Table Of ContentFORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY
…Tired as he was, Philippe found his gaze drawn down the nave
toward the altar. The man in the scarlet cloak knelt farther in this time,
leaning against one of the huge columnar bundles at the meeting of
nave and transept. He had managed an appearance of peace the
previous evening, but now he projected only abject misery. His back
bowed, he seemed to have his face buried in his hands. Father Gervais
had said he had never seen the man’s face. Perhaps it was disfigured, a
result of accident or pox or plague.
Even from a distance, Philippe thought he saw the broad shoulders
shaking.
He weeps?
With a frown, Philippe approached cautiously. He tried to remind
himself that this was none of his business. But how could he simply
walk by a man in such obvious pain?
“Monsieur?” He reached out to touch the man’s shoulder, fingers
hesitating over the fine cloth. “Are you well, monsieur? Do you need
help?”
The soft baritone that answered him crackled with icy rage, “Leave
me be, païsant. My affairs are none of yours.”
Philippe withdrew his hand but refused to retreat. “I’m no country
farmer, monsieur, but a painter working here. You seemed in distress.
It only seemed right to offer assistance.”
The head turned, giving Philippe a hint of a strong, straight nose.
Eyes glinted from deep within the hood’s cowl, flicking up and down
his frame. “And how would a crippled painter help? Go away. There is
no assistance the likes of you could offer me.”
The cold dismissal stung. Would you discount me so quickly if I
were a whole man? “As you wish, monsieur…”
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It’s Raining Men
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FORTUNE’S
SHARP ADVERSITY
BY
ANGEL MARTINEZ
AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
FORUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY
AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK
This book is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,
or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or
reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in
writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief
excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2011 by Angel Martinez
ISBN 978-1-61124-158-7
Cover Art © 2011 Trace Edward Zaber
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For all the teachers and professors who instilled
in me a love of social and cultural history—from galliards
to gargoyles and all things in between.
For of fortunes sharpe adversitee
The worst kynde of infortune is this,
A man to han ben in prosperitee,
And it remembren, whan it passed is.
—Chaucer, Geoffrey
c.1385 Troilus and Criseyde, bk.3
FORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY
CHAPTER 1
THE SCARLET CLOAK
“Tant con je vivrai, n’a me rai autrui que vous.” Philippe’s
voice set up a pleasant rumble in the small space between stone
and scaffold. The tune was a trifle melancholy for the work, but
Adam le Bossu’s melodies had a way of haunting one at the oddest
times.
The stone angel smiled down at him, apparently pleased with
the work.
“You will be beautiful, just like your celestial brethren,”
Philippe reassured him as he twisted to dip up more of the bright
saffron for this angel’s gown. He shifted with a grunt to ease the
ache in his bad leg and went back to painting.
While painting flat on one’s back on a hard scaffold could
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FORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY
never be described as comfortable, he was far younger than Father
Gervais was and better suited to clambering around ropes and
ladders, even with the lame leg. A youth with two whole legs
would have been ideal, but the priests trusted him with the work.
“Philippe?” Father Gervais called from below. “You’re losing
the light.”
“Nearly finished for today, Father,” Philippe called back
without taking his eyes from the fold of stone robe he painted.
“Please come down, my boy, while you can still see! Someday
you will miss your footing in the twilight.”
“Surely God will watch over me while I decorate his angels,
eh?”
“You mustn’t make such jokes. Have you grown so arrogant as
to tempt God?”
Philippe winced at the sharp tone. He meant no disrespect, no
blasphemy, but he did forget to be more circumspect of his speech
around priests. Carefully, so he lost none of the precious pigments,
he fastened pouches, placed everything in his bag, and slipped the
strap around his neck. He grasped the rope fastened to the top of
the scaffold and slid off the side of the board. With his left leg too
stiff to manage the ladders, he simply descended hand over hand
on the rope.
Father Gervais steadied him when he reached the ground and
handed him his crutch. “You should not work such long stretches
up there.” Lips compressed, he eyed the leg that Philippe couldn’t
straighten yet. “It will never improve if you forever cause yourself
such pain.”
“The physicians tell me the leg will never improve no matter
what I do.” Philippe tried to keep his voice light, but the bitterness
crept in uninvited. He dredged up a smile. “So I may as well do as
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