The King of Shadows, page 14
Another interesting thing, on further view by the light of the chamber’s many oil lamps on wooden pedestals set along the walls and also several at the center of the table, was that the fine costumes were indeed not so fine. Matthew saw that the cloaks and blouses of the men and the ruffled and ribboned gowns of the women were age-worn, some many times patched with different fabrics—well-stitched, indeed, for the island appeared to have at least one competent tailor, but they were by no means recently imported from the costume shops of Athens or Milan. So it was indicative of a “make-do” society, which made sense if this island was its own nation and did no trading with other countries.
But … a question that engaged Matthew’s curiosity: why would an island nation not conduct trade with the countries that were near enough to be reached by ship within a few days? To that thought, Matthew realized that there was only the variety of fishing boats in the harbor and no sea-going vessels … but what of the two derelict ships they’d passed on the way in? One French, one Italian, at least judging from the names. Both ships possibly traders, both twice as large as the Nemesis. Say ten to twelve crew aboard … so why had they left their vessels here, and—a more disturbing question— what had become of them?
“Here, young sir,” said Fratello, whose English was now quite acceptable. “You’ll enjoy this.” So saying, he began to pour wine into Matthew’s cup from the jug he toted, and with the little man’s left hand nearly in front of Matthew’s face, Matthew caught sight of the barely perceptible remains of a tattoo almost obliterated by age and sun on the back of the hand: an anchor, it appeared to be, with the name Ruby beneath it.
“From our own vineyards,” Fratello said, about to move on to the next cup. “We have plenty in the barrels, so drink up.”
“A moment,” Matthew said. “Your English has become very good. This morning you could barely speak it.”
“I suppose,” came the reply.
“It’s to be commended. But who taught you?”
“Taught me?”
“Yes,” Matthew said, unwilling to let him go on until he had this particular answer. “Someone had to teach you the language, and I suspect coach you further on it between this morning and this event. Who was that?”
“No one, young sir. I recalled it.”
“But … who taught you the language to begin with?”
Fratello’s brown face grinned. The darker brown eyes in their caverns of wrinkles sparkled with true merriment. “Young sir, you speak in riddles!” Then he was gone on to fill the wine cup of the middle-aged Golgothan man who sat to Matthew’s right, and Fratello said something to the gent in the island’s tongue to bring forth a laugh and a nod of the head.
Peculiar, was Matthew’s thought. He looked about and saw almost everyone drinking except for Professor Fell and Hudson, the former staring at his cup as if a poisonous snake might suddenly curl out of it, the latter refraining to keep his wits for the escape attempt that Matthew knew was coming.
In another moment he caught from the corner of his eye an elder woman with long gray hair adorned by a wreath of blue flowers watching him from further along the table. When he glanced at her she looked away; then she returned to her appraisal of him, again caught from the corner of his eye. This little bit of what Matthew could only think of as playtime went on as the wine cups were being filled, then at last he looked at her; this time she did not avert her eyes and instead lifted her cup in a gesture of offering a toast of some kind. He lifted his own glass but refrained from drinking, as it was still too fresh in his mind that such a liquid could be tainted in order to overcome the guests for nefarious purposes, yet he’d already taken note that Fratello had poured for him from the same jug that had filled many of the Golgothans’ cups … but still, caution was the dictate of the evening.
He was musing about this when a door on the left side of the banquet room opened, an immediate silence fell upon the gathering, and they stood up nearly as one and began to ring their handbells. Into the room came a figure that could only be King Tabor. As a show of respect DeKay removed his tricorn and got to his feet, as did the other guests including Matthew … except for Professor Fell, who sat with his arms crossed before his chest as if under the weight of God’s own anvil.
This, then, was the king of Golgotha.
He was a tall, thin, white-bearded ancient wearing what could only be called a cloak of the crudest patched-and-repatched sackcloth. He guided himself forward slowly, as if in pain, while supporting himself on a long gnarled wooden staff. Fratello and two of the others went forward to aid the old man, but he waved a frail hand at them and they bowed in reverence and backed away. Upon Tabor’s head, which was sparsely sown with tufts of white hair, sat a tilted copper crown decorated not with royal jewels but with a profusion of small seashells and colored stones. He had a high, deeply lined forehead and a large hooked nose, thick white brows above dark-colored eyes, and carried with him an attitude of intense and rather sad weariness. He continued to his simple chair at the head of the table, which Fratello steadied for him as he seated himself. Then Fratello took the staff and gave it to one of the others to lean against the wall. The Golgothans ceased their music, as did the regular musicians, but remained standing until Tabor said something in the native language, speaking in a fragile and whispery voice. Everyone sat down. Fratello took a position at the king’s right hand, and spoke to him quietly as Tabor gazed from one guest to another, beginning with Matthew who sat the nearest to him.
Tabor posed to the little man what sounded to Matthew like a question. Fratello translated: “King Tabor would care to know your names. Would you begin, young sir?”
Matthew supplied his. It went around the long table: Stroud, Tallow, the five crewmen, Falkenberg, Brand, Hudson and DeKay. When the professor was reached Fell abruptly stood up. He said in a voice roughened with rage, “Tell him I am a prisoner of these criminals who caused my ship to be abandoned and my captain and crew murdered. Tell him I demand these criminals be put into whatever dungeon is available, and that I, Mr. Corbett and Mr. Greathouse be allowed to—”
“My pardon,” said DeKay, standing up. The lamplight sparkled off the moonstones that edged his mask and gave a red glint to the center of the golden eye. “My uncle Danton is not well in the mind. I hope—”
“Listen to me!” Fell’s shout made his voice ring off the walls. “I am a prisoner! Ask Matthew! He’s a prisoner too! Matthew, tell them!”
“May I speak, sir?” Now it was Falkenberg’s turn to stand before Matthew could get into his mind or mouth what he should say. “Please tell King Tabor that the length of this journey and the sun’s heat has damaged the old uncle’s senses. Also that young Matthew is responsible for the old man’s health, which he is surely aware of. Surely he is, since we have such a distance yet to travel. Isn’t that right, Matthew?”
“Don’t listen to that shit!” Fell raged, aiming his ire like an eight-pounder cannonball at the silent Fratello and King Tabor. “They’re criminals! Do you hear me? I want them seized and put behind bars!”
“Now, uncle!” DeKay said, as if indeed speaking as kindly as possible to a deranged relative. “Let’s not make an unpleasant scene that we shall all regret.”
As Fell sputtered for another outburst, Fratello started chattering to Tabor, who nodded and nodded and nodded again.
Then he placed a finger upon Fratello’s chin to stop the chatter, and the king of Golgotha gazed down the table at the warring parties and said softly and hesitantly, “Well … this is a sticky wicket.”
Twelve
There was a moment of stunned silence from the guests.
Then Maccabeus DeKay said, “You’re from England!”
King Tabor blinked as if blinded by the lamplight. He looked to Fratello, who spoke to him in the native tongue. Tabor returned his attention to DeKay. “I … am … Golgothan,” he said. “From this island. Born here.”
“But you speak English! And you just used a term that derives from the English game of cricket! How do you know that term?”
Fratello leaned forward to translate once more, but the king pushed him away. Tabor sat as if in deep deliberation before he spoke again. “Cricket? I don’t know that. The … term, as you put it? … is something … I must have heard, but … I cannot remember from where.”
“Then how do you know English so well? You speak it very clearly.”
“Do I?” Tabor let the question hang before he went on. “It must be … we must have had visitors … from that country. Your country, Fratello tells me. Yes, we must have had visitors. Did we, Fratello?”
“If we did, sir, it was long in the past,” was the answer. “Long in the past,” Tabor repeated, staring at nothing.
Matthew had the impression that the king of Golgotha was in fact as feeble-minded as old Uncle Fell had been painted out to be.
“My situation!” Fell demanded, still on his feet but holding onto the table’s edge as if his rage threatened to whirl him right out of the chamber, if not off the earth itself. “What is to be done with these criminals?”
“Matthew?” DeKay prompted, his voice light and easy. “What is to be done?”
Matthew glanced at Hudson, who had decided the moment called for him to drink his cup of wine down in one gulp. Matthew knew what Hudson was thinking, because he thought it himself when he saw both Stroud and Tallow leaning slightly forward on the other side of the table, watching him more like buzzards than hawks; he surmised that their hands were on their guns, and possibly Brand and Falkenberg were primed for gunplay as well, depending on what Matthew’s next statement might be. It came to Matthew that Hudson considered a sudden flight of pistol balls might end his own plan for escape, no matter who was punctured. And this assembly at the feast table appeared ill-suited to stand up to professional killers; even King Tabor might be shot down in the next fifteen seconds.
Therefore … bearing in mind that once back aboard the Nemesis it might go worse for the professor than having a guard on his open door—and for a certainty this bunch was not above beating an old man half to death—Matthew looked into the king’s face and said, “I fear Uncle Danton has had too much sun today.”
Fell stood motionless but for his mouth quivering, changing from a tight line to an aperture from which Matthew expected to hear the shriek of traitor—again a bizarre circumstance that Matthew would never have believed could have occurred in this lifetime. Then the professor’s mouth closed and his amber eyes went dead. He reached down, picked up his wine cup and flung it across the table at the opposite wall where it splashed red across the stones. With this statement of helpless anger the aged toothless tiger sank into his chair and slumped there like a scarecrow in a fine silk robe.
“Pardon, kind sir,” DeKay said to Tabor as he also seated himself. “this is not our usual display of action. We are all gentlemen here.”
“Gentlemen,” Tabor repeated, as if rolling the word around on his tongue like a grape. “Yes. All gentlemen here. And ladies, as well. My council.” He lifted his thin arms in an encompassing gesture. His mouth worked for a few seconds as he searched for his next words. “Importance,” he said. “Those of importance.”
“Dignitaries, I presume,” DeKay offered.
“Yes. That. Fratello?” And here he spoke to the little man in Golgothan and Fratello and the natives who’d been stationed at the doors went off through an arched opening on the right. King Tabor addressed his council members, the end result of a short speech being that the Golgothans lifted their cups in a toast to the visitors, there was drinking and bell ringing and when Tabor noticed that Matthew refrained from a sip he said, “Our vineyards are very fine, young man.” He lifted his own cup. “I suspect the proper term would be … let me think … choice?”
Matthew hesitated but realized that everyone at the table but old Uncle was drinking and even Hudson was now motioning for one of the pourers to refill his cup. Matthew dared to take a taste and found it a warm and spicy variety, with a hint of dried cherries and a bittersweet note, very choice indeed and he was far from being an aficionado. He’d seen that the jugs were being shared among guests and natives alike, so if the wine was poisoned everyone at the table but Fell was getting a dose. Still … there could be some trickery involving the insides of the guests’ cups being already prepared with poison. Or was he making too much of this, since there was not a hint of animosity from King Tabor or any of the others? Excellent actors, perhaps? Or simply a gracious host and his table of dignitaries?
He was yet mulling all this over, with the one sip just down his throat, when Fratello and the two others who’d accompanied him reappeared through the archway rolling carts of food. And what food! Upon the carts were platters of baked and steamed fish, what appeared to be legs of lamb and racks of the same charred on an open fire, large bowls of various stews, platters piled with steamed clams, fried cuttlefish in a garlic sauce the aroma of which made Matthew nearly drool upon his shirt, heapings of green peas, beans, corn and fried potatoes, salads adorned with mushrooms and olives, and loaves of bread both white and dark all ashine in their gloss of butter.
As the feast was being transferred from cart to table and to eagerly offered plates, Matthew felt near swooning … not from the effect of a poisoned wine, but just from the presence of all this magnificent chow with its almost intoxicating perfumes of charred meat, garlic, olives, pungent spices, mint and on and on. He realized that however talented was the cook aboard the Nemesis—and the man was sitting one away to Matthew’s right and looked ready to dive headfirst into one of the stewbowls—one of the great pleasures in dining day-to-day was enjoying a variety … and here it was, in all its glory.
“Eat!” King Tabor invited. It was a word to which the Golgothans needed no translation and the guests needed no further encouragement.
Fratello stood beside the king with a fresh jug of wine and the other two servers retired to what must be the kitchen area. The flute players piped softly from a position across the room and only occasionally did the bell chimers ring a rhythm. But neither did Matthew nor any of the Nemesis group care if an army of blunderbuss trumpets played thunder to bring the ceiling down; it was all about the food, the wine, the food, the wine, and the food again.
During Matthew’s second helping of a simply delicious lamb-and-mushroom stew, he looked up reluctantly from his pleasure and saw Professor Fell sitting rigidly, staring at the treasure of edibles on his plate that one of the servers had dished out for him. Suddenly Fell reached out with both hands to grasp it, and before the plate could follow the cup against the wall Matthew said sharply, “Uncle! None of that!”
Fell’s head slowly turned to take view of the interloper. “I would remind my uncle,” Matthew said, partly to the professor and partly to the king, “that we are guests in this palace and on this island, and we do not wish our bad manners, our misguided spite or our lack of common sense to interfere with the opportunity to eat well and hearty. Tonight is tonight, Uncle. Let tomorrow abide.”
Fell neither moved nor spoke, but if his eyes had been daggers Matthew felt as if he would be pierced with so many holes he would become a fountain of the wine he had—foolishly or not—permitted himself to enjoy.
In a moment the professor stared again at his plate. Matthew watched him carefully, and was aware that not only King Tabor was watching, but also DeKay, Falkenberg, Hudson and several of the islanders. Then Fell picked up his knife and fork, drew a long breath and began to carve a piece from the leg of lamb before him, sawing it with slow, deliberate strokes as if cutting the head off the most bitter of enemies. As the feast progressed, the island woman with long gray hair spoke up, posing to King Tabor what sounded like a question, and gesturing toward Maccabeus DeKay.
“Nilda wishes to know,” said the king, “if you are wearing what is the …” He paused, thinking, and came up with “dress in your land. This.” Tabor touched the right side of his own face.
“Not for all,” was the reply. “Only for myself.” To this, Fratello translated the response.
One of the men then asked a question, and Tabor supplied: “Is your land far distant?”
“A trip of many months,” said DeKay, who had been successful in taking careful small sips from his wine cup and had had the presence of mind to bring his own infant-sized fork and spoon. He had kept a napkin at his neck protecting the front of his suit jacket, and therefore had dribbled only a bit of red on the king’s cloth rather than his own. Matthew had not watched him attempting to eat but the food on DeKay’s plate had barely been diminished. “Let me ask a question of you, sir,” DeKay continued, when Fratello had once more delivered the reply. “This island. How many people live here?”
“How many?” Tabor asked Fratello, for it seemed he had no idea.
“Four hundred and eighty-eight, by the last counting.”
“And is this the only town?” DeKay persisted.
“The only,” said Fratello.
“You do no trading with any other nation?”
“None is needed,” Tabor answered. “We are entirely …” He hesitated, trying to draw up the proper word from his remembrance of a language he had likely heard—and been taught?—many years before. “Satisfied,” he said. Then, correcting himself with a shake of his head as if to clear the cobwebs: “No. I mean to say … sufficient. Um … easy upon ourselves. Do you understand?”
“Self-sufficient,” Matthew supplied, interested in asking his own questions. “But do you never care to travel to another nation? Simply to view how things are done there?”
King Tabor stared at him, and perhaps in the old man’s eyes there glinted the faintest sheen of ice. “Why?” he asked.
“Curiosity?” Matthew prodded. “That word … it means?”
