‘Ah.’ I smiled. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Joan of Arc – I had in fact been fascinated by her in my younger days, but having lived in France I’d gorged myself on Joan of Arc relics and Joan of Arc books and Joan of Arc historic sites until, in the end, it had produced the same effect as had the one too many Rusty Nails I’d drunk the night of my twenty-first birthday. All these years later, I couldn’t face a Rusty Nail without a shudder.
Still, so as not to ruin Simon’s tour I dutifully inspected the well and made the proper noises. Satisfied, he turned to lead the way up the tilting little street. ‘We go up here. Just watch your step, it’s pretty rough.’
And pretty steep, in spite of the fact that the road bent back upon itself several times in an attempt to soften the grade of the ascent. Halfway up I stumbled on the jutting cobblestones and paused to catch my breath.
‘Small wonder Joan of Arc got off her horse,’ I said, between gulps of air. ‘No self-respecting horse would want to make this climb.’
Paul laughed and moved steadily past me. ‘You get used to it.’
I wasn’t so sure. ‘Is this really easier than going up the steps?’
‘Yes,’ both boys averred, in unison.
Simon grinned, and pushed the hair back from his face. ‘Neil goes up and down those steps a few times a day,’ he informed me, ‘for exercise. He says musicians need to keep in shape.’
‘Bully for Neil,’ I muttered, and forced my wobbling legs to push onwards. Just when I thought they couldn’t possibly carry me any further, we cleared the final corner and found ourselves gazing out across the rooftops to the gently snaking river. It was a breathless view. The gardens of the closer houses had been terraced upwards to the level of the cliffs, a chequerboard of trees and flowers hemmed by ivied walls turned crimson in the autumn air.
A final slope, five paces more, and out we stepped onto a modern road that ran along the level of the cliff. Facing us, a cracked and crumbling wall rose starkly up one level more, its sheer bulk draped with clinging clumps of ivy broken here and there by leaning doors that marked the entrance to some long-abandoned dwelling.
‘There’s the château,’ said Simon, pointing.
‘Give us a chance,’ I pleaded, slumping back against the wall. ‘Wait till my vision clears.’
Simon wasn’t listening – he was already several steps ahead, walking with a brisk and purposeful step, but Paul hung back to wait for me. ‘Not far now,’ he promised. ‘We’re almost there.’
I glanced after Simon, noticing not the soaring narrow tower that served as gateway to the château, but the alarming slope of the black asphalt road ahead. ‘More climbing?’ I asked, weakly.
Paul laughed again. ‘I thought you Brits were used to hills.’
‘Yes, well,’ I excused myself, ‘I’m from the flat part.’
Simon finally noticed we weren’t keeping up. Frowning, he turned and called, ‘Come on, you two.’
Paul shot me a rather paternal glance. ‘You ready?’
‘Have I a choice?’
The final approach wasn’t all that bad, as it turned out, mainly because my attention was focused on the strange tower ahead of us. The Tour de I’Horloge, Paul told me when I asked him – the Clock Tower. It was tall and curiously flat, like a cardboard cut-out of a tower, with a blue slate roof and wooden belfry. The bell that chimed the hours, I thought, must hang within this tower.
A stone bridge spanned the grassy moat that once had barred invaders from the tower’s high arched entrance gate. Today, the wooden doors stood open wide, inviting us to leave the road and cross the narrow footbridge to where Simon waited by the postcards, impatient.
‘They do have guided tours,’ Paul said, as we paused at the entrance to pay, ‘but Simon and I usually just wander around on our own. It’s up to you, though, if you’d rather take a tour …’
‘I hate guided tours,’ I assured them, ‘thanks all the same. Much more fun to wander.’
And wander we did. I’d always liked castles. I’d expected this one to be little more than a ruin, but many of the rooms and towers had been preserved intact within the shattered walls. One could almost hear the footsteps of brave knights and ladies, kings and courtiers, echoing round the empty rooms. The white stone, bathed in light from mullioned windows, lent a bright and airy feel to the sprawling royal apartments and made them look much larger than they were. From every corner twisting stairs led up to unexpected rooms with hearths and windows of their own, small private sanctuaries where a queen could comfortably retire to do her needlework or dally with her lover … at least, I thought, until the king found out, and had the lover killed.
In the next tower on, Simon pointed to a large framed painting of the château, just like the view Paul had shown me from the bridge. ‘That’s one of Christian’s paintings. Pretty good, eh?’
‘It’s marvellous.’ I leaned closer, amazed. ‘Christian did this, really?’ It was a bold and sweeping painting in the true romantic style, and he had caught exactly the unusual pale colour of the tufa-stone gleaming bright against a stormy violet sky.
‘He’s incredibly talented,’ Paul said, beside my shoulder.
‘So I see.’ With a vague prickling feeling of being watched, I slid my gaze from the painting to the figure looming in a shadowed recess of the tower wall. Not a real person, thank heavens – just a statue, and a massive one at that. ‘Good heavens,’ I said. ‘It’s Philippe.’