Chapter Thirty-Six, The Past is Prologue, by Corso

“What’s past is prologue” William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 2-Scene 1

‘Do not attack the Belladona,’ Raoul repeats in clipped tones.  Lucien turns to him, brows raised.  He crosses his arms over his chest. 

‘Are you …telling me to not attack the Belladona?’  Lucien eyes narrow speculatively, ‘who is asking this of me?’

‘I am,’ Raoul neatly sidesteps the issue of ordering or asking and replies, ‘there are matters that I cannot share right now.  I ask you…’   Lucien interrupts, holding up a restraining hand, ‘I know…I am to trust you.’  He walks a few steps away and then turns back to Raoul.

‘There are times Raoul, when I look at you and see Layla’s beloved friend, my brother’s son, a man I have fought with in battle.  You rode with Yusuf to save my daughter and your sister from being sold, bought by the master in Hispaniola, the owner of the ship now cruising the Wrecks.   But, you are also a member of the King’s inner circle, the spymaster of France, requiring supreme command of deceptive practices without blinking, rubbing shoulders with men of no scruples to achieve the goals you consider most significant for an ambitious king.  Which man am I talking with?’

‘All of them,’ Raoul says sharply, ‘to be clear Lucien, do not attack the Belladona and do not ask more questions … now. I do not want to lie to you Lucien,’ his tone softens, ‘I wish to avoid that above all.’  

Lucien purses his mouth and makes a short nod, blowing out a breath.  He turns to look out over the meadow, Raoul standing next to him.  ‘I will not attack the Belladona, but I will go to have a look at her.’   He pulls a small messenger cylinder and a scroll from his pocket, the kind that is carried by pigeon post.  He hands it to Raoul, ‘A message was waiting for me from my men in Cadiz.  Two ships have left Cadiz port heading north.’

‘North to where?’

Lucien shrugs, ‘perhaps that is the way the wind is blowing.’  He smiles thinly, but Raoul is not smiling at all.

Raoul frowns, ‘who are they?

‘Spanish,’ Lucien replies, ‘the San Felipe and the San Esteban. Captained by a brother and nephew to Captain Pedro Guevaro of the San Pedro.’

‘I thought the Spanish fleet was occupied in the Mediterranean,’ Raoul mutters, turning this piece of information over in his mind. ‘Wait!  The San Pedro was sunk in the Cantabrian, when you were taking the Infanta to Bidassoa.’ 

‘Yes,’ Lucien replies, ‘you might remember that Vargas pressed Spanish captains into service to protect the Infanta, to fight against Spanish captains.  There were friends and relations in that battle.  Captain Guevaro’s relations may think the Belladona is cruising the Wrecks waiting for the Aigle.’

‘A friend with a warning or a foe out for vengeance?’ Raoul questions, a new worry occurring to him. 

‘At the moment, Hispaniola and I are not friends, but that may not be well known.  I am going to La Rochelle to search for Bellesdens.  After that, I will go to the Wrecks and assess the situation.’  Lucien turns to face Raoul.

‘So, M Spymaster, if the Belladona comes under assault, am I to stand back or attack Spain?’  

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The wagons arrive with the wounded and the tempo of work within Glenay increases to a new level of industriousness.  Cots are set up in rows in the workmen’s dormitories, a steady stream of servants moving back and forth, carrying food and drink, exchanging buckets of fresh water for dirty and waste.  The blood soaked floors of the dormitory are mopped constantly.  Olivier, Samyar and Alexandre join the men cutting wood, helping the yard and stable boys carry logs to the wood boxes to keep fires burning inside and outside the house.  Steam rises from the huge laundry tubs, filled and refilled with fresh water around the clock to meet the demand for clean bandages and bedsheets. Kitchen maids chop vegetables and meat, the cooks stirring huge cauldrons of soup. Overhead rope lines crisscross the room for wet linens to hang and dry quickly in the heated kitchen. 

 At one table dough is prepared, kneaded and shaped for baking.  At the bread ovens in the yard, boys keep the fire stoked to the proper level. They take the trays of uncooked dough and bring back hot loaves of fresh bread to be cut and distributed. 

News of the injured at Glenay traveled fast.  Two women from the village and a former army medic from La Rochelle, a butcher by trade arrive within days.  William Shay presents himself, cap in hand to Sophia, ‘Madame, I apprenticed to a physician at La Rochelle and learned how to tourniquet and a few other skills. But, if amputations are needed, I can help most there.’   

Sophia set him to work cleaning wounds and helping her, Constance and Elodie assess the injured. In the conservatory workroom, Sophia crushes leaves, grinds seeds, mashes herbs for teas to combat fever, makes poultices and soaks cloth in honey to lay over wounds. Most of the head, chest, and abdominal wounds are considered untreatable. Those unfortunate men are made comfortable, Lucien preparing small doses of a poppy seed tea to blunt their pain.  No man dies alone.  The women and nuns trade places with Brothers Francois, Ignazio, Aloysius and Father Massey to keep a constant presence at the bedside, holding cups of water to parched lips, applying cool cloths to soothe fevers, reading psalms, or writing a letter for a stricken man, with his last words to loved ones.  Father Massey hears confessions and confers last rites.   

Lucien walks slowly through the dormitory checking the supplies and listening to the women, making lists of what is needed from the house or the village. Sophia takes him aside and whispers in his ear.  He nods and crosses the yard to the rear kitchen door and peeks into the work room adjacent to the laundry house.  He holds the door open for Charlotte, breathless and pink cheeked from the brisk air and ducks under his arm.   She carries bundles of wildflowers and blooms pinched from the winter garden parterres, including a large quantity of fragrant winter lavender.  Inside, Rosie and Renee and a maid are folding dry linens placing them carefully in a tidy stack. 

‘Wonderful,’ Rosie exclaims clapping her hands at the flowers.   ‘I have a few jars Mlle,’ the maid, Adei hurries to a storeroom, coming back with an armful of slender jars, ‘will these do?’ she asks eager to help the effort.

‘Perfect Adei,’ Rosie replies and begins to set flowers in each jar, including lavender in each one. ‘Adei, we need someone to take these to the dormitory.’  She looks up at her father’s footfalls.

‘Father, can you take these to Mother?’

‘Yes, of course.  Can you allow me a few minutes.  I am on another errand,’ he replies.

He leaves the kitchen, walking slowly through the corridors, poking his head into various rooms, bedchambers, small salons, school rooms, the conservatory, music room.  He hears a faint musical sound and walks down a corridor to the family salon, quietly opening the door and leaning back against it.  At the far side of the room in a sunlit corner, Rayya sits on a stool, her arms around the harp.  Her head is bowed as she moves her fingers over the strings, creating a shimmering melodic tune, rich and resonant.  It lifts and floats, beauty and elegance combined to flow through the empty chamber.   Abruptly, it stops.  Rayya leans her forehead against the harp and takes in a strangled breath.  Lucien quickly crosses the room, ‘Rayya.’

She lifts a tear stained face to him.  He leads her to the settee and wraps his arms around her.  Rayya buries her face in his shoulder. ‘I am ashamed Papa, but I am afraid.’

‘I do not believe Olivain is in direct danger.  I understand he is carrying out a special assignment.’

‘Yes, that is what Afonso said,’ Rayya sniffs, sitting still as Lucien dabs at her tears with her kerchief. ‘My imagination has run away with me.’

‘Not an uncommon affliction for mothers, wives and sweethearts waiting at home.’ 

‘I cannot help but think of Mother, how she managed alone with all of us.  I was such a brat at times.’ 

Lucien barks a laugh, ‘you?’   Rayya makes a mock punch at his shoulder, ‘yes, me!  I was at least … difficult.’

‘Olivain is a soldier, separation and not knowing will be your life with him.  You must decide if you can accept what that can mean for you and Olivain.’

‘But Father,’ Rayya lifts her face to him, ‘I have heard you say, we do not choose who we love.’

‘Pfft,’ he makes a dismissive sound, ‘you heard our resident Persian poet say that.’  He softens his expression, ‘but Yusuf is correct, we do not choose, although we can choose to act against it.’

‘I do not wish to do that,’ Rayya says simply.  He dabs again at her tears, ‘I did not believe you would.  I urge you to stay busy.  Your help is needed.’ 

‘I know Mother is working hard and I was there … but … all those men…terribly injured and in pain.  I … I could only see Olivain …’ She hangs her head, ‘I just ran… it was selfish.’  She gives him a wry look, ‘well that is me is it not?’

‘No,’ Lucien is emphatic, ‘it is not.  You are a brave young woman, who loves a soldier.  That is all.’  Rayya chokes back a sob, wipes her face and takes a deep breath.  He stands and holds out his hand.  ‘Your sister needs assistance.’

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Lucien watches as Rayya descends the staircase and turn in the direction of the kitchen. He walks along several corridors until he reaches a pair of tall, elegant doors.  He taps once and enters. His mother looks up from a chair set in front of her desk, the letter in her hand suspended in the air.  Father Massey sets down the quill and caps the ink.  ‘I shall take this opportunity to visit a man in the dormitory.  I fear his time is coming to an end.’  Lucien steps aside to allow him to pass through the door.

‘How did the meeting go?’  Marie moves to the settee closer to the fireplace. Lucien picks up a folded blanket and places it around his mother’s shoulders.  ‘Why do you not keep yourself covered?’ he scolds, ‘I insist you take more care against a chill.  It is not yet spring Madame.’

She looks amused, ‘the boy chastising the mother.’  He scowls at her throwing himself into a chair opposite, long legs extended.  ‘I am no boy.’

‘True,’ she notes his bad humor and says nothing more, arranging the blanket to fill the silence.

‘How was the meeting?’

‘I must go to La Rochelle and throw out more lures for this Bellesdens.  Right now, it is him and the nun who we hope can give us a lead.’  He does not mention Catherine, who is in the hands of a fearsome pirate.  He stands up abruptly, ‘I must be off.’  

‘The injured men, ‘his mother asks, ‘do we have what they need?’

‘Fortunately, most of the injuries are not mortal, although we have some who will not survive.  They are kept in separate dormitory and have constant care.  Father Massey is close by to give rites.’

‘Did you see your brother?’  Lucien nods, ‘I told him I am to La Rochelle.  Where I need to go, he cannot come with me.’    

‘I was rather hoping to speak with both of you,’ Marie says tentatively as she can see his simmering anger.  ‘Would you rather…’

‘I would rather not,’ Lucien takes a few steps and turns back. ‘I do not need to stare at portraits of people who are strangers to me, I do not see familiarity, I do not need to talk about memories I do not have of a house by the sea, of caves and grottos.  I am made to feel a failure for this lack of recognition and worse for a lack of interest.  Athos may be so for his own reasons, but I…’ 

He stops, rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head.  He looks up at his mother horrified at his behavior. ‘Please forgive me, the last days …I apologize,’ he feels contrite and frustrated and knows he is behaving badly. He sits down again.

‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘I understand,’ his mother’s voice is gentle. ‘Now come, kiss my cheek and go to your wife.  You need a good night’s rest my son.’  Obediently, he does as she instructs. ‘I am sorry,’ he mumbles again.  Marie pats his cheek. 

‘Speak no more of this love.  Your outburst has given me an idea.’

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‘Hmm,’ Sophia sweeps her hand through the steamy bath water, eyes closed. Her maid, Denise is laying out towels and a warm wrap.  The door to the outer bedchamber opens, familiar footfalls crossing the room and Lucien appears in the doorway.  Denise discreetly withdraws.   Sophia cranes her neck to look up at him.  He has removed his doublet and is rolling up his sleeves, reaching for the soap ball.  He works it into a lather and applies it to her back, shoulders and reaches over her, his hand trailing down. 

‘You make a scandalous lady’s maid,’ Sophia murmurs.  He nibbles her ear and pours rinse water, then helps her stand, wrapping a towel around her and a soft light wool wrap. She moves into their bedchamber and sits in front of a small ornate table, holding a tray with her combs and brushes, vials and small pots of fragrant oils and creams and an ornate gilded framed mirror.   A brisk fire glows from the fireplace warming the room, yellow pools of candlelight glow in the dim light.  Sophia pulls her hair forward over her shoulder and tugs a comb slowly through the tangles.  She looks at Lucien in the mirror, reclining against stacked pillows, hands behind his head, watching her every movement.

Sophia twists around on the stool, her wrap slipping from one shoulder.   She flips her hair back over her shoulder and sets down the comb.  ‘Marie wanted to speak with you and Athos.  Do you know why?’

‘No. I am not interested in more talking Sophia.  I have no need to review the past, I do not need to hear stories about my father or grandfather or a family long dead. I told her I was going to La Rochelle.  I must follow every lead to find Alessandra. She will need to talk only with Athos.’

She stays quiet, hearing the vein of anger that runs through his voice.  She regards him in the mirror, wondering if what he said was true and as always, at the source of his anger.  She looks back at her own reflection.

 ‘So, what now?’

‘My mother instructed me to go to my wife and get a good night’s sleep.’

She laughs softly teasing him, ‘why is that?’

‘Because your husband requires your presence,’ he mocks a gruff tone, ‘I understand him to be a fearsome piratical man, also lonely for his wife’s attention.’

‘Is that so?’ she flips her hair back and stands up, drifting closer to the bed, holding her wrap closed.  ‘What manner of attention does he require?’  She sits on the edge of the bed slipping her hand under the covers.  His eyes narrow, ‘dangerous waters Madame.’   Her lips curve into a seductive smile.

‘Not for me.’