“Is Adrian’s family a bit too much for you?” he asked.
“They’ve been very kind,” Devin answered diplomatically. “I just needed a few moments’ peace.”
Armand sat down beside him. “I was wondering earlier what brought you here. Your lack of an accent suggests that you were raised in Viénne. You’re not Vincent Roché’s son, are you? There’s a remarkable resemblance, you know.”
Devin grimaced, irritated that even here in this tiny rural village his identity continued to plague him.
Armand mistook Devin’s distress in being identified as his denial. “No, of course not,” he amended. “You are far too young to be his son. Are you our Chancellor’s grandson, perhaps?”
“No,” Devin answered, “You were right the first time: I am Vincent’s youngest son. There are six of us. I’m afraid my birth was a shock to both my mother and father, coming so late in life. There are fifteen years between me and my next oldest brother.”
Armand laughed. “I met your father once, some years ago, long before he became Chancellor. You weren’t even born then, I’m sure. I liked him very much. I thought at the time that he was destined for greatness. It was no surprise when he rose to Chancellor Elite. I’m sure he deserves both the responsibility and the title.”
“He’s a great man,” Devin replied thoughtfully; “a very powerful man, but it’s been my experience that he also tries hard to be fair.”
Armand smiled. “It’s reassuring to hear that from his son.” He gave Devin a calculating look. “So, what is the son of the most powerful man in the empire doing searching Ombria for its Master Bard?”
Devin took a deep breath. “I wish to memorize the Chronicles.”
“Ombria’s Chronicle.” Armand corrected him gently, to use the singular.
In the silence that followed, Devin heard nothing but his own heartbeat. Something told him that with this man he could be honest about his ambition.
“No,” he said breathlessly. “I want to memorize them all.”
Armand’s face betrayed nothing, but he studied Devin a long time before he spoke.
“You are obviously an educated man, Monsieur Roché. What is it that you have been trained for?”
Devin shifted uneasily under his stare. “My Université degree certifies me as a historiographer. I am currently training to oversee the Archives at the Académie.”
Armand gave a low whistle and shook his head. “I’ll admit I am mystified by your interest in me and my Chronicle. Are you certain we aren’t breaking canon law simply by speaking to each other?”
“There’s no need to worry,” Devin assured him. “You would be free of any guilt in the matter. And as long as I don’t record your stories I haven’t committed a felony, either.”
Armand raised his eyebrows and let out his breath in a hiss. “Somehow, I am not reassured.”
For a moment they sat in silence, watching the moon rise above the pointed tops of the pines. Finally, Armand spoke.
“What you are suggesting is impossible, my friend. No bard has ever memorized more than four Chronicles, and that has been accomplished only once.” He unclasped the neck of his cloak and pulled it over his shoulder to display the emblems of Ombria, Arcadia, Batavie, and Tirolien. “And even after memorizing all four, I am only qualified to teach the Ombrian Chronicles.”
“Why is that?” Devin asked.
“Only a native of a province may become its Master Bard, and to protect the authority of the Chronicles only the Master Bard can teach. For example, Adrian may tell you the stories but he cannot teach them to you.”
“I am aware of that,” Devin said. “That’s why it was important to me to track you down.”
Armand’s hand massaged his bad knee. “Once in a lifetime each Master Bard trains a worthy apprentice to carry on his work. I’ve often thought that, if he is willing, I will ask Adrian. It’s important that I name a successor before my health begins to deteriorate. The Master Bard in Perouse waited too long and now some of those stories are lost to us forever.”
“Will you teach me Ombria’s Chronicle?” Devin asked.
Armand eyed him a moment. “And how long do you have to devote to this endeavor? Adrian was my best student. I taught him in a year. It wasn’t easy for either of us. He was cranky and tired, always short of food and sleep, but he never considered quitting. My worst student was with me for seven years. When I released him, I wondered whether I had made a mistake and done it prematurely. You are an academic, used to late hours and study. Can you match Adrian’s precision or do you plan to relinquish the Archives and devote your life to this undertaking?”
Devin cleared his throat. “I have a month,” he said quietly. “I can give you no more than that.”
CHAPTER 13
Inconsistencies and Allegations
Armand rose angrily.
“You waste my time! Do you think this is some trivial matter; a few fairytales to be put to memory in a month’s time? This is the oral history of my province, monsieur, a matter of extreme importance!”
“Monsieur Vielle,” Devin begged, grabbing his arm. “I do not take this matter lightly. Please let me explain. Can’t you see that I value the work you do? I have come a long way, just to meet you!”
“And yet you mock my profession!” Armand protested. “What little respect the men of Coreé must have for the Chronicles that they would send you with only a month’s time to memorize them!”
“No one sent me,” Devin objected. “I came only because I value very highly what you do. Please, allow me to explain before you assume that I am being disrespectful.”
Armand blew out his breath in a great sigh and sat down again. “Mind your words, Monsieur Roché; I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Devin saw that Marcus had risen from his perch, disturbed by Vielle’s anger. Apparently, he was still taking his job seriously, despite Devin’s suspicions.
“I graduated from the Université at seventeen,” Devin began, “the youngest man ever to enter, and the first to complete five years of study in only two. I have an excellent memory. Maybe I have mistakenly anticipated the amount of time it will take me to memorize the Chronicle but I only ask that you allow me to try. I will compensate you well for a month of your time.”
“You do not pay to learn the Chronicle!” Armand responded in disgust. “Knowledge here is freely given but not to fools or braggarts!”
Devin tried to keep his voice calm. “I did not intend to brag. I only hoped to convince you that, perhaps, I have a better chance than some men to learn your Chronicle quickly.”
Armand grunted. “There is a difference between reading a book, where you can go over the material again and again by yourself until you retain the information, and listening intently enough to commit a story to memory. As adept as Adrian was, it was necessary that we work together for many hours to enable him to learn just one story word for word. Accuracy is everything, without it the importance of the Chronicles would have diminished years ago.”
“I do understand,” Devin replied.
Armand threw a hand in the air. “You have said nothing to convince me that you fully understand the importance of this work.”
“Then perhaps, I need to tell you something that I have shared with no one else, not even my father.” Devin glanced at Marcus and lowered his voice. “In my last year at the Université a storyteller came to Coreé. Gaspard and I went down to the local tavern to hear him. His name was Gautier Beau Chère.”
Armand nodded. “I knew the man. He was Arcadia’s Master Bard but he also learned the Batavian Chronicles.”
Devin continued. “At the time, I was completing my degree as a historiographer. We had just studied the peasant uprising of 1632.”
“Is that what they call it in Coreé?” Armand asked, an edge creeping into his voice. “Do your history books mention that the portion of their livelihood that residents of Ombria paid to Coreé allowed them litt
le or nothing to live on? Combined with the blight that was decimating their crops, people were starving.”
“The plight is mentioned. The taxes were considered equitable.”
Armand sneered. “Why are you telling me this?”
Devin blundered on. “Because Beau Chère claimed that the government troops murdered the hostages at Beaulieu.”
“Do you doubt his word?” Armand snapped, his hands clenched. “They killed nearly three thousand men, women, and children. They were slaughtered like animals and buried in mass graves outside the city.”
Devin swallowed hard. “Llisé’s official history reports that those hostages died from a particularly virulent type of plague. It concerned me that the Chronicle would differ so completely from our official records.”
Armand stood up, but not before Devin saw tears in his eyes. “Did no one ever tell you, Monsieur Roché, history is written by the victors?” He began to walk toward the house and then turned on his heel to face Devin. “I am surprised your father did not prevent you from coming. I think it would be far safer if you abandoned your enterprise now before it is too late. Can’t you see that it is no accident that bards are forbidden from entering the Archives? You are treading on very dangerous ground if you seek to reconcile the Chronicles and your history books.”
“I am simply asking that you allow me to memorize your Chronicle,” Devin said.
“To what end?” Armand asked. “My Chronicle is living history. It is made to be repeated over and over again so that every man, woman, and child in Ombria understands the legacy that precedes them. Where would you tell your stories once you’ve learned them – in the streets of Coreé – and the houses of your government?”
“I value your oral tradition,” Devin replied. “I simply want to be part of it. It takes all of us to make up Llisé, not just the people of Coreé or Ombria or Sorrento.”
Armand shook his head. “No! It is impossible to learn the Chronicle in a month’s time and I won’t cheapen it by allowing you to try! Leave it to Ombrian men who are committed to their heritage and who have the time and ability to do it right.”
Devin stood up. “Perhaps Beau Chère will be more accommodating.”
Armand shook his head, his eyes glittering with tears. “I see your information is out of date. Gautier Beau Chère drowned returning from his trip to Coreé. His ship foundered in the deep channel off Toulon. All hands were lost. And if you think that was an accident, then you are foolish as well as naive, Monsieur Roché. Thirty-eight innocent people were drowned to silence one man. Should you continue your investigation, I fear our Chancellor will lose his youngest son. And even your friend and your bodyguard will be unable to prevent it.”
CHAPTER 14
“Lisette’s Lament”
Devin sat for a moment in silence after Armand left him. He had not expected to encounter such resistance to his plan and he was disturbed by the intensity of Armand’s position. He could only conclude that Gautier Beau Chère had been Vielle’s friend, as well as his colleague, and so his loss was deeply personal. For the moment, he intended to avoid exploring who, in Coreé, might have ordered Beau Chère’s murder and the careless extinction of those unfortunate enough to have been traveling with him.
Marcus lumbered across the yard. With the rising moon behind him, he threw a massive, menacing shadow that made Devin scramble hastily to his feet.
“What was that all about?” Marcus demanded.
Devin shrugged, moving out of the malevolent shade that his bodyguard cast. “Armand is angry that I wanted to attempt to memorize the Chronicle in such a short period of time.”
Marcus frowned. “But he will still teach you?”
Devin shook his head. “No, he hasn’t agreed to anything.”
“Will we move on to the next province, then?” Marcus asked. “What do you plan to do?”
“I don’t know,” Devin answered. “But I haven’t given up yet. We’ll stay here until after the wedding. By tomorrow, maybe I can think of some compelling argument to win him over.”
Both of them rejoined the group in the house. Aunt Genevieve had nestled between Armand and Adrian, her hand delicately poised on the bard’s left knee. Gaspard was entertaining Adrian’s younger sister in the corner with a game of Cat’s Cradle. Devin found a seat at the big table next to Adrian’s father, Pierre.
“You look like a man who needs a drink,” Pierre said, smiling, his cheeks and nose a fiery red. He sloshed wine into a huge earthenware mug and handed it to Devin. “Get some of that down and then tell me what brings you to Ombria.”
Devin took a token drink and recounted his stock story of celebrating his Third Year by touring the empire. “I am especially interested in the Chronicles,” he added. “I hope to be able to hear them in all fifteen provinces.”
“Why not begin now?” Pierre asked. He grinned and pounded the table with a meaty fist. “Armand!” he bellowed, when the room had quieted expectantly. “A story for our guests, please.”
Armand’s eyes found Devin’s and narrowed, assuming that Devin had instigated the request. But the bard stood up and bowed graciously, flourishing his storyteller’s cloak with one hand and leaning on his cane with the other. The fire behind him seemed to flare up, at that moment, forming the perfect backdrop. Devin thought afterwards, that he would always remember Armand this way: with the fire at his back, the cloak around his shoulders, and the complete self-assurance that he spoke only the absolute truth.
“Since we have gathered here in anticipation of tomorrow’s wedding,” Armand announced, “I dedicate my first ballad, ‘Lisette’s Lament,’ to our lovely bride, Colette.” He scanned the room for his former student. “May I borrow your harp, Adrian?”
Adrian withdrew a battered harp from a leather satchel stashed under the ladder to the loft. He passed it gingerly, over several people’s heads, to Armand. The bard placed his right foot on a stool. Dramatically balancing the instrument on his knee, he paused only a moment to test the pitch of the strings. When he began, the harp notes fell sweet and clear, and Armand’s rich baritone provided the perfect counterpoint:
In Lamm, a village by the sea,
Antoine first met Lisette,
Along the shore they pledged their love
A wedding date was set.
Antoine married sweet Lisette
By the ocean deep and wide.
And yet he held a secret dream
To see the other side.
Antoine fished; Lisette kept house,
And yet her heart was sore.
For in his eyes she saw he longed
And wished for something more…
Devin closed his eyes, absorbing every word, listening to the cadence of the language and the repetition of the music. For him there was no other sound in the room but the rhythm of words and notes blending perfectly together, verse after verse, into one harmonious whole.
When the last note sounded Devin looked up to see Armand watching him. There were a few sniffles from around the room. The story had ended sadly and it seemed a peculiar choice for the eve of a wedding but applause drowned out any sounds of dissent. Armand bowed and then threw back his head and sang a fabliau, a bawdy song, which had the men clapping and howling and the women blushing. Devin slipped away to the hayloft in the barn, a plan already forming in his head.
He stayed up most of the night, sitting by the window in the loft. He watched the moon make its way across the sky until it passed from sight behind the barn. At last, when he was satisfied that he had perfected his strategy, he laid his head against the rough barn boards and closed his eyes.
Both Gaspard and Marcus were already in the courtyard setting up tables when Devin wakened. Armand looked askance at his late arrival, but Devin immediately began to help gather supplies for the reception. He worked as hard as any man there, lifting and carrying, and nailing together extra tables from rough-hewn lumber.
The day was beautiful and cloudless, and the sun
quickly dried up any mud remaining from the previous day’s showers. Garlands of ivy and wild flowers were twined on a hastily constructed arbor that crowned the entrance to the courtyard. Brush and logs were piled near the center for a great bonfire.
At noon, Colette and the other women went inside to dress. Devin and Gaspard washed at the pump and retrieved clean shirts from their luggage. Devin smiled, imagining what his mother’s reaction might have been to his attending a wedding in a wrinkled white shirt, rough woolen trousers, and walking boots. And yet, the peaceful simplicity of this country life appealed to him. This afternoon, he felt relaxed and sure of himself. Now, all he had to do was find a few moments alone with Armand before the day was over.
But, Armand was in great demand. He was a celebrity, a special guest, and he had paid Adrian’s family an extraordinary honor by attending Colette’s wedding. The village folk had come to see and hear him as much as they had come to watch the ceremony. The crowd filled the tiny stone church and spilled out into the small dismal cemetery which surrounded it. Devin found the tilting, weathered tombstones and a recent, freshly mounded grave an eerie contrast to the laughter of the gaily dressed wedding party. Here life and death seemed to coexist hand in hand, each unavoidably a part of the other.
Devin could hardly hear the ceremony over the hilarity of the crowd outside. When the young married couple left the church, both those guests that had been seated inside the church and those who had waited outside, followed them down the road to the farm, singing fabliaux and shouting suggestive comments. Cows gathered along the stone walls, their tails swishing behind them, silently viewing the spectacle that was passing before them.
At the house, Devin helped to bring out the food: huge platters of Ombria’s famous cheeses, fragrant breads, crusty cassoulets, sliced hams, beef roasts, dried fruits, and cake. Wine arrived continually by the barrelful and disappeared just as quickly. The huge bonfire both lighted and warmed the courtyard as the sun sunk low in the sky, its light refracted by the giant pines surrounding the house.
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