Le Triton
by Jack Kendle
My uncle's funeral was over; a few distant relations gathered, paid scant respects and dispersed. I was the only one who decided to stay overnight in the little fishing village in Brittany where my uncle had spent the last twenty years of his life.
He had died in the arms of his lifelong friend and companion; well alright, let's call a spade a spade, as my father often said, his lover,Jules.
It is not an exaggeration to say that my uncle and Jules living together, openly flouting the strait-laced unwritten rules of 'polite society' had sent shockwaves of disgust rippling through the genteel family of which we were members. That is why he had moved to France. He couldn't bear the fact that his own flesh and blood had ostracised him so completely. Gradually, however, as the older members of his family died off, the open antagonism towards him had dwindled, save for a few maiden aunts who shuddered deliciously whenever uncle Peter's name was mentioned, which was less and less frequently these days. Apart from them, there was no one really left to keep the hate burning. The younger relations either didn't know, or, more likely, didn't care about old uncle Peter, who, they had heard, lived with another man somewhere in France.
So his funeral today had been a very quiet affair; most of the older generation still alive suddenly finding the trip to France too difficult or irksome. "Too far off the beaten track" or "pressing engagement in town, don't you know?" Personally, I was glad they didn't show up; to my mind it would have been hypocritical to a degree if they did suddenly gather around him in death after having almost totally shunned him in life.
It may sound like a cliché, but uncle Peter had been my favourite uncle. Before he had shocked the family, he had been a frequent visitor at home. He was my father's younger brother and until he came out to him, had been indulged and basically lived with us for a while.
Looking back, he must have been having an affair with Jules even then, but he had been most discreet and had never acted inappropriately with neither my brother nor with me. To us he was just plain 'uncle Peter'- slightly whacky, not at all behaving as the youngest son of an earl should and with a wicked sense of humour. I know my sisters both adored him and he them. It was a source of great grief and bitterness to him when my father told him he never wanted to see him again and that he would never be welcome in his home again. We never understood why our father reacted so violently to uncle Peter's homosexuality, it made me wonder if uncle Peter's gayness somehow struck a chord in my father. After all, being the eldest son, my father was more or less compelled to marry, to 'keep the line going' and I sometimes wondered if my father was himself not one hundred percent heterosexual. His virulent denunciation of his brother seemed, to me, even then, rather as if he 'protested too much.'
However, uncle Peter's sexual proclivities are not the subject of this story. As I said, I had made the journey to France and Jules very kindly offered to put me up. No one else stayed after the funeral, they all scattered like rats leaving a sinking ship, some not even having the politeness to attend the small gathering after the service. So much for noblesse oblige, I thought bitterly, deeply hurt on Jules' behalf by the callous behaviour of uncle Peter's relatives. However, Jules didn't seem to mind. He managed to hold himself remarkably well together during the short service in the little bleak local church. Only as he placed a small bouquet of primroses on his lover's coffin as it was lowered into the ground did he show any outward signs of emotion.
It was a damp spring day, the sun showing only fitfully from behind scudding grey clouds billowing in off the sea. The church, standing on a small hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, was bitterly cold and the wind howled over the exposed churchyard, the drizzle seeping in under upturned collars and freezing us to our very marrow.
I was extremely glad to get back to the house, which bore the name Le Triton,where the housekeeper had got a good fire going in the enormous hearth in the main reception room, which was more like a medieval hall, running for almost the whole length of the western front of the building, with stunning views over the park down to the sea.
My two sisters came back to the house, but would not be staying as they had families they had to be getting back to. Since I lived on my own and was self-employed, I had no constraints and had accepted Jules' offer to stay in his and my late uncle's house.
Le Triton is a large, rambling granite building, a château, really, much of it dating from the fifteenth century, with various owners adding bits on to it, so that it was a bit of an architectural jumble, quiteimposing from the outside, surrounded by the remains of a fifteenth-cenury moat and even having an ivy-clad tower, in the top window of which a light burned constantly, acting as a landmark for ships out at sea. Le Tritonwas well known to the local fishermen who on more than one occasion had cause to bless the light shining forth from the tower, which it had done so for at least two hundred years.
The house was situated in the middle of a large estate, mostly apple orchards, which my uncle and Jules had run as a going concern. The landscaped park ran down to the sea, where there was a boathouse in a small cove, an inlet, really, between two arms of rock, which marched out to sea, almost in a semicircle, creating a calm, almost lagoon-like stretch of water. On a windy day, such as this was, the Atlantic rollers would crash against these arms of protecting rock, throwing up great spumes of spray, yet within their encircling protection, the sea was almost glassy calm.
The house was beautifully decorated and furnished almost luxuriously inLouis XIVbelying the house's cold grey exterior. There were vases of spring flowers everywhere and even in the late afternoon on this wet, blustery day, the large hall felt warm and cosy.
The English contingent at uncle Peter's funeral was easily outnumbered by his and Jules' French friends, most of who were Bretons. Living where they did, southeast of the city of Lorient, Peter and Jules were deep in Brittany; a region of France with its own language and traditions, which the locals fiercely guard and of which they are inordinately proud. The Breton language is as different from French as Welsh is to English. It is a Celtic language, closely related to Cornish, and it is the first language of many of the elder members of the population, although it is now enjoying something of a revival amongst younger Bretons.
Peter and Jules, I knew, were highly respected members of this community, whose doors (and wallets) were ever open. The Bretons didn't seem to give a tinker's cuss that Jules and my uncle lived together openly as a gay couple. They took part in their local community to a great extent, serving on various committees, and more often than not, giving substantial financial support to those causes in the community which they felt were deserving. For example, it was Jules and my uncle who provided most of the funding for the local lifeboat, either directly, or else by buttonholing their rich associates and even some select long-term clients. They also set up a fund for widows and families of fishermen drowned at sea, of which there were, unfortunately, quite a few. Accidents at sea were still very much a part of local life, even in the 21stcentury. Jules and my uncle were true philanthropists and their circle of friends reflected this. Thus the French guests were a mix of some local worthies, as well as fishermen, estate workers and others from Paris who were involved in the other great passion of Jules and Peter, which was antiques.
I kept a low profile, preferring to listen and observe. Apart from a very few words, I did not understand Breton, but enjoyed it's slightly singing cadences. However, I could speak French, so I understood some of the snippets of conversation which drifted past me, as I sat with Jules' and Peter's cat on my knee. Cleopatra, for that was the cat's name, was a sleek, aloof Persian, who had taken to me on one of my previous visits and now perched herself on my knee, purring softly. My sisters had left after about an hour, with much kissing of cheeks and promises to keep in touch, promises which I knew they would keep; they and I were just about the only 'family' that kept up with them and now that Jules was alone, I knew we would have to stand by him - I could not begin to appreciate the loss he had suffered; he and my uncle had been together for more than twenty years.
I had been to Tritontwo or three times before, visits I had made when my own life seemed to be unravelling. My first visit had been after an almighty row with my father when I was still up at Oxford. I had come to terms with my own sexuality and by the age of twenty one I knew that I was exclusively gay and that nothing would change that, however I tried.
As a teenager, I had had regular girlfriends and lost my virginity when I was fifteen to a local village girl, who, I recalled, had been most kind and understanding, despite my desperate, clumsy fumblings in the stables one wet Saturday morning. Her name was Angie, had copper-coloured curly hair, like a Pre-Raphaelite model and she had a strawberry-coloured birthmark the shape of Italy behind her left ear, I remember. She always wore her hair long, keeping it covered up. During our tumble in the straw, when I saw her birthmark, she made me swear never to tell anyone about it. I recall I found it odd she should insist on keeping that a secret and not the fact that I had seen her naked - she didn't seem to care about thatbeing public knowledge! It's strange the things that stick in one's mind.
After Angie, there had been a few other girls, daughters of family friends, a second cousin, and the younger sister of a school chum, but I had never really felt satisfied ... there seemed to be something lacking. I was never deeply in love, rather in lust, a slave to my hormones, and I found the relationships I had with girls unsatisfying.
Like all the other male members of our family, I was sent away to prep school aged eight, and then on to boarding-school - all boys, of course, so my contact with the female sex was basically limited to holidays - another reason why the relationships never lasted. Whilst at school, like most of the other boys, I 'experimented' with other boys; it was not unusual, it was a way of life there. At that age, there weren't any rigid definitions of 'gay' or straight' - mutual masturbation was something most of the boys indulged in and was regarded by us as harmless fun. It didn't mean that the rugger jocks were less masculine, it was just a variation on a theme - we all wanked, so why not spice it up a bit? Some boys, either more adventurous, or else better in touch with their sexuality, would offer their services - 'bumboys' as we called them, or else would suck one off for contraband cigarettes or sweets. Some of the brighter boys even offered sex in exchange for either doing homework or providing crib notes for exams. There were also some rumours about certain masters, but in all my time at boarding school there was never any scandal involving a boy and an adult on the staff. Either it was very expertly hushed up, or it wasn't common - I suspect the latter.
During the school holidays, I was still experimenting with the opposite sex, but at the same time, my first intimate boy-on-boy sex, apart from hasty, messy gropings after lights out, was with a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, Harry, who became my first Grande Passion. We became boyfriends and therefore mutually exclusive, meaning we didn't engage in sexual romps with any of the other boys. Harry and I discovered a lot about gay sex; he was the first boy to perform fellatio on me and I on him. He was definitely a 'bottom' and I discovered the joys of anal sex with him when we roomed together on a school trip to France. Harry and I were an item for the rest of our time at school but our ways parted when I went up to Oxford and Harry to the Sorbonne. We kept in touch for a while, but as these things do, we lost touch. Several years later, I heard through a mutual friend that Harry had 'got God' and had gone somewhere remote in France to be a monk. I still find it a little strange to think of that incredibly sexy boy and what we did together, now tonsured, in a monk's habit, kneeling in some cold church telling his beads!
So, after my first term at Oxford, I decided I had to come out to my father. Looking back, I see now that it was doomed from the start. I should have remembered how my father had reacted to uncle Peter's revelations, but I thought that with me it would be somehow different, he was my father, after all. How wrong I was!
After several large whiskies, I got up the courage to speak to my father that Christmas. Typical me: it was the wrong time and place and I handled it badly. My father went ballistic. We both said things we shouldn't with the result that after a tearful 'phone conversation with uncle Peter two days before Christmas, I left and went and spent the rest of the holiday with my uncle and Jules. Uncle Peter made me call my father to let him know that I was alright and somehow he and I managed to talk to each other almost calmly and rationally over the telephone. We each apologised and forged an uneasy truce, but we both knew that things would never be the same between us again.
My uncle and Jules looked after me a couple more times; once after I had had a very painful split with a lover, who left me for a boy half his age, after having 'borrowed' £1,000 from me and then absconding with my computer and hi-fi system.
The second time was when Justin, who I thought was going to be my partner for the rest of our lives, was killed in a car crash. One minute he was there, on his way home after a business trip, the next his was car wrapped around a tree after he swerved to avoid an oncoming car, a car being driven by a drug-crazed teenager, who escaped with only a scratch or two. The other driver was fined for dangerous driving under the influence of narcotics, but Justin's life was taken from him. My world turned upside down and for a while, I thought of nothing else than putting an end to it all. There was nothing left to live for. It was uncle Peter who came over and visited me and more or less forced me to come and stay with them. He found a wonderful psychiatrist, Dr Eve Pennec, who took me on. Tritonwas my sanctuary. Gradually, I found peace and resigned myself to the world. But since Justin, I have avoided forming close friendships and ironically, like Harry, yet for different reasons, resigned myself to a monk's life.
I sat with Cleopatra on my knee, with my thoughts. I half-heard the snippets of muted conversation in the elegant drawing room, the scent of freesias heavy in the air, the fire crackling in the grate, the malt whisky warming me from the inside. Looking up, I saw Jules as he walked through the room, chatting with his friends, listening as they offered their condolences, being the perfect host. I wondered whether he would stay on at Le Triton, or sell up. Even for two, the house was really too large, an extravagance. Uncle Peter used to say that it was an excuse to have a lot of friends come to stay. Sometimes it did seem to be a bit of a hotel, but now, with just Jules rattling around in it, it did seem too big. I knew Jules preferred the quiet life, he would put up with uncle Peter's generous offers to friends, but I knew that Jules was quite happy living a simple life. I realised it was now my turn to come forward and be there for him, just as he and my uncle had so often been there for me. I would talk to Jules about his future plans once all the guests had gone.
I was roused from my reverie by Eve Pennec. Short and dark, with a creamy complexion and soft brown eyes, she was Jules' oldest friend and it was she, in fact, who had introduced him to my uncle back when she was doing her doctorate in England. Jules jokingly referred to her as 'my matchmaker!' Eve found a chair close to mine and sat, leaning forward for the customary twin pecks on the cheek. Her skin was soft and her perfume had a subtle lemony fragrance. She gently stroked Cleopatra's silken fur as she asked in her quiet, slightly husky voice how I was.
"I'm fine, Eve," I replied, with a slight shrug of the shoulders; what does one say in a situation like that? Sure, I had lost an uncle, but it was Jules who would be feeling all the pain. I was sad, of course, but nothing compared to Jules. Eve immediately picked up on what I was thinking; either she could read my thoughts, or else I wasn't very good at hiding them.
"No, really, Ivan, tell me how you are, not what you think you want me to hear." Eve didn't miss a trick and she wouldn't let me get away with anything!
"Poor, Jules," I said, by way of reply. Eve turned her head slightly and we both observed Jules for a few moments as he talked quietly with his guests. Peter's death had taken its toll on the Frenchman; he seemed to have aged and his usual ruddy complexion was pale. There were dark circles round his eyes, which were usually so alert and laughing, but were now dulled. He seemed to stoop as he stood, immaculately and elegantly dressed, he somehow seemed a shadow of his former self.
"Pauvre Jules!" murmured Eve, echoing my sentence half to herself. She absent-mindedly fingered the simple locket that hung around her neck on a slim golden chain. Eve always wore that locket and habitually stroked it when she was deep in thought. I remembered that so well from our sessions together. It somehow gave me comfort, talking to her as she gently stroked the unadorned gold case, containing I knew not what.
"Mais toi, Ivan," said Eve, turning back to me, "you, mon ami, how are you really?"
"I take each day as it comes," I replied. "Really, Eve, you don't have to worry about me, I'm fine. Honestly!"
Eve looked at me intently for a moment, a faint frown of concentration knitting her brow, before she relaxed and smiled. "I believe you, Ivan, but you must promise me that you will get in touch if you need to... "
We both knew what she meant - I had got very close to putting an end to myself following Justin's death and having been that close, we both knew that the smallest thing could possibly trigger it off again. Eve had done a wonderful job: I really did feel fine, but during my time as her patient, we had both agreed that I should live without the use of drugs, so it really was down to me, how I coped, how I kept myself focused and strong, which would prevent me going back to that dark place I had been in.
Jules now came over to where Eve and I were sitting. Cleopatra jumped lightly from my lap and rubbed herself against Jules, gently butting him with her head and wreathing sinuously between his legs as he stood. I wondered how, or even if Cleopatra realised that uncle Peter was no longer around and whether she had any sense of loss. Relieved of the burden of Cleopatra on my lap, I stood and Jules and I embraced.
"Thank you so much for coming, Ivan," said Jules after we had kissed, "it was so good to see some friendly faces today."
"Please, OncleJules," I replied, using the nickname I had given him so many years ago, "I couldn't nothave come!"
"Well, thank you anyway. Your uncle was very fond of you, you know, Ivan."
"He was like a father to me," I replied, simply. This was true. I had looked upon my uncle as the loving tolerant father that was lacking in my own.
"I hope you will stay as long as you like, choux," said Jules, using their nickname for me.
"As long as you'll have me," I replied.
"Bien!" said Jules, a faint smile almost making it to his eyes. He turned to Eve. "Et toi, Eve? Might I invite you to stay as well?"
"Alas, Jules, no. I have to be back in Paris tonight. Perhaps I'll come and visit at Easter?"
"Ma chére,whenever you like, the sooner the better and for as long as you like, the longer the better!" He gave Eve a brief hug, before excusing himself to talk to some other guests.
Eve turned to me, a serious look in her eyes. Leaning towards me, she spoke in a low voice: "Ivan, I think it is a good idea that you stay you can and keep an eye on Jules. And if you don't mind me being an interfering busybody, I think it should be for as long as you can..." We both glanced over to where Jules was bidding farewell to a couple of guests. I nodded. "Certainly, Eve. I don't have anything so important waiting for me back home. I'll be here and see how it goes."
Eve pressed my hand in a grateful squeeze. "Thank you Ivan. Just for a week or so. And I'll also be in touch by phone. Just while he gets over the first shock... " There was a moment's silence, before she shook herself and the brisk, no-nonsense Eve said, "now I need to be getting back to Paris. No rest for the wicked!" She planted two kisses on my cheeks and after bidding farewell to Jules, was gone.
I wandered over to the buffet and helped myself to some of the delicious snacks laid out on the long table. Jules' and my uncle's cook and housekeeper for many years, Louise, had surpassed herself. There were various patés, quails' eggs, all kinds of cheeses, all types of charcuterie, several seafood pies, tarts and flans, home-baked breads, fresh fruit and salads, all immaculately presented, and to wash it all down, there was a choice of red or white wine, spring water or local cider which came from the Le Triton estate's orchards.
A young man joined me as I stood at the buffet, trying to make my mind up between the delicious fare. He was a cousin of Jules, I recalled having met him before on one of my previous visits to Le Triton. His name, Gwion le Coant, he had laughingly told me then, meant literally 'pretty Guy.' And, if not exactly pretty, he was certainly very handsome; jet black hair with eyes to match, sculpted good looks - firm jaw, broad shoulders and a slim though muscular physique. Although not particularly tall, he bore himself with a certain grace. His hands were large and strong, and he used them a great deal when he talked, where they became as delicate as birds in flight. When we had been first introduced, I had hardly registered how attractive he was; I had been recovering from Justin's death. Looking at him now, I realised how very handsome the young man was, certainly, in my eyes, a very 'pretty guy' indeed! Now he was all smiles as he kissed me, French-style, on both cheeks.
"Kenavo, Ivan!" That was about the only Breton I understood, meaning either 'hello' or 'goodbye'. Knowing that was the limit of my Breton, Gwion went on, in French now; "Comment ça-va? - How's life?"
"Ça va bien!" I replied, "I'm fine, Gwion. Good to see you!" I really meant it. It wasgood to see Gwion again.
"Are you staying here with uncle Jules?" Gwion continued, as we stood over the buffet choosing our food.
"Yes," I replied, "I shall be staying for a week or so, unless Jules chucks me out!"
"I don't think he will," replied Gwion, with a slightly wistful smile, "I think he'll be grateful for the company." I nodded in agreement.
"Are you staying as well, Gwion?" I asked, as we moved away from the table with loaded plates to find ourselves somewhere where we could sit and eat our food.
"Yes, I am," replied the handsome young Breton.
"Good! I amglad," I replied. Gwion gave me a quick, sharp look. Had I sounded too keen, I wondered? I didn't even know if Gwion was unattached and here I was, sounding like a schoolgirl with a crush. Gwion must have noticed my slight discomfiture. "It will be fun, Ivan, just you and me and Jules. We shall have long walks during the day and long talks in the evenings!" He became more serious and lowered his voice, "Pauvre Jules!It will our job to try and keep him distracted, it must be so terribly difficult for him."
I nodded in agreement, "Yes, we must. And then there are the practicalities... he can't really stay on here, all alone, can he?"
"Oh you haven't heard? Jules and your uncle Peter made over Le Tritonto the parish to be an orphanage for boys. They signed the agreement six months ago. In the event of either of their deaths, the house would be donated to the parish and the surviving 'partner' would move into the lodge down by the gates. It's just that no-one expected it to be so soon... " Gwion looked quickly away, but not before I saw his eyes moisten.
Without thinking, I reached over and laid my hand on Gwion's arm, "you loved uncle Peter, didn't you Gwion?" It was a statement of fact rather than a question. Peter and Jules had looked out for Gwion in much the same way as they had for me. In Gwion's case, it was the early and quite unexpected death of his mother which had brought the young man to his uncle Jules - in fact Jules was not as closely related to Gwion as Peter was to me, but he, or rather they, took Gwion in without question.
Gwion's father, much like mine, had not approved of his son's lifestyle, which, since his mother's death had been further complicated by drug abuse. Gwion had been clean now for five years and was back on track with his life. He was a very accomplished portrait artist and by now had made a name for himself in circles that mattered. Many of uncle Peter's and Jules' clients were influential people and commissions for portraits were beginning to mount up. He was now at that point in his career when hecould pick the sitter, rather than the other way around.
At my touch, Gwion looked back at me and replied, "You know that, Ivan. He was such a good man... " now he did not look away and could not stop the tear rolling down his cheek. I brushed it away with my thumb, feeling the coarseness of his stubble beneath my touch. Gwion's black eyes flashed as he mutely nodded his thanks for my concern. Removing my hand, we sat, silently, toying with the food on our plates as Gwion regained his composure.
"Are you here alone, Gwion, or... ?" My question hung in the air between us. All around us, other guests were talking and eating, but in our little world, there seemed a deep stillness between Gwion and myself. We were hardly aware that there were others in the room.
The handsome man nodded. "Oui," he said, "I am a free agent again, Ivan. Hector decided he wanted more excitement in his life, excitement only cocaine could give him. I did not want to go back down that path, so we parted. The last I heard was that he had moved to Ibiza with some very unsavoury people." He grew silent again, before giving me a dazzling smile, "but let's not dwell on the past, Ivan! Let's concentrate on having a wonderful time here and cheering uncle Jules up, eh?"
"Sounds like a plan," I agreed and the rest of the time we spent chatting about this and that, renewing our acquaintance.
* * *
Eventually, there were the three of us. The last guest had left and Jules, Gwion and I were finally alone after what had seemed a long day. The clouds had departed and the late spring sun cast long shadows as the three of us sat together by the fire with good strong coffee and some wonderful little almond cakes that Louise had produced for us. Jules looked tired. He had held up wonderfully all day, being the perfect host, but now, with us, his closest 'family' he seemed to shrink in size and grow pale. His hand trembled slightly, I noticed, as he brought the fine porcelain coffee cup to his lips. We talked a little while about who had been there, who had notbeen there (mostly my family, of course) and discussed the various bits of news we had heard during the day.
I looked around the elegant room, wondering how Jules would manage in the small lodge down by the entrance gates to the estate. He would have to sell a lot of his possessions, I thought, so much beautiful furniture and wonderful antiques accumulated over a lifetime of collecting.
My gaze rested on the carving on the wall above the grand fireplace. Here, the granite had not been plastered over and finely carved into the smoothed grey stone was a coat of arms:
I had seen it countless times before, of course but until now had never really given it a second thought. As Jules and Gwion spoke to each other about relatives, I really studied the coat of arms, as if I were seeing it for the first time. I seemed to remember that the shield, or blason, was that of Lorient, the closest large town but was a little puzzled as to why it should be so prominently displayed here, for we were some thirty kilometres out of town, Le Triton being almost splendidly isolated outside the fishing village of Morbihan, which was another, much larger bay just north of the rocky outcrop where Le Triton's estate met the sea. Morbihan too had a fine natural harbour, much larger than Le Triton's, which is why the village was established there. Morbihan is a Breton name and literally means 'little sea.'
The crest seemed to me to be a mish-mash of heraldry; the battlements above the shield in the form of a crown, the shield itself split up with representations of a ship, the rising sun and ermine which was the heraldic device for Brittany itself. The figures on either side, or supporters, were of a boy with a fish's tail, blowing a conch and a dolphin. Beneath hung representations of medals and the phrase Ab oriente refulget, which I guessed, trying to remember my schoolboy Latin, meant something along the lines of 'from the east, brightness,' - so much for an expensive education!
"Jules," I said, when there was a lull in the conversation, "why is the Lorient crest on the wall here inLe Triton? I thought we were in the Morbihan préfecture."
Jules glanced up at the finely carved crest. "Yes, we are, strictly speaking. This house was built in the fifteenth century by Fulub Pensec, Duc d'Lorient,after he was given the lands here having distinguished himself in battle. He had a fine castle in Lorient, where he was Duke, and built this 'small' place as a sort of hunting lodge and a retreat where he would bring his... er... specialfriends."
"His mistresses, you mean?" asked Gwion. Jules shook his head, his eyes twinkling a little mischeivously, "Non, ami.His boyfriends.Fulub, which is the Breton version of Philip, was a red-blooded, warmongering baron in the fifteenth century who had a penchantfor pretty boys. He was married, of course, but it was common knowledge that once he had sired his sons to keep the line going, he more or less abandoned his wife and spent a lot of his time here with a mélangeof pageboys, stable-lads, kitchen boys - you name it. The younger the better, and he didn't mind boys of low birth - in fact he is said to have preferred his bedfellows to be 'sons of the soil' as he put it. We would call it 'a bit of rough' these days, I think." I glanced at Gwion, who, noticing, gave me a little smile. This story had taken us both by surprise!
"Pensec, Pennec. The names are very similar, Jules." I was thinking of Eve, who was Pennec. "Is Pennec a variation on the same name?" Taking me by surprise, Jules spluttered into his coffee. Startled, I looked at him. Jules was laughing, and so now was Gwion.
Jules recovered his composure. "Forgive me, Ivan, I do not mean to be rude, but no, the names mean two distinctly different things in Breton... ."
Gwion, still with a smile playing round his lips broke in, "Pennec in Breton means large-headed, whilst Pensectranslates as 'large bottom,' so you see, the names are quite distinct!" I saw now why the two Frenchmen had laughed at my seemingly innocent question and could not help but to join in. "This Breton language of yours," I said, shaking my head.
"But remind me, Ivan, of your surname," said Jules, his eyes now twinkling.
Without thinking, I replied, "Surely you can't have forgotten, Jules? It's Fairfax... " I broke off as I realised I had fallen straight into the trap.
Jules chuckled. "You see, mon ami? Your old Saxon name means Fair-haired, a descriptive name of what your ancestors - and you, dear boy, look like; blond!"
I spread my hands in a gesture of resignation. "Okay, okay Jules! Point taken!"
Jules continued, "We know a lot about Fulub Pensec, because when we were doing some alterations to the house Peter and and I found a collection of papers in a chest in a room which had been bricked up. He wrote a lot down, probably some sort of fifteenth-century porn, I think. Anyway, it certainly doesn't hold back on the descriptions of what he got up to! Being so powerful andcruel, anyone who stood up to him or tried to save their young sons from his clutches, he would exact terrible revenge on them. He had the bishops in his pocket - he gave very generously to the Church. He used to entertain them here and it was suspected that many of these so-called 'men of God' indulged in the same perverse activities as their host. Even the King turned a blind eye; Pensec was too rich, too powerful, had too many friends."
"So this was Fulub's little pleasure palace," murmured Gwion, looking again around the long room.
"I don't think there was much pleasure for the young boys," replied Jules, sombrely. "The Duke was a nasty piece of work and he and some of his cohorts engaged in some serious sadism on those poor lads, if what he wrote is anything to go by."
The atmosphere had become distinctly gloomy. Gwion broke the silence. "Look! The weather has turned fine! Why don't we go for a walk and Uncle Jules, you can tell us some slightly happier stories about Le Triton, if there are any."
We all agreed to go for a walk in the grounds and enjoy what had turned into a fine late afternoon. Donning various coats, scarves, hats and wellington boots, which we found in the garden room, the three of us stepped outside and following Jules' lead, headed down the long, sloping lawns towards the sea.
In the gentle, evening spring sunshine, the lawns glistened brightly, still wet from the earlier rain. One could sense the renewal all around us as the leaves on the oaks and elms burgeoned forth. Sunlight was reflected in all directions from the mullioned windows of the house and from the rich dark loam of the flowerbeds, the first spring shoots were showing. So many shades of green! So much new life, making even sharper our sense of loss, knowing that uncle Peter was not here with us to appreciate it.
The garden had been his passion. He had designed much of the new planting and created a small herb garden, on the landward side of the house, where it was protected from the predominant wind direction, which was from the sea. We all felt uncle Peter's absence keenly as we strolled through the large open garden which could almost be called a park, it was so large. On either side, like enfolding arms hugging the lawn there were copses of oak and elm, home to large numbers of rooks and squirrels. Directly ahead, glinting like molten gold in the evening sun, lay the sea. On one side of the little bay stood the boathouse, which housed a small motor launch and a couple of little sailing boats. The arms of rock stretched out to sea on either side of the bay, the little wavelets rippling gently on to the shore.
The wind had died down and the ocean on the other side of the natural breakwater was less agitated, but one could still hear the heavy sea as it broke against the rocks, the dull boom seeming to shake the ground beneath our feet. Just before we came to the edge of the beach, we passed by a grassy mound which I guessed must be about fifteen feet long by six feet wide and standing about five feet high. In contrast to the well-kept lawn, the grass here was long and shaggy and small wild flowers were beginning to show through the straggling windswept grass. Uncle Peter had always referred to it irreverently as "the grassy knoll" and I half-remembered what he had once told me about it. I asked Jules to refresh my memory. "Let's sit in the boathouse," replied Jules in answer to my request. We made our way over the shingle to the stone building.
Inside and out of the breeze, the boathouse was dry and strangely quiet. The boats were still covered in tarpaulins having been unused during the winter. Sunlight, reflected off the sea, danced over the smooth stone walls into which was set a bench which ran round the whole space. Spreading our overcoats and macs on the cold stone, we sat down and Jules began his story.
"Well, it's not a very happy story," he began, "It seems that until the last few years, Le Triton has had more than its share of tragedies. There are several legends, and perhaps, over the centuries, people have blamed the place for certain events. That's not for me to say. But it all seems to have started round about the time that Fulub lived here." Jules paused, looking sadly out through the open doors to the sea.
"Many unhappy things happened here," he went on, "many poor young boys came here and were never seen again. Fulub Pensec was responsible for much of the sadness. It's ironic, really what happened to him... " he broke off again and we waited in silence as Jules gathered his thoughts.
Finally, after a deep breath, he went on: "As I said earlier, Fulub, the Duke of Lorient sired two sons, Jord and Dewi, before he left his wife to pursue his life of pleasure with young boys. The two young aristocrats were raised by their mother and Fulub's own tutor, Yann Le Treut, a man whom he trusted implicitly. Le Treut, a monk, had taught Fulub and was the author of several books. He lived to a great age and, already an old man, was placed in charge of educating Fulub's two sons. The older boy, Jord, or George, would succeed to the title but would still need an all-round education, as well as a mastery of arms, so he spent less time in the classroom and more time practicing swordplay and such, which was usual for the elder son. The younger boy, Dewi, which sounds Welsh, is in fact the Breton name for David.
'Anyway, Dewi was not under the same pressure as his brother, so spent more time with his books. By all accounts, both boys were strikingly handsome; Jord taking after his father; tall, muscular and dark, whilst Dewi was more like his mother, slight and fair. There is a portrait of them in the museum at Morbihan. Jord, in full armour on his favourite charger, his brother acting as squire for him. They are as different as chalk and cheese.
'Jord eventually succeeded his father as Duke and it was said he was just as cruel, although it wasn't boys he chased after, but young girls. Eventually he was accused of raping the twelve year old daughter of a neighbouring Duke, who gathered an army and overran Jord's hastily assembled household and wiped them out, razing the castle at Lorient to the ground. No-one ever knew why he didn't sack this house either, but after Jord's day, it was left deserted. There were many tales attached to this place and no-one would go near it. It was said to be a very unlucky house and haunted by the tormented souls of all the unfortunate boys whom Fulub and his côterie tortured." Jules paused, his eyes looking sad. "You probably don't know this, Ivan, but your uncle Peter and I had the house blessed by a local priest soon after we moved in. It's been a peaceful place ever since."
I was a little surpised. Uncle Peter had never been an outwardly religious man. Jules must have noticed my look, for he went on: "Peter wasn't a religious man, Ivan, but he was tolerant of my beliefs. He let me have the house and grounds blessed and had no objection to having a Catholic funeral ... 'if it makes you happy'... he used to say."
There was another silence, as we sat in the echoing boathouse, listening to the distant crash of the breakers on the rocks and the mewling of the gulls that wheeled high above us in the reddening evening sky.
"But I am forgetting the story," went on Jules in a brisker tone. "As I said, Dewi was the more fragile of the two brothers and it is most likely he was not as 'red-blooded' as his elder brother, although it is not known for sure whether he was homosexual. There is another portrait of him, commissioned by his father, which shows the boy aged about thirteen or so. In it, the boy is portrayed as looking very feminine; lots of blond curls, lace and a rich costume, quite the reverse of the portrait of his elder brother in his armour. Dewi is shown in a suggestive pose, hand on hip, tongue showing between cupid-bow lips, tight breeches, showing more than a hint of his masculinity. For the time, it must have been a shockingly realistic portrait. No one knows who painted it but it is known that Fulub kept the picture in his room, hidden behind a tapestry. He writes a lot about his younger son and it is obvious that he was obsessed by the boy - he was in love with his son. It's not clear from his journal whether what he writes is fact or fantasy, we will never know the answer to that, but we doknow that there was a tragedy in Fulub's life, involving Dewi."
Both Gwion and I were riveted by Jules' story. For my part, I was a little surprised that Jules knew so much and also the fact that gayness was a part of life in the fifteenth century; I had somehow the belief that in those days all the men were swaggering brutes, all straight as a dye, fighting and killing during the day and wenching at night. However, now that I thought about it, homosexuality has been with us since man emerged, why shouldn't there be gay barons? Fulub had the power and authority to get away with kidnapping boys - after all, it was common that boys were sent to the local nobility in order to gain advancement in life. They went to the castles as pages, companions and squires. There they learnt their fighting skills, some even learnt to read and write. Rich sons of local barons needed a 'court' of young men about them, like a status symbol, really. The fact that Fulub raped and even killed some boys seemed to have been overlooked; doubtless he had his companions cover up what he was really up to. If a poor farmer's boy disappeared, then probably some story was made up and no one was the wiser.
"You asked me about the coat-of-arms above the fireplace, Ivan," Jules went on. I nodded. "You remember what it looked like?"
"It had the Lorient shield," I replied, "with two figures on either side; a boy with a fish's tail, blowing into a seashell and a dolphin."
"Now we are getting to the point of the story," said Jules. "I'm sorry it's taken so long, but it is important you have the background."
"I'm fascinated by the story, " said Gwion. "I had no idea there was such a sad history to Le Triton."
"And there's another clue," Jules went on, "what does Le Tritonmean, Gwion?"
The handsome young Breton was quick to reply, "Tritonis the French word for a merman."
"Quite right," replied Jules. "The figure on the left of the shield is a merboy, the masculine version of a mermaid, or Tritonin French. The house got its present name from the story which is still remembered by the locals."
Jules paused again, looking out to sea. The sun was low in the sky, tingeing the scattered high clouds in a spectacular range of reds, oranges and even purple. Directly overhead, the sky was beginning to turn a deep, dark blue.
"Our favourite time of day," he murmured to himself. "But I must finish the story before it gets completely dark. Maybe we shall see... " he broke off for a moment, to wrap his coat about his shoulders. "Anyway, Fulub apparently fell passionately in love with his son, Dewi," he went on, "and it is more than likely that he raped the boy repeatedly. As he was his son, he didn't turn the lad over to his like-minded friends, but kept the boy more or less a prisoner here, for his own amusement." Jules' expression became grim. He went on: "According to what he wrote, Fulub was always desperately sorry after each bout of abusing his son and always promised it would never happen again. However, he was not able to control himself and the cycle would repeat itself: abuse, abject apologies, lavish gifts, followed by a period of relative peace, during which Dewi was left alone, although not allowed to leave. He was, to all intents and purposes a prisoner here. Jord, if he knew or even cared what his brother was going through, never lifted a finger to help him. He was probably too busy engaged in his own vices and, more than likely, too afraid of what his father could do if angered. The boys' mother had died and Yann Le Treut, the old monk who had been their tutor, was also dead by the time Dewi reached thirteen or fourteen. The poor boy must have been desperate; seemingly abandoned by his close family and completely in the power of his crazed father.
'This state of affairs lasted about two years or so, according to Fulub's journal, although by this time, it becomes more sporadic and more fanciful. It is more than likely that Fulub was suffering from some form of STD, most likely syphilis and his writings become increasingly rambling and incoherent. As I said before, Fulub was always filled with remorse after each bout of sexually abusing his son, but the drug had taken too strong a hold of him and however much he promised that it would cease, he could never keep his word to the boy.
'Anyway, the story goes that during the periods whilst his father did not abuse him, Dewi would come down here to this little cove to swim in the calm waters. His father often secretly watched him and wrote how beautiful Dewi was in the water, swimming like a fish.
'Then, one day, tragedy struck and Dewi drowned. No one knows how it happened. He was by all accounts an excellent swimmer. The boy's body was found floating in the calm waters of this little inlet. Fulub was distraught. It was he who had found his son's body and it's said he held his dead son in his arms, here on this shore, for three days and nights, weeping and cursing. Finally, it was almost by force that his retainers managed to get him to relinquish Dewi's body. Fulub, in his crazed sorrow demanded that the boy's body should be burnt on a funeral pyre, here on this spot.
Fulub never fully recovered. He became a virtual recluse, saying it was God's punishment on him for abusing his son. He sent everyone except his oldest squire away from the house and it's said that he spent his days in flagellation and penance and the nights down here on the beach, convinced that God would send his son back to him, if he prayed hard enough.
'The story the locals tell is that Dewi is seen swimming here in the lagoon at dusk, with his new playmates, the Tritons, or merboys. He heard what sounded like Dewi blowing on a conch, laughing and splashing with his marine playmates. Fulub was told by a local woman that if he left a bowl of fresh mare's milk every evening on the shore, he could entice his son back from the sea on the back of a dolphin and Dewi would be returned to him when the sun rose over the hills behind the house, shining on the shore. They say Fulub did this for five years, but he never saw his son again. The milk was always untouched. Now almost totally mad, he had his coat of arms changed, adding an image of his son, with a fish's tail and a dolphin, in memory of his beautiful boy. He added the rising sun and the Latin inscription as well. He renamed the house Le Tritonand it's said he died here on the shore one evening, calling out to his son."
Jules became silent. The sun had now almost completely set, the sky a marvellous swathe of golds and scarlet, the sea glinting like copper. Against the brightness of the sunset, I thought I could see the heads of swimmers in the silky smooth waters of the lagoon. I eagerly tugged at Gwion. "Look, Gwion! Who on earth is swimming there?"
Gwion, shading his eyes followed my pointing arm. "You're right, Ivan! How many are there? Five, six? Where did they come from? It must be freezing out there!"
Jules, however, only smiled. "Look again," he said. "You think you are seeing swimmers? Mermaids perhaps?" He chuckled. A faint barking sound echoed across the still waters.
"Seals!" I said. "Not mermaids, or merboys, but seals! Is that what Fulub saw, do you think, Jules?"
"Almost certainly," replied the Frenchman. The seals swim here in the evenings, mostly at springtime, after rough weather out at sea. That's what Fulub saw, not his son and his new undersea friends! The locals say Fulub is buried there, in that mound and that he spends eternity looking out to sea, waiting for Dewi to return."
"And is he buried there, for real?" I asked, glancing at the mound again, half expecting to see Fulub's ghost rise up out of the ground. Jules shrugged his shoulders in that eloquent Gallic way. "No-one knows," he replied, simply. "No-one has excavated the mound. Maybe he is, or maybe it's just a buried dolmen, who knows? Let him rest in peace, that's what I say."
"You mean, it couldbe a fifteenth century burial?" I asked, "and no one's ever dug it up?"
"Why would they want to do that?" asked Jules, as he got to his feet and wrapped his long multi-coloured scarf around his neck. "Let well enough alone, that's what they say around here. After what Fulub did to all those poor local boys, they say it's a just reward for his cruelty, to be left for ever alone on the shore." Jules gave a little shiver. "It's getting cold. Let's get back up to the house and see what Louise has prepared for our dinner."
We paused a minute or so on the beach, watching the seals disporting themselves in the rapidly fading light. Behind us, I heard the wind soughing in the long grass on the mound, like long, sad sighs.
* * *
AFTERWORD
As I had promised Eve, I stayed in Le Tritonfor a fortnight, during which time Jules told us more stories about the house, local tales and his life with my uncle Peter. He seemed to have come to terms with his loss. By the end of the fortnight he was smiling again and getting back to his old self.
During that timeGwion and I got to know each other better. When we had first met, I had been too preoccupied with my own loss and personal problems and hardly noticed Gwion at all. But now, each of us having come through our own private hardships, come to terms with our losses, we saw each other in a new light. Gwion is handsome, sexy, funny. Before too long we both realised that there was more than friendship in the air. The good thing about it was that it was mutual; I think we each realised our attraction for the other at the same time. After only a few days, we were sharing a bed and by the time the fortnight was over, we had agreed to share our lives.
Jules was over the moon for us. "I knew it would happen," he exclaimed when Gwion and I told him how we felt about each other. "I'm so happy for you both!" He gave Gwion and me extravagant gifts of furniture and possessions, saying he had no room for them in the 'little hovel' by the gates, which was in fact a very beautifully proportioned twelve-roomed house!
Gwion and I now live together in Brittany, not too far from Jules, whom we see regularly.
Le Triton is again full of boys, but this time boys who are being loved and cared for, hopefully dispelling the shadow that once hung over the house. The light still burns from the tower and seals still swim and play in the shallow lagoon.
The mound has not given up its secrets and the long grass sighs in the wind.
F I N
