Chapter 3
Miss Prim wasn’t sure whether the crowing of the cockerel had woken her or if she’d been startled awake by a troubled dream.
She’d been at the house almost three weeks, but still she felt disoriented every time she woke.
Drowsy, she stretched lazily beneath the sheets and looked over at the clock.
She had two hours before she had to get up and start work.
She sighed with relief—up here she was safe.
Safe from peculiar, incomprehensible orders, sudden smiles that in fact heralded yet more orders, disconcerting looks, questions whose ultimate meaning she couldn’t fathom.
Was he making fun of her? Actually he seemed to be studying her, which was almost more annoying.
Still half asleep, she glanced at the clock again.
She didn’t want to bump into him and the children on their way to or back from the abbey.
Miss Prim had always considered herself an open-minded woman, but she didn’t approve of forcing four youngsters to trudge to a monastery every morning before breakfast. True, on their return they did seem particularly cheerful, despite the long walk in the chill morning air on an empty stomach.
But of course she knew that there were many ways of influencing children.
When she left the house half an hour later, the sun was already growing warm.
She made her way quickly through the garden and opened the wrought-iron gate, which creaked long and loud.
Why did the man refuse to repair anything?
Miss Prim loved neatness, she loved beauty, and because she loved it, it bothered her to see the rusty gate, it saddened her that the paintings were shabby and in need of restoration, it offended her to find butter-stained incunabula in the greenhouse.
“The man’s hopeless,” she muttered grumpily.
Instead of taking the road, she decided to turn right and follow the narrow path to the village, cutting across fields and through a wood.
That morning she urgently needed to buy notebooks and labels.
The day before, she had had a small disagreement with her employer, the fifth since her arrival at the house.
He’d come into the library and declared that he didn’t want her to use a computer to catalogue the books.
“Very well, if that’s what you want, I won’t,” replied Miss Prim with forced humility.
He’d added that he was against typewriters too, however old or dusty.
“Well, I won’t be asking for one,” she muttered between pursed lips.
And that’s when she couldn’t help saying: “Maybe you’d like me to use a quill pen to catalogue the books?”
He had greeted her sarcasm with a pleasant smile of exquisite gentlemanliness and admirable refinement. But after three weeks at the house, Miss Prim was now perfectly well aware that his hypnotic masculine courtesy only served to get her to do things.
“If you insist on such archaic methods, I can do it all by hand, but I’m warning you I’ll need labels. I won’t compromise on this point. It’s a question of method, and a librarian without method is not a librarian.”
“My dear Miss Prim,” he’d said, “you may use all the labels you wish, of course you may. All I ask is that you don’t use the kind that glow in the dark.
I don’t have anything against colored labels, nothing at all, but I don’t think the sermons of St. Bonaventure should be catalogued in lime green, or the works of Virgil in fluorescent pink. ”
The librarian had found this reply deeply insulting.
With eyes blazing and her noble nose pointed skyward, she found herself explaining that she had never used luminous labels; a professional such as herself would not handle such materials; she didn’t have to be told that a library like this was not the place for garish stickers.
And then he’d laughed at her and said something even more offensive.
“Come now, Prudencia, I was only joking, no need to be so regal. You look just like Liberty leading the People.”
Flushing at the memory, Miss Prim’s train of thought was interrupted by the need to brush aside the brambles that were blocking her path.
She was about to leave behind the last stand of trees when she heard familiar voices.
In the middle of a large clearing, seated on the grass, the two girls were animatedly watching their brothers fight with what looked like oars or wooden poles.
She crouched behind some bushes so as to watch without being seen.
The boys were wearing old fencing masks, but they afforded little protection.
Once again she wondered if her employer was in his right mind.
He was standing in the middle of the clearing, issuing precise instructions on battle strategy to the combatants.
“Typical,” she muttered contemptuously from her hiding place. “First teach the children to fight and take them to church second.”
“He’s not mad, if that’s what you’re thinking. And don’t worry, he’d never do anything to endanger the children.”
Miss Prim whirled around in surprise and came face-to-face with a tall, elderly, smiling man.
“Who are you?” she asked, wondering if she should emerge from the undergrowth or whether it was safer to stay where she was.
“I’m sorry if I surprised you. You’re staying at the house sorting out the library, aren’t you? Miss Prim, I believe.”
She nodded, scrutinizing the man discreetly.
“I’m an old friend of the family. I’ve known them all practically since they were born. If he’s like a father to them, I’m like a grandfather.”
“Delighted to meet you, Mr. . . . ”
“Horacio Delàs. Please, call me Horacio.”
Miss Prim thanked him for this courtesy, and then indicated the children.
“Could you tell me, Horacio, what on earth he is up to? Training them for war?”
“My dear, I’ve heard that you’re overflowing with qualifications,” said the elderly man with mild irony.
“Watch, he’s showing them how ancient knights fought.
Most children nowadays have no idea how to grasp a sword, lance, or pike.
They don’t even know what a knight is. Observe: if I’m not mistaken, he’s now going to remind them of the six precepts of Geoffroy de Preuilly. ”
“Geoffroy de Preuilly?”
“You’re not from around here, so there’s no reason why you should know about him.
He was a knight who died in the mid-eleventh century and he’s credited with being the inventor of jousting, no less.
Some claim he formulated the first rules governing tournaments.
The historical record isn’t entirely clear on this, but they’re beautiful, noble precepts. ”
The clear, deep voice of the Man in the Wing Chair interrupted their conversation: “First precept: never stab your opponent with the point of your lance. Two, never stray outside your lane. Three, several men should never attack a single man. Four, do not wound your opponent’s horse.
Five, only strike the chest and face . . . ”
“Sixth and final precept,” said the older man, turning toward Miss Prim and raising a hand triumphantly to the brim of his hat, “never tilt at your opponent when he has the visor of his helmet raised. It’s no laughing matter: that was how Henry the Second of France died.
As you may recall, Gabriel de Montgomery’s lance pierced his eye during a tournament. ”
She nodded benignly, stretched out a hand to pick a late blackberry, and then glanced at her watch.
“Please excuse me, Horacio, but I must be going. I need to do some shopping in the village and get back by midday. I suppose they’ll stop jousting and head for the abbey.”
“Won’t you be going with them?”
“I’m afraid I’m not a very spiritual person.”
“Don’t worry, neither am I. I go straight home after my morning walk, so if you’d allow me, I’d be delighted to accompany you.”
The old man offered her his arm and she took it gratefully.
For the first time since her arrival she felt relaxed and at ease.
She had a feeling she’d met an ally. A reasonable, sensible, level-headed man: a person with whom one could talk.
A gentleman, she thought happily as they walked together in the pleasant morning sun.
And who wouldn’t want a gentleman as an ally?
Three hours after this enjoyable encounter, Miss Prim returned from the village.
She was a little late, but was confident that the elegant white labels and navy-blue leather notebooks would more than make up for her tardiness.
Didn’t she think her employer a delightful man, the stationery shop owner had asked when she found out that she worked at the house?
Miss Prim did not. He was different, she’d admit that.
He’d been very generous in taking in his sister’s children and teaching classical languages to half the children of San Ireneo, she was happy to acknowledge that too.
But he wasn’t delightful—at least, not when defending his ideas.
He wasn’t delightful in arguments, or in debates: he wouldn’t yield an inch concerning what he believed to be true, and he had no mercy with opponents when he saw they weren’t on his level.
Miss Prim had not been at the house long, but she’d already had occasion to see him in action.
He could be the nicest man in the world, but he could also be the hardest.
“How strange to hear you say this!” said the owner of the stationer’s. “I’ve never heard a woman say such a thing about him. Hard? You must be mistaken.”