The morning hours passed quickly. Armand didn’t pause for lunch but worked straight through the long afternoon, reciting one saint’s life after another. He insisted Devin repeat them continually, going back to the first tale each time before adding on a new one.
Devin’s stomach growled but he didn’t complain. He assumed, by missing lunch, that he was being penalized for questioning Armand’s integrity and judgment earlier. He had some small satisfaction that Armand was punishing himself, as well. This was, after all, what he had waited for. At last, he was sitting in a bardic hall memorizing the Chronicle, as he had fantasized about doing. But today, learning the Chronicle seemed dull and pointless. He obediently delivered each new story carefully and precisely, although, he was certain they lacked the energy and animation of Armand’s versions.
There seemed to be an established formula to the lives of the saints – a boy or girl identified in childhood as having special powers or as being unusually kind or benevolent – some event that solidified his or her heavenly calling – a miracle here and there and – last of all, a horrific death, usually at the hands of a brutal, angry mob or some cruel and arrogant individual. After so many hours, their identities began to blur in Devin’s mind, becoming one analogous conglomeration rather than six separate people.
Only Genevieve stood out: the saintly virgin who, at sixteen, had traded her own life to a sentient wolf, to save a small child. She’d died horribly, viciously torn apart by his savage teeth. She had been eaten alive and had never even allowed a scream to escape her lips. Genevieve had only whispered a hushed “Our Father” before the final darkness of death descended.
Armand pounded his cane on the floor. “Monsieur Roché,” he said impatiently. “Am I boring you?”
Yes, Devin thought, the answer was definitely, yes, but he gave Armand a polite smile and lied. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m sorry. Saint Genevieve brought back some unpleasant memories of our recent experience in the forest. My mind wandered for a moment.”
“Well, see that it doesn’t,” Armand said, standing up awkwardly. “Begin again from the first, with Philippe.” He began to pace slowly around the room, his hand kneading at the muscles in his hip and his back. “And mind that you speak loudly enough for me to hear you clear back here.”
Devin would have given almost anything for a small glass of wine or a cup of cold water. His throat was dry and scratchy; his wrist ached. He was beginning to wish he’d worn the sling that Mareschal had advised him to use. For a moment, he sat very still, trying to organize his thoughts. By the look of the fading light outside it was early evening. He suspected it was Friday but he didn’t know for certain. Perhaps Armand had a performance tonight and they could finish soon.
Armand stopped pacing, his cane hit the floor. “Monsieur Roché! Please begin!”
Devin cleared his throat.
“Saint Philippe was born in the southern part of the province in the little town of Bien Terre. He was small for his age and he spent most of his time in his father’s garden…”
“That was Saint Michel,” Armand growled. “Begin again.”
Devin looked at him in confusion. “Which was wrong?” he asked. “The garden or the town?”
“Both,” Armand replied. “Begin again.”
For a moment, Devin’s mind went blank. He scrambled in vain for details. It wasn’t like him to make a mistake. Philippe’s story was the first one he had learned today. He had repeated it more often than any of the others. He’d recited all of them perfectly, only minutes before. Michel must have been the herbalist then, or was it Clement? Was it Philippe who had brought a frog back to life when he was six? It was all a horrible jumble in his head. He simply couldn’t remember the first part of Saint Philippe’s story. He expected that Armand would be furious. Desperate, Devin turned, his open hand extended.
“Forgive me, Armand, I can’t remember the beginning.”
Marcus had stepped out over an hour ago. Shadows had gathered in the corners of the room. Only the fire lightened the gloomy interior with its flickering light. They were alone, and for just a moment, Devin felt uneasy facing Armand’s tirade by himself. It must have shown on his face.
All of a sudden, Armand’s shoulders slumped. Gone was the irritation and arrogance of a moment before.
“You’re tired and so am I,” he said affably. “We’ve been at this too long, Monsieur Roché. Leave it for today.” He beckoned to Devin. “Come on, I’m sure it is almost time for dinner. The stew smelled delicious when Jeanette began it early this morning, by now it will be perfection.” He extended an arm as Devin reached him, and draped it amiably over Devin’s shoulders. “The Chronicle was never meant to be learned in such haste. Perhaps, you could extend your stay by just a few more days? It would be much easier on us both.”
Marcus had made the same suggestion at Chastel’s just that morning, although now it felt like days ago. He’d said it would be better if Devin learned one Chronicle completely than several only partially.
“I’ll think about it,” Devin agreed, allowing Armand to escort him from the room.
The hall was redolent with the smell of freshly baked bread and savory stew.
“Before we go into the kitchen, though, tell me the beginning of Saint Philippe’s story again,” Devin requested. “Otherwise, I’ll never remember it correctly.”
Armand withdrew his arm from Devin’s shoulders and grabbed a lighted candle from the chest. He held it out in front of him.
“Our Saint Philippe was a chandler’s son. From an early age, he grew up knowing the awesome power of light in a dark and frightening world …”
Devin nodded then, remembering. There was no frog in this story. He took up the recitation:
“One night, when Philippe was barely four, he sat on his mother’s knee playing with a misshapen candle that his father intended to remold. The child took the candle in his chubby little hands and held out before him. ‘Light’ he said and the candle burst into flame.”
Surprisingly, Armand halted Devin when they reached the kitchen door.
“Enough,” he said. “The beginning is the key, once you have that down pat, then the end follows it logically.”
But Devin continued to summarize, to fix it again in his own mind. “Later in life, Philippe was sentenced to be burned at the stake for witchcraft, but he put out the bonfire again and again to the astonishment of his executioners, and he was beheaded instead. Flame answered his commands but apparently steel did not.” He tried to push the image from his head of the gentle saint falling from the cruel blow of an axe, but it refused to leave him. He rubbed at his forehead wearily. “Why do men do such things to each other?”
Armand was surprisingly cheerful. “You need a drink,” he advised, pushing him forward into the warmth of the kitchen.
They found Adrian and Gaspard sharing a bottle of red wine at the kitchen table. Armand sobered a bit as they walked in but he greeted Gaspard pleasantly enough, as though nothing had happened earlier.
Gaspard snagged his sleeve and pulled Devin down beside him. “Sit, Dev, you look exhausted.”
“I kept him too long at his studies,” Armand replied, evicting the cat from its perch on the rocker. “I’m sure Mareschal wouldn’t approve.”
Gaspard poured two more glasses of wine. He set one in front of Devin and passed the other to Armand. Devin sipped it gratefully, allowing the conversation to flow around him. It was a relief not to have to talk for a while. He could easily have put his head down on the table and slept while the others chattered companionably.
The kitchen was light and warm and cozy. The scents of food cooking filled the room. Jeanette hummed contentedly as she sliced bread and stacked bowls near the soup kettle. Used to the young ladies of Coreé who viewed everything through a studied mask of boredom, Devin found great pleasure in watching her graceful movements, the joy she derived from the simple tasks she was performing. How had Armand produced such a beautiful, happy daughter?
Devin heard footsteps on the stairs and Marcus came in with a handful of envelopes. Gaspard sloshed wine in another glass and gave it to Marcus, before topping off his own.
“We had mail waiting at the Town Hall,” Marcus said, waving the letters in his hand. “Do you see why it is important that we keep to your itinerary, Devin, or at least, keep your father informed when we are delayed?”
Devin nodded, silently taking the five letters Marcus handed him. One was addressed in Gaspard father’s cramped and precise script. He passed it onto Gaspard and laid the others on the table. Two had the Chancellor’s seal and were stamped “Official Business,” one was from his mother, and surprisingly, one was from André.
He opened his mother’s first. It was filled with endearments and familiar admonitions: “stay warm, don’t eat strange foods, get enough rest,” and ended with a sweet request for Devin to plan his trip so that he could come home for Christmas. He smiled and slipped it back into the envelope to reread later.
He opened the one from André next because it was unexpected. He quickly scanned the contents and then read them a second time to be certain he hadn’t misunderstood. The news came as a shock.
“LeBeau’s dead,” he said, in surprise.
“The Councilman?” Gaspard asked, looking up in alarm from his own letter.
Devin shook his head. “No, Henri. They found his body in his hotel room in Pireé, the morning we left for Briseé. He had been stabbed to death, and his room had been searched.”
For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then at the same time, both Devin and Gaspard turned to look at Marcus, who stood with his back to the fire, his face in shadow.
Marcus raised his glass and took a long drink before commenting.
“If I recall correctly, I last saw LeBeau when you did, outside that little shop in Pireé. He was an annoying little man. I can’t imagine that he will be missed.”