Mercenaries, wagons, and horses fill up the yard, the stable and the outbuildings. Some accompany the others, crowding into the tavern room, the serving women rush food to the tables, other servants carry jugs of steaming water and linens up the stairs. In between refilling flasks of wine and ordering his servants to hurry the food, the hot water, finding additional linens and calming his cook frantic with the sudden influx of patrons, the innkeeper, M Jules, must explain to weary short tempered travelers that there are no rooms available, although pallets in the tavern can be arranged. These out of luck travelers peer irritably into the tavern, curious at the men, women, a large group of children and even two priests and another in a monk’s robe, carrying a basket with a mewing cat – all assembled around several tables drawn together, cluttered with wine flasks, tankards, and empty plates of food. They are impressive men, in stature and bearing, all carrying sword and pistol, and have an air of capability and confidence in how to use those weapons. They are relaxed, talking among themselves, observant to the looks they draw, but not overtly unfriendly. They are clearly soldiers of some elevated status. There are other hard looking men, strapped with more weapons, standing or sitting who face the entry and stare back with restrained hostility. The travelers accept the offer of a pallet and ask hopefully for food and drink.
Athos looks at Lucien sitting across the table, ‘did you buy out every room?’
‘I think by now, I must have bought the entire place,’ Lucien replies drily. Athos looks around, ‘you could have done worse,’ he smiles at Lucien, ‘and we could be facing a very cold night.’
‘It was mostly available,’ Lucien returns Athos’ smile and then turns briskly to address everyone at the clustered tables, ‘I want to get the messengers on the road. Do we agree? We will stay the night here, and tomorrow go to the Poor Clares in Tours. If we are not delayed in Tours, we can get to Fontevraud before nightfall. From there, one last day to Glenay.’ There is a general murmur of agreement. Persephone, snug in Brother Ignazio’s arms, mews. ‘Even the cat agrees,’ Porthos announces. Only Sophia looks dissatisfied, giving Lucien a pointed look.
‘Then I will send messengers to Tours and Fontevraud and another to Glenay. Gasparo will dispatch a contingent to meet us on the road.’
‘Good,’ Constance stands up carrying baby Juliette and beckons to her son Alexandre, ‘upstairs to hot water and bed.’ Alexandre gives a regretful look to Samy and Olivier who must wait for their sisters and Bianca. Tonight, the families have separate rooms. Athos will bunk with Father Massey and Brother Ignazio.
Lucien sighs, glancing at Athos and waits for Sophia. He knows what she wants to do. Suzanne is so close…Sophia is driven to try and reach her daughter. ‘Just you and I can go,’ she argues, ‘it need not disrupt anyone else.’
‘If we left now, we would be riding in the dark and arrive when the Sisters are all abed,’ Lucien replies reasonably, ‘we can be there by mid-morning if we start early.’
Athos leans forward, ‘if Suzanne is able to sleep, I know you would wish not to disturb her. There is sturdy complement of mercenaries to protect her and Afonso,’ he addresses her concern about Marchal, adding, ‘surely, we are not wrong to think it best for all of us to stay together.’
It is not enough. Sophia chews her lower lip. The first few days are precarious for mother and infant. If there is no wet nurse … and Marchal’s threat to her daughter looms large in her mind. Would he tear a woman from the birthing bed? She is torn between knowing what is sensible and the demands of her fears. But if she went, she would leave her other children behind and she cannot abide the thought of another separation, no matter how short the distance and time.
She glances again at Lucien who waits patiently. She realizes she does not know if he will overrule her, or ride with her in the dark of night, risking both their lives to the criminals who lie in wait for a reckless traveler. If the gate to the priory is locked, where do they find shelter? She thinks of nothing practical, only of being with Suzanne. She lowers her head.
‘I fear she will die,’ she whispers, ‘she was weak … it was too early…’ She swallows the sob that is rising in her throat.
Lucien is startled by her admission. It is Athos who reacts quickly, covering her hand with his. ‘Yusuf told us she was tired, but well. The infant was a good size and vigorous. You trust his judgement – yes?’ She nods, sniffs back tears.
‘I will awaken Lucien myself well before dawn. You and he can leave before first light and get there in the early morning. I will stay and get the wagons, your cousin, cook and stable boys underway with the rest of us. We will follow and be there by mid to late morning. We can still get to Fontevraud before nightfall.’
Lucien sends a grateful nod to Athos. He has done precisely what Sophia needed, and she agrees with his plan. ‘I will see to our children,’ she says and goes up the stairs. Lucien’s eyes follow her, knowing he is guilty of not paying sufficient attention to her. He should have anticipated the pernicious effect that fear can have on the mind, corrupting reason and judgement.
‘You had the right of it,’ Lucien says quietly.
‘It is easy to forget,’ Athos replies, ‘that while she, Constance and Elodie are strong and capable – they are also mothers, singular and fierce in protecting their children. They know the world is dangerous, too much beyond their control and there is a pain they will not overcome. These past weeks have shaken them. The bruises Sophia suffered from Marchal’s attack will fade and disappear, but the memory will not. She could not have anticipated it – so how can she be assured her daughter is fine.’
It is the longest speech Lucien has ever heard Athos make, but he considers his brother’s perspicacity and the compassion he expresses for Constance, Elodie and Sophia… and for Alessandra? He knows the answer – it is there as subtext. She never leaves his thoughts. He never stops reliving their story or wishing he could rewrite it. Lucien has those thoughts too, as he does now. He replies in a manner that would make no sense to anyone else listening….reaching to grasp Athos arm and muttering ‘we will find her – I swear it.’ He strides up the stairs, following his wife.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Poor Clares Priory – Tours
Lucien leans against the door frame, watching Sophia rock Marie Lucette, one hand resting on Suzanne’s. She must touch them both, herself the conduit through which they flow. She hums softly, her eyes fixed on the infant, swaddled and secure in her arms. Occasionally she glances at Suzanne who watches her daughter with sleepy eyes and then to Afonso, seated on the other side of the bed. He is tired and happy, relieved perhaps that Sophia and Lucien are there and the others soon to arrive for the final leg of their journey to Glenay. Afonso is a sea captain, knows what commands are needed when storming seas break over his quarterdeck, roll his ship and sails dip into churning gray green waters, his voice the one that brings order and calm to the men who serve under his command. But he was a minor player in the drama that unfolded in the birthing room, none of his experience relevant in the storm Suzanne endured. He can see his beloved wife visibly comforted by Sophia’s presence, holding her hand, the simplest of gestures.
Afonso is talking so quietly Lucien cannot make out the words, but understands he is relaying details of the delivery and the opinion of the midwives. Lucien already knows the midwives’ views as he has interviewed Madame Bourgeois and Madame Vreni at length about Suzanne’s fitness for travel. Both assured him she was able and approved of the planned stay at Fontevraud. Both women decline his offer of escort back to Paris. They prefer to stay through the first month to ensure there are no unexpected complications.
He hears soft footfalls in the corridor. The nun has a message, ‘Sister Collette sent me. The rest of your company has arrived.’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Athos clasps his hands behind his back and trails after Lucien as he inspects the outbuildings and the stable. Lucien grips and shakes supporting posts, looking for evidence of weakness. He climbs up the fixed ladder into the loft and then up to roof. Alban holds a ladder leaning against the refectory while Lucien ascends to the roof, walking and crawling over it. Back on the ground, he confers with Yusuf. In the yard, Samy, Olivier and Alexandre, Olivain and Brother Ignazio kick a stuffed leather ball around in a game. The boys are taking advantage of being released from the confines of the wagon. Soon enough they will be back in it, traveling to Fontevraud. Inside the priory, Constance and Elodie shepherd Bianca, Charlotte and Rene as they eagerly meet Marie Lucette. Rayya and Rosie are all smiles and remain by Suzanne’s bed as the others file out.
‘Did you have an adventure?’ Suzanne asks her younger sisters, holding onto Rosie’s hand. ‘Not one like yours,’ Rayya replies.
‘We had a battle,’ Rosie declares with somber eyes, ‘Samy, Olivier and Alexandre helped too.’ Suzanne sends a worried look to Rayya who explains, ‘they reloaded the pistols.’
‘Good heavens,’ Suzanne murmurs. ‘Who was it attacking you?’ Rosie hikes up one leg to sit on the edge of the bed, ‘bad people. That is what Renee said. They ran away and then we went to a house where there was a fire already built and food on the hearth for us. We all slept in the salon on mattresses or settees. It was fun.’ She blinks at Rayya’s frown of disapproval. ‘It was just a little fun,’ Rosie amends her description.
‘It was strange,’ Rayya says, ‘but we could not leave.’
‘No,’ Rosie agrees holding her hand over her head, ‘the snow was up to here.’ She hops off the bed, ‘and then we heard Father singing and we found him, Mother and Yusuf.’
‘Eğer son iyi olursa, o zaman her şey yolunda,’ Yusuf is listening and smiling from the doorway. The sisters look puzzled as they work out the translation, ‘if the end …’
Yusuf smiles, ‘come küçük kız kardeşler, you must let your mother and grandmother assist your sister. We leave soon.’
‘Is it from your prophet?’ Rosie takes Yusuf’s hand to skip a few steps as they walk down the hall. ‘No, tatlı kız kardeş, it is from one of yours, from a book of proverbs your father gave to me.’ Rayya has worked it out.
‘If the end be well, then all is well.’
Yusuf chuckles, ‘I believe that is what I said.’
⚜️
Lucien is the last to leave, standing with Sister Collette in the yard as the carriage, wagons, riders and mercenaries clear the yard. He turns to Sister Collette and bows.
‘I will return in the spring, with workmen and materials to complete the repairs and any others you find.’
‘Your Grace,’ Sister Collete says, ‘you have more than adequately compensated us for your stay here. We are pleased your new granddaughter and daughter are doing well and that we had a small part to play to be of service.’
Lucien takes the nun’s hand, ‘not so small a part Sister and it is my honor to help restore your priory to former glories.’ She chuckles, ‘glories…my goodness. We are happy to have a roof that does not leak.’
‘I will see you in the spring,’ Lucien promises, mounting his horse. He touches his hat and rides through the gate.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
‘I see dust,’ Athos says to Lucien, who looks blank for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. They left Fontevraud early in the morning, traveling easily on dry roads and under a warm winter sun. They are riding in a pretty valley, fields planted with winter grains – rye, wheat, barley, and canola, and orchards bursting with apple and cherry trees. The valley is also dotted with vineyards, workers moving among the rows with winter pruning. They talk about wine as they ride, discussing soil, weather and rainfall. Lucien tells Athos about the vineyards near the coast in Tunis where Jacky Azoulay has a small vineyard. ‘He has a modest distribution, but if were a few leagues more inland, he would have none. It is a Muslim country, winemaking is discouraged, even if the infidels will pay well for it.’
‘I would like to try his wine,’ Athos says. ‘He sends a few bottles to me every year. I have a small interest in the vineyard,’ Lucien replies.
As they draw closer to Glenay, Athos’ conversation becomes sparse. Since reaching the town of Thouars, on the Thouaret river, Athos has gone silent. Lucien is not a man who needs to hear himself talk, and he recognizes the signs of a man occupied with his own thoughts. It does not bother him.
‘I see dust,’ Athos repeats. These are the first three words Athos has spoken since they crossed the Thouart river on the Pont des Chouans. They are following the river, as the chateau is situated along its course, thickly lined with trees and other vegetation. There is a small hamlet before the large park that separates Chateau d ‘Glenay from the village. Soon they will be passing its farm fields, orchards, pasture lands, a water reserve filled with fish for the table and the outbuildings.
‘Yes,’ Lucien agrees, ‘must be Gasparo, as we expected.’
‘I rarely think of you as an optimist,’ Athos is skeptical, ‘it could also be less well intentioned men.’
‘I rarely think of you as an optimist,’ Lucien shifts the meaning of Athos’ comment and urges his horse to a canter. ‘Shall we find out?’ Athos grunts but turns in the saddle to call to Father Massey, ‘we are riding ahead to whomever is coming towards us.’
Father Massey nods and calls out, ‘it must be Gasparo!’ He and Brother Ignazio bob their heads enthusiastically. This long journey is almost over.
‘More optimists,’ Lucien notes. Athos grunts, ‘they never learn.’ Lucien chuckles, feeling absurdly pleased at Athos’ unexpected and wry jest. They urge their horses into a canter.
It is indeed Gasparo riding towards them with a continent of his men. ‘About time Your Grace,’ he greets his master, Athos with genuine warmth and relief. He waves his men down the road to join Martin and his mercenaries, the carriages, wagons and riders. ‘How was the journey?’ Gasparo asks. Lucien shrugs, ‘did you see our friends again?’
It is Gasparo’s turn to shrug, ‘saw them, but had no encounters. They seemed content to follow.’
They ride on following the river, passing broad open fields and a grassy park that separates the castle and estate from the village. In the distance Lucien glimpses the tall watchtower, the high, thick walls, and at each corner the large turrets with round, pointed roofs. Soon they will pass under the arched stone gate marking the stone drive straight into the courtyard.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
‘We are here!’ Samy shouts and waves mightily at the men in the watchtower and strolling the ramparts watching the oncoming carriages, wagons and outriders. Some wave back, and then all the children are waving and calling out. In the courtyard, servants are pouring out from the house and stables. Footmen wait to open carriage doors and set the steps. As soon as the wagons stop, everyone climbs out. Athos sets Bianca on her feet, smiling as she catches up with Rayya and Rosie.
‘We have arrived Persephone,’ Brother Ignazio murmurs to his mewing cat. Father Massey gets down from the bench, stretching his back, ‘thank heaven that is over.’
‘This house is enormous,’ Constance marvels. ‘Four stories,’ Elodie says, ‘I see there was no reason to worry about accommodating all of us.
‘Marie’s father loved hosting large hunting parties. His noble guests brought their own falconers, servants and more horses. They stayed for weeks,’ Sophia says, ‘we will barely be noticed.’ The three women exchange a glance and then laugh. ‘Did those hunting parties include eight children and five babies?’ Constance asks playfully.
Marie greets her housekeeper and house steward and then waves everyone toward the house. ‘Refreshments in the salon while they unload the trunks.’
Athos is slightly apart from the others, turning slowly to take in the buildings. Lucien removes his gloves and wanders over to stand near him, tapping his gloves against his leg. ‘Have you spent time here?’ Athos asks, and Lucien understands that he means since Lucien learned Marie was his mother.
‘Once,’ Lucien replies. ‘I had business in La Rochelle, and I stopped on my way home. It was a short stay. I did not tour the house or take a particular interest.’ He glances at Athos, ‘I would have been quite young when Marie brought us here. Perhaps I will not have memories.’
He hesitates and then asks the question he has been thinking about since they crossed the river and Athos went silent. ‘Does it seem familiar?’ There is a long pause and then Athos makes a subtle shake of his head, ‘I do not know. Perhaps…or maybe it is only a similarity to another house I know.’
‘Hmm,’ Lucien murmurs, thinking about that answer. ‘Shall we go in?’
They weave through the bevy of maids, footmen, stableboys and grooms, going up the stairs to the spacious marbled entryway. ‘Your Graces,’ a serious looking man of middle years bows to them. He is accompanied by a woman of similar years. ‘I am M Mael, the house steward. May I present Madame Rollard, Her Grace’s housekeeper of many years.’
Lucien and Athos bow in return. Madame Rollard steps slightly forward, ‘Your Graces, Madame has instructed me as to your apartments. I can take you to them now if you wish.’
‘We will go first to the salon,’ Athos answers. He starts to turn away, as Lucien says, ‘be sure that Mlle Bianca’s bedchamber is close to her father’s rooms.’
‘As you wish Your Grace.’
‘I had not thought of that,’ Athos says as they stride toward the salon. Lucien shrugs, ‘it’s a big house, it will take the children a little while to conquer it.’
‘I will show you the way to the salon,’ M Mael says and sets a brisk pace from the entryway, passing through several galleries, walls lined with portraits they barely have to glimpse. M Mael notices their interest. ‘Family ancestors,’ he says not pausing to identify any one ancestor in particular. They arrive at the large carved double doors. M Mael steps aside for them to enter and then walks to his mistress, bending to speak quietly to her.
‘Your Grace, the rooms are prepared, and Madame Rollard will be here soon,’ M Mael says, ‘dinner is being prepared. Shall it be served at the usual time?’ He glances at the children, waiting for instructions.
‘The children will dine with us,’ Marie replies.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The shoreline curves and disappears behind low hills in the haze of blinding light, the still air imbued with the simmering gold reflected on the ripples of a silent sea. Silent water licks the sand along the way making their footsteps disappear… a girl on a golden horse, a small boy clinging to her laughing unaware of the danger he is in … disapproving stone faced people stare down at him …the light of a candle flickers before his eyes… “Do you want to see, my love?” He is a child. She wraps her arms around him…a thick book bound in red velvet and gold filigree… “we write all the names here, my love,” she whispers, and he can feel her warm breath touching his cheek. His mother’s breath. It is sweet and fragrant and comforting. Lavender and honey. Her fingers trace the page. Long fingers, gentle, ringed. His mother’s fingers. “Your name is here, see? Your brother’s also…then we will write your children’s names…and your children’s children…” He turns to her, but she is no longer there, and now he stands among tall fragrant rosebushes …“Do you want to play?” Little voice, sweet. The boy speaking sits on the grass holding a small wooden toy horse with a painted red saddle in his hands… Thomas, he thinks but now he knows … He can see the boy’s face, finally. Lucien he thinks. It was always Lucien… He sits next to the boy on the grass and all he feels is joy. “Will we ride together to battle one day?” the boy asks, and joy turns to dread… He seizes the boy’s hand. “Run!” He drags the little boy to his feet and the wooden toy horse crashes onto the graveled path. “Run!” Footsteps behind them. Closing in… “Run!” the graveled earth scratches his knees and palms. His skin feels raw. Fear gnaws his stomach rising to his throat like bile. Blood pounds in his veins, in his ears. “Don’t let them take me,” the little boy weeps and it fills him with despair. When he looks up, the boy is gone, as if he never existed…
Athos jerks awake, bathed in sweat and shaking. He is terrified, cannot catch his breath, bracing his hands on the bed gulping cold air as though he was drowning. The dream is fading quickly. Shivering, he gets out of bed, dips linen into the bowl of water and wipes his face, neck and chest. He looks around the darkened room, a single candle in a glass lantern flickers. He half expects a man to suddenly appear from a shadowy corner and knows that the dream still lingers.
He sits on the edge of the bed, breathing easier, remembering the children, Lucien’s word about finding their way in a new house …’ it will take some time for them to conquer it…’
It will take him some time too.
Twelve Years After 