The missing necklace: a juvenile Felicia story

 sorry to be so late.

here's a tale from when Felicia is about 11 or 12 and probably an irritating child.

 

The Missing Necklace

 

            “Here, Felicia you finish off painting the embroidery on the woman’s shift, there’s a good girl” said my master, tossing me the brush. “You find it less tedious than I do.”

            This is a polite fiction that we both maintain to cover the fact that I paint embroidery better than he does; which since the production of embroidery is as a closed book to me is one of life’s little mysteries.

            In other respects my master is a genius but without flights into insanity like that madman Leonardo da Vinci.  He has done well to be accepted in Florence as Roberto Robertini, and has shed entirely the shadow of having been born in the bustling English port of Ipswich as plain Hobb Dobson.  Mind, his friend, neighbour  and crony has done equally well, for ‘tis said that Tom Wolsey is chaplain to King Henry VII of England; which if that dour monarch had any knowledge of the pig chariot racing or the incident involving Master Tooley and the sheep he had not been, methinks.

            He looked over at me and smiled; and a shaft of sunlight caught his golden locks and turned him briefly into one of Master Boticelli’s angels; save that there be few angels with smears of white paint in their hair that then stuck to their cheek.  With a sigh I wet a rag with turpentine to clean him off.  He grinned, and tweaked one of my dark, unruly curls.

            “Mother hen” he said.

            “Cluck, my master” I replied.

            The portrait we were engaged upon was for Signor Sacci, a pawnbroker and second hand clothes dealer who dabbles somewhat in gold and jewellery, and hence lives on the wrong end of the Ponte Veccio.  He is one of the few people who knows that Master Robin’s fine appearance sometimes belies our finances; for he knows how often my master’s fine cloak is in hock.  Besides, I often buy second hand clothing from him for the both of us when my master is in sufficient finance to permit it.  This portrait was to pay off a debt and would bring us into funds as well; and ‘twas a complex piece, for we were also working alongside Guiseppe Sarto, the tailor, whilst he made the wedding finery for both bride and groom, and my master required to paint the clothing as they would appear when finished.

            It is a difficult thing to do, but he is equal to it, so long as he have me, his apprentice, to grumble at and keep him supplied with paints and feed him finger food as required.  That can sometimes be a risky business; and I must be sure I have no paint upon my fingers, for many of the pigments that I grind are monstrously poisonous, especially vermillion.  Fortunately the bride’s gown was dusky pink brocade that is mixed with crimson, not vermillion; and crushed insects being far less insalubrious than cinnabar I could relax somewhat.

            In so far as any sorely tried apprentice might relax when being driven towards involuntary giggles for finding that her master has included in the knotholes of the floor some scurrilously wicked caricatures of the bride’s family.  It is a bad habit my master has when he is irritated.  And her relations were truly irritating.  The one we saw most was her brother, Cesare, who was studying to become saturnine and succeeded in achieving rat like.  He reminded me of nothing more than those repellent young men who spring out at the well dressed with the plea of ‘signor, I have a young sister, very clean, very pretty!’; and I suppose in sooth he was selling his sister to the highest bidder in Signor Sacci. Cesare’s  tastes ran beyond the family fortunes; and his clothing was badly made over and his jewellery was brass not gold.  Now brass is every bit as pretty as gold, providing it be kept burnished; for if it is not it corrodes, that is the value of gold in that it does not.  Nor does gold leave green marks upon the skin, that made Cesare when he moved look as though his neck had received the festering lovebites of Lilith and all her demon horde.

            It is an equivocal position as artist’s apprentice, especially when one is a maid, not unknown but distinctly unusual.  One is neither part of the upper servants nor yet of the family.  The artist himself is laughed with, joked with and a great friend of the family – even when he is a debtor – and the tailor has similar position, for he has the privilege of putting his hands on a woman almost as intimately as a doctor might.  I certainly resented the fact that Signor Sacci’s man, Ghiberto Pisano, had decided that I was to be shouted at and treated as a servant, and all because I slapped his face when he laid familiar hands upon my rump.

            If I had any kind of figure yet I might have understood – though I’faith I had still slapped him – but at twelve years old I am no woman for so handling. I am a skinny brown thing and my activities with other apprentices lead more to skinned knees than any hint of broken hearts.

            I thought my master would have abused him roundly if he knew, but I saw no reason to disturb his happy painterly fit that he was settling into.

            I made the Pisano an apple pie bed and filled it with slugs instead.

           

            Signor Sacci was marrying a lady of high degree and minimal fortune, and no face or figure, that would get him more contacts for his trade; and he intended showing her relatives what a fine fellow he was.  He was having a cioppa, or overgown, made in black figured velvet that I dared not approach to stroke, and he was going to have it lined with miniver, the fur of the silver squirrel. It was the sort of garment that would be worth three times as much as he would pay Ghiberto in a year, and was certainly way outside what the sumptuary laws permitted.

            My master coveted it monstrously.

            I may not embroider, but I do sew well, and he is kept far better dressed than an I did not, for I am clever with remnants and at hiding defects in damaged cloth in seams, and his blue silk doublet that matched his cerulean eyes looked at least three times as expensive as it had really been.  And few enough people take much notice of the sumptuary laws since they burned Fra Savonarola at the stake for saying that the Borgia Pope was unholy.

            It was true enough; but not a wise thing to actually say in public.

 

            The trouble started on the Wednesday when we came down ready to start work, only to find the house in an uproar.

            “How now! What’s this?” My master demanded of Ghiberto, who had sneered nastily at both of us.

            “Why, master artist, it is that the necklace my master purchased for his bride is vanished; and with two kinds of profligate itinerants in the house, I dare swear he will be glad to talk to you and your light fingered……wench.”

            He paused before he picked an adjective for me, for my master narrowed his eyes and stared down his long aquiline nose at him.  As my master fences with many of the fashionable young men of Florence it would be a foolish man that irritate him too far.

            “I resent your imputations on my apprentice” said my master in his softest, most dangerous voice.

            “Well, my master bade me tell you bring her to him” whined Ghiberto. “And I can but do his bidding.”  

            Since whenever he is supposed to be out doing his master’s bidding he spends all the time he can with his mistress who lives off the Porta Rossa, and convenient for him when he is visiting the furriers in the Via Pellicceria that runs off it, that was rich.

            “Indeed and you should, even if it only be for the first time; but good lack, man, you can avoid drawing your own inaccurate conclusions” said my master coldly.  “Come, Felicia, let us see what Signor Sacci has to say.”

 

            Signor Sacci looked like a man ruined, which if he lost the betrothal contract after so much outlay he might very well be.  His face had fallen in on itself and he looked grey.

            That necklace was worth every penny of an hundred florins if not more; it was set with emeralds and garnets and pearls and was quite the ugliest piece of jewellery I had ever laid my eyes on, but the bride seemed delighted. I dare swear she could calculate its worth better than I, and found Signor Sacci a man with a great deal of virility, all of which he kept in his strongbox.

            She was by far and away as mercenary as any courtesan, and as evil tempered as she was mercenary; and she had a pet marten that was as mean tempered as she.  Of the two, the marten was the prettier. She and her duenna were busy having hysterics in the proper fashionable manner while her brother stood helplessly beside her looking horrified; and Signor Sacci beckoned us into a side chamber. I heard Cesare say,

            “But it can’t be lost, Giuliana, it must have been stolen….It’ll be that smug artist fellow, surely Enrico can take the value from his clothes even if he’s already sold it….”

            He is jealous of my master’s sartorial style, nasty creature.

            Meanwhile Signor Sacci dropped himself into an ornate backed chair with a sigh.

            “What’s this Ghiberto says about you suspecting Felicia?”  my master went on the attack. “You know she is honest, you recall the time she returned because you had given her too much change.”

            “I have never suggested otherwise!” said Signor Sacci.  “I am sorry if you got that impression….”

            “Impression? He called her light fingered outright!” roared my master.

            Signor Sacci buried his face in his hands.

            “I pray you, Signor Robertini, forgive me my man’s nasty tongue… it is merely that I have heard it said that she is clever at finding things, and I wanted to get my necklace…er, Giuliana’s necklace …back without trouble.”

            My master calmed down.

            I doubt he was that inflamed to start with, but sometimes it is well to display the artistic temperament.

            “If Felicia is willing I will lend you her brains” he said with a grand wave of the hand.

            I sniffed.

            “It was last seen last night, ere the cioppa went to the furriers to choose the shade of grey, yes?” I asked.  Signor Sacci nodded.

            “You were putting covers over your master’s painting and cleaning the brushes; and the tailor was clearing away his gear.  He is not a rich man…. I wondered if he were tempted….” He said.

            Signor Sarti was without, standing apart from Signorina Giuliana and her entourage; and he looked white faced and terrible.  It might be guilt; but it was more like the terror of being suspected.

            “Guiseppe Sarto carries his shears and his needles and pins, measure and chalk in his apron that he rolls into a bundle to carry home” I said.  “Scarce likely that he could easily roll up so stiff a thing as Madonna’s necklace, methinks.  We leave our gear in your house; and I do not think I could easily hide it away under my skirts.  There is one who could, of course” I added meditatively “Whose family would profit by its sale and who would then magnanimously still agree to a marriage though you might be expected to find another bauble….”

            He gasped.

            “You cannot mean that you think that Giuliana stole her own necklace?” he gasped.

            I sighed and shook my head.

            “I don’t think she’s clever enough to think of it” I said regretfully “Nor fast enough to hide it, not without disturbing that revolting little….er, her pet.”

            Signor Sacci grinned before he could stop himself.

            “It will live in a cage in MY house unless she can train it better” he said grimly.

            I believed him.  Once you have been bitten by a marten, you remain wary of them. Martens are best skinned and used to line cloaks with. Signor Sacci had bled long enough to convince him of that as well.

            “Do you think any of her family might have done it?” he asked hopefully.  If that were the case he could expect more favours from them to keep it quiet.

            I thought of Cesare hopefully; and discarded the idea.

            Cesare wanted favours from a rich pawnbroker, not a broken one. An hundred florins might tide him through; but Cesare was like to be a long term burden on Signor Sacci’s purse, and was shrewd enough to realise that the pitcher that went little and often to the well got more than overfilling the jug once and mayhap tripping over with it. Besides, he looked as shocked as Signor Sacci.

            “I think it far more likely” I said “That the necklace should have been hidden within the bulky folds of a cioppa and carried out when it was taken to the furrier. And what better to do with it than leave it at the house of a man’s mistress?”

            The sharp intake of breath behind me from Ghiberto told me I was quite right.  He was ashen, and turned to run.

            My master stuck out a foot; and the Pisano went sprawling.

            “What do you want done with him, signor?” asked my master lazily holding the thieving servant down with one booted foot.

            “I want my necklace back” said Signor Sacci.  “I will come and collect it Ghiberto; and then I never want to see your face again.”

            “Art lenient, Signor” said Master Robin, shooting Ghiberto a malevolent look and standing hard upon his backside.  I suddenly wondered if my master had noticed the creature’s insolence towards me after all.  I certainly find it very difficult to hide any mischief from his lazy-looking, hooded eyes.

            Signor Sacci shrugged.

            “I do not want it bruited abroad that mine own manservant is light fingered…it will be bad for trade.  Now, Mistress Artist, what may I do to thank you?”

            I grinned.

            “Unlimited credit?” I suggested.

            He gave a shout of laughter.

            “I tell you what…. I will let you and your master off all interest for five years.  Is that a good deal?”

            “Oh yes!” I agreed fervently.  I scowled at my master. “Don’t you DARE take advantage of that, Master!” I chid.

            “Pernicious brat” he laughed lazily. “Can I ever when you nag as though you were a very wife?”

            He’s not a bad master really.

Apple Boy, a tale of myth

 

Apple boy

 

Once upon a time there were a couple who lived in a little log house in the middle of a wood. Jan was a woodcutter, and his wife Marianna kept house and saw to the goats and chickens which they kept. Jan trapped rabbits, but not too many, and he told the lord’s bailiff when the deer needed culling, or the wild boar, or if there was a dangerous bear or wolf, for such animals only a lord might kill.  And in return, Jan would receive a gift of bear bacon or venison, or boar meat. They helped any travellers and village folk as needed, and they were happy; except for one thing.

They would have dearly loved a child, but they had never managed to have one, though they prayed most devoutly.

And another Christmastide came around, and as custom decreed, they set a third place at the vigil, in case any stranger came by, needing succour.  And indeed, there came a knock on the door as they were about to sit and eat!  Marianna opened the door and welcomed in the stranger, a careworn woman, heavily pregnant and tired.

“Welcome, welcome to our humble abode, this Holy night,” said Marianne, and made the woman comfortable.  After they had eaten, Marianne made up a bed on the floor for herself and Jan, and tenderly showed their guest to their own bed behind the stove.

In the morning, the stranger not only looked less tired, but she glowed with inner beauty and serenity.

“I must leave now,” she said. “But I wish to return a gift for your generosity. Here is an apple; it has as many pips as you will need to make a rosary, and one last, golden pip, When you have threaded the seeds and said your prayers, and eaten the apple, half each, Marianna, you must eat the golden pip and all you wish will come true.”

They hardly saw her leave, for she went so fast.

“Let us do as She has directed,” said Marianna, “For I believe we have been visited by the Queen of Heaven.”

Duly they prayed, and ate the apple, and Marianna swallowed the golden pip; and nine months later, at the apple harvest, she was delivered of a fine, bonny boy, with cheeks like a good russet apple, hair as gold as a golden apple, eyes as green as an apple leaf, and as sweet a nature as the taste of a good apple. They called him Bogdan, which means ‘gift of God’ and gave him the surname ‘Jabłoński’ which means ‘of the Apple tree.’ And Bogdan grew up to be a merry child, helping his parents in the house, and garden, and forest, and the birds of the air came to him and spoke, and the squirrels, and all manner of creatures. The lord himself came to see him, and marvelled over the tale.

“You are much blessed, Jan and Marianna,” he said.

Now the lord was a wealthy man, and he had a daughter, fair and bright, on whom he doted. Her hair was as golden as Bogdan’s, and her eyes blue. She had a snub nose, but it was no fault in a merry face. Her name was Aurelia, for her golden hair. And one day, when she and Bogdan were grown up, as she walked in the garden, she was abducted!  Her father was beside himself with grief, and he let it be known that he would give lands to anyone who could rescue her, and her hand in marriage.

Knights gathered from all over, even those who wore red boots, and who dressed in red brocade. Bogdan went as well, for he loved Aurelia with all his heart and was as distressed as her father. The other knights made fun of Bogdan.

“What hope has a peasant of rescuing the lady?” said one.

“More hope than you, you moron,” said Bogdan’s lord. “Go; my daughter would not want you. Bogdan Jabłoński, I hope you are successful, but I must ask any who might go.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Bogdan.

He set off to find Aurelia, and the birds of the air told him where she had gone. He was easily able to follow the trail that the noble knights, too full of nobility for any brains, failed to do. Indeed, some fell to fighting each other, rather than following the trail.

Bogdan just went where the birds directed him, and came at last to a great castle.

“Oh woe is me!” he cried. “How can I enter so great a castle when I have no army to besiege it?”

“Little Lord Appletree, fear not,” said a squirrel. “I will run up the walls carrying a light thread, and pass it round a buttress and drop the other end; and you will attach a heavier line, and then a rope, and draw them up in turn, and when the heavy rope is drawn up, you must tie the line to a heavy rock at the bottom so you can climb the other end of the rope.”

Bogdan knew how clever any squirrel could be about getting into places where he was not welcome, so he took the creature’s advice, thanking the squirrel, and duly climbed to the battlements. Squirrel was busy entertaining the guards with his antics so that Bogdan could slip past them unseen.

He easily found the turret room in which Aurelia was imprisoned, pale from weeping. She fell upon his chest and kissed him.

“Oh, Bogdan! You have come for me! How do we get out?”

“Why, we shall tie cords to the quilt on your bed, and pass them to all the birds of the air, who will fly us across the ramparts,” said Bogdan, for the birds had expressed a willingness  to do this. And that is what they did, as if on a magic carpet drawn by birds!

On the other side of the ramparts, they were set down gently on the ground.  Bogdan thanked the birds, then knelt to pray to thank God. And he and Aurelia walked home, and she might wrap herself in the quilt to sleep.

And when they got back, the lord made much of Bogdan Jabłoński, and there was a splendid wedding for the happy couple, and though Bogdan could now afford red boots himself, he wore boots which were red one side and yellow the other like a ripe apple, and he visited his parents often, and took his many children to see their grandparents. And Jan and Marianna were happier than ever.

 

 

 

the village vicar: 10 Sow in tears and reap in joy [also Dance of Fire live]

 I'm sorry I forgot to publish Dance of Fire sooner!  It's out now

Chapter 10  Sow in tears and reap in joy

 

Chaz woke to forlorn howling. It appeared to be coming from outside. He dressed hurriedly and went to open his front door. Tied to the knocker by a piece of string was a rather bedraggled looking spaniel, the source of the dawn chorus of less than harmonious nature.

“Hello, old fellow, what’s wrong?” said Chaz. There was a note tied to the makeshift lead.

“if you’re so bloody clever you see if you can get by without the beast biting you.”

Chaz frowned at the note.

“You probably need a drink and some food,” he said. “You’ll have to eat cat food this morning, I’m afraid. A trip to Wendel’s surgery is called for, I think, and a purchase of food.”

He put his hand down to the dog’s head, and managed, just, to avoid being nipped.

“Hmm, something hurts,” said Chaz.

He stroked the dog’s back and received a tentative wag from the plumy tail.  He drew the spaniel inside and set a bowl of water, which the dog lapped, thirstily.  Zebulun regarded the interloper and decided to ignore him. Rachel retreated to the top of the kitchen units, hissing like a tea kettle.

At least she hadn’t attacked the poor creature.

Chaz looked through his telephone list and found Wendel’s personal number.

He was answered by an interrogative grunt.

“Sorry to call you early, but someone has dumped  a dog on me, and I don’t have a collar or lead,” said Chaz. “And something causes it pain, and makes it nip anyone whose hand is near the head.”

“What sort?” asked Wendel.

“Spaniel; cocker, I  think, though, I’m not well up on breeds. A lovely chestnut red colour all over.”

“It’ll likely be an ear infection then,” said Wendel. “I’ll swing by yours before the surgery opens; have a cup of tea for me in exactly twenty minutes, and I’ll bring a collar and lead with me and a couple of tins of pooch chow.”

“Thanks,” said Chaz.

 

 

Wendel turned up promptly as Chaz put two steaming mugs on the table, having left the door on the latch for the vet to walk in, as most people did for such visitors.  It was one heart-warming expectation of general honesty in the village.

“Oh, I know that dog, it’s Bob White’s failed money-maker,” said Wendel.

“Run that by me with more background?” said Chaz.

“Bob White bought what he thought was a pedigree bitch with intent to make money by breeding her like a puppy farm. It’s immoral but not illegal as such,” said Wendel. “Only the dog was sexed wrongly, and it’s a dog not a bitch. I’ve had a go at him for neglecting the poor creature. He hasn’t even named the poor animal. How did it ....?” he let the question hang, and Chaz gave him the note.

Wendel snorted.

“Well, it’s a clear piece of evidence that he’s giving the dog to you. I can take him in to the shelter if you want?”

“No, I’d be happy to have a dog if he can be helped; I can do a lot of mission work on the dog-walker’s route, and a dog always breaks the ice,” said Chaz.  “Rachel is becoming accustomed to the interloper.” Rachel had come off her high perch and was on his shoulder as usual, enthusiastically sucking his ear lobe. “Zeb doesn’t care.”

“That cat is laid back,” agreed Wendel. “Right, let me examine you, old fellow.”

“I thought if I put on my motorcycling gauntlets to hold him ...” said Chaz.

“Wise move,” said Wendel. “Shift the tea over; I’ll put a plastic sheet down on your table so you can bake without worrying.”

“I could always scrub it,” said Chaz, mildly.

“Oh, yes, but you’re sensible,” said Wendel.  “I’m obliged to use a sheet, so  don’t worry.”

They lifted the auburn haired dog onto the table.

“You’ll have your work cut out grooming him, he’s matted all over,” said Wendel.

“If he’s no longer in pain, I expect he’ll let Summer help,” said Chaz. He held the dog firmly whilst Wendel examined the face first, opening the dog’s mouth to look inside.

“A bit pale, shows he’s not well, but no real tatar problem, which is good considering that I doubt that White was feeding him properly,” said Wendel. “Oh, this is the ear is it?” as the dog growled.  Wendel, however, was one of those people whom animals trust, and he soon had the ear folded out. “Good God!” he said.

“He is, but what?” asked Chaz.

“There’s grass growing in this ear,” said Wendel.  “It’s common for spaniels and such long-eared dogs to pick up grass seed in the ear, but this has sprouted. That bloody man! Excuse me.” He got out his phone, to photograph the ear with its grass, and the general condition of the dog. “I’m going to prosecute; don’t lose that letter, he hasn’t bothered to disguise his handwriting.”

“I won’t,” said Chaz, grimly. “What can you do?”

“I’m going to trickle a local skin anaesthetic into the ear, and when it’s a bit numb, I’m going to do a bit of what you might call veterinarian gardening with tweezers,” said Wendel. “Then a shot of antibiotic, and I’ll call by daily to swab the ear for you and give antibiotic pills. Not that I don’t trust you to give it the good old college try, vicar, but this is a dog you don’t know yet, with a more extreme condition than the odd seed. Here, old fella, chew this.” He produced a chew. “That ought to distract him.”

Shortly thereafter, not one but three sprouted grass-seeds lay on the table.

“I’m going to plant them in a pot, to remind me to check his ears regularly,” said Chaz.

“Any idea what you’re going to call him?” asked Wendel.

“Oh, no question; Adam,” said Chaz. “He’s the original farmer.”

 

Chaz took himself into town on his motorbike, and bought a dog collar which he remembered seeing in the big pet shop, which was made to look like a clerical dog collar. He purchased dog grooming equipment as well, and made a large order of cat and dog food to be delivered. Finding he could make a standing order, he ordered a little more than his monthly needs, both to have a stash for emergencies, and so he could donate food to the shelter.  He also got a big tub of mealworms for the vicarage birdlife. He needed to build a squirrel and cat-proof bird table; Rachel had her own expensive food, grain free and not smelling as offensive as cheap cat food, but she still stole bread, seed and meal-worms from the birds.

 

Adam tentatively wagged his tail when Chaz returned.

“Good boy,” said Adam.  He patted the dog, and started to gently groom him with a device called a ‘furminator’.  It seemed not to pull too much at the dog’s tangled locks, and yet untangled it nicely. Adam, warm, pain free and well-fed for the first time in a long time, subsided onto one side with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Well, I have a new friend,” said Chaz. “And I fear I have probably made an enemy in Bob White, to whom I fear I cannot put a face. Because he wanted me to be bitten, and will resent that I am unscathed, with a fine dog. These people with get-rich-quick schemes are, I fear, the sort of people for whom their failure is never their own fault. Now am I judging too harshly, Adam? I don’t think so, because people do fall into types, and judging by way they act, not the way they look, is a surer judgement. And he has neglected you, my boy. And I’ll happily be a witness if Wendel can prosecute him, though I doubt it will do any good. The law has very few teeth when it comes to animal abusers.  And the days when I’d take my sergeant and a few lads to reason with him are gone. Still! I can thank God that he did not sell you to people who arrange dog fights.”

Adam thumped his tail on the floor. All was now right in his world.

Chaz knew he would still be wary of people touching his ear, and sadly, he flinched at feet coming near him; but he would learn to trust fully.