Niccola de Piccolo's missing bill of exchange

 

Niccola di Piccolo’s missing bill of exchange

 

It would be neither  kind nor accurate to say that my master virtually lived in Signor di Piccolo’s library, but it would not be unfair to say that he spent a very great deal of time there.  Naturally he took me, his apprentice, with him.

There were those books I was not permitted to peruse – Master Robin is oft times strict over what he considers suitable for the eyes of a young girl – but I managed to get a glimpse of most of them in any wise, since once my master is absorbed in reading, he might as well be as remote as the moon for all the notice he takes of what is going on around him.

Signor di Piccolo has quite fifty books, an awe-inspiring collection, and he is pleased that they are enjoyed by another scholar. Though the initial acquaintance was professional, when my master was painting Signor de Piccolo’s portrait, a friendship sprang up, and Signor di Piccolo stands our patron, and my master’s friend, benefiting from Master Robin’s polymathy.

This means that my master is generally the life and soul of gatherings of other scholars, and I get the privilege of fetching and carrying food and drink for a selection of drunken philosophers.  Which is educational enough most of the time, for most of them are willing to debate with anyone who can hold a good debate, and often I am permitted to join in.  I learn much, too, in just listening, so I do not mind fetching and carrying, and making them comfortable if they should fall into bibulous slumber. 

I do not clear up vomit.  Signor di Piccolo has servants to do that sort of thing and there are only so many things I will do unpaid.

Signor di Piccolo is a big man in the Arte della Lana, the woollen guild; and as such has many friends who are wealthy merchants from that guild and the Arte della Seta, the silk guild.  They are good patrons for portraiture and wealthy enough to mostly pay up without a murmur and no need to threaten to paint amusingly obscene trade signs on their doors suggesting that another trade be theirs. It is where an artist has the advantage over other craftsmen, in that he might ridicule bad payers; but the friends of Signor Piccolo were all unquestionably honest men; a fact that will be seen to be of some importance as I come to the meat of my tale.

The merchants of Florence do much business overseas, and this was the root of Signor Piccolo’s problem, for he frequently held Bills of Exchange, which might only be words written on parchment or even paper, but those words might be worth thousands of florins.  The big banking families issue these Bills in exchange for real money, and the Bills may then be exchanged for money again with other branches of that family, or other families with whom there is an understanding, even in other countries.  Signor di Piccolo was guarding one for the guild that was made out in English sovereigns to the value of quite eighty pounds, an immense sum, for the purchase of the finest Florentine woollen cloths, dyed rich colours like pavonazzo,  a wonderful colour with the shimmer of the peacock, between blue and violet and using extravagant dyes to produce it, not merely indigo but even more expensive grain, too, for that violet shimmer.

And Signor di Piccolo had managed to lose his Bill of Exchange.

He certainly had it in the morning. Indeed he had it in his hand when he came into the library, because he was telling my Master how nervous it made him and that he must put it away safely.

He got momentarily sidetracked at that moment because my master was producing his own satirical version  of one of Horace’s odes, the one about how nobody can escape death.  My master had been changing it to a version that swore that no man could escape taxes, addressing it to Niccolo Machiavelli, another of his unsavoury friends.  When I tell you that it began ‘Eheu, fugaces, Niccole, Niccole’ and spoke not of wrinkled brows but of purses wrinkled for hanging empty you will get the general gist.  My master had made enough the previous year to have had to pay a large tax to the city and it had irked him, and he was now wrestling with the phrase about Sisyphus and his eternal toil to change the sense to suggest that he represented all Florentines.

It was a pointless exercise, but then when are men not given to pointless exercise in their leisure hours?

Signor di Piccolo came to argue over the wording, and they sat together, his neat dark head bobbing in thought beside my master’s golden one.  Until Signor Piccolo’s man Giovanni came to find us to tell his master that the noon meal was served.

About time too in my opinion, and probably had been ready for a while since while Giovanni tracked down the errant master of the house.

We were staying for the afternoon, having a small commission to repair a fresco, and then for an evening gathering of convivial men.  You must not get me wrongly; my master is in general above painting and repairing frescos, that pay only a florin a foot, but this was a favour to a friend.  And free meals while we were there too.

The repair work went well, and the evening passed well, until one of the other guild members who was there asked Signor di Piccolo about the Bill of Exchange; and he went to get it.

The first we knew of its disappearance was when Signor di Piccolo, white of face, asked my master and me to step into his library.

Then he broke down and admitted the loss.

“I know that Felicia is said to be good at finding things” he said “And I wondered…. You see, I cannot but think that it has been stolen; and I will not suspect any of my servants, all of whom have been with me for many years; but I do not wish to suspect the guests either!”

I quite saw his problem.

I enumerated the guests.

“Piero Mancini, whom you say is the one who asked for the Bill of Exchange; high in the guild, beyond suspicion.  Of course to ask you where it is might be an easy way to divert suspicion from himself if he had seen it and been tempted, for his daughter Agnesa is to be married, and the dowries regarded as proper here in Florence can be crippling to produce” I said.  It is true; many families can only afford for one of their daughters to wed, for the competition in giving ever greater dowries.  I think it sheer foolishness myself; and younger daughters so often sent into nunneries in childhood, where the dowry as a Bride of Christ is much less, and where they are taught to make reticella, lace of various kinds, and to sew, and might hope to sell enough of their work to form a dowry before they are old enough to take vows.

“Yes, my brother is concerned about his daughter, who is already eighteen years old and unwed, though it has given him time to save more for when Giuliana should marry” said Signor di Piccolo “But I cannot see that Piero would even feel such temptation as to steal from me, let alone give way to it!”

“Probably not” I said “But it is well to look at all people concerned.   And next we have Andrea Rizzo, who is the bridegroom to Agnesa Mancini.  He is doing quite well in the guild but when a young man marries there are more expenses.  He too might be tempted.”

“That I refuse to believe” said Signor di Piccolo “For has he not reported honestly on flaws in cloth that the inspector missed when it was due to be stamped?”

“If he had said farewell to his mistress I might have been more ready to believe him honest without needing proof” I said tartly “But to my mind there is something dishonest in a man who will take a wife whilst retaining his mistress.”

“Art a prude, thou shrewling” said my master. “Many a man keeps a wife and a mistress.”

“But it is impolite to both to take a wife whilst keeping a mistress” I said. “You would not, master.”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable.  His habits might be free but his eccentric moral code is quite firm  even though he be as much a fornicator and drunkard as he is a genius and polymath.

“Well that is my own personal ethic” he said. “Let it stand that you dislike the practice but than most see nothing dishonest in it.”

I bowed my head in acquiescence. 

“Very well, master” I said.  “Giovanni Trovato is the only other person here directly connected to the wool trade.”

Trovato means foundling; and Giovanni the foundling had been reared in the Ospedale degli Innocenti, the orphan hospital maintained by the Wool Guild.  He had attracted much notice for his intelligence and had been serving for the past four years as one of the inspectors for the guild.

“He is a good boy” said Signor Piccolo “It is a responsible task to oversee the quality of goods; his integrity is, and must be, unimpeachable!”

“Quid custodiet ipsos custodies” I murmured.  My master cuffed me gently across the back of the head.

“Leave Juvenal out of this” he said. “Besides, the phrase ‘who watches the watchmen’ was in his satire referring to the corrupting influence of women; not what I’d be expecting from your partisan lips!”

“But master, every apprentice in the city knows that Giovanni Trovato has a secret mistress!” I declared. “And he visits her early in the mornings not late at night to try to avoid prying eyes – but ‘tis when we apprentices be out running errands!”

“Great God!” said Signor di Piccolo “I never knew that!”

“Oh trust an apprentice to know all” said my master.  “They are worse gossips than old women and fishwives.”

He beamed at me complacently for his little victory of barbed comment.

In front of Signor di Piccolo I could scarcely put my tongue out to him, that would be worth getting his slipper across my backside for.

I went on,

“Iacopo Brunello the goldsmith seems prosperous enough but his wife is ailing.  Who knows what medicines he might need for her?  And Antonio de Luca is a tailor of no great wealth. And finally Bartolo Moretti is said to have received some severe reverses in the investments he has made in foreign trade, for he put much into the sugar trade and now the plantations on Cyprus and Sicily are failing; and his fortunes with them, for he failed to trust in the newer plantations on Madeira.”

I could not feel much sympathy for Signor Moretti; since mine own looks suggest African ancestors I have compassion for the poor slaves who work the plantations and it has ever seemed unfair that others should grow wealthy on unpaid toil.

“But how hard it is to question the honesty of any of them, however great the temptations!” cried Signor di Piccolo.  “How can I ask any of them such questions as would impugn their honour?”

“I think it would be well to see if any might have opportunity” I said “When we were called to eat, I presume you placed the Bill of Exchange in your strongroom?”

He looked at me with a curious expression on his face.

“Why – I cannot say I recall” he said.  “Though where else might I have put it?”

I snorted.  He is an old enough friend that he permits such a liberty.

“Signor, my experience of scholars tells me that you may have wandered in to dine with it in your hand and used it to wipe your fingers on between dishes; or left it with the napery; or taken it to the jakes with you, and either left it, or proceeded to use it” I said dryly.

He went ashen.  Using a Bill of Exchange in such a fashion would be a rather extravagant way to cleanse one’s person.

Then I started chuckling as the answer came to me.

“Fear not, Signor de Piccolo!” I cried “Though I fancy that the Bill of Exchange has indeed drifted to nether regions, such nether regions are no worse than to follow the winding River Cocytus into the realms of Hades.”

“Felicia, what are you talking about? Have you run even more whimsical than usual?” Signor di Piccolo does not stand on ceremony with me either.

“I believe I catch her meaning” said my master “But let the little shrew have her victory and show how she has found the prize.  Fetch it down from the shelf, shrewling.”

I took down the second volume of Horace’s ‘Odes’ and there, gently laid next to the fourteenth ode, was the missing Bill of Exchange.

Signor di Piccolo cried out in joy and embraced me, kissing me on both cheeks.

When dealing with scholars such little problems are amazingly easy.  Assume that they have no mind outside their current interest and leave everything else in the last book they were reading.

When this is a Bill of Exchange its discovery is a fortunate business, but less salubrious when a shred of smallage is left decaying gently between the leaves to mark a place.

My Master had the grace to look slightly guilty before suggesting heartily that we rejoin the others.

I decided to be nice and make no issue of the matter.  After all, he’s not such a bad master, really.

 

 

 

 

 

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.