Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

When I looked back up at Cranwell, I discovered that he’d been doing the same.

He had the grace to look guilty, and he took another swallow of wine.

Refusing to be embarrassed by his transgression, I considered his words. “So she grew up. Most girls do. What was it that caused him to notice?”

“She was mistaken for his cousin. An older man, a count, made a pass at her. And later in the evening, her husband realized that none of the guests was treating her as if she were his wife; they were treating his cousin, Anne, that way. He got angry, and he reminded the guests that Alix was his wife. His lady.”

“Why would that have made him angry? If he wasn’t paying attention to her, why should he care that anyone else wasn’t? That seems completely out of character. You could hardly portray him as a jealous husband.”

“He wasn’t jealous. He was making Alix a player. There were very different ideas of love in the Middle Ages. And strange rules governing how people should act when they were in love.” He reeled off a score of them. Cranwell had a phenomenal memory. “Rules like, he who is not jealous is not in love. One cannot give one’s heart to two women at the same time. No one may be deprived of a loved one without reason. Love is not miserly. A new love chases away the old one. Once love has diminished, then disappeared, it cannot come back. Jealousy makes love grow. Tormented by love, the lover sleeps and eats little. The lover must act while thinking of his beloved. The perfect lover likes only that which pleases his love. The smallest suspicion incites the lover to suspect the worst in his beloved., Nothing stops a woman from being loved by two men or a man from being loved by two women. Love is necessarily adultery. And most of all, the lady of the castle is to be adored by the knights as the perfect woman.”

“So by naming her his lady, he was, by definition, turning his knights’ attention from Anne to Alix.”

“That’s right.”

“But did he do it because he wanted Anne’s attention for himself or because he’d begun to like Alix?”

“At least begun to respect her. Maybe it was because he simply felt the knights’ attention was Alix’s right.”

One of the rules he’d recited earlier had caught my attention. “Why was love assumed to be adulterous?”

“It wasn’t always. Not among the lower classes. There was much more freedom for women of the peasantry to marry whom they wished. But the women of the upper classes were considered property. As property they were bargained for and consigned into marriage. The heart was a separate consideration. Marriage concerned property, love concerned the heart… and fidelity of the heart was never considered part of a marriage contract.”

“How convenient. And by Alix’s own words, she had become a woman?”

Cranwell nodded. “And by her husbands actions, he’d finally noticed. My problem is that I just can’t bring myself to believe she didn’t know anything about what was going on between Anne and Awen.”

“Why should she?”

“Come on, Freddie, they spent so much time together! She reports that herself. How could she not know?”

I shrugged. “Who was going to tell her?”

“Agnès.”

“Her maid is going to tell her that her husband is cheating on her? I don’t think so.”

“It’s not natural to be so naïve. Besides, part of the legality of a marriage involved its consummation. Alix could have had her marriage annulled on that basis alone.”

I thought about that. “Well, from what you’ve told me, I’d bet her father didn’t tell her the facts of life. He probably assumed his wife would do it. But you told me that Alix wasn’t close to her stepmother. The stepmother probably assumed Agnès would do it, but in that period, you’d be as likely to shoot the messenger as not. Besides, by telling her, Agnès would be humiliating her. The only possible person who could have told Alix the facts of life was her husband. And he wasn’t telling.”

“It’s not like it’s any big secret.”

“It would have been to a high-society medieval girl of thirteen.”

“She was sixteen at this point.”

“Men are more experimental. I was a virgin when I married Peter and-”

“You were a virgin?”

“Yes.”

“You mean you didn’t have sex? Not even while you were engaged?”

“That would be the definition of virgin, wouldn’t it?”

“Not even-”

“No.”

His fingers were fingering the collar of his polo sweater. “Why not?”

“You know, Cranwell, virginity used to be the default condition of a woman. Unless she were married. And I am not one of your actresses or models.”

He must have seen how irritated I was becoming because he dropped it, although I saw him shoot a look at me from under his eyebrows.

Ignoring him, I continued with my argument. “So, yes, it is entirely possible that Alix had no idea what sex was about.”

After clearing our dinner dishes, I retrieved the crème caramels from the refrigerator. The dessert was a custard, typical of what a French grandmother might have served in the 1950s. It was nothing fancy, but sometimes I had a craving for plain, homegrown food.

I put a ramekin in front of Cranwell and set one at my own place, then I turned on the espresso-maker.

“So Peter’s the only man you’ve ever been with?”

I turned to face him with a hand on my hip. “And when did this become your business?” Yes. Peter was the only man I’d ever been with.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just so interesting.” There he went again, his fingers toying with his collar.

“Don’t you mean quaint?”

“No, I mean interesting. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“Exhibit three-virgin girl in natural habitat.”

“Don’t make fun of yourself.”

“Cranwell, enough has been said.”

“Okay. Fine.” He held up his hands in surrender and then picked up a spoon and dug into dessert.

The next morning, I delivered Cranwell his breakfast, the way I usually do. I plunked a cube of sugar into his espresso and handed him the cup. He took it from me, set it down, and then put a hand on my arm.

“Freddie, have I done something to make you upset with me?”

He had no idea. If he hadn’t safely stowed his espresso on the opposite side of the table, I would have doused him with it.

Smiling was difficult. “Why do you ask that?”

“You haven’t been… you lately. I miss the time we spend together. I miss you.”

Cranwell, you have a funny way of showing it, sleeping with Sévérine. “I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Are you sure? If there’s anything…?”

Well, now that you mention it, could you keep your pants zipped? The problem with me is that I never say what’s on my mind. “No, there’s nothing.”

That weekend, we had guests. Friends of Cranwell’s under the auspices of his Freddie Improvement Project. When they pulled up the drive in a limousine, and I saw the chauffeur hand them out of the car, my eyes must have popped out of my head.

Cranwell was halfway out the door and had raised a hand in greeting when I grabbed ahold of his shirt and yanked him back beside me.

“You might have warned me.”

“About what?”

If looks could kill, Cranwell would have been drawn and quartered that very instant.

“About the bowing and scraping I’d have to do. I would have said no.”

“Then you would have missed out on becoming acquainted with some very charming people.” Cranwell’s eyes swept from mine to the couple now ascending the steps. He lifted a hand in welcome.

“You’re an American. You can be forgiven for your uncouth behavior,” I whispered. “I have to live here. Do you even know the protocol involved in hosting someone of royal blood?”