think.
What did I actually know? Well, first, someone was threatening to expose Philippe and ruin him. Philippe had said he needed proof that would silence them, but proof of what exactly? Gaspard had clearly found whatever he was looking for in those church records, but most of the entries had concerned the day-to-day affairs of the church and the parish. Save the lists of gifts to the church, there was little mention of Philippe’s ancestors until that last entry – the story of Estienne’s courtship and marriage. And not just his marriage, but the birth of his heir, Tristan, which, if I remembered correctly, just happened to be the name of Philippe’s grandfather.
I began to smile as the truth slowly took shape in my head. Gaspard hadn’t found that entry. He’d written it. That was why the story was crammed into such a small space. Yet the ink on the page was ancient, faded. If he’d written it only the evening before, it would have been a deep black. I should know. It was one of my many irksome tasks to spend hours and hours hunting for oak apples and collecting them before the insects emerged, in order to turn them into dried slabs of iron-gall ink ready for Gaspard to wet and use. Fresh iron-gall ink was as black as Beelzebub’s beard.
Unless . . . I turned to the pile of books beside me. I was sure in my searching I had seen something . . . I riffled through the books and scrolls, cursing myself for not having put them in order after all. It took me a long time to find what I was looking for, but finally I had it in my hand –
Diverse and useful recipes
.
I thumbed through the pages, which covered everything a man would ever wish to know and quite a few things he wouldn’t, from how to make pastes that would clean stained leather to physic for horses with colic. There it was! I kissed the crumbling binding. What was it the ancient one had said?
Keep everything, chiot, throw away nothing, however insignificant or old.
I hugged the book to me, rocking back and forth. It was all I could do not to let out a whoop of delight. If Philippe would pay handsomely for the forgery Gaspard had created for him, then what might he pay to someone who had the knowledge to expose that fake?
Chapter 8
Then the swan roasted will become food for the king.
Gisa’s uncle holds the swan brooch close to the candle and examines it from all sides. The light from the flame undulates over the golden beak so that it looks as if it is opening and closing in a silent and desperate plea for mercy.
‘It’s a costly gift, my child,’ her uncle says at last. ‘Lord Sylvain thinks highly of you.’
‘It has nothing to do with the girl,’ his wife says.
Aunt Ebba lies propped on a mountain of pillows in the bed, which she seldom leaves and which Uncle Thomas never enters, unlike the fat ginger cat that lolls on the bed beside his mistress. Strangers, when they learn that the apothecary’s wife has not left her chamber for five years, remark that her husband cannot be much good at his trade if he can’t find a cure for his own wife. Neighbours are more charitable, at least towards Master Thomas, for they remember that, in the beginning, Ebba had taken to her bed with a head cold, but found being waited on so pleasant that she is more than content to have her husband and niece dance daily attendance on her and on that indolent cat.
‘The baron plainly intended the brooch as a token of the esteem in which he holds you, Thomas,’ Aunt Ebba says. ‘Who would give such a jewel to a child?’
‘A child no longer,’ Thomas reminds her. ‘Gisa is fifteen now, my dear, and by my reckoning Lord Sylvain has been a widower these twenty-five years, maybe more.’
Ebba snorts. ‘A man of his wealth and position is hardly going to pay court to an apothecary’s niece, especially a girl who’s as plain as a kitchen mouse and whose father . . .’
Aunt Ebba folds her lips tightly in case the words should defy her and escape.
What did I actually know? Well, first, someone was threatening to expose Philippe and ruin him. Philippe had said he needed proof that would silence them, but proof of what exactly? Gaspard had clearly found whatever he was looking for in those church records, but most of the entries had concerned the day-to-day affairs of the church and the parish. Save the lists of gifts to the church, there was little mention of Philippe’s ancestors until that last entry – the story of Estienne’s courtship and marriage. And not just his marriage, but the birth of his heir, Tristan, which, if I remembered correctly, just happened to be the name of Philippe’s grandfather.
I began to smile as the truth slowly took shape in my head. Gaspard hadn’t found that entry. He’d written it. That was why the story was crammed into such a small space. Yet the ink on the page was ancient, faded. If he’d written it only the evening before, it would have been a deep black. I should know. It was one of my many irksome tasks to spend hours and hours hunting for oak apples and collecting them before the insects emerged, in order to turn them into dried slabs of iron-gall ink ready for Gaspard to wet and use. Fresh iron-gall ink was as black as Beelzebub’s beard.
Unless . . . I turned to the pile of books beside me. I was sure in my searching I had seen something . . . I riffled through the books and scrolls, cursing myself for not having put them in order after all. It took me a long time to find what I was looking for, but finally I had it in my hand –
Diverse and useful recipes
.
I thumbed through the pages, which covered everything a man would ever wish to know and quite a few things he wouldn’t, from how to make pastes that would clean stained leather to physic for horses with colic. There it was! I kissed the crumbling binding. What was it the ancient one had said?
Keep everything, chiot, throw away nothing, however insignificant or old.
I hugged the book to me, rocking back and forth. It was all I could do not to let out a whoop of delight. If Philippe would pay handsomely for the forgery Gaspard had created for him, then what might he pay to someone who had the knowledge to expose that fake?
Chapter 8
Then the swan roasted will become food for the king.
Gisa’s uncle holds the swan brooch close to the candle and examines it from all sides. The light from the flame undulates over the golden beak so that it looks as if it is opening and closing in a silent and desperate plea for mercy.
‘It’s a costly gift, my child,’ her uncle says at last. ‘Lord Sylvain thinks highly of you.’
‘It has nothing to do with the girl,’ his wife says.
Aunt Ebba lies propped on a mountain of pillows in the bed, which she seldom leaves and which Uncle Thomas never enters, unlike the fat ginger cat that lolls on the bed beside his mistress. Strangers, when they learn that the apothecary’s wife has not left her chamber for five years, remark that her husband cannot be much good at his trade if he can’t find a cure for his own wife. Neighbours are more charitable, at least towards Master Thomas, for they remember that, in the beginning, Ebba had taken to her bed with a head cold, but found being waited on so pleasant that she is more than content to have her husband and niece dance daily attendance on her and on that indolent cat.
‘The baron plainly intended the brooch as a token of the esteem in which he holds you, Thomas,’ Aunt Ebba says. ‘Who would give such a jewel to a child?’
‘A child no longer,’ Thomas reminds her. ‘Gisa is fifteen now, my dear, and by my reckoning Lord Sylvain has been a widower these twenty-five years, maybe more.’
Ebba snorts. ‘A man of his wealth and position is hardly going to pay court to an apothecary’s niece, especially a girl who’s as plain as a kitchen mouse and whose father . . .’
Aunt Ebba folds her lips tightly in case the words should defy her and escape.
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