Chapter Eleven
A PLAN IS HATCHED
“No, absolutely not.”
“What?”
“You two aren’t coming.”
“What do you mean?” I demand, dropping my fork and letting it clatter loudly against the edge of my plate.
“Here, let me get that,” says Madame Duguay, swooping in and taking my plate away as she finishes clearing the supper dishes.
“You heard me,” says Uncle Marty. “You two disappeared today four nearly an hour and I had no idea where you were!”
I look at Josh and then back at Uncle Marty. “I told you! We just walked around the dig site.”
Uncle Marty purses his lips and shakes his head. “Nope. Not buying it, Sarah. Wherever you were, it sure as hell wasn’t the dig site because Troy and I spent fifteen minutes looking for you today. You even had Dr. Rondeau worried.”
At this revelation, I can’t help but feel at least a little guilty. “Well, we weren’t trying to be difficult to find...”
“Well you were, Sarah.” Uncle Marty pauses to take more olives from the little dish in the centre of the table. “You were difficult to find.”
I glance at Troy to see if he thinks the same thing. Judging by his expression, he does.
Damn it.
“So what are we supposed to do tomorrow then?”
Uncle Marty shrugs. “Whatever you like so long as you’re not getting in Madame Duguay’s way.”
I look at Madame Duguay for some sympathy. She gives me a soft, sad smile.
“I can’t believe how strict you are.”
“Sarah. I’m not strict.”
“Uh, telling us we have to stay here all day because you couldn’t find us for an hour is called strict.”
“I certainly don’t think so. You know, when I was your age, I certainly didn’t talk to my parents the way you talk to me.”
“You’re not my parent!”
Uncle Marty looks ticked. “Fine, your uncle. Whatever. I didn’t talk to my uncle the way you talk to me.”
“Did you uncle bring you on vacation and then make you stay at some boring bed and breakfast all day!?”
I realize suddenly the impact my words might have on Madame Duguay and I look at her.
She looks a little hurt.
“I’m sorry, Madame Duguay. I don’t mean that you guys are boring.”
“Come,” says Armand Duguay, rising from the table. “Come with me, Sarah. Come and see my study.”
“But I don’t want...” I look around the table at all the faces. They’re all watching me. “I’m not the bad guy here!”
Only Armand says something. “Come, Sarah. Supper is over. Let’s go.”
Feeling very embarrassed, I push my chair back and get up from the table.
“I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning,” says Uncle Marty, his tone cool.
“I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning,” I mutter, as I turn and follow Armand from the dining room.
Why the hell does he want to show me his study?
I ignore Josh’s gaze and follow Armand down the hallway. It’s twilight now, the sun is setting. Outside I can still hear birds chirping. A car honks in the distance.
“What do you want to show me in your study?” I ask timidly as we near the door at the end of the hallway, the door Madame Duguay asked us not to go into the very first day we arrived.
“I think it’s best you spend some time apart from your uncle this evening.” He offers me a smile and opens the door. “Go on,” he says, ushering me inside with a wave of his hand.
This is so stupid...
“You can have that chair in the corner there.” He comes in after me and closes the door. “As you can see,” he says, gesturing toward the eight bookshelves that run from floor to ceiling, “I have a lot of books. Are there any books you like to read?” He moves past me and takes a seat in his swivel chair behind the desk.
I shrug as I take my seat on the padded leather stool (it’s most certainly not a chair) in the corner. “I like some books.”
Armand smiles and looks at me under from under his bushy eyebrows. “Any in particular? I’ve got fiction, non-fiction. French, English, American, Italian...”
“I like Harry Potter.”
Armand chuckles. “I don’t have that one.”
I smile, appreciative of his efforts to make me feel better. Now that I get what he’s trying to do. “Well...” I suddenly get an idea. It’s as though a light bulb’s gone off. “Do you have any books about the Dumnonii?”
“The...” Armand’s quizzical expression suddenly becomes a thoughtful expression and he sits back in his chair, his thumb and index finger cradling his chin in that way smart old guys often do. “The Dumnonii...yes...these were an early people from this area.”
I nod. “They were originally from England actually. They migrated here when the West Saxons began attacking them.”
“Wow, you know a lot about them,” he replies, seeming genuinely impressed. “I believe this is what your uncle is looking for, correct? The treasure that belonged to them?”
I’m not sure if this is any big secret as Uncle Marty has spoken openly about the Dumnonian Hoard in the Duguay’s presence and so I nod again. “Yep.”
Armand nods and strokes his beard, his expression thoughtful once more. “Well...” His attention drifts over to the book shelf on the opposite end of the room. “I might have...”
I watch as he rises from his chair and move my legs as he brushes past me.
“It was right about...ah yes...here we are.”
I’m intrigued now, watching him, as he removes an old looking book with a plain blue cover from the third shelf.
He blows on it, producing a cloud of dust, and I cough and sneeze as he apologizes and runs for the Kleenex box on the edge of his desk.
“I’m dreadfully sorry. Here.”
“It’s....AHCHOO!...okay...AHCHOO!...I just have some...AHCHOO!...allergies when it comes to dust. AHCHOO!”
“Oh, goodness, do you ever!”
I take a Kleenex from his and wipe my nose. “Ahhh, that’s better. AHCHOO!”
“Goodness.”
There’s a knock at the door. “Is everything alright in there?”
“Yes, dear,” Armand replies. He turns to me and says in a low voice, “my wife doesn’t trust me when it comes to guests.”
“Are you sure? Sarah? Are you alright in there? I heard some rather violent sneezing.”
“I’m fine, Madame Duguay! Thank you!”
“Alright, well, you let me know if you need anything. Your uncle and Troy are going out for a walk.”
Good riddance.
“Okay! Thanks! AHCHOO!”
“Oh, you poor thing! Armand, get her some tissue!”
“Je lui en ai donné!”
Hunh?
“Well, good. Sarah, as I said, you let me know if you need anything. Alright?”
“Yes, Madame Duguay.”
“Alright, bon. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Okay!”
Armand shakes his head and smiles as we both share a private laugh about Madame Duguay’s concern.
“Married for thirty seven years and she still doesn’t trust me to provide good hospitality.”
“Oh, Mr. Duguay, you are very hospitable. Don’t worry.”
I can see he appreciates my comment.
“Well, thank you, Sarah.”
“De rien.”
“Oooh, you’re speaking French now?” He winks and returns to the book once more. “Now,” he cracks it open, “this is a very old book. So I want you to be careful with it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“At a flea market if you can believe it.”
“A flea market?”
Armand nods. “Yes. For ten francs.”
“What’s a franc?”
Armand smiles. “It’s the name of our old currency. The one we used
to have in France. Avant l’euro. Before the euro.”
“Oh.”
He nods. “Anyway, have a look.” He hands me the book and returns to his chair.
“It’s in French!”
Armand shrugs, raising his hands in surrender.
How annoying...
I lean back on my stool and flip through the yellowed pages.
Boring...boring...I have no idea what they’re talking about...boring...boring...wait.
I stop on page eighty four. There’s a picture of an old man. He’s got a long beard and a cap on his head that makes him look like he’s a religious dude.
I turn the book around and show it to Armand.
“Who’s this?”
Armand’s eyes narrow as he tries to focus on the image. “I can’t see really...here...bring it to me.”
I get up off the stool and hand him the book, still open at page eighty four.
“Would that be Budoc? I mean, Saint Budoc?”
I watch him as he studies it.
“Budoc...yes. That’s what they have written here.” He looks at me, clearly impressed. “How did you know that?” he asks, returning the book to me.
“Well, it was a guess. But I know Budoc is connected to the treasure we’re looking for.”
Armand smiles and leans back in his chair. “This is very interesting.”
“Why?”
“Well, Budoc is one of our most important saints.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Now, rather than looking impressed, Armand looks amused. “What do you know about him?”
“Uh...”
“Many people know his name, but very few know his story.”
“His story?”
“His life.”
Now it’s my turn to be impressed. “Can you tell me about his life?”
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
“Well...where was he born?”
“At sea. In a barrel.”
“In barrel!?”
Armand smiles. “Yes.”
“How...?”
Armand chuckles at the perplexed expression on my face. “His father, who was the King of a small fiefdom near Tréguier, had his mother put into a barrel and thrown into the sea. She was pregnant with Budoc and she gave birth to him while at sea.”
“But...why would somebody do such a thing!?”
“The king believed she was having an affair.”
“Oh...well...still. You can’t just put someone in a barrel and throw them in the sea!”
“No...no...you can’t. But that is what happened. Bear in mind that this was a very long time ago when things were quite different.”
I nod, my brain bursting with questions. “Alright, so, what happened then? I guess obviously he lived, right?”
“Who?”
“Budoc.”
Armand nods. “Yes, he lived. The barrel landed off the coast of Ireland and there he and his mother, Princess Azenor, were picked up by some fishermen.”
“So what happened then?” I ask, hardly able to contain my curiosity.
“Well, the Irish took them in.”
“Really?”
Armand laughs. “Why so surprised?”
“Because...the Irish and the French don’t really get along that well...do they? I would have thought that the Irish might have taken the Princess and Budoc and held them for ransom.”
Armand smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Remember that this part of Europe was not the same then as it is now. The borders were different. Celtic peoples were much closer.”
“Closer how? And who are these Celtic peoples?”
“The Celtic peoples are those who inhabited Wales, Cornwall, Brittany, Scotland, and Ireland during the medieval era. They were close in that the people of these nations traded and their royal families often sent their children to be trained at the courts of other royal families. So Princess Azenor and Budoc arriving in Ireland, even through these were unusual circumstances, was nothing extraordinaire.”
“Neat.”
Armand nods. “It is very neat.”
“So what happened to Princess Azenor and Budoc then?”
“Well. They lived at the court of one of her distant relations. A third cousin or something.”
“And they could understand each other?”
Armand looks at me as though I should know this. “You mean speaking to each other?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, of course! There are different dialects of the Celtic language - and Irish Celtic and Breton Celtic are quite different - but there are also many similarities. Not to mention, Princess Azenor would have been given language training as part of her education and so she was most certainly able to communicate.”
“And Budoc?”
“Well, Budoc being but a baby, he would have learned their language.”
I nod, my mind mulling over all the facts I’ve just been presented with. “Did they stay in Ireland a long time? Because Budoc came to Britanny later, right?”
Armand nods. “They stayed in Ireland for about ten years. There is some speculation that Princess Azenor returned to Brittany on her own and left Budoc in Ireland as he was being trained and educated there and quite enjoying himself. She also thought it might be dangerous to bring her son back to Britanny if her husband was still angry with her. They’d exchanged letters of course and he’d invited her back, but as he was getting on in years, she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps he was plotting to have his first born murdered so that his younger son could inherit his throne.”
“So she went back and left him in Ireland?”
“Yes.”
“So what did Budoc do then? And was Princess Azenor safe once she got back to France?”
Armand chuckles. “I don’t have all the answers, Sarah. I tell you what. You keep that book. Take it. Learn French. And perhaps in a year or two you can read it.”
“Oh my god! That’s so mean!”
“Mean? How is it mean?”
I laugh. “Because!” I want to smack him in the book. “I can’t read French!”
“But you can if you study!” Armand remarks, sliding his chair back as though sensing my intention. “Study and read it. This is incentive to learn.”
“Ahhhhhhhh.”
“Ahhhhhh what? Why?”
“ARMAND! Qu’est-ce qui se passe maintenant!?”
“Nothing dear!”
There’s a rap on the door and then it pops open. Madame Duguay’s got her hair tied up in a ‘kerchief and a broom in her hand. “Is he bugging you, Sarah? Because you just let me know if he’s bugging you...” She narrows her eyes at her husband and brandishes her broom.
I laugh. “No, Madame Duguay. Everything’s fine. Armand is giving me this book (I hold up the book) but it’s in French and I don’t read French.”
Madame Duguay gives her husband a look.
Armand laughs and raises his hands in surrender. “What?”
“You tease the poor girl.” Madame Duguay clicks her tongue. “Come,” she takes my arm, “you can help me with a few chores.”
Great.