As the leaves turn brown, soon to fall from the trees, I take it upon myself to write of a summer story from my youth, so as to provide a last spark of sunlight from the past.
Beynac-et-Cazenac, 1345
It was my first time. I lived my tenth summer when my father decided I was man enough to accompany him on his travel from Cahors to Bergerac. Father usually travelled south to Montpellier, but was at the time looking to expand. The reason he had never taken me on a far journey before was because times were troubling. France was at war against the English and their power-hungry King Edward III, invading French territory in Aquitaine. Earlier that year, a building process started in the city I lived in, to build walls and canals to protect us from the evils outside. I fervently hoped God would spare the city of Cahors, for we had a lot to lose. Father and I set out west, to the city of Bergerac, where the English ruled from 1152. We arrived in Montcuq, where people said we could safely go, for the city was under siege by our own French army. No sooner had we arrived however, did the townsfolk tell us that the army had left Montcuq for Bergerac. The people seemed to have heard rumors of an upcoming battle, since the English army from Gascon was on the move. Father and I were in danger, because moving armies meant unsafe roads. We decided to travel north to the Dordogne river. Father had sent a letter to my dear mother and told her not to let my sisters and younger brother leave the safety of our house. We knew there were Englishmen in the Dordogne region. They always loomed around the borders looking for more than was righteously theirs. Once close to where the river runs we noticed that, indeed, the English were present. The castle of Castelnaud had, once again, been taken by English usurpers. Father and I sought for a place to cross the river at night, for at night there were less people around to guard the area. We let our horses walk slowly so we wouldn’t make much noise. Triumphantly, we walked into safe, French territory, when voices shook us. Three men, heavily armed, came upon us, blocking the road. I saw father spread his arms as though to protect our goods and shout out to the men not to hurt us. The guards, immediately recognizing our native French tongue, lowered their weapons. We were taken to another castle on the French border of the Dordogne river: Beynac. By the time we got close the sun almost started to rise, and I could see outlines of the fortress upon a cliff, standing majestically high, looking out over the valley and river. Personally, I found this fortress more impressive than the one on the other side of the river. We were invited to share a morning meal with the Lord and Lady present at this keep. It was then that we learned that there had indeed been a great battle on the route to Bergerac, and that we had been wise travel north. As a boy I liked the castle very well. It was comfortable, and the views from the small windows were marvelous. I fell in love with the place, but even more did I fall in love with a girl: A servant girl named Genevieve, the daughter of a tradesman, caught my attention the first time I laid eyes on her. The moment I saw her, I decided I would call Beynac-et-Cazenac my home. A few years later I returned to ask for her hand, and I have never left the place since…