“This is definitely the right place.” We’d left the car in a clearing at the edge of a dense forest, near a rocky path leading up a slight rise through the trees. I looked down at the drawing again, turning in a circle to reorient myself. “I’m quite sure of it. Although I’m beginning to understand the man’s look of confusion when I told him where we wanted to go. I’m wondering . . . ,” I began. I took a step toward the rocky path. “He kept on repeating the word brûle and I thought he was trying to get us to stay for dessert. But now I’m left wondering if he really meant burned—as in burned ruins. Because that would certainly explain why we’re not seeing turrets over the trees.”
“True.” Drew shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded at the path. “You up for a hike?”
I fought back disappointment. How were we to learn anything about a French spy inside the burned-out ruins of an ancient château? “We might as well. Maybe the view from the top will be nice.” With a sigh of resignation, I headed toward the path, wishing I had my brogues instead of the strappy sandals Precious had made me wear. At least I’d won the battle over high heels versus low ones or else Drew would have to carry me. Which had probably been her idea all along.
Drew insisted on walking behind me in case I fell, and I kept my jumper on despite the sheen of perspiration clinging to my skin from the exertion. By the time we emerged from the forest, I was panting heavily. Drew showed no strain whatsoever, making me almost wish that I had asked to be carried.
Parts of the wall that had once encircled the castle and its outbuildings remained, a sporadic puzzle with enough stacked stone pieces to be able to envision the length and breadth of the old château. Here and there an abbreviated set of brick steps rose to empty spaces. But of the château itself, there was nothing but random bricks protruding from the earth like little raised hands to remind the world that it had once existed.
“It’s rather sad, isn’t it?” I asked, watching as Drew picked up a small stone from the grass, then carefully replaced it in the exact same spot.
He simply nodded, and I knew he understood what I’d meant. How someone’s history could be obliterated in the space of a single day, with only the vague lines in the dust to testify that anything had been there at all.
He indicated a simple white stone structure, nearly hidden by the shadow of the encroaching woods, its walls streaked with lichen, the masonry cross atop the peak of its gabled roof indicating its significance. “It appears that the chapel didn’t share the same fate as the château despite being within the perimeter of the defensive wall.”
“Come on,” I said, walking toward it with renewed determination. “I don’t want the destruction of my brand-new shoes to have been in vain.” I hadn’t meant it to be funny, but he smiled that devastating grin again anyway.
We climbed the front steps toward the arched door, the middle of each step sagging from the imprint of centuries of footsteps. He pushed open the door, hinges groaning, and a welcome respite of cool air from inside wrapped around us.
Our eyes met. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.
I grimaced. “Not the dead kind.” I stepped inside, ready to confront the other kind.
Drew allowed the door to shut behind us, making us blink in the darkness as our eyes adjusted from the bright daylight outside. It wasn’t a large chapel, but the soaring ceiling lent it a grand airiness that made it appear bigger. A ribbed vault cradled an alcove at one end, where I imagined an altar had once stood. Ribbons of colored light slipped through the stained-glass windows behind it, gradually showing us two short rows of wooden pews facing the alcove. As I moved inside, I could see effigies lining the walls, narrowing the nave.
Disturbed dust rose from the ancient stone floor causing me to sneeze—rather loudly since I’d learned from my brothers.
“Bless you,” Drew said at the same time another male voice said, “À vos souhaits!”
Startled, we both turned to look behind us in the narthex, where an old man, stooped with age and wearing a dark brown cassock and sandals, peered out at us from the gloom. He was so thin and bent I wasn’t surprised that we’d overlooked him when we’d entered the chapel. A miasma of dust and disintegration clung to him like a garment, as if he were slowly moldering along with the ancient walls and floors.
I wasn’t Catholic, but I wondered if we’d committed some sort of faux pas by not genuflecting or whatever they did. I’d had a Catholic friend at school and had been very perplexed by the list of rules of her faith that she’d shared with me and made me very glad I was Church of England.
The man didn’t appear angry, merely curious as to our presence and began speaking in a barrage of French at Drew, who looked more confused than the old man. I shook my head and pointed at Drew. “Americain,” I said in explanation, and the man nodded with understanding.
“I hope we are not intruding,” I said in French, after introducing Drew and myself. “We were looking for the Château de Courcelles and have discovered this is all that is left.”
“You are not intruding, madame. I am Monsieur le Curé, and have been associated with this chapel since I first took my vows as a lad. Sadly, the château is no more, and this chapel is no longer consecrated. Which is oddly fitting, seeing as how it was once used as a pigeon coop—hardly a way to honor such a place. The last Courcelles was lost in the most recent war and the property now belongs to the state. I just come to tidy up and pay my respects to le comte, Sigismund the First.” He indicated the effigy of a man wearing medieval chain mail and holding a sword. A large wolfhound lay obediently at his feet. “He was a very great man, went on Crusade with Louis the Fat. He shouldn’t be forgotten.”
“You’re right. He shouldn’t be,” I agreed wholeheartedly. I wanted to ask about the effigy next to him, apparently the great man’s wife, and the fluffy little dog at her feet that seemed so out of place in the gloom. But my feet were hurting so I focused on my task. “Does anyone know what happened to the family?”
He shook his head, his eyes sad. “After the château was destroyed during the first war, there was no home for the family to return to. So they stayed away, although the taxes were still paid on the property. The Courcelles were a proud and old family. They would not walk away from their responsibilities. It was my understanding that the demoiselle would return one day to the château and rebuild what was once here. And then the Nazis invaded France, and the Courcelles were no more.” He gave me a familiar Gallic shrug.
“The demoiselle?”
“Yes. The daughter of the family. She was the last of the line, you see. She had no brothers or sisters. So after she was gone, there was no one.”
I translated for Drew, who nodded with interest, his attention focused on the stained glass in the alcove. “Ask him if he knows why Joan of Arc is featured in the window—if there’s any significance there.”
“Oui.” Monsieur le Curé nodded sagely after I’d asked the question. “The comtesse was blessed by Saint Jeanne herself and when the saint was martyred, the comtesse obtained a relic of cloth dipped in the blood of the blessed saint and made it into a talisman. The talisman is very powerful, but only if held in the hands of the demoiselle. The legend dictates that it can only be passed down by females in the de Courcelles family, and that France will never fall as long as the demoiselle holds the talisman.”