So why, Joe wondered, was this intelligent and professional man parading about in his present costume? He glanced with some distaste at the baggy black cotton trousers, the chest-hugging, collarless shirt—also in black—and the black rope-soled espadrilles. All bought in the local market, Joe supposed, and more suited to one of the fishermen who lounged along the sea front at Collioure. Well, Orlando and his smart artist friends set a standard of flamboyant eccentricity a humble photographer might find hard to emulate. Tricking himself out as a devil-may-care cut-throat must be his way of keeping his end up. It was all a house-party game. Tedious stuff! Joe wondered briefly what gambit a humble policeman might use for the same purpose and resolved to annoy them all by simply changing his white shirt for an even crisper white shirt and polishing his already shiny shoes.
He smiled and, perfectly ready to offer himself to the assembled company as a source of derision or even a comic turn should that be what tickled their fancy, he straightened his Charvet cravat, smoothed down the pocket flaps of his linen jacket and moved off down the corridor. Joe Sandilands was used to singing for his supper.
Chapter Four
It was lucky some sharp-eared child had heard the car horn, Joe reckoned, as he made his way along several corridors, or they’d have wandered the maze like Theseus without the benefit of a ball of wool. He noted, as they passed, the contents of the one or two rooms whose doors were open. Mainly they were used as storage for mouldering sports equipment, artists’ easels and encrusted palettes, children’s toys. One contained nothing but an array of stuffed boars’ heads and long-dead birds in glass cases.
At last they came out into what Orlando had called ‘the refectory’. A word that hardly did it justice, Joe considered. This was the grand hall of a very grand castle. The intimidating space soared to a height of three storeys and was lit by windows contrived at three levels from ground to ceiling. Light was flooding in boldly through the topmost rank of windows, the ancient, lead-paned glass filtering and distorting it into ripples which moved along the stone walls, washing them in southern warmth. The harshness of the limestone was further softened by tapestries and hangings quite ragged enough to be genuinely centuries old.
While the children trooped straight in followed by Nathan, Orlando paused with Joe in the arched doorway and watched his face, waiting for his reaction.
‘Well, I never!’ murmured Joe. ‘Sorry! I’ll think of some more intelligent response when my brain’s adjusted to all this grandeur.’ And, feeling that a more appreciative response was expected: ‘Stunning! Simply stunning! I say—these tapestries are certainly eye-catching. Could they possibly be …?’
‘As ancient as they look and worth a fortune,’ said Orlando. ‘Thought you’d like them.’
Though threadbare in places and greying with age, the greens, the violets and the turquoise blues of Aubusson still told their stories. Joe’s eye was caught and held by the small fierce eye of a wild boar cornered in a forest glade.
Powerful and utterly fearless, the splendid animal was rounding on his tormentors. In the next tapestry, he was lying, spectacular in death, a prize at the feet of a lusty royal huntsman. The scenes of venery were interspersed with scenes of courtly life: feasting, dancing, flirting and the playing of instruments most of which were unfamiliar to Joe. Hairy satyrs tootled roguishly on pipes making maidens swoon with delight. Maidens strummed on viols—if those pot-bellied instruments were viols—and youths fainted at their feet. The long-dead participants, apart from the satyrs, were universally young and handsome. Joe’s impression was a blend of dark eyes, expressive hands, muscular thighs, winking jewels around swan necks, white coifs and rich attire.
‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ said Orlando. ‘Woven especially for this château—for this very room in fact. I’ll introduce you to the Shades of the Castle later. First you must meet the present incumbents. Not so aristocratic, I’m afraid—you’ll be looking at them for a long time before you spot a tiara or a garter amongst them. And the standard of courtly manners is sadly eroded, you’ll find. Still—you’ll probably hold your end up … I say …’ The normally urbane Orlando was disconcerted to be found speaking disparagingly of his fellows but he soldiered on apologetically: ‘Not sure what you might be expecting but … they are a bit of a mixed crowd, you know. One thing they all have in common is—they know their mind and they speak it. Without fear or favour or regard for authority, if you know what I mean?’
‘I talk all the time with people who have no respect for authority,’ said Joe. ‘Especially mine. A bunch of bolshie buggers, are you trying to say?’
Orlando grinned and waved a negligent hand towards the far end of the hall where a subdued crowd was at luncheon. ‘Exactly that! And here they are.’
The guests, as many as twenty in number, Joe was surprised to see, were already seated on benches on either side of a very long oak table stretching across the room and positioned in front of an ornate fireplace. Though the day was hot, a fire of aromatic logs smouldered agreeably in the grate and Joe was glad of the homely scent in this intimidating space. But even a crowd this size was rendered insignificant by the size of the room. Noting the huddle, Joe’s mind turned to defensive positions and famous last stands. Had some desperate voice, moments before he entered, called out: ‘Circle the wagons!’ ‘Ten bullets each—make ’em all count!’ ‘Our swords? Come and get them!’?
The setting hardly favoured intimate or even comfortable dining, but this was the exact spot originally designated for it. There, at the far end, in splendour and state, the master of this place and his entourage would have feasted before a crowded and bustling hall from the day the castle was built. Joe guessed that it was the unchangeable proximity of the kitchens that had kept it in operation here over the centuries and he watched as two men-servants came in through a door to the left of the table. One was carrying a basket of freshly baked bread, the other a large jug of wine. Both were soft-footed and swift, their every gesture correct.
He stood with Orlando at a polite distance from the table while Nathan, pausing to give him an encouraging slap between the shoulder blades, went to resume his place halfway along one of the benches. Joe looked for Dorcas and lighted on her already established at a smaller table set to one side. Clearly the children’s table. Clearly too, Dorcas was, by general consent, already in charge. As he watched, she tapped one boy on the knuckles with a ladle and reproved him, grinned, then began to spoon out stew into bowls.
The murmuring stopped at their approach, forks were placed on plates, faces were raised in expectation to take in the newcomer. A bad moment. Joe fortified himself with the thought that they were strangers and, for him, likely to remain so. He prepared to smile blandly through a deluge of names, none of which he need commit to memory.
Orlando seemed to be of the same mind. He signalled to everyone that they were to remain seated and launched into a rough, joking presentation of Joe.
‘Untraditional’ was the most forgiving term Joe could think of to describe the introduction but he smiled affably through it, made a gracious, all-embracing bow and glanced along the ranks. Well, they earned his respect for the lively effort they were making to combat the medieval austerity. Colourful diaphanous clothing, floating scarves and gypsy colours made a gallant riposte to the aridity of the white spaces. Here and there, the garish glitter of a diamanté clasp caught his attention, a cascade of metal bangles tinkled distractingly down a slim brown arm. Joe thought for a moment he’d arrived in the middle of a mad fancy-dress party. Or had he crashed a rehearsal for an end-of-the-pier show? Make-up was certainly much in evidence—bold eyes dark with mascara were raised to his in speculation, reddened lips smiled invitingly. Small wonder that it was the women he was first aware of—scattered at random amongst the gathering, they seemed to make up almost half the number.