Bright Hair About the Bone

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Not sure…No…I’ve seen lots of similar pictures but not this one.”

  Letty studied the image with the attention it compelled, astonished and wondering. Her first impression was that the style was very ancient. Madonna and Child. Byzantine? Yes, perhaps. The rounded and youthful face was almond-eyed with clear dark brows; the mouth had the slight pout of a mother who has just kissed her baby and is about to kiss him again. The nose was long and narrow. The line of her smooth chin was interrupted by the chubby right hand of her son, who grasped it in the centre—a gesture so natural and affectionate that it brought tears to Letty’s eyes. The left hand of the small boy tugged playfully at a fold of the robe hanging at his mother’s neck. Surely a painting done from life? The gestures were completely unstudied and accurately observed.

  But it was the colours that drew and held the eye. The background was a wash of gold; a blue robe covered the girl from her head, hanging down in folds, with wide sleeves showing an underdress of gold and pink. The sun streamed through a lighter, silvery patch on Mary’s right shoulder, highlighting a single emblem. Letty moved closer and peered, trying to identify it.

  Following her gaze, Marie-Louise whispered: “Six petals. It’s a rose. Mary’s emblem.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Letty. “Those aren’t petals! Too narrow. It’s a star. A six-pointed star.”

  “You don’t know the story, do you?”

  Letty shook her head.

  “You must have heard of Bernadette Soubirous?”

  “Who hasn’t? If you mean the little country girl who claimed to have seen visions of the Virgin Mary in a grotto at Lourdes and dug up a spring reputed to have healing powers.”

  “Yes, that Bernadette. When she grew up she went to live with the Carmelite nuns in Nevers, and when asked why she refused all pictures of the Holy Mother with which she could have decorated her cell, she maintained that none of them looked remotely like the Lady she’d seen at Lourdes. She never called her the Virgin, or Madonna—always the Lady,” Marie-Louise added thoughtfully. “And, one day, she was offered a fresh image. It was a copy of a famous icon from the cathedral in Cambrai. Bernadette accepted it at once, saying: ‘This is her! This is the Lady I saw!’

  “And now you are seeing her. The Madonna,” Marie-Louise said with the warmth and formality of one making an introduction. She was clearly looking for an appropriate reaction from the silent Laetitia.

  As no words would come, Letty made the sign of the cross and gazed back in unfeigned admiration at the picture. This was not the place; this was not the companion with whom she could air her thoughts.

  “This is a version in glass of that image in Cambrai. And, Stella, the fascinating thing is—the original icon, which is quite small”—she sketched out with her hands a size a little larger than a sheet of foolscap paper—“came to France in…oh…1400 and something…from Byzantium. But before it fetched up there, it’s said, it came from the Holy Land and was painted by Saint Luke himself! What do you think of that?”

  Laetitia truly thought she’d recognised, in the slightly unfocused gaze and the gestures of maternal pride, an enduring image, a universal image. Mary, certainly. But also Isis or any one of man’s visions of the Goddess-Mother.

  “I believe it all,” said Letty, smiling. “Whoever painted her and whoever she is, for me she’s the Virgin, the Mother. I feel I’ve met her and yet she’s inspiring and imposing. Wonderful!”

  Marie-Louise appeared pleased with the reaction. She went to repeat her curtsey, murmured a prayer before Mary Magdalene, and then settled on one of the green chairs in front of the altar to look around her again.

  The Good Catholic, then, appeared to have given the chapel her approval. Staring ahead at the expanse of the eastern wall beyond the altar, Laetitia wondered if her friend had responded too swiftly. Perhaps there was a third window piercing the white-painted stone wall? One certainly looked for an image of some significance in that place. Difficult to judge, since a linen curtain hanging from a black iron pole had been drawn across the entire wall. If there was a stained glass offering behind it, the effect must be very spectacular speared by morning light, Letty thought. She joined Marie-Louise and, head bowed, went through her familiar routine when praying by herself in French churches. She found, with some surprise, that she was offering up a prayer, a request for indulgence for William Gunning.

  Raising her head when she thought Marie-Louise had finished her devotions, she gave her a gentle nudge. It was difficult to speak out loud and her voice came in a whisper. “Look behind the altar, Marie-Louise. What do you suppose that curtain conceals? Do you think we could take a peek? I should like to. The other two windows are truly lovely and the third, if there is one, is in pride of place and probably even more spectacular. It must be well worth seeing.”

  Receiving a doubtful nod as assent, Letty moved forward and pulled on a fold of the curtain. Light poured into the chapel as she tugged it clear of the window it had been hiding, and she was aware of puzzlement on Marie-Louise’s face. Moving back to get the window in focus, she sat down again by her side.

  “But what is this?” Marie-Louise hissed. “I’m not sure what I was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn’t this! I don’t understand. Are we to imagine ourselves at Eleusis? Did the priests not close the Ceremony of the Mysteries in ancient Athens with just such a piece of nonsense?” She stirred uneasily, glancing to right and left, calming her doubts with the comforting familiar presence of the two Marys. “An ear of wheat? Just an ear of wheat? Are we supposed to be impressed? I’ve seen more impressive symbols in a baker’s shop! And what is that framework surrounding it meant to represent?”

  Almost equally puzzled, Letty considered the window. Plain uncoloured glass for the most part, a dash of colour had been inserted towards the centre. A circular maze, delicately etched and tinted black, swirled in a continuous line around an open space. And in the centre was shown, in gold, the offending single ear of wheat.

  “It looks very simple,” she agreed. “All that plain glass…it’s almost like a marker, a stopgap, holding the space for something more important to come. Striking, though, what there is of it.”

  “Well, I think it’s disappointing but at least it’s not a pentangle.” Marie-Louise crossed herself hurriedly as the last word slipped out.

  “And I’ll tell you what else is missing,” said Letty, “from our shopping list of religious arcana. Crucifixes. Not one, right way up or otherwise.”

  Marie-Louise crossed herself again at the glancing reference to Satanism and said uncomfortably, “Can we leave now, Stella? I’m pleased to have seen Mary, but there’s really not a lot more here to claim the attention, is there?”

  As they walked back down the corridor, Letty pursued her theories. “All the same, the similarity with the cathedral at Chartres is striking, you know. No crucifixion scenes to be seen there, either—nor, I believe, in any of the Gothic cathedrals which shot up all over northern France in so short a time. And they were all rather bare of ornament originally and soaring like a symphony. When I was small, and left sitting by myself in the cathedral, I used to think that if I struck one of the columns with a tuning fork, the whole building would sing to me. I had much the same feeling in that chapel. And the maze…there is a maze on the floor in Chartres. I’ve walked it many times.”

  All this cathedral lore seemed to be soothing Marie-Louise.

  “I’m sure there was no pagan undertone,” said Letty. “Just a nod to the Burgundian way of life. I expect the architect dissuaded Hippolyte from putting a stallion argent passant up there and the wheat was no doubt a concession. It could just as easily have been a bunch of grapes or a vine leaf or two, but I suppose that would have struck a wrong Dionysian note. At least there are frequent references to wheat in the Bible—all that sowing and reaping and falling on hard ground.”

  “Well, anyhow,” Marie-Louise said, shrugging, “there was something about it…It wasn’t Roman Catholic.”


  “With the Blessed VM well to the fore?” said Letty. “You can’t get more Catholic than that. And la Madeleine, the local patron saint, backing up on the right flank?”

  “But I didn’t quite feel easy there.”

  “No. I have to say it: nor did I,” Letty admitted. “But then, we were interlopers. It’s a family place and we ought not to have been there. But—tell you what—there is a place we will feel welcome. We’ve got bags of time before supper and our road home’s all downhill…would you like to inspect the stables before we leave?” She was eager to take a fresh look at the building in the light of the revelation in the portrait. “And there’s something special to show you,” she added, remembering.

  Marie-Louise pulled a face. “Oh, would you mind if we didn’t? I don’t care for horses very much.” And, catching Letty’s disappointment, hurried to add, “Oh, but I would be interested to see the architecture.”

  They crunched over the gravel and stood in front of the symmetrical façade, looking up at the carved relief of silver-haired Epona above the arched entrance.

  “‘Vera dea,’” commented Marie-Louise. “The true goddess. And I expect the rest of the building is a shrine to her. Ça alors! Nothing but the best for the horses! There are people in the town who have much less opulent accommodation.”

  Before they started their tour of the stables, Letty looked in on Bella and her single remaining pup. To her joy, both animals came fussing forward to greet her. Marie-Louise was less enchanted. “Ah. Dogs. I don’t mind dogs. Those are pretty.”

  She paid little attention to the horses themselves, seeming even to have for them an aversion she was trying to conceal behind an over-bright reading out of their names from the brass plates fixed over their stalls. She kept well clear of the bumping rear ends and watched carefully where she put her feet. “How many can one man need?” she said critically. “But at least I suppose they provide employment,” she conceded, watching as a groom came in whistling, greeted Letty, and began to attend to a chestnut hunter.

  “Oh, Marcel!” said Letty. “I wonder if you’ve made arrangements for Dido tomorrow? I understand there are going to be fireworks let off in the evening. I wouldn’t want her to be alarmed and dash around damaging herself again just when she’s so nicely healed.”

  “All’s in hand, Miss.” The countryman grinned with pleasure, eager to speak to her. “We’ll get ’er in from the pasture long before the junketing starts.” He rolled his eyes. “The Saint Jean! It’s likely to get a bit lively, like! And how that do go on! Begging your pardon, Miss, but I said young Robert could go down to town and take a look around. He’s still of bonfire-leaping age and unattached as yet. The count usually gives permission. There’ll be two lads on duty here just to quieten any nerves. As per usual.”

  “Then I’m sure that will be fine, Marcel,” said Letty, bemused. “Carry on. Bath time, is it?”

  “That’s right. He’s been rolling in something nasty.”

  “Where’s he taking that animal?” Marie-Louise asked.

  “To have a bath,” said Letty, enjoying her surprise. “Oh, yes, they have their own bath! Well, washing pond—there’s a reservoir a short way down the hill to feed it.”

  “And their own piped water supply, I see,” said Marie-Louise, eyeing a water basin and brass tap.

  “Horses need a lot of water—they’re not happy to guzzle champagne like their master.” Letty was getting a bit fed up with Marie-Louise’s socialist slant and critical eye.

  “Sorry! This is all fresh and strange to me!” she said, tuning at once to Letty’s mood. “Do go on—I’m enjoying the tour. Tell me—how many grooms work here?” she asked, struggling to show interest.

  “There are three at the moment, more in the high season. And there’s Jules, who’s usually in charge, but he’s away in Lyon with the boss.”

  “I see. And over there?” she asked, pointing towards the door at the end of the run of stalls. “Is that where the grooms live? Does he make the men live with the horses?”

  “No. They have their quarters over in a wing of the main house. This is the harness room.” Letty unlocked the solid oak door and Marie-Louise poked her head around and then entered.

  “Ah! At last a room I can enjoy,” she said, sniffing appreciatively the scents of leather and cedarwood, approving the neatness and order. Glass-fronted cupboards held saddles in rows; pieces of metal harness were arranged on felt-backed boards fixed to the panelled walls; polished riding boots stood lined up, toes outwards; and a row of wild boars’ heads glared down at them with small savage eyes.

  But it was the wall backing up to the natural rock outcrop that encircled and defended the castle promontory that was drawing Letty. While wishing Marie-Louise and her iconoclastic eye a thousand miles away, she had to feel grateful to the girl for spotting the marker in the portrait: the second escutcheon, clearly indicating a place of interest—the place to which Daniel had been directing her all along. Letty paused and looked around to get her bearings, recalling the position of the escutcheon, and then she strolled along until she reached the spot where she calculated it would have appeared, halfway along the stalls and opposite the main entrance. And she saw there another sign so clear, so obvious, that for a moment she stood, frozen and staring.

  Marie-Louise’s voice over her shoulder made her jump. “Is she special?” she asked. “This horse? The pretty white one.”

  “Grey,” said Letty automatically.

  “Nonsense. She’s pure white. What’s her name? What do you bet it’s ‘Snowflake’?” She peered into the stall which occupied the exact halfway point along the row and put out a hesitant hand to pat the silken flank of the mare, standing quiet and unthreatening. She read with some difficulty. “Ah! We’d lose our bet. It appears to be ‘Eponina.’ Daughter of Epona…well, what else?”

  The lettering was florid, curlicued—of a bygone age. The brass name plate was so well polished, the letters were barely discernible. Probably of the same age as the stables, Letty guessed. And it looked unchanged. It occurred to her that every horse occupying that stall must have answered to the name of “Eponina.” A long tradition of white mares? All the guardians of the goddess? Vera dea celatur equis suis. The true goddess is concealed by her horses.

  A rush of frustration and longing swept over Letty. “Edmond! Where are you? You should be here. Now.”

  Her fingers closed over the notebook in her pocket.

  “Supper calls, I think. We’ll just let Mme. Lepage know that we’re leaving now.”

  Letty led the way back into the château and along to the summer salon, where she rang the bell for the housekeeper. Letty thanked her for the excellent tea. “We were particularly taken with the cake, madame. The quatre-quarts? Delicious! Your own recipe?”

  “One I inherited from my grandmother, mademoiselle. But it is simple: a question of the best ingredients—eggs and butter straight from the home farm—and the exactness of the quantities.”

  “Is it a secret or could you bear to give me the recipe? I should like to have a copy for my cook in England.”

  At Mme. Lepage’s nodding consent, she tore a page from her notebook and handed it to Marie-Louise with a stub of pencil. “Look—why doesn’t the teacher take dictation for a change? Would you mind, Marie-Louise? I’ve remembered I promised to telephone Edmond to reassure him about Dido’s condition. I’ll dash down to the library and do that now. Oh, and while I’m at it—why don’t I ring your father and tell him we’ll be a little late for supper? What’s your number?…Write it down here…Thanks…Be back in a tick.”

  Letty smiled as she closed the door on Madame Lepage’s authoritative voice. “Take six eggs and their weight in butter…”

  CHAPTER 32

  “Let me have men about me that are fat;”

  D’Aubec recalled with an effort the few lines of the one play of Shakespeare’s that he admired.

  “Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’nights;
>
  Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look;

  He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.”

  But just for once, Julius Caesar had it wrong, he thought, looking at the selection around the conference table. The two politicians would have found favour with Caesar, certainly. At first appearances, they had the comfortable fleshiness of the bons vivants they undoubtedly were, but their lapdog sleekness was deceptive. One French senator, one German—a disaffected member of the Weimar Republican government—it was hard to distinguish one from the other. Their eyes were shrewd and now, at the end of a gruelling two-hour session, remained alert. D’Aubec trusted neither one outside the limit of the control he exercised. The two reins of ambition and coercion that he held in his hands seemed to keep them on track. The pair of industrialists, however, had the rangy twitchiness of wolves. He didn’t trust them, either. “Cassius” and “Casca,” he named them privately. Just as well he had his own special means of ensuring their loyalty.

  He disliked the pair of them but agreed with Constantine that they had much to offer. He recognised that the war could have been won three years earlier by the allies, had not the German cause been saved by—of all men—a chemist. Not a general, not a politician, not even an assassin. By unravelling the threads and tracing them back, he and Constantine had arrived at a point early in the war when it was clear that the lives of millions hung on the discovery of one man. If a man called Haber had not found out how to synthesise ammonia, German supplies of nitrate, essential for the production of explosives, would have run out as a consequence of the British blockade and their army would have been obliged to put up its hands in short order. No Somme. No Verdun. No Ypres.

  And here at his table was another of these modern magicians: a chemist, German-born, distinguished, sought after by many nations. Tipped to receive the Nobel Prize, d’Aubec was assured. A man of exceptional ability, conscienceless, ambitious, he was tireless in the quest he had pursued since before the war. This was no less than to produce industrially a highly toxic acid which would prove a more reliable and effective weapon than the chlorine gas the German army had uncorked at Ypres. A gas dependent on wind for dispersal, the armies had realised, was uncertain, and the prevailing wind on the battlefield, on two days out of three, blew from west to east. Unfortunately, the day Edmond’s brother Guy had been sent to the trenches had been a third day.