Chateau of Echoes

I sank into bed, enjoying the peaceful familiarity of the room around me. My room is on the top floor of the chateau at the end of the hall. The ceiling low and beamed. The fireplace, small and utilitarian. I have several windows, but they are tiny. At the time the chateau was built, archers would have used them to shoot at enemies. Some people might think it gloomy, but I’d never been one to linger in a bedroom. If I retreated, it was to the kitchen. I have a double bed set into a dark wood carved frame; it looks ancient, but it is a reproduction. I’d chosen furniture for my room that I’d fallen in love with. Les coups de coeur.

There is a carved wooden blanket chest that I use as nightstand, the top made of smoothly joined planks, the sides carved with a menagerie of animals. There is a simple oak Louis XIII-style chair that has more dignity in its simplicity than any curvaceous Louis XV I’d ever seen. I also have an armoire of walnut. It is a cross-period piece that mixes Louis XV and Louis XVI. The sides are columned, the top and bottom curved. The ironwork around the lock and the hinges is flowery. At the top of the piece in the center, an eighteenth-century craftsman had cut out a circle and filled it with ivory, bone, and ebony fitted together in the shape of a star. My one luxury item is a huge oriental Tabriz rug with a cherry red background. I had found it at the Puces in Paris when Peter was still living, and I could not tear my eyes from its vivid colors. It also has the benefit of keeping my feet from freezing as I walk across the stone floor to the bathroom. Apart from the carpet, my room is composed of the gray of the stone walls, the dark sheen from the wood furniture and beams, and the soft white of my duvet cover.

That next morning, after a breakfast of tartines of bread, chocolate-hazelnut spread, and espresso, I took Lucy and Cranwell on a tour. The overcast sky and hint of chill in the air were harbingers of the weather to come. I wore a pair of old jeans and a thick mariner-style long-sleeved shirt striped in cream and red, with work boots laced over thick socks. Cranwell too wore jeans and a light yellow button-down shirt, but his loafers were more suited to a day at the Louvre than a walk through the countryside.

Glancing at the forest, I decided to steer him first through the woods to the remains of the old outbuilding in the meadow.

“What was the size of the old estate?”

“It depends on what you mean by estate. The Forest of Paimpont used to extend for miles. Alix’s husband held this chateau and the hectares surrounding it, but the duc de Bretagne had also given him lands in other parts of Brittany.”

“Where?”

“Off to the west, as far as Chateaulin and up north toward Morlaix.”

“So he had several chateaux?”

“No. Just extensive properties. He was given rights to various mills and other commercial operations, which allowed him to collect a percentage of their profits.”

“He was wealthy.”

“Extremely.”

“And where did the king… the duke sit?”

“In Nantes, to the south.”

“But Alix and her husband lived here…?” We walked along together in silence for a while, Lucy bounding ahead and then stopping to wait up for us. “Was he involved in sea trade?”

“No. Not that they’ve found. The Hundred Years War was hard on trade in this part of Europe, and it never fully rebounded.”

Cranwell frowned. “But for such a wealthy man, this location seems isolated.”

“It is. But you have to imagine what can no longer be seen. A chateau of this size would have required many people to support it. And there would have been fields which would also have needed people. And if people were needed to support the chateau, then others would have come to support the needs of those people. There would have been a baker, a cobbler, a smith, a miller. There would have been a dairy and a church-”

“Here?”

“Yes. An entire village.”

Cranwell stopped and looked around at the trees that seemed to stretch to the horizon. “It’s just hard to believe.”

Lucy barked, urging us forward. Ahead of her, I could detect the meadow through the trees, but we needed another minute to reach it.

We walked toward the middle of the meadow where the old building had been standing. “This is where I found the journals.”

“Here?” Cranwell stopped in mid-step. “Why would they have been placed here? It’s so far from the chateau.”

Good question. As far as I knew, no one had asked it before. As far as the university was concerned, the important thing was that they had been found at all.

We stepped over the foundation, and Cranwell crouched down and reached toward the ring to open the trap door. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

What had taken me a crowbar to accomplish, he seemed to find effortless. He went nimbly down the ladder and spent several minutes in the cellar before climbing back up. Lucy was uneasy, spending the whole time whining into the darkness of the hole.

I gave him a hand as he climbed out, and he let the door drop with a thud. He wiped his hands on his jeans and then stood for several minutes, looking once again at the forest surrounding us. Lucy sat at his feet, practically on his toes, a sentinel.

Finally, he nudged Lucy, and we ventured further out into the meadow. “I’ve visited strange places before, but here it seems…”

“Like you’re being watched?”

“Yes.” He sent a keen glance my way. “You feel it too.”

“Ever since I’ve been here. That’s why in the garden… when you…”

His lips split into a grin over his white teeth.

I shrugged.

“Does it help?”

“He goes away. For a while.”

“Who?”

“God.”

“Ah. But he always comes back, doesn’t he?” The way Cranwell said it, it almost sounded as if he were grateful.

Feeling uncomfortable discussing private business with someone I hardly knew, I changed the topic. “The history of this area is very old. And legendary. King Arthur. The Knights of the Round Table. Merlin. His fairy lover. Assorted druids.”

“Here?”

“The Forest of Paimpont is part of the pays de Broceliande, the Country of Broceliande. This is where the search for the grail took place.”

That comment stopped Cranwell in his tracks and brought his eyes to bear on mine. “I recall it being in Britain. Near Glastonbury.”

“Most people think that, but it’s not true. Some of the legends took place here.”

“Why would you think that?”

He was beginning to bother me with his insistence. “Why else is the birthplace of Viviane the fairy just up the road? And why is Merlin’s tomb just a few kilometers farther? And why can I visit the spot where Merlin first met Viviane?”

“You sure you’re not making this up?”

“Yes!” I stalked ahead of him several steps. The man was insufferable. How can a person have an opinion of something he knows nothing about?

“Why would they search for the grail in France?”

By that time, I was ready to tear my hair out. “Because of Joseph of Arimathea.”

“Who?”