the second time she has been talked to in a manner not altogether unfriendly. What manner of trap is it this time?

  “Why do you want to know?” Gabrielle asks in tired, careful tones.

  “I just do,” Philippa replies. “No reason.”

  There is a long silence. Should I answer this enemy? What will this intimate space feel like if I don’t? Gabrielle feels her earlobes burn until she can’t stand it any more.

  “He is a fine old gentleman,” she says quietly. “He likes to talk about his life, that’s all.”

  “But why you?”

  Again her voice is neutral. If Gabrielle didn’t know better, she wouldn’t necessarily know it was a jibe. There is a titter from Maria though.

  “I don’t know.” the firmness of Gabrielle’s voice takes even herself by surprise. “I don’t know why he likes to talk to me, but I don’t see anything wrong with it, and I’m more than happy to listen. And I’m more than happy to obey his commands, whether they be to find him medicine or to search for cobwebs.”

  There is another silence. Gabrielle hears the bedclothes rustle from Philippa’s corner.

  “Does he tell you about hidden gold from his pirate days?”

  Now Maria laughs and Philippa joins in.

  “Does he tell you he’ll give you the secret for a price?”

  Gabrielle sighs and feels her heart quicken.

  “Does he promise to give you the secret if you open your legs wide enough?”

  Thunder cracks in Gabrielle’s chest; a rush of action takes over. In a flash, she has thrown off her blanket and is leaping through the darkness. Next she is on Philippa, not pounding with her fists as she had imagined but grabbing her hair and twisting the roots. She hears Philippa gasp and Maria sit up in bed. She twists again hard and feels Philippa’s warm fingertips grope weakly around her own clenched knuckles. There is no resistance in her touch, only a mute plea.

  “That’s the last time you speak of him like that,” she says through clenched teeth. “Do you hear?” She twists for the third time and feels Philippa’s rapid breath against her face. Maria has not moved.

  “I said, do you hear?” She loosens her grasp a little, realizing Philippa is in too much pain to speak.

  “Yes, yes,” Philippa says in the voice of a small child. “I hear.”

  Gabrielle releases Philippa’s hair then sits silently on the bed. Her heart pounds as she waits for Philippa to retaliate. Nothing happens. In the light from the window, she can just make out Philippa’s form—prone, face up, the moonlight catching her tears.

  Satisfied there is no danger of immediate reprisal, Gabrielle gets up and goes back to her bed.

  She slips the sheet and blanket over her and lies, face up. She knows she should feel relieved—judging from the snivelling noises coming from Philippa’s bed, her tormentor has been tamed—but she doesn’t.

  Philippa’s sobs become louder. There are little gulps and coughs too. Eventually Gabrielle hears Maria slipping from her bed to comfort her friend. “It’s all right, all right,” she coos rhythmically like a mother comforting her child. “We’ll keep out of her way. It’s all right, don’t cry, don’t cry.”

  Gabrielle wonders why she still feels so uneasy. Is it fear they will tell Jacques and somehow get her into trouble with the Marquis? Or is she afraid they will bypass the Marquis and throw her onto the streets? She has a brief vision of Jacques throwing a sack of her belongings out of the attic window, and the sack—merely a tied sheet—opens on impact, spilling clothes, a blanket, her comb, her nightdress, and her carved wooden box onto the mud. She sees herself fighting back the scavenging street urchins as she tries to re-secure her possessions.

  But she knows this can’t be her fear. She suspects the incident won’t even be talked about tomorrow, let alone spun into a story that could eject her from the house. Her agitation, she realizes, is more vague and threatening. As she stares into the bluish darkness and listens to Philippa’s sobs and Maria’s banal attempts at comfort, the answer to what she is feeling comes to her in a phrase: pure loneliness. Annoying, insufferable Philippa has Maria to guide her through the night, even when she has brought her wounds entirely upon herself. Who do I have? An elderly, kind noble who employs me. But this is where I sleep and where I should feel at one with my surroundings.

  She knows she will never be accepted by Philippa, Maria, and Jacques. And she wants acceptance. The sound of Philippa’s crying makes her chest ache. She ought not to feel sympathy, yet she does. She would like to be the one comforting Philippa, not the one alone and helpless, staring into the night.

  She feels like a star without a constellation. She burns unseen and for no one.

  __________

  FLEET TRIES TO SHUT OUT THE babbling crowd and focus on his thoughts. His fingers rest upon the purse in his tunic, and he is not worried about being robbed. Yet every step he feels the hands of others, hands that accidentally tug or prod; hands gesticulating, arguing, exchanging dice, and squeezing. It is a city of hands, and they are in constant motion like bees circling a hive.

  This is not the first time Fleet has tied up his punt at the south bank after dark, not knowing his destination or purpose. It is not the first time he has wandered this stretch of the city, recoiling at the sight of caged cockerels and harnessed bears. One of these huge animals passes him now, two brawny men tugging its chains. A group of small boys follow, throwing stones at the bear’s rippling hide.

  Cages and chains churn Fleet’s stomach; the squawk of fighting birds sears his brain. A moment ago his cheek felt the spray of warm blood from one of the cockpits. He felt something inside him jump, and he had to swallow it down. He averts his eyes from the games but can still hear the shrieks and cries of the crowd as they frolic in the ecstasy of a win or shake their fists in the frustration of a defeat.

  Despite everything, he is drawn to this place. He is drawn to the orange bonfires that illuminate the street every forty paces, sending sparks wavering into the black night. Fire soothes the ague of his mind. The overlapping flames lull him with a rhythm that understands the feverish working of his memory.
Fleet feels that although he is flesh and blood, he is more a brother of flame than of man. He cannot comprehend faces that smile at captivity, nor the hands that lay down gold against the life of an unwilling sacrifice. He knows more about chains than the throng of humanity pressing upon him could ever guess. Fire speaks rightly of torment, and torment is in the very atmosphere.

  Fleet has come to a standstill now, staring at one of the fires. Only a lone woman huddles near. The night has turned chilly, although it is June. He gazes into the spiralling flames, and they seem to whisper to him a reminder: Have you forgotten your vow? Fleet recalls a distant night in the dark, dripping cage, the smell of straw and urine, the buzzing of a fly, a dead thing once dearly loved in the corner. He remembers the salt tears of rage and grief, and the words he wrung out of himself to remind himself he was human: I will not allow this. I will not allow this.

  A spark leaps much higher than the rest, and Fleet now knows for sure why he tied up to the south bank tonight and why his feet have brought him to this spot. He turns slowly to look down the passageway to the right. There, beyond the desperate leap and plunge of a white cockerel and the darkened outline of a kneeling crowd, he sees the wooden sign and letters: “WONDERS!”

  The crude tent ripples in the breeze. The painted canvas depicts what looks like a black dwarf with red eyes, a huge woman, and a man with an eye in the middle of his head. When he had glimpsed this place before, there was a barker regaling a large crowd, spitting out claims about his eight-foot-tall cyclops, the African dwarf with filed teeth, and the lady the size of a house. Fleet had turned and ducked into the crowd the moment he took it all in. Afterwards he had felt ashamed. He knew it was a betrayal.

  That was in the early spring when frost was in the air. Then the excitement of Easton’s arrival pushed this from his mind. Even so, the “wonders” must have been nagging his imagination, together with the memory of his promise.

  Fleet makes for the site, only slowing when he notices the absence of life about the tent. He trudges up to the canopy entrance, pulls the flap open and stares into the dark space. A faint glow from the bonfire finds its way through the painted canvas to the inside, and Fleet can see there is nothing except shrivelled grass and a couple of dried-up apple cores. They are long gone, and evidence of torture is not as obvious as he would have thought. If the “wonders” were chained, their owners have taken the shackles with them. He should have acted when he had the chance.