“It was the great King Louis XI who helped the Swiss kill Charles, the last of the Valois dukes, and thus restored Burgundy to France.”
She certainly knew her history.
“Jeanne, why does it matter to you so much – because of Joan?”
“Of course. I told you that her spirit possesses me. Joan hated the Burgundians, traitors to the true kings of France. She has never forgiven them.”
Has? The present tense. This must all be very vivid for Jeanne.
“Then why do you work for a family in direct descent from John the Fearless?”
“That I didn’t know,” Jeanne said quietly, “when I first came. I found out later, of course. I came here because of Joan’s association with Port St Pierre and the chateau. I didn’t realise that descendants of her persecutor owned the chateau.”
“Doesn’t it make a difference?”
“Difference? How could it? I’ve grown to love the family and the children. Our church teaches that the sins of the father are not passed on to the children. How could I hate them for something that happened five hundred years ago?”
“Then why does Joan?”
“Joan doesn’t hate the family of de Frigecourt, but she has never forgiven the old Burgundians, the Valois dukes.”
“But it is a coincidence, isn’t it? You don’t think it has any connection with your coming here?”
Jeanne’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know, but you see, Joan did come to warn Noelle there would be a death. She is here.”
The room was very cold and suddenly there was that little breeze that just seemed to stir the air, although no doors or windows were open. I felt oddly depressed, and the chateau seemed a haunted, unwelcome sort of place. For the first time, I didn’t want to be there at all; I wanted to be gone.
“I have to pack,” I said. “I want to sleep at home tonight. Michelle Bourdin very kindly offered to drive me home; she’ll be here in a few minutes. I’d invited her to tea and had to ring and cancel because of what happened. You’re sure you’ll be all right on your own, Jeanne? You know where I live, don’t you?”
“I shall be perfectly all right,” Jeanne said. “I shall enjoy the peace; but if I do get lonely, I’ll call and see you, Clare. I’d like that, to see you in your little house.”
After Jeanne had gone, I packed quickly because I didn’t want to keep Dr Bourdin waiting. I put my clothes on my bed and then looked for my suitcase. Curse it, I’d put it on top of the wardrobe. If only I’d remembered in time, I could have asked Jeanne to get it for me. With a sigh I pulled a chair over to the wardrobe, climbed painfully onto it, and groped for the case; as I did, I touched something just in front of the case’s handle. A book.
First I got down the small case and then climbed up again for the book. It was a very slim book, poorly bound and rather cheap-looking, the sort of thing one tosses aside without a glance. I wondered why it had been thrown up onto the wardrobe, until I saw its title –The Last Journey of the Maid, printed in Amiens in the Nineteenth Century by someone called Charles Reduc. The name meant absolutely nothing to me. I’d give Jeanne a call on my way down and return it to her.
Then I thought it very odd of Rose to have tucked it away on the wardrobe, as though she’d meant to hide it. The wardrobe had a carved ornate ridge on top that made it look higher than it was, so it was necessary to stand on a chair, as I had, to see onto the actual top. Even then it was high, and I, who am quite tall, had had to grope. Very interesting. I decided it was worth taking the book home to have a quick look and returning it to Jeanne when I saw her again after the children were back.
Michelle Bourdin came up to my room for the case and gave me an arm to help me down. She was an extraordinarily kind girl and besides I liked her. She was near my own age, and I thought of her as an ally; she was not just being nosey but was genuinely concerned and interested. I told her on the way home about my most recent interview with Jeanne.
“Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that you’re writing a book on Joan of Arc and Jeanne claims to be possessed by her?”
“Yes, it is a coincidence, but coincidences are part of life, don’t you think? They happen all the time. I certainly don’t think that it was intended or that I was meant to be here or anything like that. I don’t believe in such things. My husband and I like to think that, although we are broad-minded, we have scientific minds, as befits scholars.”
Michelle laughed. “Here’s your house. I’ll carry your case and then I have to run. Someone’s broken a leg on the other side of the town. Oh –my mother has asked you to lunch tomorrow.”
“But I couldn’t.”
“Of course you could. She’ll be offended if you don’t. You can work all morning, and I’ll pick you up at about one.
Yes, it was good to be home. I thought of the Rue du Chateau as home; the chateau itself was, well, different. It was comfortable, but it wasn’t home-like. On the way, Michelle had stopped at one of the delicatessens in the main street and bought me a ready-made meal – a delicious quiche, salad, and cheese – which I ate early in front of the stove which Martine had kept burning in my absence. It only needed attending to once a day. Then, exhausted, I went early to bed.
I awoke in my nice room, the walls covered with wallpaper of blue cornflowers, the ceiling white. From my window I saw the pinks and reds of the sloping roofs of the nearby houses. Usually there was a saucy black cat who liked to tease the dog tethered in a neighbour’s backyard, but this morning it was not there.
Yes, it was comfortable and cosy. I’d slept like a log; all I wanted was someone to bring me morning tea. As it was, I had to hobble downstairs and make it myself. There was another letter from Tom; I hadn’t answered the last one and suddenly felt bad about it. He enclosed some mail for me and just added a note with his hope I was enjoying myself and some chat about mutual friends. Tom seemed to be restraining himself from anything intimate. Hell, if only I didn’t feel so torn every time I heard from Tom.
I had a bath and worked hard all morning, trying to forget about him.
The Bourdins were good bourgeois stock, maintaining a neat home and an ample table. Madame Bourdin was a large, good-natured lady, with that serene expression that a well-filled life seems to bring to people in their late middle age. I was sure I would never achieve it. Dr Bourdin had been the town’s sole physician since he’d qualified; they’d lived in the same house all their married life and had brought up their four children there. Besides Michelle there were a brother, Nicolas, who lived at home, and two elder children who were married, one, a son, a doctor in Paris, and the other a daughter who lived in Lille.
The house smelled good as we went inside and Michelle introduced me to her mother and her brother Nicolas, who was a couple of years younger than she – a tall, taciturn type who owned a boat and fished for a living. To my delight, Madame Gilbert had also been invited, and they were all curious, as we sat down, to hear about what had happened at the chateau. By previous arrangement with Michelle, I was not going to mention the ghost or my conversations with Jeanne.
It was a delicious lunch – soupe de poissons, fillet of veal with vegetables, marvellous cheeses, good wine, and apple pudding.
“I’m going to get so fat,” I said, sitting back, “after Madame Barbou’s cooking, and now this. No eating for a month.”
“Are you going back to the chateau?”
“I don’t expect to. Monsieur Laurent is looking for a new nanny, and I do have my book to write. I think Jeanne has these children well in hand.”
“It’s tragic about the mother- those poor children.” Madame Bourdin was obviously thinking of her own well-cared-for brood.
“In a way, it is perhaps the best thing,” Madame Gilbert said in a practical tone of voice. “I do not mean to say I do not regret very much the accident to Madame Elizabeth; but seeing that it happened and that she might never have recovered ...” She spread her han
ds in a gesture of resignation. “Monsieur may marry again and the children will have a mother.”
“I feel they will leave Port St Pierre,” Madame Bourdin murmured. “And the chateau will become a ruin again.
“From something that Monsieur Laurent said to me, I think that’s what he might do,” I said. “That is, if he doesn’t remarry soon. He says it’s too big for a home and would make a better hotel.”
“Ah, that would be terribly sad; for generations the de Frigecourts have lived there.”
“One must be practical in this age,” the doctor said, lighting a cigar. “I don’t think the de Frigecourts have the money they once had. No one has; the state has seen to that! To keep up that chateau, and a house in Paris, and in Provence is not possible. I think he will sell.”
“It’s too sad to think of,” I said. “The very idea makes me shudder.”
“But why? Such is the fate of many large homes. Is it not good to make it into a hotel or a holiday home that can he of benefit to many?”
“Yes, in a way, but a hotel is not a home, and that chateau has belonged to the same family for centuries.” I said sadly. “ I think it would be a shame to see it pass into the hands of strangers. What a pity they can’t find the family treasure that has been hidden away for so long.”
“Treasure?” Madame Gilbert said with interest. “What treasure?”
“The Burgunderbeute, the fabulous treasure of Duke Charles the Bold. According to Laurent, it was stolen by one of his ancestors on the field of battle.”
“Oh that is a story!” Madame Gilbert laughed. “It is like the family ghost – all rubbish. No one believes anything about treasure or ghosts.” And she shrugged her practical French shoulders as though to discourage further arguments, an attitude that didn’t quite deceive me, like brushing the dust under the carpet to hide something unpleasant. I felt there was a lot she didn’t want to talk about in front of a stranger, however much she liked me.
“Besides,” she said, “the main thing is that the children will have a family life with their father. He should take them back to Paris and give them a home, mother or not. Both Laurent and his wife, dear charming girl though she was, were always somewhere else other than with their children, who have been brought up by nannies, governesses, and so on. There has been no family life. I myself was bold enough to tell Monsieur Laurent, before his wife had her accident, that they should all settle down in one place or another. I still remember the smile he gave me, more or less telling me to mind my own business, but with such charm – that family, so gifted. Little Fabrice is the image of his Uncle Jean, the eldest brother, only seventeen when he was taken away; ah that was terrible.”
“Terrible,” Madame Bourdin murmured. “Your sister Therese was only a baby, but I can remember the awful shock. The whole family was wiped out except for the sad little boy and his Maman in the big chateau.”
“And if you think Laurent has charm, you should have seen Jean. What a boy – excellent in everything, school, games – what a career he would have had.”
“What was the other brother called?”I enquired.
“Henri? Ah, Henri was a very different kind of boy. He had the family charm, of course, they all had; but he was a much quieter type; no one ever knew exactly what was going on in Henri’s mind. He was very secretive, always hoarding his things.
“They used to say he would be a banker.” Dr Bourdin laughed and put a fresh match to his cigar. “Yes, he was a curious boy.”
“How?” I said, intrigued. “How curious?’
“I know what my husband means,” Madame Bourdin interjected, fidgeting with an item of cutlery on the table. “Henri was not like the others, except in appearance; all three brothers shared a strong facial resemblance, except that Henri had a broken nose, which left him with a pugnacious appearance. I would say that whereas Laurent and Jean and their father were extroverted, Henri was introverted and very aware of himself. And whereas his father and brothers were generous and outgoing, Henri was greedy and self-centred. He always put himself first and got what he wanted because the others didn’t mind so much. They were too generous to notice how mean he was, but we outsiders saw it. Helas.” She shrugged and got up. “Who are we to judge? Perhaps he would have got over it, and in his capture and death no doubt he showed the noble nature of the de Frigecourt family.”
Madame Bourdin started to clear the table. It seemed a signal for us all to move. I felt tired and in need of a rest. I really was in poor shape and my ankle throbbed.
“Do you mind if Nicolas drives you home?” Michelle asked. “He’s going to the port and I would like to do some studying.”
“Of course!” I thanked them for the meal, shook hands, kissed Madame Gilbert and joined Nicolas, who had the car ready outside the house.
From the corner of my eye, I inspected his profile. He hadn’t said a word during the meal, but had tucked away a prodigious amount of food. I thought it odd how children in families varied. Nicolas was like a peasant, yet his father, sister, and brother were doctors, which was considered a step up in the world, though I myself think the medical profession an overrated one. I studied the brown sturdy hands with dirty nails which gripped the wheel firmly.
“Do you fish every day?” I asked, making conversation.
“In season and with the tide. We come in on one and go out on the next, twelve hours on and twelve hours off.”
“It must be a tiring life.”
“It’s a living.”
“You must know a lot about the tides, Nicolas. Do you think Rose could have died accidentally?”
“I think she could have died accidentally – but crossing the bay when the tide is due? Unlikely. Eh, perhaps she did it on purpose.”
“You think she killed herself?” I asked incredulously.
“What else?” He looked at me, his eyes intelligent beneath that tough exterior. One should not underestimate this man, I thought, doing what Tom would disapprove of – making a rash judgment solely on the grounds of appearance.
“I never thought of that,” I said. “But why should she kill herself?”
“It always seemed obvious to me,” Nicolas said, coming to a stop outside my front door. “Rose was stood up in love and she drowned herself. People do it quite often, you know; but she couldn’t do it properly because of the low tide, and she froze to death instead.”
Then with a cheerful nod and wave he drove off, leaving me deeply in thought. Why not, after all? The one thing we hadn’t thought of was that Rose might have done it deliberately. In many ways, it had a terrible sort of logic about it.
CHAPTER 10
The Fifteenth Century was a great age for superstition; it both fascinated and repelled me. Sorcery, necromancy, and astrology vied with the fierce dictates, the absolute authority of a church determined to suppress all dealings with the supernatural not approved of by itself. It was thus easy to call Joan a witch, because everyone believed in witchcraft, even the church - most of all the church. If she didn’t come from God – and how could she? argued the church - she must have come from the Devil.
In fact, there were many curious things about Joan that could be ascribed either to saintliness or to sorcery. Her childhood was extraordinary; she claimed to have first heard her voices when she was twelve. Once she had started on her mission, nothing could stop her; she had incredible power over people, especially hard-bitten military types. She proved an agile commander in the field of battle, yet we know she had never studied the art of warfare. She had foreknowledge of all kinds of things. When she was captured, she leapt from a high tower and suffered no injury. Her answers at her trial, conducted by learned theologians, were almost as cunning as the questions. Yet she refused to recite the paternoster, which made everyone suspicious, because witches were supposed to he unable to recite the Lord’s Prayer without stumbling. She also had an odd friendship with a Marshal of France, the Baron Gilles de Rais, a companion in arms who was executed after her death for p
racticing demonology.
From time to time, history witnesses the birth of a remarkable person, and no one can really say why. Joan was one of those people. In the fifteenth century Joan of Arc could flourish; today, she would be locked up and submitted to a battery of psychological tests.
I thought that I should talk to Jeanne about her namesake. If she was indeed possessed by her spirit, she should be able to unravel a lot of historical mysteries and that might make my book a best seller.
Thinking about Jeanne reminded me of the little book. Where had I put it?
It was nighttime and I was reading by the stove, my foot comfortably up on the sofa. The single lamp cast a warm glow on the checkered floor; outside the wind was howling and I thought of the storm-tossed trees and the swirling waters of the bay. Would there be a solitary light in the turret of the otherwise darkened chateau? My house was protected from the wind because it was in the centre of the town, but even so I felt it strong and gusty.
I found the book on my desk, with a pile of reading materials I’d brought back from the chateau.
It was a curiosity. The paper was coarse and it looked as though it had been privately printed; the type was uneven, as though someone had laboriously set it by hand, and the binding was undistinguished. Maybe the mysterious Charles Reduc had printed it himself – a real labour of love?
It was written in very prosaic French, and so far as I could tell simply went over the well-known facts of Joan’s capture at Compiegne in May 1430, her journey to and arrival in Rouen nine months later, and her death there in May 1431.
There was obviously nothing here of interest, I thought as I leafed through it, yawning, and if Jeanne was indeed possessed by the spirit of the Maid she should have found it as boring and as irrelevant as I did. Possessed or not, she was an intelligent woman and obviously knew her history.
Yet she had told me it was interesting, and had thought it of sufficient moment to lend to Rose. Why? I closed the book and as I did I noticed that because it was so badly bound the case was lopsided; it hung limply instead of flush to the spine of the book. I opened it again and two things happened simultaneously – a letter fell out, and I noticed that a section had been detached from the handsewn binding, and that this had caused the case to be dislodged.
Rose, Rose Where Are You? Page 10