Easton's Gold (2 page)

“I've seen you on the riverbank near my master's house.”

“Most likely.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I don't know. Where does your master live?”

“Just a few turns from here, on the Thames.”

“When was this?”

“Two nights ago. Late. You must remember.”

“Yes. I was likely collecting spoonwart. It draws its power from the moon.”

“Oh,” the girl says quickly, neither believing nor disbelieving. She continues surveying although there is nothing new to see.

“What is
your
name?”

“Gabrielle,” she answers without turning around.
Was she expecting the question
? She yawns slightly, but her boredom seems put on. There is a touch of shyness there; he also seems to catch a slight smile. The shop is in complete silence now. Fleet slides his hands along the counter, lets his fingers feel the knots in the wood. Suddenly Gabrielle turns and looks directly into his face, then she goes back to the shelf and picks up the skull.

“What's this?”

“A hanged man's skull.”

She turns the skull in her hand, holds its face to hers and stares into the black orbs.

Fleet stiffens and folds his arms over his chest.

“What's it for?”

“To drink from, for health and vitality.”

“Can I take it for my master?”

“No,” he replies rather too quickly. “It cannot leave the shop. You will have to bring your master here.”

Gabrielle puts the skull back on the shelf. “It's not possible,” she whispers. “He is very old and sick. What else do you have?”

Fleet pulls out a drawer from under the counter that separates them. “I can give you a powder…” He plunges a spoon into a jar inside the drawer and reaches with his free hand for one of the cloth squares hanging from a hook. He spreads the cloth on the counter and spoons the powder into its centre. Closing the drawer with his knee, he pulls a string from his tunic pocket and ties the cloth into a little powder-filled sack.

He holds the sack out to her.

“What is it?”

Fleet smiles. “Well,” he replies slowly, “another apothecary might tell you it is volcano dust, powdered meteor, or perhaps ground essence of gold. In fact, it is dry moss powder. And it works. Empty it into a cup of water. Let it rest only until it bubbles, then make him drink it quickly.”

“How much?”

“A shilling.”

Fleet lets the sack drop into her palm. Their hands do not touch; he wonders whether this is deliberate on her part.

Gabrielle weighs the sack in her palm. “It doesn't seem like much,” she says.

“It takes me a long time to prepare.”

“Can I have some more, in case it works?”

Fleet stoops and pulls out the drawer again. The jar of moss powder is three-quarters full. He shakes his head. “I'm afraid I'm out, but I can get some more for tomorrow if you are pleased with its effect.”

Gabrielle takes a shilling out of her purse and drops it quickly onto the counter. Then as though to make up for her coldness, she smiles and looks directly into his eyes. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I'll be back.”

She turns and walks out of the shop. Fleet hears the door thud shut. He picks up the shilling and grips it between his thumb and first finger. He holds it there until the silver is hot to the touch.

__________

G
ABRIELLE ENTERS THROUGH
the rear door and makes her way toward the main hallway.

She passes under Jacques, who is perched high upon some steps. He seems to be reaching with his bare hands into some shadowy recess between the ceiling and the wall. She tries to hurry by, but as always, he calls to her sharply.

“The Marquis wants to see you.”

“I know,” Gabrielle replies, stopping. “That's where I'm going.”

“Well?” he asks, glaring down at her. He wipes one hand with the other. “Where were you all this time?”

“Running an errand,” she says, feeling her face burn with indignation. She is annoyed with herself for even stopping. “The Marquis knows where I've been. You're holding me up. What are you doing anyway?” she suddenly fires back at him.

The steps shift awkwardly below Jacques. For a second, Gabrielle thinks he might fall.

“Never you mind what I'm doing. Don't keep the Marquis waiting!”

Gabrielle smiles to herself at Jacques's obvious unease.
Why wouldn't he tell me
? She hurries along to the double door of the Marquis's room and raps three times as he has instructed her. Then she enters.

The room is like a cathedral with a pale shaft of sunlight streaming in, skimming the bedpost and the opposite wall; everything else is in shadow. The Marquis closes and then reopens his eyes in what seems like pleasure or relief. She hurries to the bed.

“I have physic for you,” she says gently, touching his shoulder.

“You're here,” he says in a sigh. “You are my physic.”

Gabrielle finds herself smiling at the humour in his eyes. They are both able to see beyond the indignity of the situation, she feels, and this knowledge between them is a bond.

The wrinkles on the Marquis's face and neck seem to merge into the folds of the sheets and blankets. It is as though he and the bed are becoming one creature. There is the ghost of a shrug in the way he looks at her now. Well, he seems to say, this is what I've come to.

Gabrielle sloshes water from the jug into one of the cups standing on the little bedside table. She unties the string around the little sack and empties the moss powder into the cup of water. At first the curious green powder just lies upon the bobbling surface; then it becomes soaked and heavy around the edges; then all at once and as a single clump, it falls. Tiny bubbles fizzle to the top near the rim.

“The doctor wanted me to move upstairs,” the Marquis says, repeating a conversation they had yesterday. “But I must be close to the life of the river, you understand. If I cannot see it, I can at least hear it. I still have to keep in touch with things.”

“What was Jacques doing up on the steps when I came in, my lord?” Gabrielle asks, watching as the moss water begins to froth.

The Marquis sighs deeply, his chest beginning to rattle. “Yesterday, near the ceiling,” he whispers, then pauses, “I watched a fly struggling in a spider's web. I lay here helpless and could not call for a servant.”

Gabrielle watches as the Marquis's eyes become moist.

“Every twitch of the fly's wings seemed like an eternity of torment. I could feel the creature's pain a million times enlarged.” He gasps then breathes out quickly. “All the suffering of the cosmos seemed concentrated in a pinprick.” A small tear trickles from the corner of the Marquis's eye, dancing down the valleys of his heavily lined face and sinking into the pillow. “And I knew I must stop it. I must stop the suffering.”

A warm rush of emotion overtakes Gabrielle. She plunges toward the bed and slides her arm underneath his stiff shoulders. “Here,” she whispers, breathless with feeling rather than from the effort of easing his shoulders from the bed. “You must drink this quickly if you can.”

With her free hand she tips the cup toward his lips. He guides it with his own hand and gulps hungrily. Some of the green liquid runs down his chin, but he has taken almost the whole draft without cough or splutter.

“They have orders, all of them,” he continues with surprising strength. “They must rescue all the insects in the house and the garden. You must help too, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle wipes his chin with her handkerchief and then eases him down gently toward the pillow. “I will, my lord,” she whispers. “I promise.”

“You must make sure they follow my orders.”

“I will.”

Gabrielle places the empty cup on the side table. The Marquis closes his eyes and breathes in. Just as he seems about to drift off to sleep, he whispers, “Sit by me.”

Gabrielle sinks slowly onto the side of the bed. She folds one leg under her so that she can sit facing the Marquis.

“Who was the apothecary?” he asks, his eyes still closed.

“A man named Fleet. He lives near here.”

“How did you find him?”

“By accident. But I'd seen him about before. He seems different somehow, genuine.”

“Old?”

“No, young. Perhaps thirty.”

An extra furrow appears on the Marquis's brow although he keeps his eyes closed. “How do you know his name?”

“I asked him. I was curious.”

Gabrielle smooths the fabric of her dress with her fingers. She's aware that a shyness has come into her speech.

“Describe him to me.”

“Well,” she begins with a short laugh. “He has large brown eyes which seem…intense; his skin is so pale I think he must never see the sun; he has no beard, and broad, high cheekbones. I couldn't see his hair clearly. He was wearing a cap. But I think it is blond and curled.”

“Thirty is young for a man of his profession.”

“Perhaps he apprenticed under his father.”

“Perhaps,” the Marquis says drowsily. He opens his eyes and turns his head slightly toward Gabrielle. There is a movement under the blankets, then his heavily veined hand emerges, its knuckles swollen and pink. The Marquis gasps slightly, and Gabrielle wonders whether he is in pain. But then she watches his face form into a fond smile. He raises his hand slowly toward her face, and she feels the unexpected warmth of his skin as he cups her cheek in his palm. She reaches up and nestles his hand with hers, holding it in place.

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

__________

F
LEET 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.

M
y 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
.