Clement’s inner historian trumped the terror that made him queasy. Despite trembling knees, he dug the notebook out of his fanny pack and began scribbling.
“How often does this occur?” He asked after he finished jotting down descriptions of Eilyn and her lord.
“What does that matter?” The lord asked. The man got up and gestured for Clement to follow. “If this one gets loose it will likely take Eilyn and I with it.”
“Who else has fallen to the spirits in the gargoyles?” Clement asked trailing the man through a courtyard, making notes on all he saw.
“Every soul that took refuge in this house,” the lord said as he opened the door to a chapel. “Save those who died by their own hands.”
“Father, wait,” Eilyn, who drifted behind Clement trying to see his notes, stopped their small procession and began a conversation with the lord in a strange language.
Some of the words sounded familiar, but was neither French nor an olden form of English. Clement noted this and tried to grasp any words.
“Forgive me,” the lord gave a slight bow, “I have not offered you any food or drink.”
“What language was that?” Clement asked, his pen poised to record the answer.
The father and daughter exchanged glances.
“These days it is called Old French,” Eilyn offered. Clement wrote it down. “It is a family tradition to speak Old French with each other.”
Clement nodded thoughtfully then asked, “What is the name of your family?”
Eilyn pointed to an inscription above the chapel door.
“That is the family who built this palace,” Clement chuckled, “But they’ve been extinct for over five hundred years!”
“Correction,” the lord held up a finger, “No one has been born into that family since 1301.”