Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

When the Roman takes the decision to travel to the Continent to become Emperor of the West Cynan takes the decision to come with him. And so Cynan kills the ruler of Armorica, here in Bretagne, and takes this position, and he and his men stay. But one problem is that they have no wives. And so Cynan demands of Donaut, the friend of his uncle, for many Cornish women. And it is decided that Cornwall and Armorica will be united when Cynan marries Ursula, the daughter of Donaut. But Ursula had wished to be a nun, and so she demands of Cynan some time to make a pilgrimage with eleven thousand girls. And this done, she and Cynan are wed in Rome by the pope.

But Ursula dies and Cynan does not marry again for many years, but becomes very powerful. And as his second wife, he takes the sister of Saint Patrick of Ireland. And when Cynan is dead, Armorica is divided in two to give to his sons who are Gradlon and Gadeon.

day of Ascension

This day I reminded myself that I have not learned of the other founding saints of Bretagne. And so again, I have searched my lord and in finding him, demanded the identity of the saints who remain. They are:

Saint Samson of Dol, who has the same day as Saint Nazaire. It was King Childebert who had named him bishop of Dol. Like the Samson of the Holy Bible, he had refused alcohol.

And there is Saint Pol Aurelian, also a bishop, who has the same day in spring as Saint Grégoire le Grand. He is said to have performed many miracles.

And Saint Tugdual, whom King Childebert named bishop of Tréguier. He had come from Britain with his mother, sisters, and other relatives.

Saint Patern, who shares the day of the Vénérable César. He is come from Wales and was much known for his charity and mortifications.

Then Saint Malo who came to Bretagne with Saint Brendon himself.

And the last, Saint Corentin, the first bishop of Cornouaille.

My lord told me that the large part of the saints have come from Britain. Perhaps they will have sympathies with me, who has come to Bretagne from France.

“ F reddie?”

“Hmm?” I glanced up from my saucepan over my shoulder to see Cranwell’s brown eyes spark at me. He was wearing a ribbed oregano funnel-neck sweater over black moleskin pants. Somehow that particular shade of green added depth to his eyes.

“I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“That somewhere, sometime, someone must have called you Freddie.”

“You’re very clever.” How he gloats! “My father. He started when I was thirteen and only continued because it annoyed me so much.” I knew the rising color in my cheeks probably matched the crimson color of my long-sleeved envelope-necked sweater. If I hadn’t been so intent on finishing the sauce, I would have glared at him. As it was I decided to ignore him. “Aren’t you supposed to be writing or something?”

“Freddie, I’d really like to stay longer.”

“When you came you knew it would only be for a month.”

“I know. And I appreciate you having let me stay for a couple more weeks, but I need more time. I feel like I’ve only just begun to get the rhythm of the story.”

“This isn’t really your kind of book. There aren’t any guns. No terrorists.”

“I know. But this is the novel I’ve always wanted to write. Historical espionage.”

“That’s ridiculous. You only found out about Alix a few months ago.”

“Then I used the wrong words. This is the novel I’ve always meant to write. When I first started, I wrote a novel like this one, but it wasn’t very good. I knew I had to make money if I wanted to keep writing, so I wrote what I thought people would want to read.”

“And you’ve done very well at it.”

“But now I want to write something I want to read. I love history. And the fifteenth century of France was a tumultuous period: The independent duchy of Brittany at odds with the King of France. Given her husband’s position at court, Alix could have had access to confidential information. Even if she weren’t a spy, I can fictionalize her story. At least her journals provide a glimpse of what life must have been like then.”

What could I say?

“I’ll wash dishes for you. I’ll scrub my own toilet.” He didn’t even crack a smile. This man was serious.

“I don’t mind toilets, but I hate vacuuming.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll even do it tonight. Where’s the vacuum cleaner?”

He was out of the kitchen and halfway up the stairs before I called him back.

“You can stay. But I need my space. And I’m not going to change my plans just because you’re around. I have some trips planned.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, spun me, and kissed me on the cheek. Then he set me back down on the floor. “If you need to go somewhere, I’ll stay with friends in Paris.”

When I caught my breath and the scent of his cologne had stopped making my head spin, I agreed. “Deal. The vacuum cleaner is on the first floor in the small closet to the right of the stairs. But dinner’s almost ready. You can worry about it tomorrow.”

I was stuck with him now for the duration, and it was my own fault. One of my virtues is that I always take responsibility for my actions. I’d done it to myself. I desperately needed to learn how to say no.

Two days later, box after box of books began arriving from an Internet bookseller. They kept coming for the remainder of the month and in small packages of one or two for several weeks thereafter.

“What did you do, order one of each?” I shivered, having come from the warmth of the kitchen in my tank and chef’s pants up to the cold vault of the entry. After signing for what seemed like the twentieth delivery, I had called Cranwell down from his room. I didn’t mind signing for him, but I didn’t have the strength to cart a box full of books up those spiral stairs.

Cranwell glanced up from the box. “Basically.” He paused to push up the sleeves of his black boat-neck sweater and then returned his attention to the books.

I looked over his shoulder. A History of Medieval France. Women of the Fifteenth Century. Atlas of the Medieval World. The Church and the State in the Middle Ages. The Hundred Years War. The Economy of Medieval Europe. A History of Costume .

At the least he would be widely read.

Cranwell hefted the box and started up the stairs with it.

Following him halfway up the first spiral, I made sure he didn’t stumble. I may also have been admiring the way his jeans fit and the sheen of his black venetian loafers. “What do you plan on doing with these when you’ve finished with them?”

“Donating them to you.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder at me as he disappeared around the bend.

During October, Cranwell was much more present inside the chateau than he had been in September, although he was never without a book in his hand. Sévérine and I would run into him in all manner of odd places.

One afternoon I found him sprawled on my bed, his back to the door.

I’d just come up from the garden and wanted to take a shower. Good thing I hadn’t started stripping off my mineral blue wool shirt or black flannel work pants; I was used to having my room to myself.

Walking up to him in my stocking feet, I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, I hate to displace you or seem rude in any way, but would you please leave?”

“Hmm?” Cranwell rolled toward me, glancing up from his book over his reading glasses. “I’m sorry?”

“What are you doing in my room?”

He closed his finger in the book, played with the collar of his shirt, and looked around as if mystified. He turned the book over and read the title aloud. “ Fortified Castles of the Middle Ages .”