“No, but I expect them very soon,” Viviane replied amicably as she offered her hand in greeting to the sandy-haired, lanky youth with freckles dusted across his impish face. “Enchantée, Quentin. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Come inside, mypâtissièreSophie has made some delicious treats that I’m sure you’ll enjoy. Do you liketarte aux mirabelles?”
Quentin’s twinkling eyes lit up with joy. “Oui, madame. It’s my favorite!”
Viviane laughed softly and placed a friendly hand upon Quentin’s rangy shoulder. “My dear friend Maiwenn used to make them all the time. They were her favorite, too.” With a nostalgic smile, Viviane led her guests from the forest, up the beaten path, and through the carved golden oak door.
Into the splendid Crystal Castle.
“Let’s wait here until Ghislaine and Gaspard arrive.” Viviane gestured to a welcoming parlor where a blue velvet tufted settee and four matching chairs were arranged around a low wooden table. The enticing aromas of cinnamon and honey wafted from a tempting platter of warm oatcakes.
As her guests settled in, an amiable servant offered pewter goblets of ale to Esclados and Quentin. Viviane poured the chamomile tea she’d prepared into two ceramic mugs, handing one to Laudine. “Help yourself, Quentin. Sophie made the oatcakes especially for you and Gaston.” She smiled into her cup as the boy placed one of the cinnamon flavored treats onto a plate, topped it with a generous amount of honey poured from a small jar, and bit into it with unabashed delight.
From her chair facing the window, Viviane spotted three riders emerging from the dense forest, cantering toward the château.
Dark brown curls bouncing, her deep blue cloak flapping in the autumn breeze, Ghislaine was flanked by her woodcutter husband Gaspard and their seven-year-old son, Gaston. The young boy who idolized Sir Lancelot of the Lake. The unsuspecting child whose greatest Yuletide wish would soon come true.
Beyond his wildest dreams.
Viviane’s heart fluttered in eager anticipation of the most wondrous winter solstice yet in her sparkling Crystal Castle.
“Here they are!” she exclaimed exuberantly, rising from her chair as the valet Jacques opened the entrance door to greet the invited guests.
Amid the red and gold leaves rustling across the grassy courtyard in front of the castle, the trio of visitors dismounted, handing the horses’ reins to stable hands, as Viviane hurried down the path and hugged her smiling friends. “Welcome, everyone!” Wrapping Gaston in an affectionate embrace, she greeted him with labiseand whispered in his ear, “You’re just in time for Sophie’s oatcakes. And she even madetarte aux mirabelles!”
Eyes as blue asle Lac de Dianewidened in wonder. “Tarte aux mirabelles?My favorite!” Gaston hugged her waist, his dark brown locks shining in the luxuriant morning light.
Viviane’s heart flooded with joy. “Go on ahead. Sophie’s in the parlor with a boy named Quentin. He’s a squire, about your age. Sir Esclados brought him today, so you’d have someone to practice sword fighting with.We’ll be along in just a moment.”
His strong, sturdy legs churning up the beaten path, Gaston bolted toward the tempting treats and the unexpected delight of a seasoned sparring partner.
Viviane linked her elbow in Ghislaine’s offered arm and led her laughing guests intole Château de Comper.
In the parlor, Gaston was gobbling an oatcake laden with honey as Esclados, Laudine, and the squire Quentin stood to greet the new arrivals.
Ghislaine and Laudine, close friends who often visited Viviane, kissed on the cheeks as their husbands shook hands.
Esclados introduced the older boy to Gaston’s parents. “This is Quentin, a page and stable groom from myChâteau de Landuc. I thought Gaston might enjoy a bit of training from an experienced swordsman.”
Quentin’s chest puffed out with pride as he grinned from ear to ear, enormously pleased at the praise from the prestigious Red Knight.
An awestruck Gaston gazed at Quentin, respect and admiration blazing in his bright blue eyes.
A plump, matronly figure in a white linen apron and close-fitting bonnet appeared in the doorway. “Bonjour, messieurs dames.Everything is ready. Please, follow me. Right this way.” Sophie’s round cheeks crinkled in a welcoming grin as she ushered the guests from the parlor into the adjacent banquet room.
Dappled sunlight filtered from the dense trees surrounding the castle, through a large open window, onto a rectangular table where pitchers of ale and mead were placed among platters of oat wafers, almond cakes, and two magnificenttarte aux mirabelles. The sweet aromas of cinnamon, honey, almonds, and wild plums merged with the fresh herbal fragrance of chamomile from a steaming teapot in the center of the appetizing array.
As her guests were seated, thedomestiqueOdille joined Sophie in serving chalices of mead for the men and mugs of watered ale for the boys while Viviane pouredtisanefor her female guests and herself. Everyone dug in, raving about the delicious treats—especially the wild plum tarts.
Soon, the joyful shouts of the boys, eager to escape the confines of the castle and practice swordsmanship with wooden weapons, carried into the banquet hall. “I am Sir Lancelot of the Lake, First Knight of King Arthur Pendragon!” Gaston cried, his jubilant voice floating on the late September wind. “En garde!”
As the mock battle commenced, Viviane laughed softly and remarked, “Gaston will be ecstatic this winter solstice. He has no idea that he’ll not only get to meet his hero Lancelot, but that he’ll be traveling to Camelot, as a personal squire for my magnanimous son. I can’t wait to see Gaston’s eyes light up with Yuletide joy when he meets his hero—and learns that he will one day become a Knight of the Round Table, too!” She sipped her chamomile tisane, its comforting heat as warm as the glow in her happy heart.
Viviane glanced at Ghislaine, whose limpid eyes were brimming. With tears of joy, no doubt, for her son Gaston would be exuberantly happy to become the personal squire of Lancelot—the most reputed knight in the entire Celtic realm. Yet, Viviane knew that Ghislaine’s tears were also of despair, for her beloved son would soon be leaving her maternal arms to venture off to Britain. To a distant land, far from the familiar French forest where she and Gaspard—the middle-aged couple who had tried vainly for twenty years to conceive a child—had adopted and raised him in the humble stone cottage with the straw thatched roof.
Memories flooded Viviane.
The poor young priestess, desperate to hide her impossible pregnancy. The childless couple yearning for a babe of their own.
Viviane had arranged it all.
