Chapter Sixty-One, Foundations, by Corso

“What is your opinion M Lars?”  Lucien’s booted kick creates a shower of broken stone from a small hole in the wall.  “Are we in danger of collapse?” 

The taciturn stonemason grunted, leaning forward, elbow against his knee as he scrapes away the broken debris.  Silently he examines the wall, tapping his mallet against the stone in different places, taking his time to assess the situation without smiling at his master’s frivolity. 

M Lars straightens, “no M, we are in no danger of collapse,” he answers somberly, “this is another point requiring attention, but once completed the repairs will restore the walls to their original strength of purpose. It will not be difficult.” 

“Succinct as usual M Lars,” Lucien looks in the direction of the nearby trees.  “Will you need additional workers?”  He has seen the man standing some distance away, holding the hand of child.  His clothes are shabby but carefully mended, hanging loosely on a tall gangly frame.  His hair is neatly combed, and he has a bag slung over his shoulder.  M Lars looks briefly at the man and child, “I have an assistant Your Grace.”  Lucien nods, looking thoughtful and M Lars adds, “I can use an extra pair of hands for a few days. You mentioned the need to move cannon on the battlements.”

“Yes.  A pulley must be devised to raise it.  The carpenters will also adapt the gun carriage for mobility.  Captain d’ Amas will lead that effort. We want to be able to reposition the cannon quickly.”  Lucien turns to Afonso.  “Let us go up and take some measurements.”  As Lucien and Afonso walk away M Lars gestures to the man and child.

“There seem to be more every day,” Afonso comments quietly as they ascend the steps to the top of the battlements.  “Another year of a bad grain harvest,” Lucien replies, “the grass is also poor.  This is the second season that farmers complain of calves smaller than usual.”  He does not elaborate but concern about famine is never far away. 

“Her Grace is generous,” Afonso murmurs.   Servants for the Duchess d’ Aiguillon know they are never to turn away those seeking work or food.  “We can always find something for a man to do for a few days,’ Lucien says, “as long as he is not already too depleted.”

They climb wooden steps to the walkway.  “The blacksmith keeps two oxen to rent to local farmers.  We will need his wagon too.”  Lucien peers down to the ground.  Afonso follows his gaze, “two oxen should do it.”

Lucien chuckles, “and we have Fou as well.”  He claps a hand on Afonso’s shoulder, “I leave this project in your capable hands Captain.  I am off to see my daughters and visit my newest granddaughter.” 

Afonso smiles at the mention of his infant daughter, “they will welcome your visit.”

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“Go, lovely rose and tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now Marie Lucette knows,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.”

When I resemble her to thee,

Wide blue eyes regard him with wonder as he sings softly, swaying in time, the infant smiling and reaching with tiny fingers to grasp his beard.  Rayya leans close to her father, humming and waggling her fingers at the baby.   

“Is this a new method of putting a baby to sleep?” Suzanne laughs, glancing at the baby’s nurse clutching a blanket, inadvertently matching the master’s swaying movements, watching with a hawk’s attention.  “Do not be concerned Madame,” Suzanne attempts to assuage the nurse’s anxiety, “my father has had much practice with me and my brothers and sisters.”  The nurse smiles faintly but does not take her eyes away from the baby.

Lucien deposits his granddaughter into the nurse’s waiting arms.  “I return her in fine spirits.” He wraps an arm around Rayya, “baby Lucette is ready for sustenance and a long nap.”  The nurse scurries away with her infant charge lest the master change his mind.

Lucien sits on the settee next to Suzanne, while Rayya inspects the tray of pastries sent by Marie to tempt Suzanne’s appetite. She is paler than he would like. He pours a small amount of sweet wine in a glass and adds cold spring water.  Suzanne slants a look of forbearance as he motions with his hand for her to drink it up.  Instead, she takes several small sips and sets the glass down firmly.  He grunts his dissatisfaction, surprised to feel slightly embarrassed at her little act of autonomy.  There was a time when that would never happen.  “They are all growing up Lucien.  Layla and Suzanne have husbands, and Suzanne has a growing family,” Sophia had once pointed out to him, “you must accept it.”  But he does not accept it – not easily.  While pleased to be fond of Rohan and Afonso, he does not consider himself supplanted in the lives of his daughters. 

To avoid thinking about this further, Lucien switches his attention to the drawing pad and a container of charcoal and black lead sticks on a nearby table.   

“You are drawing again?” Suzanne nods, “just a few sketches of the children and other scenes around the castle for practice.”  He starts to reach for the folio and then stops, suddenly doubtful if he should. Suzanne smiles and hands it to him, “you may look Father.”  He opens the folio and angles it so Rayya can see too. 

“Sister, these are delightful,” Rayya exclaims as Lucien shifts through the small pages.  “You have captured the boys perfectly.” Lucien holds up a drawing of the school room, another of Samy and Brother Ignacio knee deep in a pond examining something in the water. There are sketches of the maids and the day workers hanging laundry, bread boys tending the ovens, Gasparo, Martin and Yusuf at the paddock fence, Bianca on her pony with an expression of fierce concentration. Battlements and the fields dusted with snow, Rosie and Samy on either side of their grandmother walking on the chapel path.  Sophia sits on the floor, arms outstretched as Kayvahn and Asim take first steps.  The indoor picnic the girls devised on a cold rainy day. Small scenes of everyday living.

“These are very nice,” Lucien says as he studies a drawing of Samy and Yusuf.  His son has grown tall and there is confidence in his posture and expression. “I hope you will keep going with it.”  Suzanne takes the folio, “I will Father.  I do not know that any of it will become a painting.”

“Do one like that Dutch master who paints those enormous canvases with hundreds of people. Father saw it in Amsterdam,” Rayya looks to Lucien for confirmation.  He nods, “I had the privilege of being taken to where it was displayed. Remarkable work.”

 “But not quite hundreds,” Suzanne gently corrects her sister, “and I am no Meneer van Rijn.”

 “You are to us,” Rayya declares loyally. Lucien stands up to depart as Rayya’s determined unwavering support can be wearying even for a loving and devoted older sister.  “Rayya and I are next for the nursery to visit your brothers. Rosie and Nella are there too?”

“Yes, Rosie took Nella to the nursery with Asim and Kayvahn so Mother can assist the doctor.  Bianca may be there too and perhaps Juliette if Constance is busy. Rosie is quite competent with the younger children.  When Rosie is there, Samy stops in, perhaps the other boys too with pockets full of critters to scare the nurses.   Elodie told me she and Charlotte would check on them all later.  She is very kind to help me when she has her own children.”

“We all need to help as best we can,” Lucien murmurs thinking he knows next to nothing about how Constance, Elodie, and Sophia are sharing the burdens of children and managing the daily lives of all the families now living at Glenay. Rayya has a suitor, Samy is no longer a little boy, and Rosie is stepping into a natural quiet maturity.  He does not know his own children.

“Mother is also worried about M Athos … our uncle,” Suzanne adds quickly. “She says he does not eat and only sleeps an hour or so in a chair by the bedside.  I know he would be reluctant to leave her side, but can you not persuade our uncle to at least eat a little?”

Lucien kisses her cheek, “I can try.”   

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“I thought you were with Rayya this afternoon?”

“I left her in the nursery with an abundance of children, quite a few of whom seem to belong, in some way or another, to us.”

Lucien leans against the door frame watching Sophia work. She has a small knife in her hand, making a lengthwise cut on a finger length branch and peels back the outer bark with quick practiced skill revealing an inner white bark.  Carefully she uses her fingernail to separate the smooth inner bark into one smooth strip and lays it on a clean cutting board.  She selects another branch from the pile on the worktable and repeats the process.

“You did not stay long,” she glances at him with a knowing smile. “Too hectic for this sea captain?  No one jumping to the braces as ordered?”  He watches her hands, his smile vaguely testy. She studies him for moment and turns back to her work.

Lucien walks slowly along the walkway inside the garden shed. The air is scented with pots of herbs -rosemary, sage, ruda, and mint.  Lavender is grown in abundance and there are more pots outside with hardier medicinal plants.  He stands beside her, plucking his dagger from his boot and starts to cut the smooth strips of white bark into small pieces, spreading them out on a clean linen to dry thoroughly.  Sophia adds more white bark to the pile and stirs a dark mixture bubbling in small cauldron set on a brazier. For a few minutes they work together in silence. 

“It is early in the season, and I was lucky to find so many young branches on the willow bark,” Sophia concentrates on the mixture, pushing an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.  “We are using a steady supply.”  She adds honey and a sprinkling of cinnamon to the mixture.

“That should improve the taste, or the cure is almost worse than the discomfort,” Lucien says sensing there is something more brewing than medicines in the silence between them.  

“This is what I made for you,” Sophia concentrates on the mixture.  ‘Hmm,’ he murmurs frowning.  Sophia is absorbed in a different time.  They both know her treatments that were used after his rescue from the Chatelet.  He had been delirious with pain, feverish with infection and nightmares.  Lucien takes the knife to cut pieces more of the precious white inner bark.  Sophia sets her hip against the table, holding her handkerchief tightly in two hands. In the distance they can hear the muted sounds of everyday life – children, workers hammering, maids and other servants moving in and out of the kitchen. 

“I try not to ask questions to which there are no answers,” she speaks quietly.  Lucien stops cutting and sets the knife down.  “I know there is cruelty that some claim has reason while others do not bother with excuses. It is a reason unto itself, a manner of indifference that is intended to be cruel.” She twists her handkerchief, breathing rapidly.  “She has been so badly mistreated…” her words end in a smothered sob, “I would never survive what she has managed  … how could …”  Lucien wraps his arms around her tight against him.  She buries her face in his shoulder, “I cannot stop the memories …I do try…I should be stronger…I can hear her admonishment … this is no time to get weepy Sophia …” He makes a low chuckle but does not let her go.

“We know her,” he murmurs.  Sophia sighs, “she never told us very much about her life.  We accepted it.  She has always been immensely private.”  He nods, “yet underneath all those secrets and privacy is a friend and a sister we know.  Have faith in that.”  He wipes her tears, “she knows you are close by.  Did Yusuf make the salve?”

“Yes.  He discussed it with Doctor Guenaud and Athos.  It has helped her sleep a little.”

“Athos stays?” 

‘Constantly” Sophia straightens and he lowers his arms.  She takes a deep breath and smooths her hair.  “He sleeps an hour and then wakes again.  I have not seen him eat more than a crust of bread. He looks exhausted but he would not be budged to the adjacent valet closet for even a few hours of sleep and to eat a meal.”

“I would not leave,” Lucien says flatly.  Sophia lays her head against his shoulder.  He glances down at her, “you did not leave me.”  She tilts her head up to meet his eyes and sets her palm against his cheek.  It is important for Lucien to feel her sense of safety, to trust that he can protect her.  Yet, they both know that evil’s cruelty finds a way to enter their lives, to evade the protectors, deceive the watchful, inveigle the gullible.  She will never forget the gleam in Marchal’s eyes as he hovered over on the floor, pleased to have spilt her blood, tasting her shock and fear.  She and Lucien never speak of these truths, she goes on pretending he can create a world of safety around her.  There is no other way for them to live.

“Try to encourage him to eat a little,” she says softly, “I fear for him too.”

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The corridor is quiet, a thick carpet muffles the hurried footsteps from footmen with wood to keep the fires stoked and jugs of hot and cool water, kitchen maids with trays of food left uneaten on a table, maids delivering fresh linens and carrying away the laundry.  The servants stand aside for him as he passes.  There is a wide bench against the wall, under a tall window with a view of a meadow and the river that borders it.  Lucien pauses briefly to watch the river, glistening in the sunshine, its surface ruffled by a breeze and the occasional fish leaping for a insect. Spring is new and he can faintly hear bird songs, the simple repetitive call of the chiff chaff, a cheerful musical robin and more melodious tones of a thrush or perhaps it is an early blackbird. 

He comes to the wide door leading into the apartments.  He hesitates and taps on the door lightly, staying in the entry way until Athos looks up at him and signals he may enter.  The room is pleasantly warm, and through partially drawn drapes, shafts of sunlight create a mellow glow. Near the fireplace, an earthenware pot emits a pleasant scent, a mixture of lavender and rosemary.  The bed is in the center of the room, set on a high platform, surrounded by opulent damask bedcurtains, held back by velvet ropes.  A silk bed cover is folded back, Alessandra’s slight form is barely visible under the bedcovers, her head supported by pillows.  The barest movement of the blanket confirms her breathing.  For a moment he watches her breathing, a shallow but steady rhythmic rise and fall and then she gasps, her face contorts as with pain, she coughs and gasps again.  Athos leans forward, talking in low voice only she can hear. Her breathing steadies.  

Lucien lays his hand on Athos’ shoulder, “is this pain?” he whispers.  Athos shrugs, “the doctor thinks she might dream too – of what was done…” he breaks off.  Lucien gently squeezes Athos’ shoulder.  He still dreams of the torments in the Chatelet – the memories as real as when it happened.  “The salve Yusuf prepared helped her,” Athos rubs his face tiredly, “but the doctor uses it sparingly.”

“I understand,” Lucien sighs at the conundrum of desiring sweet oblivion from pain and nightmares only to awaken to a new demon of dependence.  The nurse is standing near with a armful of fresh linen.  “Please allow us a few minutes to change Madame’s linens and her nightdress.”

Athos nods and backs up a few steps from the bed, arms crossed over his chest already looking stubborn at being asked to move.  Lucien taps his arm, “Cook sent dinner, come with me while I eat.”  He tilts his head to the hallway, “outside.”

“Dinner?” Athos frowns, “at this hour?” 

“She knows me, I eat all day when given the opportunity,” Lucien explains hastily while holding the door for Athos to reluctantly pass into the hallway.  “Her trays follow me everywhere.  Here we are.”   A small table is laden with dishes.  Athos drops wearily onto the bench while Lucien removes the covers.  He hums appreciatively as he breathes in the fragrant aromas. 

“This is thoughtful,” he declares, “Cook has sent generous portions and fruit pastries.” 

Lucien sets down a large bowl of steaming stew in front of Athos.  He picks up the loaf of still warm fresh bread, taking a big bite and tearing the rest in half, dropping the larger portion next to Athos’ bowl.  “Guud,” he mumbles with a mouth full of bread and pours generous amounts of wine into their glasses.  “This is from the Bragelonne barrels you sent to me,” Lucien says to Athos. He takes a large swallow, making appreciative noises and then applies himself to the stew, not looking at Athos and talking almost continuously about the inspection he did with the stonemasons, the litany of repairs needed, the plan Afonso is working on to bring light cannon from the Aigle, and how it will be hoisted to the battlements.  Athos picks up a spoon and eats, dipping bread into the gravy. 

“Do not think I do not know what you are doing,” Athos says sternly. Lucien looks up with an innocent puzzled expression. “…do not think I do not know…” Lucien chants the words slowly as though they are the puzzle he must decipher.  Athos slants his eyes, “you know very well what I mean.”  Lucien’s smile is self-satisfied. The plan worked.  “The stew is still good.”

“Better than good,” Athos acknowledges pushing away the empty bowl.  He drains the glass. “Have you spoken to our mother?”  Lucien shakes his head, eyes down, diligently mopping up the last bit of gravy.  

“You must talk with her,” Athos repeats.

“About what?” Lucien sounds defensive. 

“I think you know the answer to that,” Athos persists. 

 “Why not wait until we talk to her together?” Lucien deflects again.

“It may take some time for us to do it together.” Athos is patient, but persistent.

“What’s the hurry?” Lucien’s tone is sulky and evasive.  Athos waits, folding his napkin slowly.  Lucien blows out an impatient breath, balls up his napkin and tosses it into the bowl.

‘Alright,” he exclaims and grabs the pastries from the tray, muttering, “none for you,” and stuffs one in his mouth.  “I will go talk to our mother.” 

Athos smiles at his brother’s back walking away from him, “thank you.”  

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“I was told I could find you here.”  Lucien steps over the threshold of the wide double doors leading into the carriage house.  “Although I cannot fathom what you are doing here.”

Marie de Combalet turns slightly to look at her younger son.  “Did our plan work?”

“Yes.  He ate well and looked better at the end of it. I cannot say whether he will agree to his bed.”

“That matters less than sustenance.  He sleeps in the chair and that will suffice.”  She turns back to her examination of the carriage.  Lucien comes next to her and looks at the crest on the door of the carriage that absorbs her attention.  “I wondered whether or not you would see it.”

She turned to him in amazement.  “See it?”  she exclaims and waves her hand expressively, “I had the carriage made for him.  Richelieu loved this carriage and kept it in its own dwelling, practically with its own servants. I cannot imagine how it came to be at that house.”

“Would he not have taken it there?”

“On muddy potholed roads?  I think not.  At least I never noticed it gone from Paris.”

“What do you want to do?” he asks flippantly, ‘shall we burn it?”  She gives him a look of painful tolerance. “Perhaps we just replace the door.”  He mocked a pout at missing out on a good bonfire. 

“I want you to go to the cove and bring the people to Glenay,” He follows her segue immediately. 

“You worry that Marchal and his men would look for us there?’

“I will not assume they would not think of it.  They are old friends and very dear to me.  No harm must come to them.”  She looks at him anxiously, “are you concerned about going?  The memories may…”

“I have no memories of the cove, the beach, any of it,” Lucien asserts holding up his hands to stave off any more annoying assumptions.  “I have no memories of my brother or Alessandra or anything that happened there. I cannot be flustered by what I do not know or remember.   I will go at first light.  Do not worry Mother, I will bring everyone back to Glenay.”