Without Reason

By Ann Port

The summer before Eleanor Chandler’s senior year in college, she spends an unforgettable week near Beynac-et-Cazenac, a medieval French town in the Perigord region of Southwestern France. As she explores the crumbled ruins of the mighty fortresses, the ancient bastides, and the medieval abbeys, Ellie feels a strange connection to a place so familiar, yet so far removed from her experiences. Two years after returning home to California, still haunted by memories of the Perigord, Ellie gives up teaching and enrolls in McGill University to study archeology. Completing three years of study, she eagerly returns to the area that captured her imagination, this time to complete her doctoral dissertation under the guidance of Jean Oresme, an expert on Medieval life in the region. Without Reason is a gripping tale of a woman who, while looking toward the future, must answer questions about her past. The reader will join Ellie and Charles as they try to solve a mystery in an unforgettable land—the Perigord.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483489667

Ann Port

Ann Port was born in Macon, Georgia and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. In 1965, after graduating from Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois with a major in English and a minor in history, she moved to San Diego and earned a master’s degree in social sciences at California Western University in San Diego, California. For the next twenty-four years, she taught English literature, American literature, and Advanced Placement English in the San Diego area. In 1992, when her husband accepted a job with the Boston Red Sox, he and Ann moved to Southborough, Massachusetts, a lovely New England town thirty-seven miles west of the city.

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Copyright © 2018 Ann Port.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8967-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8966-7 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/21/2018

Also by Ann Port

It’s All in the Title

The Bernini Quest

A Fair Exchange

The Iznik Enigma

Full Circle

Unforeseen Paths

"France may one day exist no more, but the Dordogne will live on just as dreams live on and nourish the souls of men."

Henry Miller

The Mighty Dordogne from the Fortress of Beynac

Image10TheDordognefromBeynac.jpg

Chapter 1

E leanor Chandler couldn’t recall a more exasperating or, paradoxically, a more energizing day. It was nearly seven p.m.—eleven hours since she locked her door and drove off to work. Now, as she steered her new red Renault Clio hatchback along the narrow driveway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, its final flickering rays painting the partially cloudy sky with vivid streaks of crimson dappled with speckles of gold and amethyst.

Taken with the amazing scene, Ellie stopped and opened the windows. Marveling at nature’s fleeting beauty, she sat silently, drinking in the soothing sounds of twittering birds, chirping insects, and the soft rustling of a faint breeze wafting through the trees.

As swiftly as they appeared, the intense colors dissolved into the muted gray-blue of twilight. I can’t sit here all night, Ellie whispered as dusk swiftly surrendered to night’s blindness. She sighed deeply, switched on the headlights, and raising the window to keep out the slight chill in the evening air, began the short drive up the tree-lined lane to her home. I guess time really does fly when you’re having fun, she mused as the turning leaves on an ancient oak tree triggered a twinge of melancholy. It seems impossible, but my first summer in the Périgord is quickly coming to an end.

At the back door of her fifteenth-century hunting lodge, Ellie parked, turned off the engine, and lay her head back against the headrest. For several minutes, she breathed deeply, exhaling the final traces of tension from her body and inhaling the aroma of lilac and lavender emanating from the bushes growing by the kitchen door. Throughout the long days, as she faced the inevitable challenges, aggravations, and frustrations of writing a doctoral dissertation, always lurking in the back of her mind was her refuge from the work-a-day world—her lodge. Nestled amid twenty densely wooded acres of unspoiled dark oak, walnut, and chestnut trees, Ellie’s home was four miles from the village of Les Eyzies-de-Tayac, the town the guidebooks labeled the ‘Capital of Pre-history in the Dordogne.’

Ellie’s stay in southwestern France began in mid-summer, a time of year when hordes of humanity—maps in hand and cameras clicking wildly—invaded the region. Thank God, the tourist season is almost over, she pondered, thinking back to the day she leased the lodge. In early May, she had begun to work with an expert agent who specialized in rental properties in Périgord Noir. The woman found several places that almost met Ellie’s criteria. However, in each house, something—though she wasn’t sure what—was missing. As the time of her departure for France drew near, Ellie was close to settling on a place that wasn’t ideal but would do. I need to sign a lease —and soon, she mused on a Sunday morning a month before her flight to France. Frustrated, but resigned, she turned on her computer to instruct her realtor to rent the so-so property. As she scrolled through the emails she had received over night, she saw a message that began: How about this?

Crossing her fingers that this might be the one, Ellie clicked on open and read:

This completely restored, partially furnished, fifteenth century lodge came on the market just this morning. If it’s what you want, you will have to act quickly. It’s about ten kilometers further away from what you desire, but the isolated location and the house itself are ideal. One room I’m sure will seal the deal.

One by one, Ellie opened photographs of the house and the grounds. The first pictures were okay—better than other places she had previously seen. I suppose I could live here, she mulled. Location-wise, it would work, and the lodge is certainly isolated. I won’t be bothered by nosy neighbors. If the kitchen is okay, I’ll sign the lease.

Sighing, she clicked on the last attachment. Oh, my Lord, she exclaimed as she studied the room that her realtor thought would ‘seal the deal.’ Without hesitation, Ellie hit reply. Her short message: ‘This is my new home. Please have the paperwork prepared and thank you.’

As October nears, May seems years away, Ellie pondered as she exited the car and unlocked the kitchen door. As she did each evening, she switched on the lights and paused in the doorway of the room that had so quickly won her heart. No matter how difficult the day, each evening as she entered the charming kitchen with its thick stone walls, exposed beams in the low-hung ceiling, and ancient stone fireplace that covered an entire wall, Ellie felt an instant sense of calm. Many evenings after dinner as she relaxed in front of a fire she didn’t need but had to have, Ellie gazed across the room. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the hard-working wives of generations past who struggled to keep their billowing skirts from catching fire while they prepared the evening meal. She "watched’ them hang heavy cast-iron pots of soup or stew from the gigantic hooks protruding from the mantle above the cavernous space. Some evenings, she could almost smell the fresh loaves of bread baking in the fiery side-ovens while the always-busy women sewed, weaved, and waited to serve their husbands, fathers, and sons who would soon return home from laboring in the fields.

Enough daydreaming, Ellie said as she tossed her purse on the antique farmer’s table she had purchased the week before in a little shop in Les Eyzies. She went to the sink, filled the teapot with tap water, set it on the stove, and ignited the flame. Despite the warmth outside, there was a chill in the room. The thick walls are doing their job, she thought. They keep out the daytime heat and provide a good excuse for another fire. She crossed the room, struck a match, bent down, and lit the kindling she had placed beneath the logs in the cavernous space before setting off to work that morning. As the flames leapt upward—as was her habit—she stripped to her underwear and tossed her dirty clothes down the stairs that lead to the cellar, the cave as she called the spot where water once came in the house and was now home to her washer, dryer, and freezer. She momentarily considered doing a load of laundry but quickly nixed the plan. I’ll wait until tomorrow when I’m not so tired, she said. Grinning at her usual excuse for procrastinating, she turned and climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor.

The upstairs was a little warmer, but Ellie’s bedroom was still cool. She donned her terrycloth robe and walked the short distance to the bathroom to take a relaxing bath. She turned on the faucet, let the water run for a few minutes, and tested the temperature with her toe. Finding it hot, but not too hot, she added bath oil. While she waited for the tub to fill, she wrapped her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair in a towel, tested the temperature again, and climbed in. Stretching out her long slender body, she laid her head against the back of the tub. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting the irritations and problems she had faced during the day evaporate like the steam rising off the hot water. After many years of confusion, she was finally content, on track, and following her dream.

Until six years ago, I would have deemed anyone who suggested I pursue a career in archeology ‘certifiable,’ Ellie mulled as the bubbles caressed her chin. I wanted to be an English teacher. I wanted to instill a love of literature in my eager-to-learn students. "How quickly reality usurps idealism," she whispered, a frown on her face as she recalled the years of turmoil following her graduation from the University of California, San Diego. She had accepted a position teaching freshman English at Scripps Ranch High School, ideally located about ten miles from her parents’ La Jolla home. Eager to get a head start, she reported a week before classes were to begin. During the next five days, she decorated her classroom walls with colorful posters of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Jane Eyre, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Our Town, novels and plays she planned to teach in the year ahead.

On the first day of school, both excited and nervous, she greeted her first period class. By fourth period, her frustration was mounting. When sixth period—her last of the day—finally rolled around, her frustration had turned to despair. Instead of presenting her well-prepared plan for the year to students who were fresh-faced and eager to learn, she was met with universal apathy, a lack of interest, and in some cases, absolute disdain. Of course, she realized that new teachers were rarely assigned advanced classes, but the students she was asked to teach were unlike anything she could have anticipated in her wildest dreams.

As September changed into October and each day was as dreary as the last, Ellie began to realize that despite her efforts, she couldn’t motivate the majority of her students. Most found English a chore—a class they were forced to take to get through. When she tried to reach out to the parents to elicit their cooperation, she quickly learned that many would rather blame her than ask their children to take responsibility for poor grades and bad behavior. There must be a way I can reach these kids and make them want to learn, she told herself night after night as she read the five or six homework assignments handed in during all five classes that day.

One Sunday during dinner at her parent’s home, as she often did, Ellie began to complain about her apathetic students and her ever-waning enthusiasm for teaching. She was about half-way through her usual tirade when her mother Janet pointed to the needlepoint hanging in the breakfast room near the kitchen door. See that, she said firmly. "Ponder the words my mother stitched. If ever there were a person who needed to absorb the message, it’s you."

Now, six-thousand miles away from her mom’s kitchen, Ellie could still hear Janet’s voice as she continued: I mean it, Ellie. Honestly, I never took the words to heart. Hopefully, you will. Wherever life leads you, take the needlepoint along. Hang it by your kitchen door. Read the words when you go out and when you return home. Maybe—just maybe—the message will penetrate your stubborn brain.

The framed needlepoint now hung downstairs by the kitchen door at the lodge. Though the words hadn’t affected the change Janet hoped they would, Ellie still read them every time she exited the house through the back door. ‘God Grant Me Patience, and I Want It Right Now.’

Mom was right, Ellie whispered. Lack of patience has been the story of my life—but not the whole story. She sat up, turned on the faucet to add more hot water to the tub, and settled back to resume her musings. By the end of her first year in the classroom, she had lost any enthusiasm she initially had for her job. Worse, she dreaded the year to come.

As July turned into August and the first day of school drew near, in the middle of yet another sleepless night, Ellie experienced an epiphany. She realized that her lack of enthusiasm for teaching wasn’t due to apathetic students and long hours of preparation that produced no desired results. Her path had been clear for years, but she hadn’t paid attention.

I guess it took a year of disappointment combined with months of soul searching to figure it out, Ellie mulled. After my first trip to the Périgord, I should have known what I wanted to do with my life. That amazing week is why I’m not lying on the couch in La Jolla grading homework papers—however few. It’s why I’m soaking in a bathtub here in Périgord Noir following a long day of working at the fortress of Beynac.

The circumstances of Ellie’s first trip to the Périgord were so curious that she truly believed fate took her there. During spring break of her junior year at UCSD, she traveled to New England to serve as her sister Jane’s maid of honor. Though her parents stayed in Boston with her aunts, uncles, and cousins, Ellie opted to stay with Jane at her new home in Southborough, a picture-perfect New England town, thirty-seven miles west of the city.

From the moment she entered Jane’s family room, Ellie was fascinated with her sister’s collection of santons, the dressed characters created by the artisans of Provence to reflect a time of life that had long since passed. When she wanted to know where the figures were created, Jane went to her computer and clicked on a website she had found while shopping for Provencal fabric to make new valances for her kitchen windows.

Shortly after the wedding festivities ended, Ellie returned to San Diego. Thinking she should send Jane a thank you gift for opening her home during an exceedingly stressful time, Ellie remembered the dolls. Jane had said the Provence Shop offered the best selection of Santons, so Ellie googled the site. After much consideration, she chose two twelve-inch figures that stood together on a single wooden board. On one side, a young woman in a traditional Provençal costume wore a bright yellow dress dotted with blue flowers. Obviously out gardening—something Jane loved to do—she wore a straw hat and carried a basket of lavender. The man, also in traditional garb, sported a blue shirt dotted with yellow flowers. In his hand, he carried a rake. A rustic wooden table standing between the two contained miniature gardening tools and several more baskets of lavender. The bride and groom gardening together, Ellie thought as she submitted the order. In the spot for comments, she addressed Amelie, the Provence Shop’s owner. After explaining why she chose her shop, Ellie requested information about the artisan who had created these particular dolls. Amelie responded quickly. After thanking Ellie for the order, she wrote several paragraphs about Richard, the santon-maker from Aix-en-Provence. Ellie’s additional questions and Amelie’s subsequent emails began a correspondence that quickly became an online friendship.

Around Christmas of her junior year at UCSD, Ellie received an unexpected email. Amelie invited her to stay with her and her husband Paul-Henri at their home in Le Rouret, a small village in the hills about halfway between Nice and Cannes on the French Riviera’s Cote de Azur. In late June, a week after the spring semester ended, Ellie boarded a Delta flight to Atlanta. Four hours later, she was sitting on a plane bound for Paris. There, she caught a commuter flight for the short trip to Nice.

Following a fascinating week of sightseeing in parts of Provence rarely frequented by tourists, Amelie suggested a trip to Périgord Noir. Initially, Ellie wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of a nine-hour drive, but she wanted to make her affable hosts happy, not realizing until years later the impact the excursion would have on her life.

By the time they reached the Château Lanquais, an ancient gothic edifice with a harmoniously attached Renaissance château, their base for exploring the countryside, Ellie was already in love with the Périgord. Throughout the next week, she was drawn in and fascinated by every place they visited. Each new experience became an impetus to discover more about the region. As she, Amelie, and Paul-Henri explored the towering châteaux perched strategically on rocky precipices, walked through dark ancient caverns filled with primitive art, drove alongside lush farmlands, and visited splendid abbeys, fortified bastides and crumbling villages, Ellie felt a mysterious and intense connection to the countryside created by the mighty Dordogne River. The diverse land where gorges and deep depressions turned into fertile valleys between rocky hills and dark forests rose above pinkish limestone cliffs that peered down onto fields of emerging summer crops captured her heart and soul.

As she flipped the drain with her toe to let the water out of the tub, Ellie recalled a particularly memorable moment that occurred the last day of the trip. They had finished exploring the bastide of Monpazier and were walking toward the car when Paul-Henri said, Ellie, I want to introduce you to a couple I met several years ago when Amelie and I had dinner with her cousins at their farm near Cadouin Abbey. For me, these two symbolize the Périgord.

I would love to meet them, Ellie said enthusiastically.

Good, said Paul Henri. They don’t live too far from here.

He drove about six kilometers in the direction of Cadouin before pulling off the highway onto a narrow dirt road. In another kilometer, he parked on the side of the road, turned off the car, got out, and opened Ellie’s door. The driveway is in bad shape, he said. I don’t want to risk a flat tire, so we’ll walk from here.

He led Ellie and Amelie up a well-worn dirt path toward a small farm house. There, sitting on the porch, they spent several hours talking with the farmer, Rene Boudin, a man of about sixty, leathered from years of laboring under the summer sun, and his wife, a wrinkled old woman who sat contentedly, knitting and watching over the sheep that grazed nearby.

During their conversation, Ellie grew to admire Monsieur and Madam Boudin. These simple people who lived off the land, growing potatoes and maize much like their ancestors had over the centuries, embodied harmony, serenity, and a sense of timelessness in a world that staunchly refused to become modern.

The next day as Paul-Henri drove across the bridge over the Dordogne for the last time on their return trip to La Rouret, Ellie was unexpectedly sad to be leaving a place that had given her so much pleasure.

Two days later, she flew home, completed her senior year at UCSD, married her college sweetheart, and took the job with the San Diego schools. Within a year, she and Tom realized they had made a mistake. They cared for one another, but they weren’t meant to be married. Realizing she needed to make a drastic change in her life, Ellie filed for divorce, quit her job, and embarked on a new career. All this in a little over two years and in-part—she later came to realize—because of the extraordinary week she spent in the Périgord.

Back to the present and feeling like a wrinkled prune, Ellie got out of the tub, dried off, put on sweats, and went downstairs to fix a cup of tea. As she passed the table by the stairs, she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. I should have a line installed upstairs, she said as she pushed the button and heard her boss’s voice.

Ellie, it’s Jean, the message began. I called the office. When you didn’t answer, I assumed you had left for the day. I tried your cell. Again, you didn’t answer. You may have been in the countryside where there’s limited service. No hurry, but please call when you have a minute.

If there’s no rush, I’ll have my tea first. Ellie decided. She poured the water, added the tea bag, wrapped her cold hands around the cup, and sat down on the couch in front of the blazing fire. As she stared into the flames, her thoughts turned to her boss, Jean Oresme, a renowned archeologist from Les Eyzies. Though Jean’s specialty was life in prehistoric Dordogne in and around Lascaux, the extraordinary caves filled with ancient paintings of animals that inhabited the region 17,300 years before, he had graciously agreed to be her sponsor while she completed the research for her dissertation.

What a rollercoaster-ride my life has been, Ellie said as her musings shifted from Jean back to the direction her life had taken—a winding path that had brought her to this marvelous moment in time. Two years out of college, her world was in shambles. She no longer had a promising profession, a husband, or a home. But she had a dream. Despite the challenges ahead, she was resolute. She would become an archeologist and return to the Périgord to work.

Though the prospect of several more years of school was daunting, Ellie was rarely discouraged. Before beginning her coursework, she narrowed her focus to Périgord Noir. Though her study would commence at the beginning of the thirteenth century—a time of crusades and religious turmoil—she would focus on events that occurred between 1337 and 1453, a time when endless skirmishes and battles inflicted untold misery on southwestern France. Farmlands were laid waste, towns were destroyed, the population was decimated, and marauders terrorized the countryside. From the ruins of the war, an entirely new France emerged. What had been a number of independent feudal lands became a national state.

To pass the time during the long drive from La Rouret to the Périgord, Paul-Henri had provided an overview of the turbulent years of war in the Dordogne region. As she listened, Ellie was amazed by how the subjugated men and women could so quickly adapt and then re-adapt to the culture of their conquerors. Even then, she wanted to know more about these ordinary people and how they coped with the constant political upheaval, the ever-changing allegiances, and the social turmoil that was their lives.

The first obstacle Ellie had to overcome before achieving her goal was acceptance to a program that offered both a master’s and a doctoral degree in archeology, a difficult task since her undergraduate major was English. After spending weeks investigating schools, she applied to McGill University in Montreal. There, she could embark upon her new career and at the same time—both in class, and through everyday encounters in the French-speaking city—learn to read and speak the language of the country where she hoped to work.

Months after applying, the email arrived. She had been accepted to the graduate program, provided she fulfill preliminary undergraduate requirements in science and social anthropology at UCSD. Taking six courses during both the summer and fall semesters, Ellie achieved her goal. In the spring, she packed her bags, put her furniture in storage, and set off to begin the next phase of her life. In two and a half years of hard work and tunnel vision, she completed her master’s degree and the courses necessary to begin her doctoral dissertation. Now, at age twenty-eight, she was beginning her research on site in the place that had so drastically changed her life—the Périgord.

It took Ellie less than thirty minutes after she arrived at the Bergerac airport to know she had made the right decision—that she was on the right path. As soon as she turned her rental car onto the D703 for the sixty-two-kilometer drive to the town of Beynac-et-Cazenac, she was again drawn-in and felt the same uncanny sensation that she was in a familiar setting, not merely a site she had seen during her trip with Amelie and Paul-Henri—something more.

As she thought back, Ellie recalled the morning she first heard from Jean. She had just attended the final session of her graduate seminar when her phone beeped, signaling an incoming text. There was no name on the caller ID, but she recognized the international country code. Plus 33 meant the call originated in France. She knew her advisor had been communicating with a man he hoped would sponsor her work. Now she was one click away from realizing her dream—or not. Will I have an advisor for my study, she wondered. Will my passion to work in the Périgord be fulfilled? There’s only one way to find out. Sighing deeply, she clicked open and read the first line. Hallelujah, she exclaimed. I’m going to France.

Filled with excitement, she read Jean’s lengthy message. Working in conjunction with her dissertation advisor in Montreal, he had devised a plan for the two years it would take to complete her research in the Périgord. During the first six months of year one, she would examine the lives of the French men and women who once inhabited the mighty fortress of Beynac, the townsmen who lived below the castle, and the farmers and serfs who worked the surrounding farms during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and early fifteenth centuries. If all went well, she would then cross the Dordogne where, for the next six months, she would concentrate on the English who occupied Castelnaud, the rival bastion, and the surrounding towns and farms during the same period.

During the first half of her second year, she would delve into the lives of the artisans and merchants who resided in the bastides of Monpazier and Domme. Finally, she would complete her research in the abbeys of Saint Avit Senieur and Cadouin, religious sites that played significant roles in the lives of the people of the Périgord during the Middle Ages.

Back to the present and once again realizing she had wasted too much time recalling the past and anticipating the future, Ellie got up and fixed a salad. She had just begun to eat when the phone rang. She put the salad bowl on the coffee table, rose, removed the receiver from the charger, and plopped back down. Allo oui she answered cheerfully.

Ellie, it’s Jean—

Jean, Ellie said. I would have called when I got your message, but you said no hurry.

It’s no problem, Ellie. When I phoned, I wasn’t pressed for time.

Now you are, Ellie said.

I am. I want to let you know what’s happening before I leave for dinner.

And I’m eager to hear. Where are you, Jean? When you weren’t at Benyac, I assumed you were working at Lascaux?

That was my intent when I left home this morning. I planned to work in the caves until noon, have lunch, and spend the afternoon at Beynac. All that changed around ten when I unexpectedly received a text from Monsieur Mercier—

The Minister of Cultural Affairs—.

The same. He wrote that he had reserved a seat in my name on the one o’clock flight from Bergerac to Paris.

Without asking if you were available? That’s strange.

I thought so too. I was surprised by his sense of urgency. I quickly realized the trip was not an invitation to come to Paris. Rather, it was a command performance. With little time to spare and no idea how long I would be away, I rushed home to pack. I arrived at the airport just as the passengers were boarding. I didn’t have time to call.

It’s okay, Ellie said. "Realizing you’re again pressed for time, Did Monsieur Mercier’s text say why he needed you in Paris?"

No, Jean answered. Which worried me at the time. Besides the flight information, Monsieur Mercier’s message instructed me to meet him in room 412 of the ministry building at precisely two-thirty.

That didn’t give you much wiggle room, Ellie said. What if the plane had been late?

I thought the same thing. Thankfully, it wasn’t. It turns out that my three-hour meeting was with Monsieur Mercier and four members of the French Archeological Committee. When I left the office, I assumed the evening was mine to do as I liked. That’s why I told you to call at your leisure. I had just settled in for the evening and was about to order room service when I received another text with new instructions—another command performance.

Jean’s voice became an undecipherable drone in Ellie’s ear as she speculated on the purpose of Jean’s sudden trip, the urgency with which he was summoned, and what went on during his lengthy meeting—information he had yet to offer. Is the funding for his research being eliminated due to the increasingly adverse economy, she pondered. Is that why he was called to Paris? Did Monsieur Mercier feel he should deliver the bad news in person? If Jean no longer has a job, will I be able to continue my research?

She had no idea what she had missed when Jean’s voice interrupted her musings. Ellie, he said. Are you there? Tell me what you think of my idea.

I’m sorry, Jean, Ellie said. "We momentarily lost the connection. Rather I was lost in thought she mused, feeling guilty for lying. You were saying?

That I’ll likely be away for two days. While I’m gone, I thought you might like to do a little sightseeing—get reacquainted with the area. Assuming you might approve, I arranged for an expert guide to show you Domme, Monpazier, Cadouin, and if there’s time, Saint Avit.

He’ll give me the bad news in his own time, Ellie reasoned. Responding with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, she said, "Thanks, Jean. I would enjoy a few days off. I haven’t had much leisure time since I arrived in the Périgord."

Your boss must be a tyrant, Jean joked.

Don’t let him hear you say that, Ellie whispered. So, tell me about my expert guide.

His name is Charles Dunois. If you wish to see the sites, Charles will meet you by the drawbridge at Benyac tomorrow morning at nine—unless that’s too early when your ogre boss is giving you rare time away from the office.

Ellie laughed. Nine works, Mr. Ogre, she said. How will I recognize Mr. Dunois?

No worries, said Jean. Charles will find you. Anticipating you would say yes, I emailed him and attached your picture. There shouldn’t be many tourists milling around before the castle opens, so you should be easy to spot. Relax and enjoy your excursion.

Thanks, Ellie said. I’m sure I will.

Good. And now that I’ve planned your itinerary for the next few days, I’ll tell you about my session with Monsieur Mercier.

I’m sorry, Jean, Ellie said. I got caught up in the plans for my day off and didn’t ask about your meeting. You sound pleased.

Actually, I’m more than pleased, Ellie. I’m thrilled. You know I’ve been praying that a corporation would underwrite my study so neither of us will suffer from impending government cuts.

Your mouth to God’s ears, Ellie wanted to say. Instead she responded, Concerns about financial backing have made us both anxious.

True, Jean agreed. Hopefully, our financial concerns are behind us. As it happens, I was ordered to Paris to meet with a wealthy American, a Mr. Richard Norwood. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.

Not that I recall, Ellie said. Is he the gentleman who’s sponsoring your work?

I’m hopeful.

Then you’re not sure.

Not yet, but without him, my work at Lascaux will come to an end and our partnership at Beynac will be put on hold. During the meeting, Monsieur Mercier made it clear that in these tough economic times, funding for ‘unnecessary’ projects—as he called our work—is no longer obtainable. Enter Mr. Norwood. To date, the members of the French Archeological Committee have done all they can to convince him that becoming my patron would be a wise investment. Now, it’s up to you and me to persuade him that we’re worthy of his sponsorship."

You said, ‘Enter Mr. Norwood.’ You met the man?

Actually, no. He couldn’t attend the meeting. That’s why I’m calling you now. I’m dining with him and Monsieur Mercier this evening at Le Meurice.

I hope Norwood’s picking up the check, Ellie said. "I’m told Le Meurice is the most expensive restaurant in Paris."

Pocket change for the rich and famous, Jean said with a hint of disdain. As for your question, I assume Norwood’s paying. If not, I’ll have to find a job outside the field just to pay the bill. Monsieur Mercier’s text inviting me to dinner said if all goes well, Norwood plans to accompany me to Beynac when I return.

You’ve spoken about Mr. Norwood without mentioning anyone else, Ellie said. "Does that mean he would provide all the money you’ll require to continue your work? You won’t need to seek additional funding?"

That’s what he told Monsieur Mercier.

Isn’t it unusual for an individual rather than a corporation to fund an archeological venture?

I asked the same question. Monsieur Mercier explained that Norwood’s assets are comparable to philanthropists like Carnegie and Peabody in their day. They personally financed archeological digs. Norwood wants to do the same, though he didn’t provide a motive for doing so.

Did Monsieur Mercier ask him to explain?

He did. Apparently, Norwood’s response was vague, and I quote, ‘somewhat mysterious.’

Mysterious, Ellie questioned. That’s an interesting choice of words. From what you’ve said thus far, I take it your potential patron isn’t an archaeologist?

"That’s right. He was a businessman—"

"Was a businessman?"

Yes. Was—past tense. Though only thirty-five, he’s retired and living the good life. When I got back to the hotel, I did a Google search. Norwood made his fortune investing in Microsoft, Google, Amazon—you get the idea. Now, according to Monsieur Mercier, he’s looking for a ‘meaningful’—his word—way to spend the fruits of his short labor.

Do I hear disdain in your voice?

You already know me well, Jean said. "You realize I respect people who earn their money through hard work. I’m sure my tone mirrors my initial opinion of Richard Norwood. In any event, during our short phone conversation at the end of the meeting in Mercier’s office, Norwood told me that he is ‘fascinated’ with archaeology, or perhaps I should say archaeological exploration in the Périgord. I expect to learn more this evening."

"If Mr. Norwood does underwrite your project, do you think he’ll expect a say in what we do?"

That’s a good question, Ellie. Throughout the day, I’ve wondered the same thing. Under normal circumstances, the possibility he would want to be involved in decision making would be cause to decline his proposal. However, if you and I are going to continue our work, should Norwood offer, I’ll have no choice but to accept his assistance. If he interferes, we will deal with the inconvenience. Even if I dislike him, for the sake of my research I’ll put up with him, but I pity the man if he gets in your way.

Am I that bad, Jean, Ellie asked, joking—but to some extent serious.

Not bad, Jean answered. But definitely strong-willed and stubborn.

Wow, Ellie said. I’ve made an excellent first impression.

Jean chuckled. Believe me Ellie, you have, he said. "But there isn’t time to continue this conversation, so don’t ask me to elaborate, and please don’t read anything ominous into my comment—as I know you will. I was joking. Back to my phone conversation with Norwood. I asked why he’s interested in my work."

And he said?

He volunteered nothing. He was as secretive with me as he was with Monsieur Mercier. I don’t know why, but I sense there’s an important—though unspoken—reason for his desire to provide financial assistance—that’s if he does.

Yet he won’t reveal what’s behind his offer.

No. I posed the question in a round-about way and then more directly. Each time I did, he changed the subject.

That’s strange, Ellie said pensively. Maybe he’ll answer your question when you meet face-to-face.

"Hopefully, but whether he provides specifics or leaves me in the dark, I’ll gladly take his money—again, that’s if he offers."

Do you have meetings tomorrow, Ellie asked. Is that why you’re remaining in Paris?

Again, unclear. However, Monsieur Mercier warned me—

Warned you, Ellie interrupted. About Mr. Norwood?

Stop worrying, Ellie, Jean insisted. "Monsieur Mercier merely said if Mr. Norwood does decide to return with me to Beynac, he may remain for a day, a week, or longer. Should that happen, you’ll help me keep him happy and enthused."

Why me, Ellie asked. "He’s sponsoring your work."

"And, in turn, yours. Reading between the lines, though he didn’t fully explain his motives to Monsieur Mercier, I got the impression that you will play a significant role in Norwood’s decision to become my patron—or not."

Me, Ellie said, surprised. I’ve never heard of the man. More importantly, why would he know of me? I’m an insignificant graduate student.

"I assume Monsieur Mercier told him I’m your doctorial advisor. Though in most instances he was vague, Norwood says he’s eager to learn everything about the people—famous and not so noteworthy—who lived at Beynac, Monpazier, and Cadouin during the early thirteenth century. Since people and their way of life during the Middle Ages is your area of expertise—"

"Everything, Ellie interrupted. You’re kidding, right? If Richard Norwood spent the next two years looking over both our shoulders and listening intently to everything we said, he still wouldn’t know everything about the thirteenth century. As far as my being an expert on medieval life—thank you for the compliment—I’m hardly that. When I began my studies here at the fortress of Beynac, I chose to concentrate on the Hundred Year’s War. I could provide Norwood with specifics about life in the region from 1337 to 1453, though I’m a long way from knowing everything—if knowing everything is even possible. I haven’t begun to look at what occurred during the twelve-hundreds. Nor will I begin that phase of my research until next year? What is Norwood thinking?"

"It’s hard to know what the man is thinking, Ellie, but I am curious."

"My mother often said,