“Tell him what you like!” she snapped. “He wouldn’t believe any of your made-up tales!”
“Oh, aye? And if I tell him exactly what happened to Ephraim bar-Sefer? And why?”
“Who?” she said, but now she really had gone pale to the lips, and put out a hand to the table to steady herself.
“Do ye ken yourself what happened to him? No? Well, I’ll tell ye, lass.” And he did so, with a terse brutality that made her sit down suddenly, tiny pearls of sweat appearing round the gold medallions that hung across her forehead.
“Pierre already kens at least a bit about your wee gang, I think—but maybe not what a ruthless, grasping wee besom ye really are.”
“It wasn’t me! I didn’t kill him!”
“If not for you, he’d no be dead, and I reckon Pierre would see that. I can tell him where the body is,” he added, more delicately. “I buried the man myself.”
Her lips were pressed so hard together that nothing showed but a straight white line.
“Ye havena got long,” he said, quietly now, but keeping his eyes on hers. “Ian canna hold him off much longer, and if he comes in—then I tell him everything, in front of you, and ye do what ye can then to persuade him I’m a liar.”
She stood up abruptly, her chains and bracelets all a-jangle, and stamped to the door of the inner room. She flung it open, and Marie jerked back, shocked.
Rebekah said something to her in Ladino, sharp, and with a small gasp, the maid scurried off.
“All right,” Rebekah said through gritted teeth, turning back to him. “Take it and be damned, you dog.”
“Indeed I will, ye bloody wee bitch,” he replied with great politeness. Her hand closed round a stuffed roll, but instead of throwing it at him, she merely squeezed it into paste and crumbs, slapping the remains back on the tray with a small exclamation of fury.
The sweet chiming of the Torah scroll presaged Marie’s hasty arrival, the precious thing clasped in her arms. She glanced at her mistress and, at Rebekah’s curt nod, delivered it with great reluctance into the arms of the Christian dog.
Jamie bowed, first to maid and then mistress, and backed toward the door.
“Shalom,” he said, and closed the door an instant before the silver platter hit it with a ringing thud.
“Did it hurt a lot?” Ian was asking Pierre with interest when Jamie came up to them.
“My God, you have no idea,” Pierre replied fervently. “But it was worth it.” He divided a beaming smile between Ian and Jamie and bowed to them, not even noticing the canvas-wrapped bundle in Jamie’s arms. “You must excuse me, gentlemen; my bride awaits me!”
“Did what hurt a lot?” Jamie inquired, leading the way hastily out through a side door. No point in attracting attention, after all.
“Ye ken he was born a Christian, but converted in order to marry the wee besom,” Ian said. “So he had to be circumcised.” He crossed himself at the thought, and Jamie laughed.
“What is it they call the stick-insect things where the female one bites off the head of the male one after he’s got the business started?” he asked, nudging the door open with his bum.
Ian’s brow creased for an instant.
“Praying mantis, I think. Why?”
“I think our wee friend Pierre may have a more interesting wedding night than he expects. Come on.”
Bordeaux
It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever had to do, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Jamie paused outside the gate of Dr. Hasdi’s house, the Torah scroll in its wrappings in his arms. Ian was looking a bit worm-eaten, and Jamie reckoned he kent why. Having to tell the Doctor what had happened to his granddaughter was one thing; telling him to his face with the knowledge of what said granddaughter’s nipples felt like fresh in the mind … or the hand …
“Ye dinna have to come in, man,” he said to Ian. “I can do it alone.”
Ian’s mouth twitched, but he shook his head and stepped up next to Jamie.
“On your right, man,” he said, simply. Jamie smiled. When he’d been five years old, Ian’s da, Auld John, had persuaded his own da to let Jamie handle a sword cack-handed, as he was wont to do. “And you, lad,” he’d said to Ian, very serious, “it’s your duty to stand on your laird’s right hand, and guard his weak side.”
“Aye,” Jamie said. “Right, then.” And rang the bell.
Afterward, they wandered slowly through the streets of Bordeaux, making their way toward nothing in particular, not speaking much.
Dr. Hasdi had received them courteously, though with a look of mingled horror and apprehension on his face when he saw the scroll. This look had faded to one of relief at hearing—the manservant had had enough French to interpret for them—that his granddaughter was safe, then to shock, and finally to a set expression that Jamie couldn’t read. Was it anger, sadness, resignation?
When Jamie had finished the story, they sat uneasily, not sure what to do next. Dr. Hasdi sat at his desk, head bowed, his hands resting gently on the scroll. Finally, he raised his head, and nodded to them both, one and then the other. His face was calm now, giving nothing away.
“Thank you,” he said in heavily accented French. “Shalom.”
“Are ye hungry?” Ian motioned toward a small boulangerie whose trays bore filled rolls and big, fragrant round loaves. He was starving himself, though half an hour ago, his wame had been in knots.
“Aye, maybe.” Jamie kept walking, though, and Ian shrugged and followed.
“What d’ye think the Captain will do when we tell him?” Ian wasn’t all that bothered. There was always work for a good-sized man who kent what to do with a sword. And he owned his own weapons. They’d have to buy Jamie a sword, though. Everything he was wearing, from pistols to ax, belonged to D’Eglise.
He was busy enough calculating the cost of a decent sword against what remained of their pay that he didn’t notice Jamie not answering him. He did notice that his friend was walking faster, though, and, hurrying to catch up, he saw what they were heading for. The tavern where the pretty brown-haired barmaid had taken Jamie for a Jew.
Oh, like that, is it? he thought, and hid a grin. Aye, well, there was one sure way the lad could prove to the lass that he wasn’t a Jew.
The place was moiling when they walked in, and not in a good way; Ian sensed it instantly. There were soldiers there, army soldiers and other fighting-men, mercenaries like themselves, and no love wasted between them. You could cut the air with a knife, and judging from a splotch of half-dried blood on the floor, somebody had already tried.
There were women, but fewer than before, and the barmaids kept their eyes on their trays, not flirting tonight.
Jamie wasn’t taking heed of the atmosphere; Ian could see him looking round for her; the brown-haired lass wasn’t on the floor. They might have asked after her—if they’d known her name.
“Upstairs, maybe?” Ian said, leaning in to half-shout into Jamie’s ear over the noise. Jamie nodded and began forging through the crowd, Ian bobbing in his wake, hoping they found the lass quickly so he could eat whilst Jamie got on with it.
The stairs were crowded—with men coming down. Something was amiss up there, and Jamie shoved someone into the wall with a thump, pushing past. Some nameless anxiety shot jolted down his spine, and he was half-prepared before he pushed through a little knot of onlookers at the head of the stairs and saw them.