Chinon on that island in the fourteenth century. Accused them of poisoning the town’s wells. It didn’t just happen here, of course, it happened everywhere. Women, children, no one cared.They just burned them.’ He glanced at me and half smiled in the darkness. ‘The Nazis weren’t the first, you know. It’s been around for ever, prejudice.’
‘That’s hardly an excuse for it.’
‘No,’ he agreed, exhaling a stream of smoke that caught the shifting light from the street behind us. ‘But sometimes taking the historical perspective helps you understand a little better why people do the things they do. That’s what life’s all about, I think – understanding each other. Now Simon,’ he told me, his mouth curving, ‘sees things differently. If someone spits at Simon, he spits right back. An eye for an eye. But that doesn’t accomplish anything.’ He turned his head to look at me. ‘People hate too much, you know?’
His face, in that instant, seemed suddenly older than my own. Centuries older. And then he laughed and looked away, and the moment passed.
‘God,’ he said, ‘I sound like my father.’ He pitched the stub of his cigarette away, and it died with a hiss in the dark water. ‘Come on, I’ll take you for a real walk, across the bridge. You get a great view of the château from over there.’
He rose, the boy again, and led the way. The bridge was an impressive one, a gentle arc of pavement raised on heavy piles sunk deep into the river Vienne, and the river seemed to be doing its level best to wear away the unwanted obstacle. From the arched openings beneath us the roar of the rushing water rose fiercely to our ears.
I saw what Paul had meant about the island. It was a small island, to be sure, little more than a wedge of trees and scattered houses stuck oddly in the middle of the broadriver, like the lone oaks one sometimes sees stranded in the ploughed stretches of a farmer’s field. It looked quite peaceful, really, pastoral, as if its murderous past had never been. And yet, and yet …
‘There,’ Paul announced proudly, ‘now turn around and look at that .’
It was spectacular, as he had promised. The soaring walls of Chinon Castle rose in floodlights from the cliffs, its long majestic outline standing sentry over the huddle of ancient houses below. In the river at our feet, the blinding image was reflected clearly, with scarcely a tremor to disturb its still perfection.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Paul asked me.
I nodded dumbly, gazing up at the pale outline of the tower that marked the furthest jutting corner of the castle walls. The Moulin Tower. Isabelle’s tower. Again I saw the shadow moving softly past the window, but before the shadow formed a shape, a wind arose and rippled down the river, and the bits of bright reflection broke and scattered on a rolling surge of darkness.
C HAPTER F IVE
‘Come out,’ he said …
The telephone was ringing as I stepped from the shower early next morning. Still dripping, I grabbed a towel and made a lunge for the receiver.
‘Hello?’
The line crackled unhelpfully for a few seconds, and then a deep familiar voice came booming down the line. ‘Emily? Is that you?’
‘Daddy?’
It would have been difficult, at that moment, to judge which one of us was more surprised to hear the other.
‘What the devil are you doing in France?’ demanded my father. ‘You ought to be in Essex.’
‘I’m on holiday,’ I told him.
‘What?’
‘Holiday,’ I said, raising my voice above the static ofthe transatlantic line. ‘In Chinon.’ I frowned. ‘How did you get my number?’
‘Didn’t know it was your number, did I? They must not have heard me clearly at the front desk, I suppose … put me through to the wrong room.’
My frown deepened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I was trying to reach Harry.’
‘Harry?’ My voice was swallowed by a sudden burst of static that didn’t quite disguise my father’s sharp
‘That’s hardly an excuse for it.’
‘No,’ he agreed, exhaling a stream of smoke that caught the shifting light from the street behind us. ‘But sometimes taking the historical perspective helps you understand a little better why people do the things they do. That’s what life’s all about, I think – understanding each other. Now Simon,’ he told me, his mouth curving, ‘sees things differently. If someone spits at Simon, he spits right back. An eye for an eye. But that doesn’t accomplish anything.’ He turned his head to look at me. ‘People hate too much, you know?’
His face, in that instant, seemed suddenly older than my own. Centuries older. And then he laughed and looked away, and the moment passed.
‘God,’ he said, ‘I sound like my father.’ He pitched the stub of his cigarette away, and it died with a hiss in the dark water. ‘Come on, I’ll take you for a real walk, across the bridge. You get a great view of the château from over there.’
He rose, the boy again, and led the way. The bridge was an impressive one, a gentle arc of pavement raised on heavy piles sunk deep into the river Vienne, and the river seemed to be doing its level best to wear away the unwanted obstacle. From the arched openings beneath us the roar of the rushing water rose fiercely to our ears.
I saw what Paul had meant about the island. It was a small island, to be sure, little more than a wedge of trees and scattered houses stuck oddly in the middle of the broadriver, like the lone oaks one sometimes sees stranded in the ploughed stretches of a farmer’s field. It looked quite peaceful, really, pastoral, as if its murderous past had never been. And yet, and yet …
‘There,’ Paul announced proudly, ‘now turn around and look at that .’
It was spectacular, as he had promised. The soaring walls of Chinon Castle rose in floodlights from the cliffs, its long majestic outline standing sentry over the huddle of ancient houses below. In the river at our feet, the blinding image was reflected clearly, with scarcely a tremor to disturb its still perfection.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Paul asked me.
I nodded dumbly, gazing up at the pale outline of the tower that marked the furthest jutting corner of the castle walls. The Moulin Tower. Isabelle’s tower. Again I saw the shadow moving softly past the window, but before the shadow formed a shape, a wind arose and rippled down the river, and the bits of bright reflection broke and scattered on a rolling surge of darkness.
C HAPTER F IVE
‘Come out,’ he said …
The telephone was ringing as I stepped from the shower early next morning. Still dripping, I grabbed a towel and made a lunge for the receiver.
‘Hello?’
The line crackled unhelpfully for a few seconds, and then a deep familiar voice came booming down the line. ‘Emily? Is that you?’
‘Daddy?’
It would have been difficult, at that moment, to judge which one of us was more surprised to hear the other.
‘What the devil are you doing in France?’ demanded my father. ‘You ought to be in Essex.’
‘I’m on holiday,’ I told him.
‘What?’
‘Holiday,’ I said, raising my voice above the static ofthe transatlantic line. ‘In Chinon.’ I frowned. ‘How did you get my number?’
‘Didn’t know it was your number, did I? They must not have heard me clearly at the front desk, I suppose … put me through to the wrong room.’
My frown deepened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I was trying to reach Harry.’
‘Harry?’ My voice was swallowed by a sudden burst of static that didn’t quite disguise my father’s sharp
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