“Thou shalt not covet…” Marc said once the stars aligned.
“Now you got it,” Bertrand said. “A beautiful woman like your mother easily awoke something in him that his barren wife could not.”
It was a story that wrote itself a shame that Marc was a side character in such a poorly written play. I know that Christine de Pizan could have managed far better.
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Still, they were talking about his father, and of what they said today was true a few popped up. Marc’s personal failings aside, the most obvious commandments were…
“Thou shalt not kill and thou shalt not bear false witness,” Marc said. “Those are rather obvious.”
Stealing was a given with their family. His father was bitter they had lost their independence from France. Being under the thumb of a Bourbon enraged him to no end. For that reason they often misrepresented the taxes collected, to line their pockets and weaken the King. At least I know where I get my temper from.
“Thou shalt not covet…” Marc said once the stars aligned.
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“Surely you remember the Ten Commandments,” Bertrand asked.
Marc had to admit that he seldom thought of them. Given that ‘Honour thy Mother and Father‘ ranked above many of the harsher crimes. Given his feelings towards the Comte and Comtesse he often wondered why he had not yet been smitten by God.
Still, they were talking about his father, and of what they said today was true a few popped up.
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A question remained. While the result was clear enough to see, the initial motivations were not.
“Why?” Marc had to ask.
“A great question,” Bertrand said.
Bertrand took Marc by the shoulders, and kneeled enough so they were at eye level with one another. Some of the staff had commented that Bertrand had dead eyes, but Marc always saw a shine in them.
“Surely you remember the Ten Commandments,” Bertrand asked.
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“Were his wishes followed?” Marc said as a stab in the dark.
Bertrand smiled at that question, he approached the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. There was nothing threatening to the act, and had a strangely soothing effect on Marc’s soul.
“To the letter,” Bertrand replied with a straight face. “He perished and was buried within these woods. We simply made sure it was on consecrated ground.”
That would have been a risk, as the Comte might have learned of their liberal application of an order. Still, they were technically correct and his father would never willingly venture out into the forest without cause. That man is so corpulent that he needs attendants to get him up and down stairs…
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“A snake by any other name,” Marc mused. “Did the Comte have something to do with it?”
“It can’t be proven,” Bertrand said. “I suspect it’s true. Marcellin was the only man to die in a hunt? Your father the only witness? Who then ordered that he be buried where he fell?”
That was rather suspicious, but Marc doubted the man would wantonly take a life on consecrated ground. The Church was a powerful force, and the financial penance exacted for such an indulgence would have left the Comte in their debt.
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“Father… did not waste time taking her on as a mistress,” Marc said.
However, that appeared to be of character for the Compte. Marc knew the man to be cold blooded, every move was calculated to achieve a desired outcome. To come across a black haired widow, likely around the time of the funeral and court her, took passion he never exhibited before.
“No…” Marc added. “Wait…”
“Yes?” Bertrand questioned, the tone lighter to imply the truth was near.
Marc had to look his mentor straight in the eyes. He walked around the headstone until he was face to face, minus the couple of inches the weapons master had on him.
“A snake by any other name,” Marc mused. “The Compte had something to do with it?”
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“That’s Jeanne’s surname,” Marc replied.
“It is,” Bertrand confirmed.
“This was her husband?” Marc prodded for more detail. “He was dead too long to be my father.”
There was disappointment oozing off every word of that realisation. In a way he would have been relieved to find out he had no rank or stature. It would permit him to walk away from that cursed keep and never look back. To never again set eyes on the good Count and Countess… too good to be true.
Bertrand did not loosen his lips. That meant he expected Marc to tie up more of the lose ends before divulging information.
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“Marcellin Champagnat,” Marc said loud enough for his approaching mentor to hear.
“How sad. His name had slipped from my memory,” Bertrand said. “Have you made the connection yet?”
The name appeared to be familiar, but for now he could not place it. In truth, he knew most of the staff by their christian names or roles. In return they would use his title, no matter how much he loathed hearing it. Only Bertrand and Jeanne ever used my given name, and that was only when they were sure the walls had not sprouted a fresh pair of ears.
Below the name there was a date, it seemed peculiar that this man died about a year before he was born. Although, that did little to explain who this was with nothing but a name to work off of.
Lastly there was an inscription, ‘Loving son and husband.’ Which meant the man was survived by a Madame Marcellin Champa—
“That’s Jeanne’s surname,” Marc replied.
“It is,” Bertrand confirmed.
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“Who‘s buried there?” Marc asked.
“Why don’t you go and find out?” Bertrand asked in a way to imply it was an order. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”
Marc lacked the experience to pick up the slight tremble in the man’s voice. He skipped off towards the marker, noticing that the others nearby were nearly almost completely buried. Had the summer heat not beaten back the vegetation, he would have likely tripped on a few along the way.
When he faced the stone’s face he noted that it must have been here for a while. The name Marcellin Champagnat was legible, but lichens had grown to fill in the lettering. Nature was reclaiming this land, and given enough time no one would know this place ever existed.
“Marcellin Champagnat,” Marc said loud enough for his approaching mentor to hear.
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