Queen of Swords
Page 11
He said, “There is no kind way to relate this; forgive me. One of your men has been found behind the tavern with his throat cut.”
Luke drew in a sharp breath. “Bardi,” he said again. “This is his work.”
A fluttering of muscle in Uribe’s cheek. “No. Not this time.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because it is Bardi whose throat was cut. Whoever did this went a step further and took Bardi’s head with him,” said Uribe. “The rest of the corpse was dumped at the doorstep of a—” He paused in consideration, and then bowed from the shoulders. “Shall we say, a lady of flexible standards who knew him well enough to identify the remains. What is the expression in English? The chicken has come home to roost, is that correct? Bardi was a scoundrel, and not to be mourned. As to who took your ship—” He looked over his shoulder at the bay again as if he expected to see some answer written in the sky. “I don’t know who’s responsible.”
I know. Jennet could not make herself say the words out loud, but there was no reason to; from Luke’s face she saw that he was guessing already what she could have told him. Suddenly she felt light-headed and unsure on her feet. She pinched the flesh between thumb and forefinger until her vision cleared.
“But perhaps this will explain.” The harbormaster was busy patting his chest in the way of a man with too many pockets and a poor memory. Finally he pulled out a square of folded paper with a large red seal and presented it to Jennet with a flourish and a bow.
“For you, madame?”
The letter was addressed to Lady Jennet in a strong, flowing hand. A hand she had never seen before, but recognized nonetheless: The great loops and grandiose swirls spoke the name of the writer as clearly as a signature. While she stared at the letter in her hands she only half heard the harbormaster’s questions, all directed to Luke, about Bardi.
Finally he bowed again, this time so low that they had a view of the circle of nut brown skin at the crown of his head.
“I see no need to disturb you further about this crime,” he said to his shoes. “But I would like to question your men, when they return with the Patience. If they return.”
There was just enough light, and so Jennet cracked open the seal on the letter as soon as the harbormaster’s horse had taken him out of hearing. A single page, covered with that bold hand.
Luke said, “Read it to yourself first,” and he walked off three paces and stood looking out toward sea. It was that simple gesture of understanding, of faith and love, that gave Jennet the courage she must have to face whatever waited for her on the paper.
The sheet shook in her hands so that the words seemed to jump on the page. It was in French, a language she spoke fluently, but it might as well have been written in Arabic for all the sense it made to her.
She forced herself to take three deep breaths, and when her head had cleared, she read.
My dearest wife,
What a lamentable turn of events! You are new arrived and I must away without even a kiss. It is too cruel, after so long a separation. If only you had not found it necessary to bring a second husband with you. Whatever were you thinking, my dear? Had you been more patient, I would have come for you eventually. And now you must somehow rid yourself of—by what name does he go? Mr. Bonner? Mr. Scott? I suppose that depends on whether he is passing himself off as Canadian or American, does it not?—before you join me in New Orleans. I wonder how you will do it.
As a dutiful husband responsible for your spiritual and moral health, I must admit that I am disappointed in you. My beloved grand-mère will think it far too generous of me to take you back, but a man in love is not always wise, and in the end I will persuade her, though I suspect she will make you dance to her tune before she allows you near the boy. Agnès Poiterin has many things in common with the Church and the law: all three are severe in their treatment of faithless wives, and is it not proper, so? I do hope that further separation from our son will not prove necessary.
I wonder if he will remember you? I fear not, but should you prove sufficiently penitent, you will have many years to atone.
Your disconsolate but devoted husband,
Honoré Poiterin
Postscript: To hasten my journey I have taken the liberty of borrowing the ship Patience, which, after all, belongs to my esteemed brother-in-law, the Earl of Carryck. As I prefer my own men to the rabble hired by the false husband, they have been dismissed. Your own possessions you will find in the abandoned cottage opposite the boat works at the eastern end of the wharves. I see that you have used your time well in at least one way. Such finery! We will make the perfect couple.
Jennet went to Luke and held out the letter, but he didn’t take it. Instead he put his hands on her face and lifted it to the light of the moon. Jennet could not bear the sadness in his expression, and so she covered his hands with her own and went up on tiptoe to press her mouth to his. He tasted of the meal they had shared, of salt and bread, of himself. For a moment she feared he would not respond, and then a shudder went through him. With a groan he pulled her close to bury his face in the crook of her neck.
“I swear to you. I swear to you that he means nothing to me, and never could. I will kill him myself before I let him come between us and our son. Now read this, so you know the kind of man we are dealing with.”
Luke took a deep breath, and finally he nodded, once.
They walked quickly to the next cottage, where a lantern hung at the door. A woman came to greet him, no longer young, scantily dressed. Her smile was broad and hopeful and insincere, and Jennet did not need to hear her voice to know what she was proposing. Luke sent her away with a few words and a coin pressed into her hand.
Luke drew in a sharp breath. “Bardi,” he said again. “This is his work.”
A fluttering of muscle in Uribe’s cheek. “No. Not this time.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because it is Bardi whose throat was cut. Whoever did this went a step further and took Bardi’s head with him,” said Uribe. “The rest of the corpse was dumped at the doorstep of a—” He paused in consideration, and then bowed from the shoulders. “Shall we say, a lady of flexible standards who knew him well enough to identify the remains. What is the expression in English? The chicken has come home to roost, is that correct? Bardi was a scoundrel, and not to be mourned. As to who took your ship—” He looked over his shoulder at the bay again as if he expected to see some answer written in the sky. “I don’t know who’s responsible.”
I know. Jennet could not make herself say the words out loud, but there was no reason to; from Luke’s face she saw that he was guessing already what she could have told him. Suddenly she felt light-headed and unsure on her feet. She pinched the flesh between thumb and forefinger until her vision cleared.
“But perhaps this will explain.” The harbormaster was busy patting his chest in the way of a man with too many pockets and a poor memory. Finally he pulled out a square of folded paper with a large red seal and presented it to Jennet with a flourish and a bow.
“For you, madame?”
The letter was addressed to Lady Jennet in a strong, flowing hand. A hand she had never seen before, but recognized nonetheless: The great loops and grandiose swirls spoke the name of the writer as clearly as a signature. While she stared at the letter in her hands she only half heard the harbormaster’s questions, all directed to Luke, about Bardi.
Finally he bowed again, this time so low that they had a view of the circle of nut brown skin at the crown of his head.
“I see no need to disturb you further about this crime,” he said to his shoes. “But I would like to question your men, when they return with the Patience. If they return.”
There was just enough light, and so Jennet cracked open the seal on the letter as soon as the harbormaster’s horse had taken him out of hearing. A single page, covered with that bold hand.
Luke said, “Read it to yourself first,” and he walked off three paces and stood looking out toward sea. It was that simple gesture of understanding, of faith and love, that gave Jennet the courage she must have to face whatever waited for her on the paper.
The sheet shook in her hands so that the words seemed to jump on the page. It was in French, a language she spoke fluently, but it might as well have been written in Arabic for all the sense it made to her.
She forced herself to take three deep breaths, and when her head had cleared, she read.
My dearest wife,
What a lamentable turn of events! You are new arrived and I must away without even a kiss. It is too cruel, after so long a separation. If only you had not found it necessary to bring a second husband with you. Whatever were you thinking, my dear? Had you been more patient, I would have come for you eventually. And now you must somehow rid yourself of—by what name does he go? Mr. Bonner? Mr. Scott? I suppose that depends on whether he is passing himself off as Canadian or American, does it not?—before you join me in New Orleans. I wonder how you will do it.
As a dutiful husband responsible for your spiritual and moral health, I must admit that I am disappointed in you. My beloved grand-mère will think it far too generous of me to take you back, but a man in love is not always wise, and in the end I will persuade her, though I suspect she will make you dance to her tune before she allows you near the boy. Agnès Poiterin has many things in common with the Church and the law: all three are severe in their treatment of faithless wives, and is it not proper, so? I do hope that further separation from our son will not prove necessary.
I wonder if he will remember you? I fear not, but should you prove sufficiently penitent, you will have many years to atone.
Your disconsolate but devoted husband,
Honoré Poiterin
Postscript: To hasten my journey I have taken the liberty of borrowing the ship Patience, which, after all, belongs to my esteemed brother-in-law, the Earl of Carryck. As I prefer my own men to the rabble hired by the false husband, they have been dismissed. Your own possessions you will find in the abandoned cottage opposite the boat works at the eastern end of the wharves. I see that you have used your time well in at least one way. Such finery! We will make the perfect couple.
Jennet went to Luke and held out the letter, but he didn’t take it. Instead he put his hands on her face and lifted it to the light of the moon. Jennet could not bear the sadness in his expression, and so she covered his hands with her own and went up on tiptoe to press her mouth to his. He tasted of the meal they had shared, of salt and bread, of himself. For a moment she feared he would not respond, and then a shudder went through him. With a groan he pulled her close to bury his face in the crook of her neck.
“I swear to you. I swear to you that he means nothing to me, and never could. I will kill him myself before I let him come between us and our son. Now read this, so you know the kind of man we are dealing with.”
Luke took a deep breath, and finally he nodded, once.
They walked quickly to the next cottage, where a lantern hung at the door. A woman came to greet him, no longer young, scantily dressed. Her smile was broad and hopeful and insincere, and Jennet did not need to hear her voice to know what she was proposing. Luke sent her away with a few words and a coin pressed into her hand.
