Memory is the scribe of the soul…Aristotle
She cannot sleep. Sophia lays awake, staring at the drape surrounding the bed. Days of snatching minutes of sleep from the passing hours, or an hour from a passing night. Athos had insisted and Lucien tapped his foot impatiently, and she thought that once she lay down, sleep would come easily. But she cannot sleep.
The baby was born. They could keep him warm, swaddled with care and love. But the fight now resided in a tiny frail body, his life dependent upon his will, to insist on his place in this world where death is patient and cunning. The doctors sent for the wet nurses, ignoring the midwife’s experienced eye for the one that would be best. Each one, kind, willing and unsuccessful. But with the unerring instinct nature instills, the infant boy knew his savior would be the cheerful young farm wife, who giggled and smiled and spoke to him as though they had known each other forever. He settled down to her warm ample bosom, followed her gentle fingers to latch easily and filled his tiny body with what she gave freely to him.
A beautiful baby boy, his perfectly formed head shrouded in a thin filmy membrane. The very hand of God blessing him… Marie had murmured as they embraced outside the room, relieved and hopeful.
“There are superstitions,” Sophia had been worried. “Bah!” the duchess had been scornful, drawing herself upright, “we care nothing for the ignorant thinking of others. In this family, he is and forever will be loved, treasured and protected as he deserves.” For a moment Sophia’s tired mind saw the image of an armored angel, with stern eyes challenging and wings spread wide over a helpless infant. She blinked at Marie. It must be some story Alexandre told her although it seemed more like a memory.
The crisis was not entirely over, but allayed. Athos insisted the doctors and she must sleep. Lucien led her to their chamber where a hot bath, fresh linens and a real bed awaited her. Sleep must come and Lucien quickly fell into a deep slumber beside her. But sleep did not come. Now, she lay enveloped in his arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, his breath warm. She stirs to turn and he rolls to his back without waking. She slips from his arms.
The house is silent, hovering between deep night gray dawn. The candle she carries created moving shadows on the walls as she walks, darkness closing behind her. It did not matter as she could find her way without any light at all. She passes the rooms where her children sleep, put a finger to her lips at the footman who patrols the corridors. He offers to accompany her and has a small frown as she walks away.
The corridor is quiet, benches and chairs empty, the tables clear of trays of partially eaten food. Marie’s quills, papers and inkpots are neatly arranged, ready for her early return. Sophia sinks down on the bench and listens to the silence. She could tap on the door and Athos would make that familiar look of forbearance, but he would let her in. She sighs, rubs her forehead and thinks about the baby and Alessandra. You did it … she sends a silent message to her sister in heart and now in marriage to Lucien’s brother … all our lives have changed … she thinks back to the days following Rayya and Bianca’s return. They had stood in the doorway of the music room, arms linked watching their daughters practice on the harps. She cannot recall if they said anything to each other, but she thinks not. Words could be superfluous with Alessandra, a trait for which she has always been grateful.
She hears a sound and looks up as Lucien settles next to her. He spreads his heavy wool cloak over her shoulders, tucking it around her legs. The cloak is warm and carries his scent. She breathes in deeply and leans into his encircling arm.
“The footman woke you.”
“I feared M Jozen would be alarmed that errant duchesses are wandering the halls of Glenay when they should be abed.”
Sophia giggles and tucks in closer to him. Lucien kisses her crown, “worried?”
“Some, but I just wanted to sit here…I do not truly know why.”
“It does not require a reason.”
They sit in amiable silence and then she makes a quiet laugh, as though a pleasant thought occurs to her. “Asim and Kayvahn will grow up with him.”
Lucien chuckles too, “already planning their futures?”
“I see boys running in the fields, swimming in the lake, climbing Hayal’s rock…”
“Fascinated with bees, tormenting their tutors, exasperating their doting fathers while up to good mischief …”
“I didn’t know there was a good mischief,” she teases. He smiles, “they will find it.”
They sit together in comfortable silence. “We should go,” Sophia says, “Marie will be here soon. If she finds me, she will worry that I have not slept.” Lucien refrains from saying his mother’s concern mirrors his own. Instead, he pulls her to her feet, and they walk down the corridor arm in arm.
“Think you might sleep a little?” his tone is carefully casual. “Think you can stay with me a little?” She turns his words back to him. He tugs her closer to him. “There is no place I would rather be.”
It is his turn to find sleep elusive. He dozes fitfully in contrast to Sophia’s deep regular breathing. He is restless, thoughts jumping between the Belladona at the Wrecks, defense preparations at Glenay, Rayya’s constant look of expectation at him, Rochfort’s reinstatement, Raoul… the baby will red hair and his mother wants to reminisce…
He gives up, tucks the covers around his sleeping wife and carefully slides from the bed. In minutes he is dressed and running down the staircase to the kitchen. Royaumont’s cook is there and immediately waves a hand at the boy stocking the box with wood. He runs from the kitchen and returns in minutes with Yusuf. Lucien frowns at the cook, “I can do it myself.” She raises one dismissive eyebrow, ignores him and goes back to kneading dough.
“Blame me,” Yusuf is already measuring the ground beans and mixing in water, tilting the long handled small brass pot over the fire. “I have not seen you in days.’ He pours the brew into two tiny cups and hands one to Lucien. They sit on stools in front of the fire, sipping the hot pungent brew, enveloped in the scents of yeast, damp dough and fresh bread. Lucien quickly summarizes the situation with the baby.
“Precarious, but he shows resilience,” Yusuf comments. “He is his mother’s child,” Lucien smiles, “with his father’s determined mind. Once he found the right wet nurse, he knew what to do.”
Yusuf stirs the embers with a stick. “He is your blood too kardes. Determination is good, but it is tenacity that gets the job done.”
“Let us hope you are not right about that as it would not please anyone to see tendencies in my direction.” Lucien’s laugh is sarcastic, but he feels a surge of protective pride for the tiny baby, his nephew, fighting to live. Cook passes them a plate of fresh bread spread with butter. Lucien takes a piece and chews thoughtfully.
“Why does the birth of a child inspire recollections and tributes to family legacies?”
“Hmm,” Yusuf hums noncommittally as he knows Lucien’s disinterest in talking about himself and the past.
“Marie is absorbed in her memories, and I sense curiosity from others, but I wonder at the wisdom of it … what is served by remembering it all…there is history between us, but I see no purpose in dragging it forward, our memories stained with opinions and faulty understanding… ‘ Lucien’s voice trails off. Someday, he thinks he and his brother might talk in private. But never more than that. Nothing he had ever offered satisfied anyone’s curiosity. One piece of him, led to wanting more and then more. He never could tolerate the intrusion.
“Is this a good time for us to organize our caravan to Arabia? Or we could sail into the port of Mokha,’ Yusuf suggests. Lucien grunts, “not a bad idea.” He stares into the fire and then at Yusuf.
“First, you and I promised Alexandre that we would organize the invasion of Persia. Alexandre is determined to enter in full glory atop Bucephalus.”
“Tippie is a mare,” Yusuf points out with a hopeless shrug.
“She will do,” Lucien is practical, “and his army can literally ride behind him. I think fiery goddesses are included. The tutors have seized on it to teach a lesson from Arrian.”
“I shall dress as a Bactrian tribesman,” Yusuf declares mocking a fierce expression. Lucien raises his brow, “they were defeated.”
“Alexander had to marry a Bactrian woman to get them off his back.’
“Is that how it went?” Lucien looks doubtful that history had proceeded in this manner, but Yusuf adopts a lofty expression. “Bactrians were the fiercest of fighters. I will give the boys a good fight.”
“I sincerely hope not. You might frighten poor Tippie. Besides,” he levels a look at Yusuf, “you must see to the house for Roberval’s arrival.” He laughs at Yusuf’s crestfallen face. “You can defeat the Macedonians another day. The walls around the property will need repairs and increased in height for the family’s security. The staff quarters are ample, but you are the best judge of interior modifications necessary for the men. Raoul and Olivain will be leaving for Paris, you might ride with them. “
“I will then go straight to Marseille and make their travel arrangements to Paris,” Yusuf replies, “they will stay in your house while in Marseille?”
“That is what Roberval wishes. He is bringing a large delegation. Any man who is not family can stay in the castle, but they will travel together to Paris. It is safer for all of them. Duval will accompany the carriages and outriders.” He glances at Yusuf, “you will want to travel with your sons and daughter?”
Yusuf nods, “yes, I will remain in Marseille and wait for their arrival.” He changes the subject, “any reports from the Wrecks?” Lucien shakes his head, “no, but I am meeting with Madame Demare. She is getting messages from her local informants.” He sets down the enameled cup and stands, stretching his arms. “Olivain has asked to speak to me today.” He sounds slightly grumpy at the prospect.
“Good!” Yusuf exclaims. Lucien scowls, “I would rather be on my way to Arabia.”
“Kardes,” Yusuf chides him, “Olivain is a good choice for Rayya.”
“Ha!” Lucien exclaims, “as though I had any say in any choice. Sophia insists I talk to him, and Suzanne has joined forces with her mother. In truth I am tired of Rayya’s long face and great sighs of longing. Yes, I do like the man.”
“Then all the more reason to be happy kardes,” Yusuf counters, “they have the good sense to know what is right, even in the absence of your wisdom. Still, they ask for your blessing. Your daughter is a credit to you.”
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“Lucille,” Lucien strides across the room to pour wine into two glasses. He hands one to Madame Demare and lifts his glass in a salute, “shall we drink to the conquest of Persia?”
“I would say my grandson acquitted himself well on the field of battle,” Madame Demare sips from her glass, “although I did not think his father enjoyed it so much.” She chuckles, “Constance believes that Charles would like a scholar, but I think he has a general instead.”
“Too soon to tell Madame,” Lucien waits for her to sit and then drops into a chair opposite her. He does not tell her of Alexandre’s keep interest in the mechanics of getting field artillery in place. “He has a quick mind. That can be useful in many professions.”
She gives him a sardonic look, “very diplomatic of you. But I remember now, you are sending your son Samyar to Constantinople to serve as a sort of ambassador.”
“Samy has wanted to go for some time now. He has found kindred spirits in the study of botany and other aspects of nature. Roberval was able to secure a correspondence with one of the Sultan’s gardeners. Samy and Yusuf, have read the travels of Evliya Çelebi, improving his Turkish and also writes to him. He is quite eager to return with Roberval. There is also a possibility that Yusuf will go as well.”
He answers Madame Demare’s surprised expression, “two of Yusuf’s sons are coming with Roberval. His youngest daughter will travel with them.”
“That is unusual.”
“I understand there is a family issue to be resolved.”
“A daughter who does obey her mother,” Lucille guesses at the problem. Lucien shrugs as though he does not know and changes the subject.
“What do hear from your people at the Wrecks?”
“The captain of the Belladona sent men overland to the Wrecks. We know they saw the armed men on the headlands and left quickly. They may be interested in using the Wrecks, but not foolish enough to try it. For the moment, the beach, caves and our routes are secure.”
“Was that it?”
“No,” Lucille holds up her empty glass. Lucien gets up to refill it. “They went to the local villages, taverns, inns looking to hire for unloading cargo. They offered good wages. No one volunteered.”
“Good,” Lucien says grimly, “they have been obstructed and if they try the beach, they will die.”
“Lucien, we have considered the Ogre to be favorable to the Company of the Orient. If Rochefort is back in favor, how can we use force against his ships? Will this be allowed?”
“I lay awake at night asking myself that question. Why does this captain or the Ogre want the Wrecks in the first place? There are easier coves with good beaches and caves.” Lucien jumps to his feet pacing, “Even we cannot use the Wrecks at certain times.”
“Benito.” Lucille speaks softly, “he loved the challenge of it – crazy man.”
Lucien is silent. Their conversation has veered in an unexpected direction. He braces a hand on the mantle and stares at the fire and for a moment the only sound is the crackle of burning wood. Madame Demare speaks first.
“You and I avoid talking of him Lucien. We both loved him in our way. Only a man like Benito de Soto would have taken on the Wrecks. And now, lesser men imagine they can be him too and so they try. He loved you, and he loved the sea and he felt a kinship with the Wrecks, wild, untamed, feared. But his demons caught up with him and he became a monster.”
Lucien clenches his jaw …, they do not need to talk of this…it was years ago… he closes his eyes against the images pouring from his memory. He stands, indicating their meeting is over. He needs air. The gardens are close, where he can walk and think. He feels Lucille’s hand on his arm.
“Lucien, what should we do with this captain of the Belladona?”
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“Where are you going?” Lucien stops mid-stride and turns to his wife’s voice. Sophia walks towards him, a small furrow between her brows, blue iridescent eyes clouded. Despite several hours of sleep, she still looks pale, with small lines of fatigue at the corners of her mouth. The days of worry and helping with Alessandra’s care, while maintaining a steady supply of herbs and mixed infusions, poultices and salves has taken a toll. But he does not say what he wishes she would do – rest, sleep, take time to eat a full meal, not snatch a bowl of broth or bread at the kitchen table. He smiles and offers his arm.
“I am taking a quick turn in the garden to think of what I will say to Olivain this afternoon. Care to join my meditation?” She makes a wry smile.
“You must take care not to scare him,” she cautions and takes his arm.
Lucien is thinking he must take care not to celebrate this small victory of getting her to walk in the garden with him. He cannot remember the last time and considers it a rare and fragile moment they share. He extends an arm for the cloak the housekeeper carries and settles it around Sophia’s shoulders. “Me?’ he mocks an injured air to her mild scold.
They walk together along a groomed path and at the first opportunity, Lucien guides her to a bench warmed by sunlight. “Mm,” Sophia murmurs, turning her face to the sun and closing her eyes, “this is lovely.” His eyes take in the line of her slender neck, the curve of her cheek, “yes, it is,” his voice is husky. “Too bad the parterres are mostly bare.” She chuckles and squeezes his hand, “the trees are beginning to green, and we must imagine the garden as it will be in few weeks, full of colorful flowers.” He smiles at her imaginative view.
“Rayya will be pacing outside the door,’ Sophia says.
“Rosie and Suzanne will not be far in support of their sister,” he makes a pained expression, “they conspire together.”
“Goodness me, but you sound like a positively cantankerous father. Think of how wonderful it will be to have a betrothal to celebrate, instead of dragging cannons across the land, and stockpiling weapons.”
“You would urge me to forgo any misgivings and think of the greater good,” Lucien slants a look at her. She tsks at his flippancy, “you know better. What will you say to Olivain?”
He glances at her, “you need not worry. I like the man and think they are well suited.”
“Tell me why you think so,” Sophia turns to him. He is quiet for a few moments, composing his thoughts.
“Rayya would chafe with a husband who wanted a wife only to coddle and adore. Whether or not she knows it now, she will want to use her talents. A man who believes a wife desires the constancy of his presence, to swaddle her in comforts and sees responsibilities only as a burden is not the husband for Rayya. You remember how she stepped into your shoes and managed the household and the estate manager. Olivain is strong enough for her to thrive. He reads books. That matters more to Rayya than a pampered life.”
“Hmm,” Sophia murmurs turning his words over in her mind, thinking of her daughters. “Layla is fortunate to travel with her husband. Suzanne married a sea captain, and Rayya will marry a soldier. They will pack their husband’s traveling chests and think about him in distant places, not knowing when he will return, wondering if he is cold, or wet, hungry, safe or …” She does not finish the rest. She is talking of her own experience.
“The first time I went away to sea for an extended time, you did not weep with your fears or beg me not to go or at least to come back as soon as possible. Instead, you told me that you wished you could go with me, to share the adventure.”
Her gaze lingers on a parterre, bare of flowers. “Perhaps you thought I let you go too easily and did not love well enough.”
“You are the very soul of Royaumont,” Lucien traces her cheek, “you would never abandon your duty to the estate, nor did you ask it of me. You accepted the man I was. I have never forgotten that moment.”
She smiles and takes his hand, “How could I ask you? I knew the man I married and I loved him.”
His gaze into her eyes is deep and soulful, “it was blessing I had never dared to dream.”
Twelve Years After 