The Girl, the Gypsy & the Gargoyle Page 3

  Shaking off her frustration, she looked around and decided to uncover statues and line them up near the door. It would make it easier to rake up the hay later. Laurel stood and bent to wrap Greed in a bear hug. Staggering under his weight, she carried him to the front wall.

  “Excuse me, Father.” The same alter boy from earlier stood in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder nervously. “Someone to see you, Father.” He quickly crossed himself.

  Laurel wondered where her own father was. He was supposed to meet them here.

  Father Goossens roused himself and coughed. “Um, yes. I was just praying.” He heaved himself down from the table, rocking slightly on his feet before regaining his balance. After a mighty yawn, he said to the altar boy, “Send him in.”

  A man entered, sliding his left foot before him, and then shifting weight quickly to step with the right leg in a rolling limp. Each step was punctuated by a muted clink from a bag of tools that he carried in his right hand. Slide, step, CLINK.

  The mason set down his bag, threw back his hood and shook Father Goossens’s hand. “Master Bergin Gimpel, at your service.” He bowed to the priest and then to her.

  Laurel was on his right side, so until he turned toward her, she hadn’t noticed his face. Now, she stood transfixed. What kind of man was this? He wore a black patch over his left eye. Laurel wondered why he bothered, because an empty eye socket couldn’t be any worse than the rest of his face. The right side of his face was a classic profile: a soft brown eye, long eyelashes and an elegant, arched eyebrow. The left side of his face, though, was twisted and scarred: rough, pebbly skin, missing eyebrow and missing ear. It was like a rough statue that needed to be polished smooth. Laurel didn’t think he’d been burned—she had tended a few burns with her herbs—but couldn’t imagine what else could have caused his deformity.

  “Laurel, this is the gargoyle carver that I met last year at the St. Assisi Monastery. He agreed to come this spring to finish our gutters.”

  The man grinned, and Laurel realized his mouth was normal on both sides, with full red lips and a smile that tried to disguise the ugly half of his face. “Truly, people do call me the Gargoyle Man, and not just for my sculptures, either.” He motioned to his face and laughed. It was a peaceful laugh, though, not a bitter one.

  Laurel started to relax.

  Master Gimpel set down his bag of tools and bent to examine the Greed gargoyle. His hands fascinated Laurel. They were graceful, with long fingers. His hands were scarred, too, but she wasn’t surprised at that because most masons’ hands were burned with the quicklime they used to mix mortar. He had obviously been a mason for a long time.

  Father Goossens asked, “What do you think of our friend, Greed?”

  “Nicely carved, nicely polished.”

  At that, Laurel decided she liked Master Gimpel. Master Benoit would have been pleased with that curt compliment of his work. The only thing she disliked was Master Gimpel’s eye patch. She vowed to always stand on his right side.

  She curtsied. “Master Gimpel, welcome to the Cathedral of St. Stephen. My father is Master Raymond, the architect here. I am called Laurel.”

  “Lady Laurel.” He stood and bowed in return. “Has your father said when the rest of the masons will arrive?”

  Father Goossens cut in, “Where is your father anyway?”

  Laurel shrugged, “He was supposed to meet us here.” Worry trickled through her, and she struggled to keep from frowning. He was probably talking to anyone he could about the Cardinal’s visit and the construction of the west tower.

  The priest turned to Master Gimpel and answered his question, “Our cathedral chapter decided to hire only two other stone carvers this year. We only need to install these statues and gargoyles—” He waved at partially uncovered stones. “—add a few more here and there and finish up details. The Cardinal will be here at midsummer’s eve for a festival. Any detail that might be visible to the crowds must be finished by then.”

  “Ah—pomp and circumstance instead of construction. It happens to every building project at some time or other.” Master Gimpel shrugged and then his brow furrowed. “There will be a full summer of work for me, right?”

  “Of course. We still need gargoyle gutters on the west wall since there won’t be a tower there. That should keep you busy,” Father Goossens said.

  Looking from Laurel to Father Goossens, the Gargoyle Man asked, “Will you build again next year?”

  “No,” said Father Goossens. “The cathedral is so large now that it is half empty during mass.”

  “But, without the west tower, it will look lopsided,” said Master Gimpel.

  “Exactly,” Laurel cried. “The Cathedral of St. Stephens will not be finished until the west tower is built.”

  Father Goossens brushed the hay from the bottom of his robe and said, “Child, this is not your affair. Take Master Gimpel and find your father and introduce them. I have other duties that call.”

  Master Gimpel bowed and Father Goossens bowed back.

  Laurel sighed in exasperation. Why did he have to call her “Child”? And where was her father? And why didn’t Father Goossens listen to Master Gimpel? She flipped her skirt, shaking off the straw. After wading through the hay, she’d have to stop in the tavern courtyard and wash off at the pump before she ate supper.

  “And Laurel—”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Don’t forget your confession later. I’ll tell the other priests to direct you to me.”

  She groaned. “Yes, Father.”

  SIX

  IN WHICH A FATHER AND DAUGHTER SPEAK OF HOPE AND MIRACLES

  Laurel hunched cross-legged beside her father on the bottom bed, a blanket draped over her shoulders like a shawl. It had been a long afternoon of talk and gossip with the new mason. They had finally decided on what sculptures Master Gimpel would start on after he set up his work area. Then over supper, gossip about other building projects filled the time until Laurel was too sleepy to continue. Father had come upstairs shortly after.

  Now, Laurel yawned, longing for sleep, but she and Father needed to talk.

  “Father Goossens liked your design,” she said.

  A tall candle lit the whitewashed room with a cheery glow. On one wall were their beds, two wide shelves covered with hay mingled with sweet-smelling herbs. Opposite were two narrow shelves for their few belongings. Under these sat a rough-hewn table with one chair and a stool. Her damp cloak was spread out over the table, still drying.

  “Was the good Father angry when I didn’t come back?”

  “No,” Laurel said. “There was Master Gimpel and then he was off on other business.”

  “I heard about the Gypsy.” Father’s words were calm, but his eyes flashed. He stood and started to pace. “An old man and a crazy bear. Will he be all right?”

  Father was angry. He only asked about the Gypsy to distract them both, Laurel thought. She stood, too, wanting to comfort him, but he turned away and paced back toward the door. So, she just answered his question, “The old man will be fine as long as the cut doesn’t get infected.”

  Pacing back to the bed, Father stooped and picked up her blanket that had fallen when she stood. He flapped it angrily, and then tossed it onto the bed. When it tumbled off, he wadded it and hurled it at the wall. It fell onto the upper bed.

  “Father Goossens may think he can stop this, but he can’t. My designs—I will have my chance at the west tower. He needs the vote of the entire cathedral chapter to end construction. He’s just delaying, hoping to put it off until the best masons are hired elsewhere. Then he’ll have a legitimate reason to do nothing this year.” Master Raymond coughed, and then took a ragged breath. He paced again, three steps to the door, three steps back to the bed, three steps there, three steps back.

  She sat back on the bed, out of his way, and pulled her blanket back around her shoulders. She didn’t like that nagging cough, but Father already drank herbal tea with his supper, and after that
, she could only wait for the return of warm weather and hope that it would cure his cough.

  Now, Father’s tirade continued: “And I’ve had word from the Quarry Master, too. If we don’t order stone by the week’s end, he will sell our stone to the friars of St. Assisi Monastery.”

  “Is there any hope?” She felt herself shrinking away from his anger and huddled under her blanket, pulling it over her head like a shawl.

  “But the good Father forgets: I still have powerful friends who’ve never taken to this Southerner.”

  “Powerful friends?”

  “Powerful enough.” He pointed at her as if challenging her to find something wrong in his plan. “I’ll talk to Father Colin tomorrow. You’ll see. He will understand.”

  But the words sounded like a bluff to Laurel. She pulled her feet up to her chin and scooted back to lean against the wall. If only she could turn aside her father’s words by ignoring them. She pulled the blanket tighter, burying her face in her knees. In a muffled voice, she repeated, “Is there any hope?”

  “Have faith, daughter,” Father said. “God uses the foolishness of man to accomplish his work.”

  She struggled to swallow, to speak, “But is there any hope?”

  Father was silent. Instead, he came to sit beside her, and she turned and let him draw her into a hug. They were quiet for a moment, and then Laurel answered herself, her voice flat and hard, “It will take a miracle.”

  Father patted her shoulder awkwardly, “Then we will hope. For a miracle.”

  SEVEN

  THE GIRL IN THE GYPSY CAVE

  After a restless night, Laurel rose early. Her father still slept. Though his breathing was noisy, it was gentle, and that settled her worries about his cough. Quietly, she took her basket and slipped out into the crowded streets.

  The townspeople were already busy fetching water, cooking breakfast and opening shops. Laurel paused for a moment watching the long shadows of the cathedral stretch across the western part of town and point to the hillsides beyond the walls. She wondered what she would find today. Had the Gypsies found a good cave? Was Antonio healing?

  Winding through the streets toward the city gate, Laurel was greeted often and affectionately by those she had recently tended: a small girl whose thumb still bore a bright red scar; the butcher’s wife who sat in the sun, still weak after a fever last week; an old man who still walked with a cane after a broken leg at mid-winter. Each one called after her, “Going to see the Gypsies? Be careful.”

  The whole town must know she was going to see the Gypsies. Since Laurel had become the town’s herbalist, she was often called on to doctor a fever or a nasty cut. What surprised her was how the town folk now watched out for her. And she was grateful for their concern.

  She finally arrived at the city gates only to find them still shut. She leaned against a nearby house, waiting along with a few others who were up early and waiting to leave town.

  Finally, the gatekeeper arrived. Edgar was the tallest man in town, thick-shouldered and sturdy. His speech was thick, too, hard to understand sometimes. Ignoring everyone, he went straight to the tall gates, unbolted them and heaved, digging his boots into the ground to lean hard and get the ponderous doors moving. When they were open, he stood aside and let the daily traffic start coming and going, entering and leaving Montague.

  Laurel waved at Edgar and dodged the carts of farmers coming in. They had risen even earlier than she to be early at market. She stopped, though, at the sight of three magnificent white mares led by a bow-legged man.

  Edgar called, “Ho! Horses! For who?”

  “We seek Father Goossens.”

  “Horses for the Cardinal?” the gatekeeper asked.

  The horseman nodded and moved on past Laurel.

  Now the worry nagged at her again. Father Goossens was moving quickly on his plans for the Cardinal. There was little time to convince the cathedral chapter to build the west towers.

  She and her father had lived all her life in Montague, in the upstairs tavern rooms which were paid for by the cathedral chapter. If he had to move to a new construction project, Father would likely go alone. He had already been talking about sending her to Dame Frances at her new home. Laurel had been afraid to show him her latest carvings, a Christ child small enough to fit in her palm. While Master Raymond bragged to the masons of her skills, he insisted that a mason’s life wasn’t meant for girls. He had already turned down one marriage proposal for her, but most girls married by thirteen or fourteen. She didn’t want marriage and didn’t want to move to a new town, a new cathedral. She didn’t want anything to change.

  Tired of the endless circle of her thoughts, Laurel shook her head and told herself to look around, to enjoy the beautiful spring morning. She turned into the forest path. The surrounding hills were riddled with caves, some shallow, some deep. Laurel strode through the woods where snow still lay in the shadows. She followed the wagon tracks and easily found where they had parked their wagon at the base of a gentle slope. Climbing up, she found a deep comfortable cave. She stamped her cold feet and shook snow from the bottom of her long black cape.

  She waited in the entrance for her eyes to adjust to the half-light. “Hello?”

  “Laurel! Thank you for coming.” It was Ana-Maria, the Gypsy girl. They were probably about the same age, but Ana-Maria was slightly taller.

  The cave was dry and warm, a sanctuary from the biting winds. Three beds of pine boughs were laid on narrow ledges a few feet off the ground. Ana-Maria had swept the area clean of small pebbles and other rubble. A nearby shelf overflowed with baskets and bundles, things brought up from the wagon.

  Ana-Maria was stirring a pot over a smoky fire. A red shawl was slung lazily over her shoulders and her long black hair fell over it in waves.

  “Jassy is out,” she said. “He’s clever at setting traps and catching something for the stew pot.”

  Laurel nodded toward the sleeping man. “How is Antonio?”

  “Not good. He ran a fever all night.”

  Laurel’s heart sank and she knelt beside Antonio. Blue veins stood out on his pale temple and scalp. She removed the damp cloth from his forehead and felt his face.

  Too hot!

  She pulled back the cover, exposing the wounded leg. It was an angry red; worse, a red streak ran up his leg toward his torso, definitely infected and definitely spreading fast. Sometimes it took days for an infection to spread, but sometimes it happened overnight like this. And when it was fast, it was often fatal. A shiver ran down her spine.

  Laurel sat back on her heels and stared at the wound. To busy herself, she flipped through the cotton bags of herbs in her basket and felt how little remained in each. She remembered Dame Frances reciting the herbs she always carried. “Rue to clean a wound and lemon balm to dry up sores and wounds. Tansy and lemon balm tea for the fever. And never give mint to a wounded person because it would kill him for sure.”

  Laurel held up the lemon balm to her nose and breathed deeply, still avoiding the sight of Antonio’s leg. She had small amounts of those herbs left, but this injury would use all she had. She’d have no more until plants in the wood started to grow again. While she wanted to save her meager store of herbs for the villagers, she couldn’t refuse to help the old man.

  Without being asked, Ana-Maria brought Laurel a bowl of hot water. Nodding to her, Laurel untied the herb bags and shook out the last of them into the bowl. With clean cloths that Ana-Maria handed her, Laurel washed the wound as well as she could. But she wasn’t hopeful. It wasn’t the outside that mattered; the infection was spreading inside.

  “Save the rest of this to bathe him later,” she instructed Ana-Maria.

  The Gypsy girl covered the bowl with a clean cloth and set it aside.

  “Will he be okay?” Jassy said from behind them. He handed Ana-Maria a white rabbit, which hung limp, its head cocked, its legs dangling.

  Laurel debated, but realized they probably knew anyway. She rose and motioned
Jassy and Ana-Maria back to the fire. With a low voice, she said, “It’s infected. And with my herbs all gone, he may get worse.”

  Ana-Maria drew a sharp breath, but she quickly controlled it. Jassy rubbed a hand across his eyes, and then nodded. “We have no herbs left either. A fever went round our people this winter and our remedies were all used. Are there no herbs at the market in town?”

  Laurel shook her head, “It was a sickly winter for many here, too.”

  For a moment, no one said anything. Laurel was suddenly aware of a heavy breathing behind her. She twisted around and saw the great bulk of the bear. He wore a leather collar with thick spikes. A short chain was fastened to the collar, and then to a metal ring that they had already embedded in rock. Another chain with a heavy ball was fastened to his rear foot. His breathing was shallow and noisy.

  Laurel shuddered. The bear was placid, like a soft furry pillow. But he had slashed his master’s leg, perhaps killed him.

  Ana-Maria saw her glance and said, “The bear is gentle. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “He’s never attacked before?”

  “Antonio found the bear when it was just a cub.” Ana-Maria’s voice was low and husky, a pleasant voice for storytelling or singing. “It was at a village far south of here where he spent the winter. Its mother was dead, killed by villagers who were angry that the bears were scaring their sheep. Antonio stopped them from killing the cub. He left the village that night and as the cub grew, he trained him to dance. Named him Lucky because they always made lots of money together.”

  “So the bear repays the kindness by ripping his master’s leg?” Laurel shook her head.

  “That crowd was wild, you were there. Antonio should have stopped the show. But then, he never would stop until the crowd stopped throwing coins.”

  Laurel puzzled over that. Was it Jassy or Antonio who had refused to stop? To risk your life for a few more coins—it made no sense. She pulled a small bottle from her basket.