Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

Agnès says me that I must take interest in the affairs of the house. A good wife is certain that things are managed according to the desires of her husband.

I replied to Agnès that as Anne has managed these past years, she must know what my lord requires. Far better for her to plan the feast than for me to plan and have it disappoint my lord, the comte.

one day after Saint Hilaire

My lord finished his story from three months past: soon after Arthur became King of Bretons, Marzin the Magician tells him that the Saxons have come to take the land of the giant Gogvran Gaor. As Arthur comes to help Gogvran Gaor, Marziri suggests to Arthur to attack first.

The lady of Gogvran Gaor and her daughters watch the battle which follows from the safety of the chateau. The fight is long and very bloody, and at one point, Gogvran Gaor is taken by the Saxons. Arthur, seeing this, plunges into the middle of the battle, overtaking the Saxon lord and rescuing the chevalier. When the Saxons have seen this, they lose their morale, gather their men, and draw back, leaving the lands of Gogvran Gaor.

Arthur is carried back to the chateau of the giant by his army, much wounded and in danger of death. The oldest daughter of Gogvran Gaor, Guenievre, commands that all leave the presence of Arthur and allows no person but herself to aid him.

My lord says me that Guenievre means White Ghost. She is so fair she is said to glow in the moonlight, her step is so soft it is said that none can hear it, and her voice so low it is said that it sounds like the call of a bird in the night. She is the girl the most kind of all the world. Her touch is so cool it gives life to Arthur as a spring in the middle of the forest.

Gogvran says to Arthur that he is happy to have as a son-in-law the man who has saved him from death, even though he has not yet been told the identity of this man.

At this moment here, Marzin says to Gogvran Gaor that the name of this man is Arthur, King of Bretons, and son of the great king Uther.

The marriage takes place the next month, and all the world has never been so happy.

I told my lord that Gogvran Gaor was a generous man to give his oldest daughter to Arthur, thinking him just a brave peasant; the chevalier might have given Arthur gold or silver in her stead.

My lord replied to me that sometimes daughters, and sisters, are more dear to men than riches.

T he first day of November came cold and clear. It served to magnify the barren trees against the sky, and the dusting of frost over the dead grasses highlighted the hardness of the ground. It was entirely appropriate for Toussaint . All Saint’s Day. A day for remembering the dead.

I didn’t like Toussaint . I didn’t know what to do on it.

My memories of Peter were private. I had mourned. I had worked through all the cycles of my grief. He would always be a part of me, for the person I am is due, in large part, to him.

I didn’t know what to do on Toussaint because he was buried in a family plot in Massachusetts. I had no grave to visit, no place to leave flowers. But I felt guilty if I didn’t do something in his memory. So in the past, I had honored his memory by making his favorite meal: clam chowder and sourdough bread.

The only problem with that ritual was that I happened to hate clam chowder, and I much preferred a normal baguette to sourdough. My heart just wasn’t in it.

I pulled on my checkered pants and tank top and lumbered down the stairs to the kitchen. I made the breads in autopilot and sipped my morning espresso without enjoying it.

What would Peter have done if the situation were reversed?

I tried to picture him, tried to imagine where he would be were he still alive. He certainly wouldn’t have given his whole day over to morose thoughts of me. He probably would have done something I’d liked to do. Read my favorite poem, drunk a glass of my favorite wine in toast to me. Something of that sort.

So why did I feel the need to make a crock of clam chowder that I’d never eat?

Rousing myself from the stool where I was sitting, I grabbed a bottle of Bushmill’s, Peter’s favorite whiskey, and a shot glass and marched up the stairs.

I flung open the door to my room and stood in front of the picture of Peter that graced my night table.

After pouring a shot of whiskey, I raised the glass in his memory. As I downed the shot, a ray of sunlight fell directly on the photo. I’d done the right thing.

Satisfied, I started toward the kitchen, but I ran into Cranwell and Lucy on the stairs.

“That bad a day already?” Cranwell was eying the bottle of Bushmill’s I held in my hand.

“It’s Toussaint.”

“Oh.” Cranwell left it at that. At least with me. I heard him later that evening asking Sévérine about it.

“Have you heard of Tucson?”

“ Toussaint ? Yes. It is the first day of November. The English call it the day of All Saints. In France this is the day to remind us of the dead. We visit cemeteries if we live not so far away, and we clean tombs and leave flowers. Chrysanthemums.”

I went to bed early.

I heard a soft knock on my door after I had turned out my light. I was wearing a silk chemise and didn’t even think of throwing on a robe until after I had reached the door.

I turned the handle and opened it, using the door to shield my body.

It was Cranwell. He was in his silk pajamas and was shifting his weight between his bare feet. He looked about ten years old.

“I’m sorry. About the whiskey crack.”

“That’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“No, but I do know you.”

“I had a drink in his memory. One. Bushmill’s was his favorite.”

“I just wanted you to know that I was sorry” He turned to leave, but I came out from behind the door and placed a hand on his forearm.

“Thanks.”

He put a hand over mine and squeezed it, clearing his throat as if to say something.

I waited.

His eyes searching mine made me aware of how little I was wearing.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Freddie.”

Cranwell’s public reading tapered off, but he’d started asking questions. Lots of questions. He was no longer looking for facts, but rather for opinions. The topics ran the gamut from politics to gender. And they were not always the easiest to answer.

He caught me at work in the garden one overcast, gusty afternoon, as I was tidying it up for winter. The gusts kept catching the tail of my gray plaid wool shirt, trying to pull it over my head. Thankfully my black wool turtleneck and trousers kept the bite of the wind from my body. And the thick gray stocking cap jammed over my braided hair trapped my body heat. But clouds were beginning to scour the steel-colored sky, and I was in a hurry; it felt like the onslaught of the first winter storm.

“Freddie, pretend you were married in the Middle Ages at the age of thirteen. What would you have taken with you when you left home?”

“At thirteen? That’s asking for a lot of imagination.” Not to mention a lot of thought. And that’s something I didn’t really have time for. The wool of my hat was making me itch. I tried to scratch through the wool yarn, but I only succeeded in smearing mud across my forehead.

He squatted beside me, in blatant disregard of his mulberry cashmere sweater, pleated pants, and five-hundred-dollar driving moccasins. He casually took a handkerchief from his pocket, hooked a finger around my chin to turn it toward him, and wiped the mud away. Then he began to help me pull up the few weeds that had lingered after the frost. Wouldn’t you know he’d be the type to carry a handkerchief?

“Really Freddie, what would you take?”