Page 9

9

THE POOR, DEFENCELESS CHILD

‘ L ittle’ émile sat on a chair that was much too short for his long legs, but still he kicked them, and gleefully too.

He shoved another piece of cake into his mouth, this laden with more jam and cream than the last delivery, which is to say, it was rather a lot all in one go.

And over and around his not-so-dainty treat, he spilled crumbs down himself and onto the table when he poorly enunciated, “I don’t know why you don’t just ask him.”

Though it was difficult to decipher, Henry knew what he’d said, because he’d said it half a dozen times or more already, mostly with an empty mouth.

But Henry wasn’t about to repeat himself.

“Honey?”

“Yes.”

Henry tapped the little glass jar onto the wooden table, placed long fingers on his hips, and continued his pace of the small cabin.

Reaching out his golden fob watch, he saw the seconds tick over to eleven-fifty—ten minutes to go.

The metal lid of the honey jar grated on his nerves just as it grated on the glass, turned slowly by sticky fingers.

“Léon’s the best. He helps everybody.”

“Is that what you call helping people?” Henry half-joked, for the whole idea was a sort of ludicrous jest to him.

The idea that the executioner, beautiful-looking as he was, was somehow a paragon of virtue.

The man who took heads for money, some kind of local hero.

But Henry had to hand the headsman that one small credit—his brother loved him well, so he was, at least, presumably, less of a filthy barbarian in his home than he was in the town square.

Or in an alley on the way home from the pub.

Henry glanced at his wet boots in front of the open fire, still sopping from the hour he’d spent washing them.

It was entirely possible, of course, that the child had simply been misled about his brother, through lack of education, experience, and or intellect.

Yes, that, Henry easily concluded, was probably it.

“I have to go now,” he said, shoving some biscuits towards the boy.

“Do you remember what we talked about?”

émile gave a small nod.

“I’m not to make a sound, even if?—”

“ Especially if…” Henry corrected.

“ Especially if it’s Léon. I’m to stay quiet, and you’ll take me back to him five golds richer.”

“Good boy.” Henry scanned the benches and beds of the tiny, rundown, dusty cottage.

“You have everything you need here. I’ll be a short time. And when I return, I’ll take you home.”

“But I still don’t understand why?—”

“Uhhh!” Henry held up a silencing finger, his other hand on the door handle.

“Shhht!” He received an eye roll from the boy in return, but he soon had the door of the cottage between them, and was out in the small clearing of the forest, boots quiet on soft grass, dappled sunshine illuminating his ill-thought-out sojourn.

Ill thought out because he should have just waited patiently in the cottage until the deed was done.

He had no cause to run straight over for those keys.

Not before nightfall, anyway.

Not before he would take them and break into the prison.

Assuming the handsome primitive had managed to get a hold of them.

But somehow, Henry found he couldn’t wait for nightfall.

In fact, he couldn't even wait an hour. And here he was, close to exposing himself as he tread his way lightly towards the river for a glimpse of… Well, of course, it was mostly just to make sure the keys went under that rock. On time. Just as they needed to. But Léon—for Henry knew that was his name—Henry didn’t mind so very much having a fleeting glimpse of him, too. He wasn’t likely to see him again, not ever, as the following day, Henry would be off and out of Reims, never to return. So one last look at what was, all things being fair, an exceptional view, was something Henry would allow himself.

Yet even as he reflected thus, Henry knew it wasn’t the full story. The fact was, the thought of Léon had stayed with him like a vengeful phantom ever since he’d set eyes on him, rising up before him every hour, and all through the night every time he closed his eyes. Léon standing over that crowd with his dripping blade glinting in the sunlight. Léon’s drunken face and his sweet smile in the low light of the alley. The complete bereavement—the searing pain that Henry had placed on that face and in those eyes when he told him he’d taken his brother.

What had he thought he’d see there? Nothing different, to be sure. Perhaps he just hadn’t thought it would affect him so strongly.

Henry walked a wide circle towards where he needed to be, facing the direction of town, though they were deep in the woods and there was no sight of any building from there. Just the dirt path that traced the side of the river, cleared by human feet and horse hooves, but dense enough that no carts came this way. And there, about thirty feet back from the enormous and obtrusive rock that he’d placed by the bend of the river to lie in wait for Léon’s delivery, Henry slunk behind a tree.

He checked his watch again. There were two minutes to spare, but even as he clicked the lid closed, his eyes lit on a movement.

The man didn’t come furtively—didn’t sneak or try to hide the way Henry had. He was wary, yes, but he walked into the clearing like a deer might—a thing of beauty, of grace, aware of his surroundings and of the danger that may lie hidden there, but not cowed.

A woodpecker tapped at a tree somewhere to Léon’s left, and he stopped dead, head turning sharply towards the sound.

The way his neck flexed, the way his hair fell… Blond, shining in the streams of sunlight filtering through the trees, his skin lit by the sparkle of the light on the water, and his eyes keen.

How Henry would have liked to sketch him—to paint him, just there like that. How quickly Henry’s mind went to the very scene, the two of them there on the grass, Henry arranging him, undressing him, painting him. Then what he’d do with him afterwards…

Henry forced his eyes closed over the vision, fingertips scrunching on the rough bark of the tree. He’d think about that later. In great detail. He’d think about a man like that for many nights to come, no doubt. Just as soon as he got what he wanted from him and disposed of him.

As though reacting in kind to Henry’s thoughts, Léon made for the rock. It was unmistakable. Henry had thrown every other stone in the vicinity into the water, and Léon beelined for it just exactly as Henry had hoped he would. He reached a hand into his pocket, and the tinkle of keys sparked an excitement of hope in Henry such as he hadn’t felt in weeks. His hands trembled slightly in eagerness, his heart pumping fresh blood that came with a sweat about his brow and on his palms. His body was screaming for action, but he stayed quiet, hidden behind his tree, waiting.

Léon pushed the rock back, dropped the keys to the dirt, and secreted them away. He stood a moment, presumably checking they were invisible to the average passer-by. Then, without looking up or around at all, he sent a shock into Henry with the unexpected words, “If you can see me, please know I’ve done my best to get you what you wanted. I’m here. And I have delivered your keys, and…”

Léon’s head dipped, and Henry shrank to the ground, desperate to get a little closer, in case he was unable to hear whatever Léon was about to say.

But when he spoke again, it was clear over the babbling of the river, over the songs of the birds and the wind in the trees, and it was as melancholy a sound as Henry had ever heard. “He’s everything to me. Please don’t hurt him. If this isn’t enough… I’ll do anything. Please, just come to me, and I’ll do anything you want.”

He left quickly, so abruptly after the words that lingered in the forest as a lost spirit might, that it threw Henry. He’d half expected him to stay, to become a problem. But his compliance, though necessary, though theoretically desirable, made Henry feel just about as sick as his words had.

It didn’t matter, he tried to remind himself for the hundredth time. Léon’s nightmare would be over just as quickly as it had begun. Henry would fix both their problems that very night, so he refused the ball of guilt that tried to consume him, pushing it away like a meal he was sick to the teeth of.

Perhaps he should have waited longer before going for the keys, but the silence of the forest made a minute feel like two, made two feel like five, and by the time it had been five, it felt like an hour. Henry stalked out from his hiding place, creeping low. He checked every tree trunk and tuft of grass for a sheen of golden hair, but he was sure he was alone.

He scampered to the rock, kicked it over and snatched up his prize.

He didn’t think about the size of the keys or the shape of them. He didn’t consider how many or how mismatched they were. He took them up, and he strode double fast straight back to the cottage. He bolted inside, shut the door tight and latched it. He turned to a patient émile, opened his mouth to reflect aloud on just how easily and successfully his plan had come to fruition, only to hear his own words drowned out by a furious hammering on the wall and the accompanying shout of, “I found you, you fucking sack of shit! Open this fucking door! I’m going to kill you, you fuck!”