Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

And so I demanded of him whether there ever was in existence a Saint Ivo.

And he replied to me for certain that there was. But perhaps the horse crossing the bridge was white and not black. And perhaps ten oars were broken in place of twelve. But that it matters not what exact parts of the miracles have been performed, but that they have been performed and witnessed at all.

As I surveyed my verses I reminded myself I spent one hour searching the rhyme for black. And one day to phrase ‘the waves had taken the oars of twelve; then snapped the sticks; left the boat to wend; through the waves, their souls to heaven were giv’n.’ And I looked up from my papers to the bed and found that my lord had risen to stand behind me.

And he says me that I have become too earnest. That the pleasure of a story is in the recounting, in the sound of the words, not in the small details. He says me that I must fit the story to the verse, and not the verse to the story.

That seems to me dishonest, but he demanded of me to try this for one week and then compare the results with what has gone before.

This I agreed to do.

two days after Saint Malo

My lord has rendered me a visit this night. He demanded of me how many verses I have written.

I replied him since, as truth matters not, 479. He looked well pleased, but I tell him this includes the 100 I have written before, and have returned to re-write.

I demanded of him if, in re-telling the stories he has recounted me, this day Arthur King of Bretons might have 100 knights at his great round table in place of the 350 my lord told me before.

He replied to me that this day here, he might even have just 12.

I demanded of him if in re-telling the story of Arthur fighting the Saxons, whether this day there might be 60,000 Saxons instead of 50,000.

He replied to me that this day here, there might even have been 100,000.

I demanded of him if in recounting the story of Arthur being cured by Guenievre whether she might have dark hair and high color of her skin.

At this, he replied to me that some elements in stories must never change. And Guenievre must always be fair. That beauty like hers and like mine is an idée fixe that must remain no matter who will tell the story.

day of Noël

We went to mass this night. Anne had fear on the way and says me that she did not leave the door open.

I explained to her that this does nothing. It is superstition. As well, the ghosts, the beasts that talk, and the trees which flower at midnight.

I could see she believed me not, but kept her fear.

day of the new year

Save Noël, this month has passed in mist. I must have taken food, for I am not faint; and I must have taken sleep, for I do not have sleepiness, but I remember having done nothing but write. I have finished this day the mystery. I think there are some verses which are very beautiful. I think there are other verses which are quite dull. And I think that were St. Ivo to hear it, he would not even guess the subject of this mystery. I will give this to my lord and he will decide whether it must be given to the priest.

one day after Epiphanie

My lord has rendered me a visit this night. And with him, the mystery. He recounted to me the story of I-do-not-recall-whom who did I-do-nor-recall-what. I had no concentration for the words or the story. I only wished to know what my lord has thought of the mystery.

And then he demanded of me what I must reply to his story.

And I tell him that, as I know now his secret, which must be to lie at every instance, that I cannot reply to him since I know not that it even is the real story. This story might, when told in truth be a different one altogether.

At this, he made to leave the bed, with my mystery in his hand, but I ran to his side and begged him to stay and to tell me what he has thought of the mystery.

He says me that he found it very nicely done and that I might make of myself a Breton after all.

And I demanded of him will he show it to the priest.

And he replied to me that he will. If I will come with him.

And we agreed to do this tomorrow.

two days after Epiphanie

This day I went with my lord to give the mystery to the priest.

My lord explained to him that I had it written with hopes that it might be performed at services of Easter.

The priest has agreed to read the mystery.

four days before Sainte Agnès

This day I went with my lord to demand of the priest what he has thought of the mystery.

It lay in disarray upon his desk, the pages spotted with candle wax and marked with grease.

He first disparaged the verses as being too full of fancy, the life of St. Ivo portrayed as though a romance.

My lord remembered to him that a mystery is performed as a drama and to convey the emotions, they must by times be overwrought.

The priest then replied to him that the length is too long, that the peasants would find sleep before they found the end of the mystery.

My lord replied to him that many villages enact the entire life of Christ, which must take more than one day, and no one ever has complaints.

Finally, the priest replied to him that he cannot accept a work written by a woman. That mysteries of the spirit are better worked out by men.

I could see the jaw of my lord clench and I had fear for what words he might speak, but then he spoke no words at all, only held out his hands for the pages.

The priest these gathered and placed in the hands of my lord.

And on leaving, my lord told him that sorry he was the mystery was not received, for it was he, my lord, who had it written. And that he had feared the verses were not well made, and so I had agreed to claim them as my own.

On hearing this, the priest took the pages from my lord and clutched them to his chest and made much over their loveliness. Their perfectness. Their form.

My lord placed a hand on my arm to keep me from leaving until the priest had agreed to choose fifty persons to enact the mystery on Easter Day.

On the return, my lord demanded my pardon for claiming the mystery for his own.

I replied to him that I understood the why of what he had done and I thanked him. For had he not claimed it, the mystery would never have been heard. By any.

And he recalled to me that in all cases, it is for God the glory of such a work and not man.

And this I know, and this I had intended, but it does not make the offense seem any less.

C ranwell was talking to me about Alix’s journals. I hadn’t read them myself, but apparently, if Sévérine’s translations were correct, for the first three years, Alix had been a neglected wife.

“Not abused.” Cranwell put down his fork of joue de lotte fish and leaned toward me to emphasize the point. “Neglected. Her husband didn’t even consummate the marriage.”

I fixed the appropriate shocked look on my face that Cranwell seemed to expect. Personally, I was all for Alix’s husband. They married when she was thirteen and he was thirty.

Trying to focus on what Cranwell was saying, I tore my thoughts from the barbarity of the Middle Ages. I found myself looking at the slight wave in his hair, wondering if Sévérine liked to push her fingers through it. My eyes strayed to the top button of his navy cashmere polo. I could just imagine Sévérine undoing that button, and the next, and pushing the sweater up over his shoulders…

“And then she grew up.”

Men! It all had to do with looks. Of course Alix’s husband hadn’t been interested in her. At least not until she grew breasts and hips and obtained the allure of an adult. Men are pigs. I glanced down at the low square neckline of my hyacinth blue jersey shirt, making certain it hadn’t slid too far down my chest.