Lyman understood the question, and at the same time Samuel said "It's not for sale," Lyman named a steep price. Gold Buttons opened his purse on the spot and counted out coins to cover it and he did not wait for his change.
When they were gone, Lyman said, "See, Sam, it might make you a good day job. It certainly did for Disney. But he called it a toy. It's not art."
Samuel sighed. "Lyman, it wasn't finished. You don't sell unfinished works."
"But the man wanted to buy it and it's not like it was art," Lyman said.
"I didn't want to sell it."
"Sorry."
Samuel did not tell Lyman that ever since he drew it, the nightmare of the cavalryman riding out of the painting to cut Rodrigo's head nearly off and stomp him into the ground had stopped. That only left the nightmare out of Revelations, of death riding a pale horse followed by hell, being set free upon the earth. Samuel looked at the pile of coins and sighed. It was a very handsome price, and he could always make another book if the dream returned.
****
The big excitement for the gallery in 1633 came in the early summer with the visit of the deposed Italian princess Isabella. Her full title, according to the newspaper, was Isabella, Princess of Piombino, Marchioness of Populonia, Lady of Scarlino, Populonia, Vignale, Abbadia del Fango, Suvereto, Buriano and the Islands of Elba, Montecristo, Pianosa, Cerboli and Palmaionla. But she wasn't Spanish, and since the invasion in 1628 her kingdom was a Spanish possession. So she lived in exile and did some traveling. She came to Grantville to see the great mysteries. While she was there she commissioned several dresses and one painting.
Lyman parked his Oldsmobile in front of the gallery. He posed people sitting behind the wheel, arm over the door, looking out the window or getting out of the back seat. Every day the weather permitted, he would stand in the street with the gallery as the back drop to the car. It was a very popular pose. Isabella saw him painting, looked over his shoulder at a work in progress and extended her stay long enough to sit for a portrait.
"Lyman," Samuel said. "You've painted royalty. When they write the art history books for this timeline, you just secured a whole article, not just a mention."
"You really think so, Sam?" Lyman asked.
"Absolutely," Samuel said, with more confidence than he felt.
Three things happened after Lyman finished the portrait for the princess. First, they rarely were far enough ahead to hang a picture in the gallery with a blank spot ready for a portrait. Second, the costs of getting to sit for one of Lyman's paintings kept going up. And, thirdly, Lyman stopped referring to himself as an amateur.
January 15, 1635
With the happy memory of Lyman at last putting his demon to rest, and a promise to himself to replace the flip book Lyman sold, Samuel was able to turn his mind off and join his wife's pattern of peaceful shallow breathing. Sunrise, and another new day in the animation studio would come soon enough.
****
A Knight’s Journey: Penance
Written by Alistair Kimble
Spring 1635, Chateau d’If
Roderik's knees buckled.
A strong push from behind hastened the fall. His face slid on the cell's stone floor, dirt and grit scratching his cheek.
"We'll have no more trouble from you." Eloy's sunken cheeks tightened and he spat. The prison's jailors reveled in cruelty.
Roderik rolled over and rubbed his face. "What are you doing? Don't be so rough."
"You're a prisoner now. Governor says so," Eloy said. "He told us what you did; betraying your fellow knights on Malta and turning pirate." The gaunt jailor stood over him grinning. The other jailor, Gilles, stood near the cell door, flab jiggling as he fidgeted.
Roderik sighed. Of course the Chateau d'If's governor, Michel, hadn't informed the prison's jailors of the ruse. Roderik stood and spun on the jailors, glaring. Both men jumped back.
Eloy recovered, stepping forward and raising an open hand with bony fingers.
Roderik arched an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.
Gilles grabbed Eloy's arm and pulled him back before the hand connected with Roderik's face. "Governor said put him in here and leave."
Eloy's lips retracted in a feral scowl over brown and black teeth. He shook off Gilles and made for the door, turning around for one last hateful stare before departing. Gilles shambled out of the cell after Eloy.
The door slammed against the frame, shaking dust and bits of plaster from the wall. Eloy's face appeared in the barred window—the fool grinned as the key clanked in the lock.
Roderik turned his attention toward the cell itself—luxurious compared with the usual accommodations at the chateau. The ceiling arched, dark stones punctuating the more common beige and tan ones lining the cell. The wall jutted out on one side, providing a stone ledge on which a layer of straw acted as a bed. A stained bucket reeking of feces and a squat wooden stool rounded out the amenities.
Some plan the governor had devised, and Roderik, both desperate and eager for redemption, had agreed. Beyond his need for redemption, refusing the governor meant possible reprisals such as a prolonged stay on the isle and removal of privileges befitting his station.
Michel wanted information, and by having Roderik pose as a prisoner, would leverage his past life as a pirate for information from other prisoners. First, though, Roderik's appearance needed altering—how clever of Michel. While dirtying in a cell for a few days Roderick would ponder the situation and acclimate to the life of a prisoner.
Gloom from the bay intruded through the window and water sprayed through the opening. High winds dragged an unusual amount of moisture down through the Rhone Valley from Lyon to Marseille and across to the accursed rock jutting from the waters off the city's coast.
His life had twisted so many times, sending him down paths his younger self would never have believed. Jean de Lascaris, the Knights of Malta's new grand master, arranged for Roderik's penance to be served at the Chateau d'If—the one-time fortress turned prison. Roderik's sins included piracy and murder while in the service of the former grand master, Antoine de Paule, in a plot to incite the Ottomans to war using a forged papal document supposedly sent by Urban VIII, secreted in a statue of a falcon. Would it have even mattered now with Urban VIII on the run and Cardinal Borja claiming the Holy See?
If Roderik completed the sentence handed down by Grand Master de Lascaris to the satisfaction of the governor, he was promised an opportunity to regain his knighthood and rid himself of the pirate stain he'd worn so brazenly in the service of the former grand master.
Roderik leaned against the cool wall, slick with water from the constant winds blowing across the bay. Sleep called—despite the musty straw bedding and hard ledge.
****
Water crashed against the rocks below, and the wind carried moist, brined air—tickling Roderik's lips and stinging his eyes. Spray reaching where he slept meant the winds picked up while he rested.
A bell rang.
Roderik rolled off the ledge and peered through the window's bars. A discolored bell in a lonely tower to the north rang, trapped within its own iron-barred prison. Michel must have chosen this cell specifically for the view, as Roderik could see all the way down to the dock, where men now gathered in response to the clanging bell.
Part of the Chateau d’If’s assigned garrison lined the crest of the craggy path leading to the water. The governor picked his way down, boots slipping on mud-slick gravel. Four of the garrison, along with Eloy and Gilles, waited near the dock. Slate-gray water lapped against wood planking, coating the slimy surface before slowly draining off.
A boat with a single mast approached under oars. Traveling across the bay in this weather meant either the cargo or message carried was important.
Michel stood hunched over, holding the hat's waterlogged brim and shielding his face, while water sheeted down his flanks and domed belly. Gilles rushed forward, fat visible and jiggling beneath his soaked shirt; he t
ossed a heavy rope to a man in the prow of the boat. Rowers shipped oars as the boat rocked against the dock. A man clad in unusually matched garb—military of some sort based on his bearing—stepped from the boat, ignoring the flabby jailor's extended hand.
Roderik grinned.
The distinctively clad man withdrew a folded letter from inside his water-darkened jacket and slapped the paper in Michel's hand. The man gestured and guards shoved two hooded men off the boat, sending them sprawling across the slick dock. Without a word the man turned and stepped into the boat. His men untethered and pushed away from the dock.
Gilles grabbed one of the hooded men, while Eloy yanked on the other. Jailors and prisoners alike slipped and stumbled up the path.
Roderik squinted against the spray and remained at the window as the men worked their way closer. Michel labored up the path, his huffing visible even from a distance, holding his hat and yelling, but not loud enough to cut through nature's words.
The jailors yanked the prisoners' hoods free. One of them, an older man, glanced up. The other, a younger redheaded man, kept his head down.
"Huh." The plan had been for Roderik to glean information regarding recent activity along the coast from a couple of captured pirates, but he thought he recognized these men, which could complicate matters. For now their names escaped him, but they'd likely recognize Roderik despite his shorn hair and lack of beard once they were in the cell together.
The pirates were pushed forward. Neither of them ventured another look into the blowing rain and kept their heads down.
****
The constant moans of prisoners and wind mixed with the surf provided a constant barrage of noise. He itched a lot and the draft kept the cell intolerably damp and cool. There was no cure for the draft, and the itching's source was probably the straw or the dingy gray rags he wore—likely stripped from a recently deceased prisoner and, if he was lucky, dunked once in a bucket of water.
The jailors, Eloy and Gilles, grinned and giggled like children every time they brought his food and water.
Counting cracks and reading the scratches of previous prisoners once, maybe twice, was enough. The process of examining the cell had taken two hours—possibly three, the first time.
He laughed and for a moment thought madness seized him, but quickly dismissed the idea. He'd only been in the cell for two days. At least his couple days of isolation were just that—a couple of days. He'd be in with the pirates soon. Until that happened, counting provided distraction and a way of passing the time.
The wind whistled and the sea slapped the little island once for every five times the water whooshed. A rare cry of a gull cut through the wind and surf. The outside noises were constant, but the inside noises were, aside from the moaning, far more interesting and instructive.
The moaning never ceased. The perpetrator resided one cell over. A mystery scream punctuated a moan on occasion. All sorts of explanations played in his thoughts over this. Was the moaner also the screamer or someone from another cell waiting for a brief moment of silence to provide an exclamation point? Or was the screamer someone being tortured or tormented by a jailor?
Shuffling and scraping steps were the jailors, while the even stomps were the patrolling garrison.
The smaller noises and one-off sounds were intriguing and more mysterious. If he spent any amount of time in the cell, he'd figure them out as well. Rodents or insects or settling stones and wood—noises were plentiful.
On the third day of his incarceration, the governor sent for him. The mistral passed and the sun shone bright upon the miserable little rock in the Bay of Marseille. The sudden light stung his eyes; bonds on his wrists and ankles clanked and rattled; sharp pebbles jabbed his bare feet.
The jailors marched him into the courtyard at the heart of the chateau and into a small room on the first level. The governor sat on a chair too small for his enormous body. One of the jailors pushed Roderik into the shaft of light penetrating the only window.
"Leave us." Michel's breathing sounded like sluggish wet hisses.
Michel stood and leaned close to Roderik. His portly frame momentarily blocked the shaft of sunlight. He walked around Roderik sniffing all the while. "Smelling like a prisoner." Each word pushed a fetid cloud of rotten cheese and wine gone the way of vinegar up Roderik's nose. "Good."
Roderik gagged, but resisted vomiting.
"My boy," the governor said, "you've done well so far and your appearance is deteriorating quite nicely. Don't give up yet."
Roderik concentrated on tamping down the nauseated feeling.
A few moans and unintelligible babbling issued from the cells ringing the courtyard.
The governor leaned close once more. Roderik held his breath.
"We'll speak in a few days," the governor said. "Remember what we discussed before you agreed to imprisonment. These pirates harbor information regarding their treachery along the coast as well as their means of communicating between ships. If they’re harboring any information regarding the USE’s ship movements or plans I want to know. The mainland wants to know."
Roderik doubted the pirates would know anything about the USE, Grantville, or other pirates—these two men weren’t captains.
****
Roderik awakened in his new cell. The guards had come for him last night and moved him to a larger cell he'd share with the pirates. His cellmates hadn't yet been brought in, so he studied the room. Nothing special. Three beds with rope tied across the frames supported thin bedding likely filled with old straw teeming with fleas. He scratched his arms. This cell was underground and without light other than from the torch burning outside the door. Perhaps the pirates would not recognize him right off.
The isolation so far had allowed him time for pondering how he'd react to the pirates when confronted with them. Would they wonder how he had ended up at the chateau? These two, at least when he knew them, were crewmen of a minor captain who'd joined up with Roderik's captain and ship.
Their captain was a Dutch corsair turned Muslim while Roderik had served a simple English sea dog. The two crews had joined forces for the ease with which prey fell. Roderik had freely given away the tactics and practices of the Knights of Malta's navy, a betrayal he now regretted as he sought atonement. The pirates had been wide-eyed, but grateful.
Clanking and shuffling echoed from the hallway. He glanced at the beds. Each of them equally soiled, but he quickly moved to the one farthest in and away from the door and slapped the stained bedding: musty and covered in dirt. Still a luxury compared with a hard floor and one the pirates would notice, but also a luxury befitting a former knight of the order.
Grunts and muttering filtered through the door as a key rattled in the lock. The door squeaked on its hinges and banged against the stone entryway.
"Get in there with your own kind," Eloy said. "The likes of you don't deserve your own cells."
The jailors each pushed one of the pirates, sending them to the stone floor. Eloy glanced over, smirking. Gilles, flab jiggling, departed the cell followed by Eloy who pulled the door closed.
The two pirates stood, but were hunched over. They wore an odd assortment of varicolored clothing which now resembled nothing more than dirty and ripped rags. The closer look confirmed he knew them, but neither of them paid him any attention, other than a quick glance, and shuffled to their beds where they collapsed.
"They've tortured you," Roderik said. "I wondered when I'd be forced to share this opulent cell."
Neither of them responded: either they ignored him or were already sleeping. Perhaps the governor purposely kept them up most of last night for torture and questioning.
Roderick rolled off his bed and edged closer to the pirates. The man in the bed nearest the door was Bart, a scraggly, redheaded man now nearly black from filth and with a stench to match. If memory served, both men hailed from England, which probably accounted for them being together. Bart was an able-bodied sailor, so he might have useful gossip, but like
ly nothing of strategic value. Roderik withdrew and wished Michel had given them a cell above ground with better ventilation.
Roderik turned toward Edmund who lay flat on his back snoring. The gusts of air pouring from his mouth hardly moved the matted and clumped beard and mustache. He reeked of urine. Edmund was a sailing master, and would likely know something of ship movements and communications between pirates along the coast.
Roderik backed away and sat on his bed, watching the two men sleep. Michel hadn't provided him with any details of their capture or subsequent transfer to the chateau. Roderik wasn't tired, but what good was being awake if the pirates slept? He took a deep breath and eased back. What he wanted more than anything was a bath. He closed his eyes.
****
"Hey," a gruff voice said. Something thin—likely a bony finger—poked Roderik. "Wake up."
"Disturbing a sleeping man isn't polite," Roderik said. "What do you want?"
"I know you," the gruff voice said—the sailing master, Edmund. "In fact, we both know you."
Roderik swallowed and licked his dry lips, his tongue rolling over the seemingly large cracks. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Give me a moment."
"You're Rodrik," Edmund said. "Rodrik, a knight of Malta."
"Former knight, remember?"
"Rodrik who struck an e from his name," Bart said, his higher-pitched voice was unmistakable. "Went from Roderick to Rodrik he did. Forgot his vows and left Malta."
Roderik winced at the mention of his betrayal. "You have me there, but I've gone back to my old spelling." Upon turning pirate Roderik had dropped the e from his name—a funny tidbit for Bart to remember. "Now, who are you two?"
"You don't recognize us?" Edmund asked, stepping back.
"Should I?"
Edmund plopped on his bed. "Yes, you should. We sailed together—kind of. Different crews and ships, but our captains made a pact."