by Cathie Dunn
Grateful for Léon’s presence and help, Maddie shot him a sideways glance. He smiled.
“Thank you for speaking with the count. I’m surprised that – despite the obvious shock – he was still happy for us to visit him.”
“Well, he sounded more curious than annoyed. Perhaps a little apprehensive, but you can understand his reasons.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m the same.” She fidgeted with her moonstone ring.
“But also excited?”
“Ha! I’m a nervous wreck. What if they don’t like me? Mum described the count’s mother as an old harpy!”
“That was over thirty years ago…”
She laughed. “True. So she must be positively ancient now. She is a widow, isn’t she?”
He nodded. “Yes. As you know, your uncle is the current count.”
“Of course, yes.” My uncle. Maddie still found the thought bizarre. “I still can’t get over that. I have proper French blue blood.”
“Just be glad the family survived the Revolution, or you wouldn’t be here now. I wonder how…”
“They must have given up something.”
“Not the château. That stayed in their hands. I’m sure we’ll find out tonight.”
“Gulp!” she joked, and he squeezed her hand.
“It’ll be all right. He seemed like a nice man when I met him, and he was positively surprised when I we spoke.”
“I’m so glad you did that for me. I couldn’t have uttered a word.” Maddie shuddered. “And what would I have said? ‘Bonjour, I’m your niece, and I want to meet you.’”
“Something along those lines.”
“His mother would’ve stopped him.”
“Maybe he’s finally grown up…”
Maddie laughed. Here’s hoping!
Tall beech trees lined the drive to the Château de Montceau on both sides, their branches reaching out to each other above the lane like a canopy. Gaps in the foliage allowed the faint spring sunshine through.
Léon whistled. “Impressive!”
She stared straight ahead. “Wow!”
Before them, the castle loomed large, with a central section flanked by smaller wings on either side. Though the word ’small’ did not quite apply here. At three floors high, with columns flanking the main entrance and all corners, and two resting lion statues at the top of the stairs, it was the epitome of a French palace.
“No surprise the old dowager thought your mother was a gold digger. It makes my home look like a hut.” He grinned.
“I prefer yours to this, though.” She winked. “This is too…grand.”
“You could say that, yes. Should we seek the servants’ entrance?”
She punched his arm. “No! I want to meet the lady of the house head-on.”
“So the front door it is, Madame…” His mouth twitched as he slowly drove up to the main door and stopped his Audi beside other cars parked in the large yard: a new Land Rover, a beautifully-restored CV5, and a sparkling silver Mercedes estate.
“Now I’m glad we didn’t take my old, dirty Rover.” Léon grinned.
“Or my Golf!”
Her heart was pumping in her ears and her gaze flashed across to the door through which several people emerged.
“That must be them. Are you ready?”
Deep breath. “Ouais.”
“Stay. I’ll let you out.”
Léon skirted the car, opened the passenger door and pulled her as gracefully as possible from her seat. “Chin up, they won’t eat you!”
He kept hold of her hand as they walked up to the steps where a well-dressed man in his early sixties stepped forward with a warm smile. “Bienvenue, Madeleine!”
“Merci…” She wasn’t sure how to address him, so she left her response hanging in the air.
Marie-Pierre, comte de Montceau, took her hands in his and gave her three bises on the cheeks. “Enchanté! I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m your Uncle Pierre.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind…Uncle Pierre.” She nodded to Léon. “I gather you have met Monsieur Cabrol before?”
The men shook hands. “Yes, I do remember. From Château de Minervens. Welcome!”
“Thank you,” Léon replied. “It’s good to see you again. You’re very kind to invite us.” He put his hand in the small of Maddie’s back, and she was grateful for his calm support.
“It is a long-overdue pleasure. Please come!” Uncle Pierre turned halfway, then waved them to follow him.
Just outside the door stood two women who couldn’t have been any more different: one likely in her fifties, her skin a darker, southern European shade, dressed in a floral skirt and wide, flowing top, her long black hair falling softly over her shoulders; the other in her eighties, wearing an immaculately-fitting trouser suit, her hair scooped back in a tight chignon. Very French.
“May I introduce Eleana, my wife of twenty-nine years…”
“Bienvenue, Madeleine.”
Maddie exchanged greetings and bises with the countess, surprised to recognise a Spanish lilt. She immediately warmed to her.
“…and my mother, the Dowager Countess Florence de Montceau – your grandmother!”
The old lady’s eyebrow twitched, but she gracefully allowed Maddie to greet her in the same manner as her aunt. Then she found herself at the receiving end of the woman’s scrutiny and felt herself lacking.
“So we finally meet you, Madeleine,” the dowager said, her mouth set in a thin line. “Marie-Pierre is very sympathetic.”
“Madeleine has your nose and chin, Mère. You can’t deny the link.” Her son spoke calmly but firmly, and the old lady bristled.
“Fear not, Madame. I only wish to know about my father.” Maddie smiled at her, ignoring the shivers down her spine. How stressful it must have been for her mother.
“Come!”
She was grateful when the countess took her arm and led her inside as Léon introduced himself to the dowager.
“Don’t worry about my mother-in-law, Madeleine,” Countess Eleana whispered with a conspiratorial wink. “I have been together with my husband for over thirty years, yet she still hasn’t quite gotten over the shock of him marrying a foreigner. I’m Spanish, you may have guessed. Just like your father likely would have done had he known of you and not gone hiking that fateful day.” She sighed. “I’ll show you to your rooms, then we’ll gather for coffee. Dinner tonight will be a bigger affair, with our two sons Patrice and Jean, our daughter Felicia – with their other halves – and our five grandchildren. They’re so excited to meet you, their long-lost cousin and aunt.”
An hour later, Maddie and Léon were lying on the large bed in her room, resting. They had been given adjoining bedrooms – most likely to spare the dowager any blushes – but linked with a door, so they could do as they pleased.
Léon stroked her hand. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. It’s a lot to take in.”
Her mind was whirling. Finally, she’d not only discovered who her father was but also met his family. Her uncle and aunt had been welcoming, asking her questions, and keen to learn about her life. Her grandmother, however, was still very much the aloof woman Elizabeth had encountered. Maddie felt sorry for Eleana, who had to live with the ‘old harpy’ every day. This could have been her own mother’s fate, and a small part of her was relieved that it had never been the case.
“I’m sure. But you’ve been desperate to find out about your father for so many years, and now you can ask them anything you like. It’s like fast-tracking your past.”
She nodded. “Yes, at the speed of a roller coaster!”
He turned on his side to face her, propping his head on his hand. “Are you disappointed?”
“No, it’s just…weird.” Maddie snuggled into his embrace, and her ragged breathing calmed. “Your parents aren’t snooty at all, but very warm, even though they’d never met me before – and I’m some stranger from northern England. Such a difference
to the dowager.” She could not bring herself to call her ‘grandmother’ yet.
“She’s old-school French where status is everything. My parents have worked hard in the vines, getting their hands dirty. And they like you, which is a bonus.” He chuckled. “I can’t see Madame ever having done that, though her son seems to be more hands-on.”
“That’s the impression I got, too. Uncle Pierre and Aunt Eleana – calling them like that still sounds bizarre to my ears – appear more down to earth.”
“Do you want to freshen up soon? We can then take up the countess’s offer of a walk in the grounds. From what I’ve seen, this old pile of rocks needs money.”
Maddie drew back. “Old châteaux cost a fortune to maintain, and Montceau isn’t open for visitors, from what I can see. OK, I’m off to have a quick shower.” She slid off the bed and selected a fresh top and trousers – not jeans! – from her small case.
“Me too.” Léon grinned, blowing her a kiss. “In my very own bathroom!” And he stalked from the room, laughing, just as she threw a towel after him.
Maddie enjoyed the walk with Uncle Pierre and Aunt Eleana. The grounds of the château were vast, and Eleana oversaw a large part of the maintenance whilst Pierre focused on the vineyard. But the building gave them much cause for concern. When Léon questioned whether they would consider paying guests, Pierre laughed drily.
“Not as long as my mother is still with us,” he said with a resigned shrug. “She insists on keeping the château to ourselves.”
“It would make things easier,” Eleana added with a wistful smile. “One day…”
Maddie nodded, letting her gaze roam the park. “This could be the perfect getaway.”
“It will be.” Her uncle winked.
Dinner with the family was a more formal affair, overseen by the dowager. The food, all local produce, was tasty, and Maddie happily tucked into the tenderloin of game with Dauphinoise potatoes and green beans followed by a homemade crème brûlée with a hint of lavender.
Her cousins asked many questions, and she was happy to tell them of her life in York, and of her work, which even raised an approving nod from the dowager.
“And now, are you going to settle in France?” Her cousin Felicia’s question took her by surprise.
Meeting Léon’s serious eyes across the table, she knew what she wanted. A new challenge. A new life.
Smiling, she said, “Yes, I think so. All I’m missing is a dog!”
Her mother would have been so proud.
Two days later, after Pierre and Eleana had shown them the historic sites in and around Beaune, her paternal heritage, Maddie and Léon were ready to return to Languedoc. There was only one more thing to do, and her relatives had kindly suggested she went without them. She preferred it that way and was grateful for their understanding. So after a lengthy farewell, including a brief embrace and bises from the dowager, Léon finally parked the Audi in the car park of the cemetery of Beaune.
“Are you sure you want me to come with you? With Pierre’s description, you could easily find the family crypt.”
Maddie nodded, blinking back the tears. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”
“OK.” He squeezed her hand. “Let’s meet your father.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mid-October, AD 793
Carcassonne
Bellon stepped quickly out of the pouring rain into the hall at Carcassonne. The wind almost blew the door from his grip, and he closed it firmly. Raking his hands through his soaked hair, he spotted Guillaume at the high table, from where they would face the accused, Clovis. A monk sat to the duke’s left, rolling out parchments. Guillaume had brought him from Narbonne.
“’Tis a miserable day for a trial.” Guillaume’s drew his mouth to a fine line.
“It is that,” Bellon acknowledged. Straightening his tunic, he considered himself presentable again and walked up to his seat, looking across the empty room. In front of their table stood a single stool for Clovis. “I wish I could face him in a fight.” He slumped into his chair.
“You know you can’t. The rule of law is important to the king, and if you break it, he might take action.”
Bellon snorted. “Do you think I care? This cur murdered my wife and my servants, and he receives the opportunity to defend himself, in words?”
Guillaume sent him a sharp glance. “You have sat in judgement of other men before. It is part of your role as count. Distance yourself from the victims, even your wife – as difficult as it may be.”
“It’s impossible,” he whispered.
The duke put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I can imagine. I can’t in all honesty say that I particularly agreed with the lady Nanthild’s views, but I respected her.”
“Thank you.” He knew Guillaume had not been impressed with Hilda’s opinions, or her tendency to voice them. His mouth twitched as he remembered her forthright manner.
They looked up as the door opened and Roderic appeared. “Are we ready to let the people in?”
Bellon nodded. “Yes, and ask Dagobert to fetch the prisoner.”
Moments later, the hall was bustling, with men and women ushering in to pick the best spaces on the few benches. Many, bereft of a seat, stood behind them, herded into place by several armed guards. The mood was dark. The captain clearly expected some might be angry enough to attack Clovis.
Roderic hovered in the open door, letting the wind sweep in, which whipped the fire in the hearth into a frenzy. “Here he is.” He stepped back to let Dagobert pass, dragging Clovis by a chain linked to the man’s hands and feet.
Dagobert stopped beside the stool. “Stand here.” He positioned himself at Clovis’ side.
A sennight in the dungeon had not done the knight any good. He looked tired, dishevelled, his usually clean tunic smudged and torn. Yet the glare in his gaze when Bellon met it was undiminished.
Why did the man hate him so?
“Silence!” He stood, emphasising his order. “Everyone be silent.”
A hush fell over the room, and the only sound left was the crackling of firewood in the central hearth.
“Roderic, are all the witnesses present?”
The majordomus nodded. “Yes, lord.”
“Then please bolt the door. We do not want any disruption of this trial.”
Clovis snorted. “Trial? When you’ve already announced me guilty without a shred of evidence?”
“You will respond when spoken to, Clovis. Until then, hold your tongue!” He returned the glare, then sat. “Be seated.”
Those on the benches shuffled until only subdued murmurs remained.
Guillaume stood. “Clovis of Marteuil, lord in the service of Charles, king of the Franks. You are accused of three counts of murder: of the lady Nanthild, countess of Carcassonne; the dame Amalberga, her elderly companion; and Lot, their young guard. How do you plead?”
“It is a trap, lord duke. This man,” he pointed at Bellon, “wants me out of the way.”
Bellon bit back a retort. Under the table, he balled his hands into fists until the nails dug into his flesh, then slowly released the pressure. It helped. He steadied his breathing.
“Now, why would Bellon, a trusted count in the king’s service, want you ‘out of the way’, as you put it?”
“Because he hates me.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” Bellon quipped, earning himself a sharp glance from Guillaume.
“That is not reason enough, as you will find. There are witnesses who have confirmed that you were watching the village at which the lady attended a young woman’s difficult confinement.”
“Nonsense,” Clovis grumbled. “I was travelling along the coast to Narbonne.”
“So you are not guilty?”
The soldier raised his chin. “I do, lord duke.”
“Very well.” Guillaume sat and turned to Bellon. “Would you ask the first witness to come forward?”
“I would. Guisclafred, bring forward the
lady Alda.” He swallowed back lingering doubts he had about using his daughter as a witness, but she had insisted.
She is so like her mother.
Alda stood to the right of Clovis, facing Guillaume and Bellon. Beads of sweat covered her forehead, and she blinked furiously. Then she took a deep breath.
“You are the lady Alda, daughter of Count Bellon and Countess Nanthild?”
“Yes, lord duke. I am.” Her voice showed the dignity of her rank.
“And together with your maid, Rotlinde, you cared for Dame Amalberga, a lifelong companion of your mother, until she passed away.”
Alda swallowed hard. “I did.”
“That is commendable for one so young.”
“’Tis what Mother would have done.”
She would have done Hilda proud. Bellon smiled, his heart bursting with pride.
Guillaume coughed. “Indeed, it would. Now, was Dame Amalberga conscious during your ministrations?”
“Yes, she was…near the end.”
“And did she say anything to you?”
“What’s this? Are you suggesting something to the lass that did not happen?” Clovis rose, but Dagobert pushed him roughly back onto the stool.
Guillaume sighed. “Hold your tongue until spoken to, Clovis. And listen!” He turned to Alda. “Did she?”
She nodded. “Yes. I sat by Amalberga’s bedside and wiped her brow and temple when she woke. She was in so much pain.”
“I can imagine. Her injuries were horrific, I’ve heard. Please continue.”
“Amalberga grabbed my hand and spoke to me. Her voice was hoarse, but I still hear her words as clear as if she were here now. They were but a few.”
“What did she say?”
The shuffling in the room stopped. Alda commanded everyone’s attention. Bellon held his breath, then, consciously, he breathed out slowly.
“She said that…that…” Alda’s eyes welled up, but then she squared her shoulders, looking straight at the duke. “Amalberga said that man, Clovis, had waylaid them.” She spat his name. “Before she knew what happened, he had…had…taken Mother away.”
