Stella raised her hand. “Me! Even though I don’t know what it is. I just hope it’s not some complicated folk dance.”
“No, don’t worry. It’s a form of medieval romantic short story,” Caroline explained before she started, “Not much is known about the woman who wrote it, not even her real name. She lived around 1200 and said about herself in a poem, ‘Marie is my name, and I am from France.’”
Caroline rested her forearms on the table and looked around. With all eyes on her, she began, “There were two knights who lived near Saint-Malo in adjoining houses, separated by a tall, dark wall. One knight was married, the other wasn’t. The wife and the unmarried knight took a liking to each other. They never met in person, but every night, when the husband was asleep, they sat by their windows and talked to each other, sometimes exchanging small gifts.
“Over time, the husband grew suspicious and asked what she was doing at the window night after night. She replied she listened to the nightingale sing. He was enraged, and had his servant capture the bird, killed it in front of her eyes and threw its lifeless body at her.
“Saddened, she embroidered a silk cloth in gold-threaded writing and wrapped the dead bird in it, and to let her lover know she couldn’t continue meeting him anymore, sent him the nightingale. He preserved the bird in a small container which he decorated in jewels, and always carried it with him.”
“Not the typical love story, but so romantic,” Stella said and saw she wasn’t the only one dabbing her eyes.
“Marie de France’s work depicted women as having to make many sacrifices in the name of love, and often as being virtually imprisoned by their husbands,” Caroline added.
“At least the husband didn’t kill his wife, only the poor bird,” Lynn said. “I wonder what made a young woman write such a story more than eight hundred years ago.”
CHAPTER 20
Stella—July 2018
“O
ur drive to Mont Saint-Michel will take about one hour. Once we arrive there, we’ll check into our hotel first, then tour the island together,” Caroline announced after they were on the bus again.
“How much time will we spend on the island?” Susan asked. “The itinerary says we’ll go to the abbey, then have dinner afterward.”
“Yes, I’ve scheduled two hours to tour the monastery.”
“Will we be able to walk around the island? What’s the tide schedule?” Lynn wanted to know.
“We should be in luck and have a low tide late this afternoon. If you’re interested in walking around the bottom of the island, we can adjust our schedule. In fact, I encourage you to take advantage of the low tide. Not every visitor has the chance to experience seeing it from the bay. Most tourists spend only a few hours here and can’t afford to wait for the water to recede.”
Two hours later they followed the half-mile-long footbridge connecting the mainland with the majestic island surrounded by marsh grass and sand. The abbey and monastery sat high atop the mount, with a small medieval town at its feet. Soon the grass and beach would be covered by salt water.
Stella stopped walking and grabbed Naomi’s arm. “This looks as if time stood still, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, if you can ignore all the tourists,” Naomi snorted.
“I think everything we’ve seen so far is amazing, but this is beyond words. I read that only fifty people or so live in the village year-round, but more than three million visitors come through each year.” Stella took some photos before they hurried to catch up with the group.
“Mont Saint-Michel’s history goes back more than a thousand years,” Caroline told them as they got closer to the large stone gate at the bottom of the hill. “It was a popular destination for pilgrims until the Reformation in the sixteenth century. After the French Revolution in the eighteenth century it was turned into a prison. Only since the 1920s has Christian worship been practiced here again.”
Climbing up the twisted, steep and narrow cobblestone streets, they often had to walk in a single line. A boy with a British accent asked his father in an awe-inspired voice, “Is this where Harry Potter lives?” and Stella silently agreed with him. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a few Hogwarts students glancing out of second-floor windows of the ancient houses lining the alleys.
After touring the abbey, Caroline said, “We have a little bit of time before our dinner at La Mère Poulard, which is just over there.” They stood on a small square at the bottom of the hill, and she pointed to a building across from them. It was made of smooth granite like all the other buildings around it, and had dark red, almost maroon awnings and painted wooden trim. “The tide is still far enough out to walk around the island, or you can explore the village on your own. I’ll be happy to give you a few ideas of what’s worth checking out. We’ll meet here again at a quarter to seven.”
Stella and Naomi took advantage of the low tide. Halfway around the island, Naomi stopped and looked up.
“Holy cow. It’s impossible to climb up there. What did Caroline say how high the mount is?”
“She said the abbey sits two hundred sixty feet above sea level,” Stella recalled, taking in the jagged granite with bushes and low trees covering parts of it.
Continuing to walk over the seaweed-covered sandy beach, they arrived at a small chapel sitting on a rocky outcropping. Built of ancient stone, with watermarks and algae at the base of its four walls, it faced the sea. They climbed the rough stone steps and peeked through a slit of
