cowherds, from exposure to the roving bands. We also avoided trips to Sarlat, to neighbouring chateaux or even to our villages, so wary were we of the roads where the Gypsies had become masters of the ambush.
Sauveterre ordered that a brief reconnaissance be made outside the walls at dawn each day, and after sundown each evening. He entrusted these little patrols to the Siorac twins, and, before opening the gates, had their horses’ hooves trussed with rags to muffle their approach. The twins were great hunters and we knew we could count on them for detecting the least trace of man or beast on the roads and in the surrounding woods.
From the ramparts of Mespech, we could easily spy the fortified bell tower of the church of Marcuays and, off to the right, on a more distant hill, the imposing facade of the Château de Fontenac. Overcoming his repugnance, Sauveterre wrote to Bertrand de Fontenac a courteous letter in which he proposed that our two chateaux, being so close, should each give aid if the other were attacked by the Gypsies. But the wolf cub, showing his fangs for the first time, refused this proposition flat out: Fontenac had no need of help nor wished to be obliged to give it to anyone, least of all those who had banished his father.
As for the other neighbouring castleries, Campagnac, Puymartin, Laussel and Commarques, their forces were even more impoverished than ours. Nor could we expect any help from Sarlat, deprived of its archers and royal troops: the consuls had hastily organized a town militia which was barely capable of defending its walls, being few in number and unused to battle.
Sauveterre, never one to mask the truth, especially when it was unpleasant, repeated to us every night after prayers that we must notrely on the moat surrounding us, nor on our walls, our towers, our ramparts or our drawbridges, and that we had little hope of victory if the Gypsies attacked us. It was on hearing this that, for the first time in my young life, I began to think about death.
Mespech had withdrawn into itself as if it were midwinter, despite the beautiful autumn season, the clear October sun beginning to turn the leaves of the chestnut trees. It was a pity to think that we were sequestered in Mespech as if in a prison, the three drawbridges raised even during the day, my father and the three soldiers in danger of being killed in the war which weighed so heavily against France, and we ourselves, far from the battlefields of the north, in the greatest peril.
I was too young in 1554 to have retained any memory of the plague in Taniès other than the happy arrival of Samson, with his curly hair, his clear eyes, his strength and his exquisite manners. But ever since Ricou, the notary, had talked about the possible death of my father, and while Sauveterre, doubtless wishing to sharpen the courage of his little band, would not let a night go by without evoking the massacre that would attend the fall of Mespech, I believed we were all fated to die.
The twins, Jonas, and Faujanet took turns standing guard on the battlement walk, anxiously scanning the horizon. Thanks to our service as rock suppliers to the battlement walk, Samson and I were the only children allowed up there, a privilege we valued greatly since from there we had a marvellous view of the surrounding villages and hillsides. Breathless, our backs breaking from our labours, our hands rough from hefting the fieldstone, we would look out over the ploughed fields and the woods. As the sun set over Périgord, giving a sweet serenity to everything, the thought of death, which had so lately come to me, returned with a force it had never before had.
“Samson,” I said, “when you die, do you go to heaven?”
“God willing,” replied Samson.
“But on earth, everything continues?”
“Yes, of course,” Samson said.
“Life goes on in Taniès, Marcuays? And Mespech? And the la Feuillade woods? And the marauders’ field?”
“Yes,” announced Samson
Sauveterre ordered that a brief reconnaissance be made outside the walls at dawn each day, and after sundown each evening. He entrusted these little patrols to the Siorac twins, and, before opening the gates, had their horses’ hooves trussed with rags to muffle their approach. The twins were great hunters and we knew we could count on them for detecting the least trace of man or beast on the roads and in the surrounding woods.
From the ramparts of Mespech, we could easily spy the fortified bell tower of the church of Marcuays and, off to the right, on a more distant hill, the imposing facade of the Château de Fontenac. Overcoming his repugnance, Sauveterre wrote to Bertrand de Fontenac a courteous letter in which he proposed that our two chateaux, being so close, should each give aid if the other were attacked by the Gypsies. But the wolf cub, showing his fangs for the first time, refused this proposition flat out: Fontenac had no need of help nor wished to be obliged to give it to anyone, least of all those who had banished his father.
As for the other neighbouring castleries, Campagnac, Puymartin, Laussel and Commarques, their forces were even more impoverished than ours. Nor could we expect any help from Sarlat, deprived of its archers and royal troops: the consuls had hastily organized a town militia which was barely capable of defending its walls, being few in number and unused to battle.
Sauveterre, never one to mask the truth, especially when it was unpleasant, repeated to us every night after prayers that we must notrely on the moat surrounding us, nor on our walls, our towers, our ramparts or our drawbridges, and that we had little hope of victory if the Gypsies attacked us. It was on hearing this that, for the first time in my young life, I began to think about death.
Mespech had withdrawn into itself as if it were midwinter, despite the beautiful autumn season, the clear October sun beginning to turn the leaves of the chestnut trees. It was a pity to think that we were sequestered in Mespech as if in a prison, the three drawbridges raised even during the day, my father and the three soldiers in danger of being killed in the war which weighed so heavily against France, and we ourselves, far from the battlefields of the north, in the greatest peril.
I was too young in 1554 to have retained any memory of the plague in Taniès other than the happy arrival of Samson, with his curly hair, his clear eyes, his strength and his exquisite manners. But ever since Ricou, the notary, had talked about the possible death of my father, and while Sauveterre, doubtless wishing to sharpen the courage of his little band, would not let a night go by without evoking the massacre that would attend the fall of Mespech, I believed we were all fated to die.
The twins, Jonas, and Faujanet took turns standing guard on the battlement walk, anxiously scanning the horizon. Thanks to our service as rock suppliers to the battlement walk, Samson and I were the only children allowed up there, a privilege we valued greatly since from there we had a marvellous view of the surrounding villages and hillsides. Breathless, our backs breaking from our labours, our hands rough from hefting the fieldstone, we would look out over the ploughed fields and the woods. As the sun set over Périgord, giving a sweet serenity to everything, the thought of death, which had so lately come to me, returned with a force it had never before had.
“Samson,” I said, “when you die, do you go to heaven?”
“God willing,” replied Samson.
“But on earth, everything continues?”
“Yes, of course,” Samson said.
“Life goes on in Taniès, Marcuays? And Mespech? And the la Feuillade woods? And the marauders’ field?”
“Yes,” announced Samson
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