“It is a truce only,” Armand admitted, fingering a broad leaf. “We must still graft, and spray, and be on guard. The danger, it has not entirely disappeared.”
Paul peered closely at the base of one of the gnarled vines. “These have American roots, then?” he asked. “All of them?”
Armand nodded. “Yes. In my father’s time, such grafting was done by hand, but now we have a machine to do the work.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler,” I put in, “just to grow American vines?”
Armand grinned at that. “The native vines of North America, Mademoiselle, produce the wine like vinegar. Even the roots, they change somewhat the character of our grafted vines, but,” he added, philosophically, “we must make sacrifices sometimes, to preserve a way of life. And what lies beneath the surface, no one sees.”
Still conscious of Neil standing close behind me, I took the opportunity to move away a few steps, venturing into the row of vines. “What kind of grapes are these?”
“They are the Cabernet Franc,” Armand said. “That is the grape of Chinon’s wines, the red wines.”
“But there aren’t any grapes,” Simon complained, as though he’d been somehow cheated.
“No, we have already harvested, last week. I had a… how do you say it… a hunch that there would be rain, and at this time the rain can be most harmful to the grapes. The water rises through the roots, you understand, and swells the grapes, and so the wine it has no color, no substance—it is spoiled.”
Simon, who had only come to see the cellar anyway, lost interest quickly after that. When Armand led us in between the vines, Simon wandered after us, hands in his pockets, his mind on other things.
The vines stood chest-high on the men and reached very nearly to my shoulders, their spreading branches trained around strong wires strung between short posts. Trained, I thought, was the operative word, for despite the twisting tangle there was pristine order here. The rows climbed the sloping hill like soldiers, each vine pruned with such precision that when I looked out across the field of fluttering green I might have been looking out across a level, square-clipped hedge.
Neil walked behind me, silently, and seemed content to listen while Armand explained the workings of the vineyard. Paul was the only one of us who truly paid attention. His intelligent questions pleased Armand, who took his time in answering them, his technical language punctuated by beautifully expressive gestures.
I had thought Armand Valcourt in his element when I’d seen him in his home last night, but here in the fragrant hush of the vineyard another aspect of his being came quietly to the surface, surprising me with its intensity. He spoke proudly of the superior qualities of the Clos des Cloches—the south-facing slopes that captured each ray of the summer sun, the limestone soil that kept those slopes well-drained, the age of the vines themselves… The appellation contrôlée requires that a vine be four years old before wine can be made from it, but we wait until our vines have eight years.”
“What is the appellation contrôlée?” Paul wanted to know, and Neil’s voice drifted lazily over my head.
“A kind of committee that sets the standards for the making of French wine.”
Armand accepted the definition, adding only that the rules were very strict. “We must not harvest before a certain date, nor after a certain date. We must grow a certain variety of grape, and then we may call our wines Chinon. If not, if we choose to break these rules, the penalties are hard. There are heavy fines, and they will come and uproot our vines.” He shrugged. “It is truly the end of the world, I think.”
That was the farmer talking, not the aristocrat, just as it was the farmer who knelt now among the vines to demonstrate to Paul how each gnarled branch was pruned by hand to catch the sunlight.
“I am sorry,” he was saying, to Paul, “that I cannot spare the time today to show you how our wine is made, but I can at least show you the result. It is the most important thing, I think. The process of wine-making, the machines we use, these are things you can learn from a book, but the wine…” He gave a pointed shrug. “The wine, it is like life itself. It must be tasted at the source.”
Simon perked up behind us. “So we’re going to see the cellar now?”
“Yes. I have set out a few good vintages for you to taste.”
“Terrific.” The bounce was back in Simon’s step. Moving past us, he assumed the lead, his eyes fixed with a hunter’s single-mindedness upon the huge white house.
I wished I could share his enthusiasm. Wine cellars might be interesting places, and impressive, but underground was underground no matter how one viewed it, and the French didn’t call their cellars caves for nothing. The only thing that cheered me was that Harry wasn’t here to announce to everyone that I was phobic. “She has a thing,” he would have told them, “about going underground.” He always said it just like that, as if it were some random illness, inexplicable, and though I sometimes did remind him of the day he’d locked me in the neighbor’s bomb shelter, Harry never would admit he was to blame. “I shot an arrow at you, too,” he’d once retorted, “and you didn’t develop a phobia about that.”
He had a point, I thought. Given the choice between facing a field of archers or spending an hour in someone’s basement, I’d pick the archers every time. But now, without a single bowman in sight, I found myself with no real option but to take a deep breath and follow along with the tour.
The cellars of the Clos des Cloches lay deep within the cliffs beneath the house. They were enormous, high-arched and spacious like the soaring nave of some fantastic cathedral. The ghostly limestone caught the light and cast it back upon us, and when I let my breath go I inhaled the sweeter scent of oak and wine above the dank aroma of the stone. Along one curving wall the bottles ran in ranks, neatly stacked, awaiting labels, their glass dark green beneath the thickly sifted dust. But the barrels dwarfed them easily.
They were everywhere, those barrels—great monstrous ones that might have served Gargantua himself, and row on row of smaller ones that seemed to stretch for ever, an aisle of darkened oak illumined softly on all sides by countless burning candles whiter than the walls. The candles, set with care upon the rim of every barrel, seemed to be the main source of light in this medieval hall of wonder. Beyond their reach the shadows crept, to claim the farther corners and the dimly rising stacks of bottled wine.
In the middle of it all stood François, tall and gray and elegant, arranging polished glasses on a small table that already groaned beneath the weight of several vintages. He looked round as we came in, his inscrutable face relaxing as he noticed me beside Armand. Only a statue could have failed to be flattered by his smile. “Mademoiselle,” he greeted me, in French, “it is indeed a pleasure to see you again.”
To my surprise he welcomed Neil with similar warmth, framing his words in halting English. There was no hint of the bitterness, the tension, that had marked Neil’s conversation with Armand. In fact, I thought, they spoke like friends.
Paul, at my shoulder, waited patiently to be introduced, gazing at the arching dome of the cave’s ceiling with eyes half-closed in rapt appreciation. I’d only known him two days, but I fancied that I recognized that look already.
“Go on, then,” I teased him, with a nudge. “Shatter me. What’s the word for this place?”
He smiled. “That obvious, eh?”
Armand looked sideways at the two of us. “The word…?”
“Oh,” said Simon, “it’s just this kind of game Paul plays, trying to find the perfect word to describe a place. He’s pretty good, most of the time, except he hasn’t got the word for Château Chinon, yet.”
“Yes he does,” I said. “It’s ‘tragic.’”
Armand studied Paul’s face closely, as though he hadn’t seen him properly, before. “That is indeed the perfect word. Tragic…” He tasted the feel of it, on his tongue. “And my caves
?” he asked. “How would you call them?”
Paul looked a shade embarrassed, but he met the challenge squarely. “Clandestine,” he said, in his quiet voice.
“So,” Armand said, softly. “So… a place for intrigue, yes? Or secret lovers.” His eyes slid past me, smiling, and came to rest on François. “Well, who can say you are not right? There is much history here, and in my family there are many secrets.” François glanced up, and Armand looked away again. “The making of wine,” he said to Paul, “it is an art wrapped well in secrets. As in your game of words, one tries to find the essence of each vintage, removing that which complicates. Come, I will show you.”
It was more work than I’d imagined, tasting wine. With François guiding me, I sampled the estate’s great vintages, trying to follow each instruction—how to hold the glass, how to inhale the wine’s “nose”—there were so many things a true wine-lover ought to notice.
And I did try, really I did. I swirled and sniffed and scrutinized, and in truth I very nearly saw the purple edge that Armand said was such a telling characteristic of his clear red wine. But when he spoke of complex structure and of “legs,” and breathed the scents of strawberries and vanillan oak, I had to admit my own deficiencies. It was a lovely wine, I thought, a great one even, but to my untutored palate it tasted… well, like wine. And the more I drank the more like wine it tasted.
Neil knew. His eyes touched mine and held, smiling, and the faintest shiver crawled between my shoulders.
“Cold?” Paul checked, missing nothing. He was well into the fourth vintage. Paul, I felt sure, could see with ease the violet edge, and catch the scent of strawberries. I shook my head, and shrugged to clear the shiver.
“No, not really.”
Simon looked at Armand, his expression casual. “How old,” he asked him, “would your cellars be?”
Armand shrugged. “Older than the house. Our cave, our cellar, it was once used by the kings who stayed at the château.”
Paul eyed his brother warningly over the rim of his wine glass, but Simon had already seized the opening. “Really? So this was connected to the château, somehow?”
I might have imagined the flickering glance François sent his employer, and the careful pause before Armand replied. “Yes. The kings built many souterrains, or tunnels, as you call them. Ours is among the oldest, I believe.”
“It still exists?” Simon feigned surprise. “You mean you have a tunnel that goes straight to the château?”
Before Armand could answer that, Neil set his own glass on the table. “I haven’t seen the souterrain in years,” he said. “Perhaps, Simon, if you ask him very nicely, Monsieur Valcourt will show it to us.” There was a sort of challenge in his voice, and in the way his level eyes met those of our host.
“It is kept locked,” Armand said, finally.
Neil smiled his quiet smile, and the challenge became a dare. “Surely, just this once.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Armand’s mouth hardened and he picked the gauntlet up. “Why not?” He turned to François. “Do you have the keys?”
I would have preferred not to go with them. The cave, at least, was brightly lit and full of air, and I could half convince myself I wasn’t underground. But once again, I didn’t have much choice. The others swept me with them, through the cave and past a small group of incurious workmen, to a darker narrow passageway behind.
Above our heads the pallid rock, its surface scarred and pitted by the chisels of ancient craftsmen, closed round us like a tomb. The smell of damp was stronger here, and Neil was forced to duck his head. There were at least a dozen doorways bolted shut on either side of the passage.
Simon stopped, excited, at the first one. “Is this the entrance to a tunnel?”
“No.” Armand laughed, and shook his head, “it is a… how do you call it? A broom cupboard. This,” he told us, walking a few steps on and fitting his key into a lock, “this is the door you want.”
The tunnel was just that—a tunnel, hung with cobwebs, strewn with dirt, and smelling of decay. I took one look and stepped back hastily, bumping into Neil. He kindly took no notice.
“But it’s stone,” said Simon. He sounded disappointed, and I realized he’d expected to see walls of earth or clay. One didn’t, as a rule, dig holes in solid rock to bury treasure. “Is it stone all the way through?”
Armand assured him that it was.
“Can I go in?”
“I am afraid,” Armand replied, “that I cannot allow it. This souterrain is old, and there is now a road overhead that weakens it. To use it now would not be wise.” He swung the door shut and the key in the lock clicked firmly. “It is not safe.”
Nothing underground was safe, I thought. It was a relief to surface once more into sunlight, and to feel the whisper of the wind upon my face. I stood a moment enjoying the sensation, while the boys walked on ahead with Neil. Armand hung back as well, his face expectant. “So, how do you like my vineyard?”
I told him it was fascinating, and he looked pleased. “It is my pride, you understand. This estate has come to me from many generations of Valcourts, and one day it will belong to Lucie.” He looked out, as I had done earlier, across the flat-topped vines. “The greatest part of me lies in this place,” he told me. “I’m glad it fascinates you.”
Simon turned ahead of us. He appeared to have recovered quickly from his setback in the cellar, and having ruled out Armand’s tunnel as a hiding place for Isabelle’s lost treasure, he was eager to get on to other things. He beckoned me impatiently. “Emily, come on. We’re going to the Echo next.”
Armand’s eyes narrowed, sliding sideways. “He has much energy, that young man.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t help the smile. Armand walked with me to the gates, and after a confusing criss-cross of handshakes and thank-yous, he turned to take my hand.
“You must come back another time.” Alone, his dancing eyes said, and his smile was a sinful thing. “And you must tell me how you enjoy seeing our Echo. It is quite unique.”
I wasn’t entirely sure how one could see an Echo in the first place, but everyone promised me that it was indeed possible, and that there was a lovely view from the Echo, and that I would be suitably impressed.
And so I kept an open mind as I followed my companions through the gates. Neil left us there. “Sorry, but I promised to meet someone,” was his excuse, and looking like a man well pleased with the day’s work, he strolled away, head bent and humming to himself.
Simon, happy to be back in charge, turned sharply in the opposite direction and, keeping his shoulder to the high wall of the Clos des Cloches, led Paul and me around a curve of deserted road to a desolate place where the wind wept softly through the long grass. “Here it is,” he announced, proudly.
There was no mistaking it—a sign posted to one side of a raised viewing platform clearly read: Ici l’Echo, and the platform itself, though small, looked rather official.
“It really does work,” said Paul. “Just stand up there and yell something.”
I climbed the few steps obediently and turned around. The view, as I’d been promised, was a postcard panorama stretching from the château on the one side, out across the silver river and the patchwork roofs and gardens, to the distant hills beyond. Closer than that, across the road, treetops and a tiled roof peeked above an unkempt, rambling hedge. “But I’ll be yelling into someone’s yard,” I protested, and Simon hopped up beside me with a laugh.
“It’s OK, really. People do it all the time. Here, I’ll show you.” And he bellowed out an enthusiastic yodel that would have done credit to a native of the Swiss Alps. The sound soared out and came back, crashing loud against the green hills and the ruined walls of the château, like waves striking rocks on a wild shore.
“Neat, eh?” Simon grinned. “You can even ask it questions, like this…” Again he
filled his lungs, and yelled: “Will I ever get Paul to leave Chinon?”
The answer flowed back, faintly questioning in itself: “Non…”
“Very funny,” said Paul. “Why don’t you let Emily give it a try?”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
But they weren’t about to let me off that easily. Put on the spot, I closed my eyes tightly and tried to think of something clever. Perhaps I ought to call out Armand’s name, I thought wryly, in case he was standing on the other side of the vineyard wall, listening. It might be good for his ego. But the dark eyes that smiled at me in my thoughts were not Armand Valcourt’s. I tried to push the image from my mind. Oh, damn and blast, I thought. Oh, help. So that was what I yelled, in French. “Au secours!”
It was a foolish thing to do. If I’d been in a public place, I might have caused a panic—people hurrying to help me; cries for the police.
But here, I only startled Paul, who turned to stare at me while Echo stirred in far-off fields and called back her advice.
“Cours,” was what she told me.
Run.
Chapter 13
From out a common vein of memory…
“The day gets better and better,” Simon said, as we filed out between the houses at the foot of the cobbled stair. I saw straight away what had pleased him.
It was already afternoon, and the sun had grown uncertain, but Thierry, in a burst of optimism, had set the hotel’s tables out around the fountain square. It made a cheery showing, the bright white tables and red chairs. And directly ahead of us, at a table beside the fountain, sat Martine Muret. She was so lovely, so strikingly lovely, with her fashion-model features and cropped black hair. Neil had said that Armand’s wife had looked like that, and pushing back another pang of jealousy I looked more closely at Martine, with eyes that sought to see beyond her to a woman three years dead. Had Brigitte Valcourt’s hair been short as well? The cut certainly suited Martine, and her simple dark clothes set off her beauty as a plain frame enhances an exquisite painting. Head up, she sat watching the idle activity of the square through expensive sunglasses that hid the expression of her eyes. She looked entirely unapproachable.
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