Bright Hair About the Bone

by Barbara Cleverly

  Letty was glad to remain silently in the background, lost in her own turmoil, while they discussed the details of the business deal. Mother and son laughed together in a self-congratulatory way.

  “You’ll soon have those rose diamonds, Maman!”

  “Like a pair of pirates,” Letty thought, “gloating over their loot! How many more jewels does the countess need?” and she busied herself with the teapot, suddenly out of place in their company. In an instant the goodwill and—yes—friendship they had built up over the past weeks had dissolved.

  After tea Edmond excused himself and Letty started off for the library. In the quiet room she had the time she needed to order her thoughts and adjust her expression before d’Aubec appeared. Now in box-cloth trousers and soft shirt, he looked much more like the man she had grown close to over the last days. “That’s better! I was a bit overawed when you looked as though you meant business!”

  He used her sudden warmth towards him to lean over and kiss her cheek lightly before settling at the table. More disturbed than she was ready to admit, Letty fell silent, unexpectedly sad that the closeness that had developed between them was about to be cut short. Had he any suspicion of his mother’s insane schemes? Catching her speculative glance, he grinned and winked, fidgeted in his pocket, and held out his hand across the table.

  “I wasn’t so busy in Lyon I didn’t have time to do a bit of shopping! I had you in my mind all the time, and, I regret to say, a goofy grin on my face. Disastrous! André must have wondered what was wrong with me. I let him get away with far too low a price. But I bought you a present. Something you’ll like!”

  Letty tensed, then held out her right hand, preparing an embarrassed refusal. But no jeweller’s box with winking diamond ring or pearl necklace was on offer. She stared in surprise at the cellophane-wrapped confectioner’s package.

  “Nougat! With almonds! From Montélimar! My favourite. Oh, thank you, Edmond.”

  Well, this answered her question. The count was not a man to do his wooing with a lump of nougat. She began to suspect that young Edmond had no idea of the fate being proposed for him.

  It was seven o’clock and the day still brilliant when she closed the last of the notebooks. “Well, there we are. It’s finished. Just one puzzle remaining, I think. One document I can’t account for: this one from 1810 or thereabouts. Any idea what it means? Does it mean anything? It seems to be sketches and a summary of works to be carried out here at the château…after the return of the family from exile in England. Part of the statement of re-possession, I would expect. Rather grand plans for the stable building and the chapel…very specific…drawn up by an architect, I’d say, judging from the phrasing. And, here at the bottom, in flowing script—in a different hand from the bureaucratic one that drew up the body of the document, I think—there’s a sentence that doesn’t fit with the foregoing specification.” She pointed it out.

  “Looks like a doodle,” said Edmond, intrigued. “You know…boring meeting…‘Let’s all look at note twenty-seven subsection eight, shall we? Can the architect please elucidate…’ Yawn, yawn. Scribble, scribble. Impressive handwriting, though. Could it be a quotation? Seems to be in old French—the spelling’s old even for the nineteenth century.”

  “Daniel seems to have thought the same,” said Letty. “Look here, I’ve found another sheet in his handwriting where he seems to have been working out a translation. Surely this is a commentary, don’t you think?” She read out a sentence: “‘With the Lady of Ancient Days lie the worldly belongings of our Holy Queen.’”

  “‘Holy Queen’? Well, that will be ‘Notre Dame’—Our Lady, the Virgin Mary, patron saint of the abbey and her ‘worldly belongings’…? Check the French. It does say ‘belongings,’ does it? Not ‘remains’? Les biens temporels. Hmm…yes…well, only Our Lady would, by extension, be regarded as the guardian of the abbey treasure—that could be regarded as ‘earthly’ all right.” Edmond tried to keep a rising excitement out of his voice. “But don’t forget that the town is called Fontigny Sainte-Reine—‘Holy Queen’—another and probably much earlier reference to Mary.”

  “Wait a moment, Edmond. Abbey treasure, did you say?”

  “Ah. Just another of our Burgundian tales.” According to tradition, the citizens didn’t just sit about waiting for the arrival of Napoleon’s wrecking crews. The precious and movable elements of the abbey’s riches disappeared. It had been the wealthiest monastic establishment in Europe—its abbots lived like princes and were often criticised for their fondness for precious objects and high living. By the sixteenth century, though, the abbey was already in decline, and I really doubt there was much left to pillage by the end of the eighteenth.

  “But who knows what the attics and cellars of the town conceal? Pieces do pop out from cover every once in a while. There’s a well-known local story that there are quantities of gold and silver work hidden away somewhere in the vicinity. There isn’t a child in the town who hasn’t dug, in hope, in his father’s back garden. But who’s this other guardian—the ‘Lady of Ancient Days’?” he said. “Never heard of her! Seems to bring us round full circle to our useless old friend Lady Uffington.”

  “Not useless, perhaps. Remember my godfather was writing that postcard to me. I think he was simply directing me here—to the house of d’Aubec. The goddess on horseback is—you say—your coat of arms. Heraldically, she represents you…your possessions…all this. Daniel seems to have been directing me to Brancy.” She paused and, hoping to needle him into an admission of some sort, added: “I can’t imagine why.”

  “No. Irritating, I agree. I do wonder why Daniel couldn’t just have written me a note and left it on the mantelpiece,” said d’Aubec testily. “‘Edmond, old boy, welcome back from Morocco. Now, go and dig in the stables where I’ve chalked a cross on the floor…’ Something of that sort.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Letty. “But he clearly thought leaving notes around the place a dangerous procedure or he would have done that. I’d guess he had his doubts about the staff here. Have you been infiltrated, I wonder, Edmond?” she asked in a teasing voice, hoping to conceal her thoughts. If her godfather had gone to this trouble, perhaps he couldn’t trust d’Aubec himself to do the right thing by his discovery? It was through her he intended to involve the academic world, the solid and impeccably respectable world of the London and Paris museums. And she thought she knew exactly whom to contact when she could get back to London.

  The time had come to tell d’Aubec the truth.

  “Edmond, there is a treasure here. It’s not the obvious kind…jewels secreted in the cellar for centuries and that sort of thing. And we’re not going to be led to the Holy Grail, a piece of the true cross, or any of the other legendary things buried hereabouts. But what we have here in our hands makes my head spin! It’s very, very important. Unique. And much more valuable than any cache of Roman gold!”

  CHAPTER 25

  What can you mean?”

  “These,” she said simply. “The books themselves. You’ve read through some of them without, I think, quite recognising them for what they are. The pile over there—the prayer books and Books of Hours alone—are worth a fortune but it’s these here, the folio vellum manuscripts, that are uniquely valuable. I can hardly believe what I have in my hands!”

  “The folk stories? Delightful, I agree,” he said, uncertain and not quite able to catch her mood.

  “Oh, these are more than folk stories, Edmond! History, philosophy, theology, and magic, and I think I know the source. And it’s the source that’s making me shake with excitement! Have you heard of the stories of the Celts handed down through Welsh and Irish manuscripts? The White Book of Rhydderch…the poets of Munster…we even know some of their names. They had a rich mythology pre-dating Christianity, and so important was it to these people that it was preserved and passed on orally, to be finally—thank God!—written down by those literate Christian monks who clung to existence in a hostile environment.
Perched on sea-swept cliffs, islands in the Atlantic…at the mercy of Viking raiders…” D’Aubec was smiling at her enthusiasm, but she pressed on. “They took the trouble to record the stories. They must, most of them, have grown up listening to them, hearing them as we hear nursery rhymes. The earliest of the Irish sagas hark back to a time when their god-like ancestors were in possession of the island. They called them the Tuatha Dé Danaan—the tribes of the Goddess Danae.”

  “Danae? Should I have heard of her?”

  “One of the ancient names for the Mother Goddess.”

  “And what has this to do with the monks of Fontigny?”

  “The same scene. The monks could write. It’s as simple as that. The Welsh and Irish culture was preserved, though sketchily, and is available to us, but it’s always been thought that no trace remained of the Celts of old Gaul. And that is a tremendous loss, as this country was the centre of their culture, according to scholars, including Father Anselme.”

  “Culture, you say? But weren’t the Celts a warrior society—bands of barbarians—and not too concerned with the finer qualities of life? The classical writers are silent on the more civilised aspects of their society, aren’t they?”

  “Of course. They did what victors always do—they undervalued the opposition and edited out of their accounts any reference to creativity and culture. Though they do stress the courage and fighting skills of the enemies of Rome. They were afraid of these huge, fair, tattooed men who charged naked into battle. And these warriors harried the classical world mercilessly; they got as far south as Delphi and sacked Rome itself. No wonder they became stereotypical bogeymen for the classical writers. But they had, we’re beginning to discover, a very fine side to their nature. Their metal-working shows an artistic flair far more impressive than that of the classical world to some eyes—certainly to mine. They had a high culture of religious belief and a developed literature. We don’t know exactly where their origins are, but the foundations of their society may well have been laid two thousand years B.C. They pre-date the Romans.”

  “Does Caesar have a view?”

  “He certainly does! A rather close-up view. He killed a million of them. He confronted Vercingetorix of the Aedui tribe in pitched battle at Alésia not so far from here, and he could well have lost. But he too prefers to restrict his comments to the Celts’ behaviour on the battlefield. The more formidable he makes them appear, the greater his own achievement, of course. He does, however, mention their religion, and is one of our main sources of information on the druids, who controlled the lives of the Celtic tribes. We know tantalisingly little about these gentlemen.”

  “The druids? Their priesthood, you mean?”

  “More than that. They were the practitioners of the religion, certainly, but much else. They were the lawgivers, the doctors, the bards, the intellectual force of the society. It took twenty years of learning to become a druid. Children would be sent away for training, to acquire the ancient lore and the facility to recite it. Yes, recite. The essence of their culture was passed down by word of mouth. Not a word was written, and that’s a puzzle because the druids did understand Greek and could probably have committed their history and literature and science to vellum or papyrus.”

  “What secrets must have been lost!”

  “We can only guess and regret. In Ireland, there were storytellers, the filíd, who, it’s said, originated in Gaul, and they were a sort of light through the Dark Ages, a bridge, I suppose, between the Celts and the medieval society. They had an immense repertoire—there’s a record in an eighth century text of one of these filíd who was employed by the king of Ulster to recite stories and poems by the fireside in winter, and he was able to keep up the flow from the feast of Samhain to the feast of Beltane. That’s six months! A lot of stories!”

  D’Aubec reached for one of the large leather-backed books and opened it with more than his usual deference. “And you’re telling me that the Gallo-Celtic stories may have been preserved, by word of mouth, over the centuries and lasted until they were finally heard and committed to paper, well, calf-skin, by men who could write and illuminate and who were encouraged to do this by…well, who knows? And I’ve been struggling to read them!” He began to shake with laughter. “I’d like to think it was some remote ancestor of mine who was responsible but that’s probably a romantic idea. Am I holding in my hands something approaching the importance of Homer’s Iliad, do you suppose? Good Lord! No wonder Daniel was getting so agitated! But what exactly do we do now?” He frowned a warning. “They’re not going off to London! Don’t think it!”

  “No,” Letty agreed. “But they must be preserved and translated. There are experts in Paris—I bet you already know some of their names—who would faint with excitement at the idea of getting their hands on them.”

  “Laetitia, will you stay on here?” His tone was formal. “I agree that these books must be published, the knowledge made public. Come and work here full-time on the books. Finish what Daniel started.”

  “Heavens, no! I’m just an enthusiastic amateur. And I’ve been staggering along, following Daniel’s notes. My own knowledge wouldn’t take me to the end of the first page! You must entrust them to a professional. You don’t want me!”

  “But I do want you, Miss Talbot. And you know how spoilt I am—I always get what I want.” He spoke lightly then added, more seriously, “But I do understand what you’re saying. I’ll keep them safe until I can get someone down from Paris.”

  It was still early and Letty would very willingly have gone on talking and speculating about the texts, reading and exchanging ideas, but d’Aubec was beginning to pack up his things and tidy up the piles of books. Sensing her disappointment, he looked at her speculatively for a moment then said, “Why don’t we just leave all this? It’s a wonderful evening and I’ve kept you cruelly cooped up here for nearly two weeks. Let’s have some fresh air. Come to the stables—there’s something I want you to see! Something very special!”

  CHAPTER 26

  He led the way out to the stables and down the long line of stalls until they arrived at Dido’s loose box. The mare snorted gently and slathered his hands with an affectionate and trusting tongue. “There!” he said. “All the dressings are off. She’s healed beautifully and is longing to have some exercise again. Will you ride her to the top of the coach road? I’ll come with you on old Hannibal. He won’t mind going slowly.” Letty was introduced to Hannibal, a blue roan, going over a bit and distinctly past mark of mouth but a noble and friendly animal. D’Aubec called for the chief stable lad, Marcel, who, unusually, was standing in earshot, and told him to saddle up the horses. And then: “Is all in order?” he asked, mysteriously. Marcel gave a conspiratorial nod, grinned at Letty, then went off to see to the horses.

  “What are you two up to?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Preparing another surprise for you! Impossible to offer this one gift-wrapped but I think you’ll be impressed.”

  Edmond took her hands lightly in his and smiled down at her. The dark eyes were full of boyish mischief. Irresistible. She found herself responding with an eager anticipation she couldn’t quite disguise with feeble protests: “Not sure I like surprises…nougat quite enough for one day, surely…”

  “You’re to have a small reward for the hours of work you’ve done on my books. Very small. Tiny!” The smile broadened to a grin. “Now—men ask themselves this all the time: What do you give a girl who has everything? Well, quite obviously—more of what she likes. Come and see!”

  He walked ahead of her to a small room near the entrance, a groom’s quarters, she would have guessed, and opened the door an inch at a time, peering inside. Having spun out the suspense, he flung the door fully open.

  “Here they are!”

  For a moment Letty was speechless, enthralled by the group in the straw that covered the floor. Six large pups were jumping and wriggling, snuffling and annoying beyond reason the mother dog. One little chap headed at once f
or the open door and almost squeezed through before being scooped up by d’Aubec. The mother gave a warning growl and he went to place it with a soothing word back at her side.

  “I’ve never seen anything like them before. What are they? Mongrels?” Letty asked.

  “Certainly not! And you’re lucky to see them at all! The breed very nearly died out in the war. They’re Bergers de Picardie. Herd dogs. Very ancient. Your heroes, the Celts, bred them.”

  Letty tiptoed through the scrambling puppies over to the bitch and introduced herself, talking in a crooning voice and gently offering her hand under the woolly chin. As this was received graciously, she caressed the upright ears, admiring the large black nose and bright eyes watchful behind the tousled mop of face hair. The brindled grey coat, when she was allowed to stroke it, was rough and deep. A dog that would survive well the harsh Burgundy winters.

  “As you see, they’re ready to go out to their new owners,” said d’Aubec. “Poor Bella’s had quite enough of them!”

  “You’ve managed to find good homes for them?”

  “It’s never difficult. Local farmers clamour for them. Five out of the six you see here will be collected tomorrow.”

  “You’re keeping one back for yourself?”

  “No. I want you to have it, Laetitia. A gift. Choose whichever one you like.”

  Letty tried to control her rush of pleasure. “A charming idea, Edmond, but I couldn’t possibly…” But her eyes were already running over the swarm of silky-coated puppies, admiring and assessing.

  “Nonsense! And I’ll bet I can guess which one you’ll choose.” He waited for her to commit herself to a choice but as she still resisted, shaking her head, he pressed her further: “That dark one over there? Yes, he’s the one!”

  “No! You’re wrong! I’d have the intrepid little escaper who got between your feet when you opened the door. Anyone who can see a chance of tripping you up gets my vote!” She leaned into the scrum of puppies and picked up the one she had her eye on. “Fawn with a white front,” she observed. “Ouch! And with very sharp teeth! Strong and spirited. This will be a good dog, Edmond. I’d keep this one, if I were you.”