.…remember to live

He wakes, one hand automatically reaching for her, even as he knows she has been gone for hours.  The tap on the door was quiet, and she slid quickly from the bed and was gone in minutes to attend to a need for Alessandra.  After one incident, Sophia had made it very clear to Dr Guenaud that he was to summon her at any hour, and the doctor had not made that mistake again. 

Lucien dresses quickly and walks through the quiet house to the kitchen, not surprised to find Yusuf crouching at the fire preparing their khave, but very surprised to find Rosie at the kitchen worktable chewing on fresh brown bread and sipping broth.  Cook sets a plate of warm pastries in front of her. 

 “What are you doing here so early?” Lucien drops onto the bench next to Rosie.  Yusuf hands him a small, enameled cup steaming with the pungent brew and takes one in his own hands to sit on the other side of Rosie.  She wrinkles nose, “none for me Amca?”  Yusuf raises his brow, “hot chocolate for you canım yeğenim,” his tone slightly scolding and lays an affectionate hand on Rosie’s blonde curls. 

“Why are you not still abed and waiting for hot chocolate?” Lucien picks up one of the pastries on the plate. 

“The boys were restless last night.  I walked with Grandmother to chapel.”  She doesn’t elaborate, but Lucien knows that Rosie has stepped into more than one of Sophia’s daily tasks so her mother can concentrate on Alessandra’s care. 

“Your grandmother has an army of priests to walk her safely to chapel and there are four nurses in the nursery,” Lucien points out, “can they not manage two small boys?” 

“Of course they can,” Rosie smiles at her father, “but you know Mother’s instructions to the nurses.  I do not want them to trouble Mother if I can do it for her.”   Lucien grunts, knowing well Sophia’s instructions.  He studies Rosie’s serious expression.  She glances at him.

“You are going to the cove Father?”

“Yes, your grandmother wants me to bring the people there back to Glenay.”  It has been apparent for a few days that the castle is being prepared for an unspecified conflict.  The children have not been told details, only that it is good to be prepared.

“Come with me,” he says impulsively.  “I am taking a wagon.”  He makes a winning smile, “It would be good for you to get out of here for a day,” and adds a final temptation, “I will allow you to drive.”

“Oh Father,” she smiles wistfully, “I would love to go with you.  But you know I cannot.”

“I know no such thing!’  He wags a finger at her, “I can make it happen.”

“I know that Father, you can make anything happen here or anywhere we are.  But I must help Mother and Grandmother now.”

“Well apparently I am insufficient to the task of getting my youngest daughter to spend a day with her father,” he mocks a petulant expression, narrowing his eyes. “You are also growing up Rosie, despite my orders to the contrary.”  It is an old joke between them, and she laughs leaning her head against his arm. She stands, kissing his cheek and Yusuf’s and then she is gone from the kitchen.

“So, it is just you,” Lucien grumbles to Yusuf.  “Not even me kardes,” Yusuf finishes the khave and stands.  “I am with Afonso today.”  He claps a hand on Lucien’s shoulder and leaves.

“It is then just me,” Lucien grumbles and gets to his feet.  Cook presses a packet into his hands. “In case just you gets hungry.” 

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Outside the early morning air is brittle with cold, the sun creeping over the horizon, still too new to warm it. Lucien rubs his hands together and steps into the stable. It is warm and pleasantly scented of fresh hay, leather tack and horses.

“I will have the boys harness the horses,” the stablemaster is hurrying down the aisle. “Apologies Your Grace, I did not expect you at this hour.”

“I am early, no need to divert them from their work.  I can do it myself.”  The stable master replies, “as you wish M, the traces are ready. I will lead out the horses.”  Within minutes Lucien is up on the bench, one foot braced on the board, lifting the reins.  Steam rises from the horses’ warm coats and they breathe small gray clouds into the cold air.  He makes a clicking sound and the wagon jerks to a start. Armed sentries on the walkway watch him drive through the arched gate entry and then he is out on the road, trying to steer around the worst of the winter ruts.  The sun continues to rise in a clear blue sky, the air warming.  He takes a fork that leads toward the coast road, the sounds of the ocean, the wind through brush and a few trees, and bird song accompanying the rattle of the traces and the creaking wagon. He meets a few people, day workers with straps on their shoulders attached to small boxes of tools.  He pulls the wagon to one side of the road for a woman carrying a bundle on her back. She is of indeterminate age, likely younger than her appearance would suggest. She raises wary eyes just enough to acknowledge his gesture.  She is likely carrying a few apples or extra eggs, some cut wood, home brewed ale or spun wool to sell in a local village market.  If she had a clever husband, he might have made her a simple loom where she can weave a more valuable piece of flax or wool.  She may live in one of the small villages found among the canals and marshes, and packed dried fish to sell. Her sewing basket is tucked within the bundle, so she can repair clothing for a coin.  Whatever she can earn today will help to pay the taille, the tithe, and whatever tax her Seigneur demands.  Lucien lifts a hand as she passes and moves the wagon back onto the road.  He wonders about her familiarity with the local coastal pathways and secret coves.  She may have worked for him.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

He glimpses the tiled roof first and slows the horses to take the groomed road down toward the house.  He steers the wagon into a yard with a small stable and water troughs.  Hand carts and tools lean against the stable wall.  A wood pile is stacked neatly outside the kitchen door.  Other than birds and the sound of waves on the beach below, the yard is quiet.  No one comes from the stable or the house. He leads the horses to the troughs and looks toward a pebbled trail leading away from the yard, under an old pergola covered with vines.  Afternoon sun slants through the foliage trimmed back from the opening to let in light which changes to shadows and continues to darken as the trail extends under the vine covered archway.  He studies it for a moment and then turns away, choosing not to explore the pergola further.  He follows a path to the front of the house.  It is larger than his mother’s description. Laced curtains waft in open windows.  The trail forks again, leading away from the house.  He can see the cove, white sand and surf.  He looks back at the quiet house wondering where everyone has gone and then he takes the path toward the cove.  When he reaches the beach, he pulls off his boots and stockings, drops his doublet on a shrub and strides across the warm sand to the water’s edge.  He digs his feet into the cool wet sand, watching the waves wash over his feet and lower legs.  In one direction is a rocky outcropping.  There are probably caves created by centuries of seawater eroding the rock.  He turns away and strides up the beach toward the other land arm extending into the sea, small islands in the distance enclosing the small cove.  He sits on the warm sand, unable to conjure up a memory or a sense of familiarity.  It is simply a cove, unremarkable and like so many other coves he has known on coastlines of countries scattered across oceans. Coves where his longboats beached and he sent men inland to seek riches.  He hears a sound from above him, a voice calling out.  Time for him to go back to the house.

He picks up his boots, slings his doublet over his shoulder and walks quickly up the path.  A woman is standing at the top in the open gate, “yoo hoo!” her voice is loud, shrill but carries a friendly warmth, “apologies M.  We were in chapel.  May we help you M?”

He waves and comes closer, smiling in hope of dispelling her misgivings at the sight of a stranger on her path.   She is a large woman, smiling broadly, but as he comes closer, her smile fades.  She stares hard at him, and he thinks he has made an impression of potential trouble.  He knows well his effect on others. 

“Good heaven,” she murmurs, grasping the top of the gate post to steady herself.  “Guillame”’ she shouts, “Guillame.” 

He stops a short distance away, waiting for whoever Guillame might be and to assure the woman he has no ill intent.  “Madame,” he starts to explain his presence when she lurches toward him arms outstretched, tears already spilling down her cheeks.

“My mischievous little squirrel, do you not know your Tatie May?”

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He does not know his Tatie May.  Nor does he know the man called Guillaume, middle aged, but with a strong stride and a firm hand grasping his.  Automatically, Lucien drops a hand on the two dogs surging excitedly around his legs.  The dogs quiet, recognizing affection and command.  The woman is urging him into the house, Guillaume holding the door leading to the kitchen wide open. 

He sits at the large worktable.  The woman, Tatie May, is preparing food and he listens to her chatter … Olivier – her darling boy – had come with Marie … why had he not come too?  Olivier had brought his daughter …  precious Bianca, always in the kitchen with her … why did he not bring his children as Olivier?  Bianca searched for shells for a necklace for her mother…Olivier stayed for days in his old room … she kept his room just as it had always been…Olivier’s books…Olivier read to you Lucien … do you still have your little horse?… why did you not come with your mother? And again, why did you not bring one of your children … I would love to meet them … I will show your room although you will longer fit into your old bed…she laughs…

The words flow around him relentlessly, and with no meaning, except for the surfeit of Olivier, a name he quickly tired of hearing. Nevertheless, he keeps his smile fixed, an occasional nod and vague amusement in his eyes, listening but not hearing.  He wonders why his mother sent him on this errand, to bring these people to Glenay.  She could have sent anyone – the stable master and a few workers to help load their belongings and drive them back to Glenay.  Why is he here?  If she thought some memory would emerge, some moment of enlightenment, then she was wrong.  Nothing matters to him here.

Guillaume is silent, watching him with a gentle gaze. His wife places a plate of crisp fresh fritters before him.  “You preferred them with elderberries,” she says with a smile, pouring wine and setting it before him. “Guillaume took you to pick the berries, do you remember?”

Guillaume speaks quietly, making a subtle shake of his head, “ach Marguerite, how could he remember? He was but a young boy.”  Lucien looks at Guillaume for a long moment.  There is a tickle at the back of his mind.  He bites into the fritter, the taste of the berry bursting into his mouth.  He swallows and takes a drink from the cup.  “Delicious,” he says with all sincerity.

He explains why he is there, trying not to use words to instill fear, but more an opportunity to visit Glenay.  Most of his children are there, as is Bianca.  Alessandra too, although he refrains from telling them more than that.  That is for Athos to decide.   Tatie May and Guillaume look hesitant but agree to prepare to make the journey.  It will take a couple days.

“Let me show you to your room,” Tatie May enthuses leading him up the stairs.  The room he enters is more a nursery than a bedroom.   He walks around it, stopping at the window to admire the view of the ocean in the distance, peeking through the tops of trees.  The curtains are freshly washed, the floor polished, shelves with a few toys dusted.  Tatie May has kept this room immaculate.  “It is a very pleasant,” he murmurs and she beams. 

“Well obviously you cannot sleep here.  I thought you would like to see it but you can sleep in Olivier’s room.  You spent most of your time there.  Olivier did not mind.” 

“Wonderful,” he says tonelessly, but Tatie May is already on to the next topic, leading the way away from the nursery to Athos’ room, where she fusses with the curtains and restacks the fresh linens.  “You did sleep here for a while, after…” her voice trails away, her broad expressive face shadowed by a memory.  “We can visit the chapel tomorrow.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, noticing books on a shelf, tilting his head to read the faded titles.  Ignoring the Odyssey and the Aeneid, he plucks the Iliad from the shelf.  It is well used, the yellow pages brittle and worn from eager fingers.  He flips more pages.  Scattered in the margins in a careful cursive are written notes and small drawings.  On other pages an untidy scrawl fills the margins with letters…”Xanthus” and then in all capitals “XANTHUS”, “XANTHUS”.  And underneath is his own name, “Lucien.”  He stares at his own first attempts to write his name, his gaze drawn to the carpet as an unbidden memory slips forward…

…two boys sit the carpet, the younger boy holds a toy horse and climbs into the lap of his older brother, leaning against him while his brother reads from a favorite book…he can hear the words…”Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans…”

He slams the book shut.  “I did not see a chapel,” he replies to Tatie May.

“The path to it is under the pergola.” He hears the note of anticipation in her voice.  No doubt, when they lived here, his mother went regularly to pray at the chapel, and he would have gone too.

“Of course,” Lucien replies politely.  “I would enjoy seeing the chapel.”

It is a relief when night falls and he is finally alone.  There is flask of brandy on the tray she left for him and he pours a generous quantity and sits in a comfortable chair by the window.  He listens to night birds and the pounding surf below, the brandy warms him and his eyes grow heavy…

…men on horses, shouting, a woman screaming …  he is running…partly dragged… you must go faster Lucien … Oliver picks him up, running awkwardly…he clutches his horse terrified he will drop it … the air is suddenly cold and damp…he knows where he is … it is very dark… they play here … but he does not like it here, there is never any sun and he is frighted as this is not a game… they are much deeper within the rock … hide Lucien… he curls up to fit into the small opening, concealed from any light … stay here…do not make a sound … I will come for you … Olivier is gone…he does not have his toy horse, and he feels the ground around him … but it is not there…

…he shivers, hearing more shouts and cries… his name, but it is not his brother so he stays silent … boots crunch on the pebbled walkway, torchlight illuminates the floor, but does not come closer…be silent … he will come for you…the cold makes him sleepy…

…he sleeps…and wakes and sleeps and wakes always to silence and darkness … he strains to hear … anything … but there is nothing … he is confused if it is day or night … he sips water seeping down the stone, he is stiff and hungry… but afraid … stay here…I will come for you…but no one comes for him … he gropes again on the ground but to no avail, he has lost his toy horse and he sobs with loneliness and fear … is he forgotten? …in the darkness a pinprick of red glows … yes…a voice …a voice he knows but from later … you are forgotten Lucien … Benito chuckles … you were forgotten …

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Together they step under the arbor, sunlight streaming through new vines with pale green leaves and within a few feet the dark begins to close in, little sunlight penetrating the vines covering the old pergola.  Sound is muffled. 

 “You did not like it in here,” Guillaume says. “I’m not sure I do now,’ Lucien mocks a shiver, “I believe I showed good sense in thinking it scary.”  He slants a look at Guillaume, “no doubt Olivier was fearless.”  Guillaume smiles but does not reply.  They are approaching the grotto.

“Here it is,” Guillaume stops in front of an arched opening into the rock.  Flowering plants cluster close to elderberry shrubs grow on either side of the arched opening. Ferns gather in the entrance.  Moss forms a dense green carpet creeping up the walls and covering the damp ground.  Lucien walks farther into the cave, admiring the arched ceiling and multi-colored rocks forming broad terraces.  He stares at three square shaped entrances led into tiny chambers carved within the rock.  Lucien cups his hand under a trickle of water on the stone wall, and drinks, “spring water. Is there a pool farther back?”

“Yes, and one forms in the shallows with the rains,” Guillaume answers.  “It waters the elderberry shrubs and flowers around the opening.” 

“You were hidden here,” Guillaume’s voice is quiet, “for days.” 

“Did you find me?”  Lucien asks in an idle tone of voice.

“Yes.” Guillaume’s steps are muffled by the moss as he walks to stand beside Lucien.  “The soldiers grabbed your brother.  He broke free and threw himself into my arms long enough to whisper where you were hidden.  But the soldiers stayed for several days.  I thought I would need to lock Marguerite in the cellar to keep her from going to you.  We were terrified for you, but more terrified of what would happen to you if you were discovered. Marguerite was mad with worry and could not wait much longer.  She had a story ready – that you were our grandson, from a deceased daughter, hidden because we thought the soldiers were going to kill us.”

“They left?”

“Yes, they left and I found you.”  Guillaume sits down on a rock, “we used Marguerite’s story, that you were our grandson.  We were able to keep you safe and with us.”

“Until …” Lucien prompts. 

“Your mother sent a letter that she feared you were discovered.  She sent trusted men, musketeers, to take you away, to safety.  We were not told where you went, so we could not be forced to reveal it.”

“Hmm,” Lucien murmurs. 

“Do you not remember any of this?”  Guillaume has a worried frown.  It seems to Lucien that not remembering this terrible story is worse than remembering the terrible things that happened to him.  He puts a hand on Guillaume’s shoulder, “I have a memory of your voice.”

Guillaume brightens.  Tears form at the corners of his eyes.  He covers Lucien’s hand with his own gnarled one.  “I am glad Lucien, I am happy to know that all these years, it was my voice you held onto.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

For two days Tatie May and Guillaume pack. Lucien loads the wagon and waits, wandering between his and Athos’ chambers and down to the cove.  He swims and walks along the beach, watching the waves.  He ignores the pergola.  On the last day, he takes the books from Athos’ room to Tatie May.

“I would like to take these to my brother,” he says.  “Of course!” she replies and watches him tuck the books into his travel bag.  “I think you should bring this too,” she hands him a small medallion with a miniature painting. “It was done by Sandretta’s mother.  I did give it to him, but they left quickly and it was forgotten.”

Tati May locks up her house, Guillame checks the windows one more time.  Lucien lifts Tati May onto the soft comfortable bed he made for her in the back of the wagon and covers her with a blanket. “Do not fuss over me,” she scolds him.  Guillaume climbs onto the bench.  Lucien walks the horses up the groomed path to the crest of the headlands and onto the main road. 

The warm sun and rocking wagon lulls Guillaume into slumber, arms folded over chest, chin bobbing.   As they rumble towards Glenay, Lucien pulls the medallion from his pocket.  It was a summer day when Alessandra’s mother drew three young children seated on an upturned small boat.  Athos is holding a book, Alessandra has a collection of flowers, and he is clutching a golden toy horse with a red saddle.  He looks at himself – dark hair, serious eyes and a tentative smile.  He wonders what happened to the golden horse with a red saddle. He tries to think back … his brother running, he clutches his horse terrified … how might he have lost a toy so precious to him. He does not remember ever seeing it again.

Lucien wonders what Athos had discovered in this house and if his brother would tell him. For himself, he has learned nothing that altered anything. He must not look back to where he has no memory.  He must instead remember to live the life he has made for himself.

But he would have a great adventure story to tell Yusuf and Phillip about why he hated dark tunnels. They could have a good laugh about it, over a flask of wine, in St Malo.