Belle's Song Read Free Page A

liquor when you’re back on your feet,” Master Host declared, sweeping the proffered coins into Father’s lap. Though the phrasing made me wince, he didn’t apologize. “There’s more ways of standing than on a couple of flat soles,” he said, looking my father directly in the eye. It was a robust approach, certainly.
This day, the host was busier than usual. Having heard of its fine food and clean wines, a whole party of persons had arranged to meet at the Tabard. When I went to fetch Father home for his dinner, the place was so busy I could scarcely push my way through, and when I did I found him being berated by a man whose face was so red and warty he could, without disguise, have played Lucifer in the mystery play. “ Questio quid juris? ” the wart man kept repeating amid a glaze of spit and breakfast remains. “What’s the point in law?”
When I appeared, Father seized me. “This is my daughter, Belle,” he said. “She’s come to take me home.”
The man took no notice. “I ask you again, my crippled friend. Questio quid juris? ” he bellowed. Only when he looked at me properly did his voice descend into a tomcat purr. “Your daughter, you say? Legs still working when you conceived her, I would imagine.” He winked outrageously. My father’s face set like stone. The man belched. “Well, as I say, a very creditable daughter, to be sure, though I prefer more flesh in those places a man looks for it.” He belched again. “Tell me, little lady, do you call the color of your hair ‘warning sunset’ or ‘moldy pumpkin’? Never mind. You’ve eyes pretty enough to make up for it. Let me kiss your hand. The name is Aristotle Seekum.” He wiped his mouth and leered over my fingers. “I’m Archdeacon Dunmow’s summoner.”
His title was meant to impress, but since he was clearly a toad, I pulled my hand away. “Dinner’s ready,” I said to my father and tried to push the chair out.
But Master Toad stood his ground, smacking thick lips. “Not so fast, my fine mistress, for your father’s sake. You see, I’ve been trying to root out who was to blame for his accident. He tells me it’s a personal matter and I say nonsense to that! There may be a point in law! And if there is, he may be entitled to some redress. What man doesn’t want money for his pain? Just because your father lacks the will to pursue the point himself doesn’t mean somebody more knowledgeable can’tpursue it for him. Indeed, there is amongst our company a sergeant from the Inns of Court personally known to me. For a small fee, I’m certain he’d gladly take up this worthy cause.” He flicked my locks with a pointed fingernail. “Compensation is always useful. You’d like more ribbons and silks, would you not, poppet?” He peered about, trying to find the sergeant in the crowd.
Every hair on my father’s head bristled, and mine too. I should have been more circumspect, but how was I to know all that was to follow? “The accident was my fault,” I said loudly, “and I prefer parchment and pen to ribbons and silks. By the way, I’m sorry for your boils. Who’s to blame for them? Do you get more compensation if even your mother won’t kiss you?” The summoner’s mouth still agape, I shoved past.
Sitting near the door, slightly apart from the crowd, sat a quick-eyed older man and a youth with skin white as whey. They’d not heard the exchange with the summoner, but when they saw me struggling and my father being uncomfortably jostled, the youth—really just a boy—got up. He was tall, for all that he stooped like a strand of windswept barley, and he wore hinged eyeglasses cracked in lens and frame. His arms must have been strong, though, for my father’s no feather and the boy lifted him clean out of his chair, hoisted him above the melee, and carried him into the street. It wasmuch easier to manage the chair without my father in it and though I clobbered a few shins, I maneuvered out of the inn without