Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook

[Barbara Noe Kennedy]

These are the first few pages introducing Katherine Briçonnet, the first Chenonceau woman

 

Chenonceau, 1512

 The rounded tip of Chenonceau’s tower pierced through the morning mist, and Katherine Briçonnet caught her breath. Everything she had been working toward, all her quiet ambitions, culminated in this moment.

The journey from Tours had taken nearly half a day along the River Cher, but her anticipation had been waiting much longer—weeks, perhaps months. While Thomas was away in Italy, attending the king on his tiresome effort to dominate the disjointed peninsula, Katherine had busied herself in the minutiae of estate affairs. Livestock ledgers, supplies reports, and her children had offered distraction from the greater, gnawing worry: Would the builders respect her voice? Would they follow the designs she dared share with them, unsigned, unacknowledged, but precise? Or had they dismissed them, deferring reflexively to her absent husband?

Now, her mule’s hooves crunched along the gravel path, shaded by ancient chestnuts that framed her view. She sat straighter in the saddle, urging her mount ahead of her entourage. The trees parted, and the southwest tower revealed itself fully. She braced herself, one hand instinctively rising to her heart, and then a smile formed on her lips. The once-stern fortress of the Marques family rising above the riverbank had been transformed. Where arrow slits once pirced the stone, elegant windows were now framed in creamy limestone. The tower’s medieval roof had given way to a soaring conic spire that rose like a prayer. Intricate dormers graced the upper rooms, their white stone gleaming against slate shingles still dark from the morning dew.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed, just above a whisper. Then, louder, with impressible joy: “It’s perfect!”

Spurring her mule forward, she dismounted with uncharacteristic haste, silk skirts hiked into her hands. She took the stone steps two at a time, hardly noticing the Marques’ coat of arms above the old water well. Her attention was fixed on the doorway—her doorway. Around it, a curled garland of stone adorned with seashells, birds, vines, flowers, and, most delightfully, mermaids. Not the grotesque sailors’ sirens of popular imagination, but graceful, willowy creatures, delicate and serene. Even though she had never been to the sea, she had insisted on them. They represented the mysteries of the feminine as a source of life. Without women, there would be nothing, she thought.

“Madame Briçonnet?” came a voice, rough and familiar.

She turned to find a wiry man emerging from the shadows of the portico. His face was sunworn, his hair graying beneath a dusted cap, but his eyes twinkled with pride.

“Monsieur Dubois!” she exclaimed, taking his hands warmly. “You’ve done it. You’ve brought my vision to life—more beautifully than I ever dared to hope.”

“You have the eye of an Italian, Madame,” he said with a wink. “A true connoisseur of beauty. And a fair patron, too. You kept us well fed and better paid.”

She laughed, her heart full. His loyalty had not come cheaply, and she thanked the heavens for her husband’s familial wealth, but the results spoke for themselves.

Now only one obstacle remained: her husband. When Thomas returned from Italy, he would expect to see the château—his design, his command, his triumph. How would he react to find her imprint on every stone?

 

It had all begun innocently enough, when Thomas was appointed General Finances to the King in 1490, some twenty years earlier.

“My position requires a noble estate,” he stated matter-of-factly one evening over dinner in their grand, wood-paneled dining room. Their hôtel particular in Tours, though elegant, had suited Thomas the mayor—but it did not befit a nobleman. “And I believe I have found the perfect property,” he added, motioning for the steward to refill his goblet with wine. “Fortified, historic. A proper statement.”

Katherine’s mind whirled at the prospect of building a château from the ground up.

“A château?” she exclaimed, perhaps a little too eagerly.

He raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

She tempered her tone. “It’s only that … I have often dreamed of building such a place. Something beautiful. Lasting.”

He frowned, slicing his roast with a bone-edged knife. “And what would you know about architecture?” he asked.

She almost reminded him of her childhood in her father’s study, snuggled in his leather-bound armchair, losing herself in ancient texts on Greek philosophy, Roman history, and, above all, architecture. She had devoured sketches of classical temples and civic buildings, marveling at the miracles of arches and vaulting, critically evaluating how they might be reimagined in modern-day construction. Even as a child, roaming her family’s estate in touring, she had stacked stones into crude arches, puzzling over how each piece ft together to create something greater than itself.

 Of course it was silly of her to let her mind wander even a little bit. He would not be on board with a woman, much less his wife, sharing in the design process. She was determined, however, to view the property, to imagine what form an elegant château might take, so she changed tactics, squarely meeting his gaze. She held her tongue.

“Nevertheless,” she said carefully, “I should like to see the property. To support you. And … to imagine what might become of it.”

She saw it immediately—the brief, involuntary flicker in his expression, the way he stiffened at her words. Had he truly never noticed how closely she followed his discussions of the king’s fascination with the new Italian architectural styles, the same ones that he despised?

“You? Why?” he asked.

Because I see what you do not, she thought. Because while you marvel at power, I see the possibility for grace and beauty, an opportunity to build something livable and human-scale. But she said nothing.

Instead, she leaned forward, softening her voice. She had learned early with him that a sugar fig tempts more than a bitter root. “Mon cheri,” she said sweetly, “your vision, your taste, your mastery of design, these are the very qualities that will make the château a marvel. But who better than I, your devoted wife, to admire and support your genius from the very beginning?”

He hesitated. The silence stretched.

He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, she thought he might refuse again. Then, with a scowl, he exhaled sharply. “Oh, very well,” he relented. “You may come tomorrow. But you must stay in the background. Do not interfere.”

Katherine allowed herself a small, victorious smile. That, she could manage—for now.

 

**

 

On that first trip to Chenonceau, she had ridden behind Thomas and his advisers—this time sidesaddle, to satisfy social norms. But she didn’t mind, as she stayed close enough to capture their words. 

“The estate belongs to the Marques family,” Thomas explained to his posse. “They’re knights from Auvergne who spared no expense in building a fortress in the 1430s. But their descendants have not managed their money well. While they are ensconced for now, they will find their financial demise. And I plan to be there, to pick up the pieces.” His voice was full of scorn.

They approached the estate from the opposite riverbank—Thomas did not want the residents to know they had company. The small group stopped amid a copse of tall, regal trees, the ones Katherine supposed had given the property its name: Chenonceau, a Celtic term for “oak forest near the water.” From a distance, she saw the crumbling fortress, square in shape with four round corner towers rising above, surrounded on three sides by a moat connecting to the adjacent River Cher. A separate mill, built directly over the river, stood on two giant pedestals ground into the riverbed for support.

Jumping off his horse, Thomas strode along the riverbank, his pensive blue eyes scanning the blocky facade of the structure. “The site is strategic,” he said, measured. “We can easily renovate the existing frame.”

Katherine stood near him, her long violet gown billowing in the soft currents of wind rolling off the River Cher. With a practiced hand, she pinned a hazelnut curl behind her ear, her silver clasp glinting in the sunlight. She hesitated briefly, choosing her words carefully: “As a nobleman,” she began, deliberate, “you deserve a structure that reflects your vision. What if we demolished the fortress entirely and built something new—over the river, where the mill stands?”

There. She had said it. The first spark of the vision she longed to bring to life—a magnificent château that would endure for generations.

Thomas turned to her, one eyebrow raised in incredulity.

“No, really, cheri,” she said, keeping her words even, like the precise clucking tongue of their youngest daughter Chloe’s harpsichord tutor, Madame Sevigny. “That’s the only way to make it remarkable. A château on the river, not beside it. The mill’s foundations are perfect for such a structure. And, let’s be honest—modernizing that old fortress will only result in an awkward blend of eras. It won’t command admiration. It will look like we’ve tried to update a block of stone.”

“It will work,” he said, folding his arms and slivering his eyes. “It can be done my way. But first, we need to acquire the property.” He didn’t sound confident, but Katherine let it rest for now. Little did they know then, as they stood there by the River Cher, it would take sixteen long years to turn their conflicting visions into reality.

[Douglas Grudzina]

OLD OPENING SCENE:

The water was rising fast, already reaching the tops of his boots. The courier clutched his leather satchel closer to his breast and pressed forward. His woolen coattails, pulled up and tied around his waist like a kitchen apron, were sodden. But that did not matter so long as the document he was carrying remained dry. It meant nothing to him, just a small packet of papers – only a few pages – folded and sealed with wax. He himself was not privileged to know its contents, but it had been emphasized to him that those contents had the power to salvage at least one life.

The water flooding his boots was barely above freezing, fed by the upriver springtime snowmelt. He fought to ignore the numbness creeping up his legs and concentrated on the flickering of a lamp in a window and smoke curling from a kitchen chimney on the Pennsylvania side of the river.

Surely that was the inn, where he was expected, where there would be a hot breakfast and maybe some dry clothes.

He was so tired.

And cold.

He slipped once on a rock and fell to his knee, but the satchel remained dry. By the time he finally stepped from the frigid water, the first sun cast his shadow on the steep riverbank. He’d been careful not to be followed, but looked back one final time at the river he’d forded. He drew in a deep breath and rested for the first time since he’d plunged into the icy water in New Jersey.

He heard a sharp crack behind him, and a dozen or so startled birds fluttered away in every direction. He caught barely a whiff of acrid smoke before the lead bullet entered his skull with such force that he staggered forward several steps before dropping to his knees and then falling face first into the river.

The one with the rifle sprinted to the corpse and grabbed the satchel, securing it in an inner cloak pocket. Nimble fingers untied laces and worked buttons. Before long, the body had been stripped of its clothing. Coat, vest, shirt, and breeches were rolled into a threadbare shoulder sack. When everything was gathered up, the dead man’s killer retreated into the darkness of the trees, leaving the naked corpse to whatever the birds, the beasts, and the weather might do to it.

 

 

NEW OPENING SCENE (essentially the same scene with a change in POV):

The chief virtue of the hunter is patience. The next is endurance. Whether stalking the prey or lying in wait, the important thing was to … wait. To reveal one’s presence too soon, to fire too early would mean to allow the prey to escape and the hunt to fail.

This hunt had been a lie-in-wait. For three bitterly cold days, the hunter had sat perched on a lower limb of the still winter bare maple tree, waiting for the quarry to arrive.

This was where he would have to come. This was where the river narrowed and grew shallow. The tide still affected the depth of the water so at low tide, one could walk across in water barely knee deep. And this was where the inn was – where the expected prey would find a warm meal and a comfortable bed.

A small flock of birds fluttered and twittered from a tree at the water’s edge. Something was in the river, crossing the river, about to reach the shore. The hunter raised the rifle and peered down the long barrel. The hand that squeezed the trigger was calm and steady. The single, sharp crack tore the morning. A whiff of acrylic smoke _____, and the report’s echo reverberated up and down the river as if to announce that the deed was done.

This deed was done.

The unsuspecting quarry stopped in mid-step. The hunter could not read the man’s face because the face was now a mash of blood and flesh. But he imagined the expression would have been surprise. Surprise and horror.

The dead man dropped to his knees and then fell forward into the shallow water. The echo of the one shot faded, and everything was once again silent.

The hunter scrambled down from the tree and sprinted to the corpse. The satchel the man had been carrying held  a small packet of papers folded and sealed with wax. These the hunter  secured in an inner cloak pocket. Nimble fingers untied laces and worked buttons. Before long, the body had been stripped of its clothing. Coat, vest, shirt, and breeches were rolled into a threadbare shoulder sack. When everything was gathered up, the dead man’s killer retreated into the darkness of the trees, leaving the naked corpse to whatever the birds, the beasts, and the weather might do to it.