“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?”

“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.

“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.

“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.

“You didn’t bring me here for a history lesson,” Marc said and hit his tongue before adding that his governess handled that aspect of his education. 

“You’ll be getting an education,” Bertrand said before slapping the back of Marc’s head. “Just not the subject you are expecting.”

Marc followed his mentor further past the church to a clearing. It was on a hill, and there were stones protruding from the ground at regular intervals. Despite being nearly burried by time, there was enough left to identify them as  tombstones. Nearer to the woodline there was one gravestone that stood tall.

“Who was buried there?” Marc asked.

“No matter,” Bertrand said. “I have something to show you downstream. Get your jacket, sunlight will not bless us for much longer.”

Marc did and they left as soon as Bertrand killed the fire. The left the horse tied up nearby and ventured by his count downstream for six-hundred-and-forty-three paces.

They stopped by what appeared to be a ruined church, the circular window and elongated top was the only part that remained identifiable. The rest was rubble strewn about and buried by years of accumulated vegetation. 

“A place lost in time,” Bertrand said. “A time when Spain was under siege from across the sea.”

Marc knew of it, and the struggle it had taken to retake those lands. It always struck as fantastical, because to him their greatest foes had always been the Spanish and the English. I can’t imagine any worse than those two.

“I’ve seen fire ravage homes and forests,” Bertrand said. “If the Pope told me it was alive, I would believe him entirely without question.”

These were things that Marc had never seen personally. However he had seen a field swallowed up by flame. When he stopped to consider what had been said, Marc agreed, there was something to fire that mimicked life. If it was classified as such was a matter left to the clergy and men of knowledge.

“I agree—” Marc said. 

“No matter,” Bertrand said. “I have something to show you downstream. Get your jacket, sunlight will not bless us for much longer.”

“It’s not that hard,” Bertrand said. “You need to keep the embers burning red, and for that it needs to breathe.”

“Breathe?” Marc asked, curious.

Bertrand shrugged, because he did not have the words to explain himself. After several moments of appearing caught up in his thoughts, Bertran cracked a smile. 

“Something my father would say,” Bertand replied. “Never occurred to me to ask him why.”

That temporarily soothed Marc’s ego, and that had only been possible because his mentor had the humility to admit their limits.

It took the better part of an hour in front of the fire for their clothes to dry. Marc suspected he would catch hell from the Countess for smelling like wood smoke, but it was better than the algae-rich water from that stream.

Both remained quiet throughout, Marc did so because he was nursing a bruised ego. The pain from his skinned fists served to remind him that he had a lot to learn about controlling his emotions.

Bertrand on the other hand appeared content to stare into the fire, stoking it expertly to keep the flames burning high. Marc paid attention to every move the man made, as though trying to deduce the reasons for those actions.

When Bertrand noticed his student looking intently at what he was doing, he broke the silence.

Those words had a powerful effect on Marc. The boy was emotional and lacked patience, but he recognised the authority of that command. He stopped dead in his tracks, his shoulders dropped and his arms hung loosely, all the while he was panting hard like a horse driven hard.

That lasted for all of a minute, as Marc’s mind consolidated everything, he turned around slowly with tears streaking through his eyes and collapsed into Bertrand’s arms.

“I hate that man,” Marc managed to say though sobs muffled by Bertrand’s shoulder.

“I know,” Bertrand said in a near whisper.