Aside from Heaven
Chapter 3D
My Lady's Desire
Throughout his life – and throughout his future lives – Roland would remember the gasp the escaped his chest the moment he laid eyes on his Aignes-Mortes estate.
Alise's estate, Guy. Alise's.
No. Mine.
Neanderthal!
Fine. Alise's and mine. Ours. Our children's. Our future.
Roland batted at his ear, as if to dislodge a pesky fly. Yes, yes, oui, Alise's property, but now according to the Church's law, it was his, his to maintain, his to care for, his to do with as he desired...
His to build. This was Alise's childhood home; her home until recently. Raymond's words rang in his ears, since the moment he and Thomas left so quietly in the night. They had not been harassed; if there were local highwaymen, they stayed away from the plainly dressed, but well-armed travelers.
Nîmes had been their first stop. Roland found the servants close-lipped and secretive. They knew the Lady Alise had been married to an English Lord, one who was held in great favor with the English King, but apparently, they were under the impression the new Duke was... older. Thomas explored the town in the day, Roland explored the estate. Other than his own breathing, it was quiet, no ghosts to speak with; no angels either. The home was not garish, or laden with riches, rather it was the estate of an old family, one that valued home and hearth, good food. The library was filled with poetry, treaties and documents the Holy Church would approve of. Nothing questionable, nothing out of the ordinary.
Thomas's perceived and assumed lack of the local language proved informative in his blatant eaves-dropping to the conversations between the cook and the nubile servant girl. How Thomas got this information, Roland did not wish to ask! According to them, the Nîmes home was quiet, dignitaries rarely visited, something the household was grateful for. The Church had investigated, looked for anything, but the old Count openly invited them in, plied them with his personal wine while they searched and questioned. He courted and supplied the local clergy with wine, wine, and more wine for years. The more they searched and questioned, the more wine he gave them. They were most happy to have found nothing and the household happier to see them go, leaving them with a mess to clean up. No one blamed the old man when he retired to the estate near the Great Sea. He told the servants his bones ached and he wished his granddaughter to be far from ugliness too cruel for such innocent, young eyes.
In the gardens, Roland saw the obvious time his Alise spent there. Perhaps, the soil would be habitable to many of the things his wife so obviously loved. He made a mental note to make sure their home in Nottingham would have a place for a garden, somewhere she and their children could spend time.
Much to the servants' relief, the two only stayed five days. Roland managed to ingratiate himself to the higher staff when he insisted on carrying several small parcels of floral and herbal seeds for Alise to plant at her new home. They attended Mass before leaving, openly tithing, seemingly pious to the faith and leaving no one doubting their belief in the Catholic Church.
Roland's stay with Queen Eleanor's parents was shorter; four days. Raymond Berenguer IV, the Count of Provence and his wife, Beatrice of Savoywere kind, gracious, thankful for the personal message from their daughter, that her marriage to the English king was fruitful and that both their daughter and her husband were happy in their marriage.
Truthfully, they were just as interested in Alise de Aigues-Mortes' husband. Alise's grandfather, Lambert, was beloved. In contrast, Alise's father, was not. There was a long history of conflict over property between the two provinces. After a few days of opulent living, Roland was eager to leave this sunny place. One of their servants aided in procuring a boat to take Roland and his man to Alise's home, and Roland was grateful to leave the friendly court.
The Provençal court was full of beautiful women, willing women, servants, and his body was screaming. He missed his wife and her attentions.
Thomas, on the other hand, thought he'd died and gone to heaven. So many women to love; so little time to love them in.
The Aignes-Morte property and estate bordered Provençal at the Rhône River. The estate was on a small tributary that forked off from the main river and then meandered to the Mediterranean, the Petite-Rhône, and the home itself, a short hour's ride from the dock. Thomas whispered in his ear that the estate being so near to the river was a good thing and he was making note of how close they were to the Mediterranean. Escape routes were always good to know. The estate was remote, far off the beaten path and it seemed to be no one thought much of it. For now, it was safe. The estate was close to the river, a short jaunt to the Great Sea. And around to England.
They arrived late in the afternoon and did not tour the property. Roland found the servants to be quiet, but cautiously friendly. Not nearly as secretive as those in Nîmes.
The second evening after touring the property and visiting the small village nearby, Roland called for the steward and head housekeeper. The husband and wife team were cordial, intelligent, and obviously still devoted to the family that was not in residence.
"I would like to see Alise and her grandfather's personal papers."
Hervé bowed and left, leaving Roland to stare at the housekeeper, Marie, who stood before him, hands clasped and looking at him expectantly. Feeling as if she were waiting for him to say anything, he swallowed. "The food is excellent. My compliments to the chef."
Marie immediately beamed. "Thank you, my lord. It was my grandmother's recipe."
"You are the cook?"
She nodded with pleased enthusiasm. "Oui!"
"I see why your husband keeps his fine figure!" Roland toasted her with his wine. The woman was now blushing in humor as her husband, and she herself, were on the portly side. "The wine is excellent, as well."
"It is from the château's grapes. You will find none finer."
Burn the home, if you must, but mind the grapes.
Roland realized why the grapes were so very precious.
Hervé returned with several large, bound volumes of paper, setting them gently on the table, next to Roland's place. He was aware that Thomas had taken a protective stance behind his lord's shoulder. Keeping his venison-laden fork away from the books and over his plate, he wiped his free hand on his napkin, knowing the steward and the housekeeper exchanged appreciative glances. He flipped open the first book.
He furrowed his brow, flipping through the vellum quickly. He closed he first bound volume and opened the second. "These are the household accounts." He closed the book gently and stared hard at the steward, who did not blink. "I would like the personal papers."
"The private library?"
"Oui." Roland finished the last bite on his plate and pushed the plate away, signaling he was through.
The steward inclined his head, beckoning for Roland to follow him. The château was old, well provided with colorful and well-made tapestries and rugs. It was comfortable, more a home than the mansion in Nîmes. As they made their way from the main thoroughfare, the rugs took on a foreign motive, which Roland recognized.
"We are close to the Mediterranean," Hervé explained. "Often, traders and travelers miss pass the Rhône and come up the Petite-Rhône. We have many lovely items and have traded well."
Yes, Roland thought appreciatively, you have.
Soon, they entered a small room. As the steward lit the lamps, Roland took stock of the small library. "Strange. I expected it to be larger than this."
Hervé continued lighting the lamps. "We are but a small household, my lord."
Thomas's reading skills were nominal at best, but even he knew what Roland was looking for. The two spent the evening and most of the next day – which was unusually but blessedly wet and rainy – going through the scrolls and bound parchment. By dinner, Roland was rubbing gritty eyes and Thomas was equally grouchy.
There was nothing considered the least bit controversial. There were maps of the Mediterranean, Italy, a few scholarly treatises regarding art, friendly, personal missives between family, poetry, marital contracts and correspondence...
Nothing of a religious nature.
They were here. He knew they were here. Raymond alluded to it. Alise admitted to it...
"Hervé," it was after dinner. A bath was drawn and brought up and Roland stood next to the tub, looking at it dispassionately. "Did the count have a separate library? Were there any writings my wife was fond of that were perhaps left behind?" As he lifted his eyes in the firelight, Hervé stepped back in fear. They glowed. "I believe you were close to the old lord and would protect him and his granddaughter. I would protect them as well and I need to know."
The man licked his lips nervously. "My lord, the count was beloved and stayed out of politics and other annoyances. He kept his people safe from the... nastiness."
"Yes, he kept this area safe from the religious uprisings that have plagued his neighbors." He stepped up to the man, dwarfing him. "I would keep this place safe as well. Next time I come, my wife and our children, God willing we have any, will come with me and I would not bring them home to a charred chateau and destroyed grapes." Roland forced his face to relax. "I adore my wife-"
"You have not taken any of the female servants to your bed since you arrived," Hervé interrupted. "It has been noticed that you must deeply care for the Lady Alise."
"I do," Roland admitted. "I would keep this place safe for her, for our future. Please help me." The steward remained silent, Thomas in the shadows, watching carefully. "Please. I have little love for the Holy Pope and would keep them from what is now mine."
For a moment, the glow of the fireplace gave the steward an evil look. "The Holy Church has little love for us."
"Only for our money," Roland completed for the man. "Please help me keep what is hidden safe."
There was a great sigh in the air, one that startled the steward, as well as the manservant. Roland recognized it for what it was; all of the spirits and ghosts in the château, the angels that protected it, exhaling at the same time. The steward might not believe him, but the château did.
"I am sorry, my lord. I do not know where Alise's grandfather kept his private collection, if he, in fact, had one. Is there anything else I can get for you?" The look in the man's eyes were pleading, begging.
Please be done with me.
"Non. You may leave. Thomas will attend me." Both Englishmen watched as the steward bowed and left. They waited until the outer door to the master bedchamber shut. Roland quickly disrobed and stepped into the tub, making short work of bathing himself. "I believe him."
"He is terrified."
"Aye, he is. Lambert did not confide in him, most likely for his own safety. We will have to explore on our own."
That night, long after Thomas had finished his own bath, emptied the tub and retired with an amenable serving girl for the evening, Roland lay in the bed. The room belonged to the master, the lord and he felt no guilt sleeping there. It was now his room, his and Alise's, when she returned with him. There was an additional chamber on the other side of the bathing room and from Roland's perspective, it was chamber of the Lady of the House. It was normal for a noble married couple to have separate bed chambers, but Roland wasn't having any of it. One sent a dalliance from the bed, not one's wife! He'd spent time in Alise's chambers, amused but not surprised at the lighter colors, dried flowers, and... feminine things. There were dolls on the shelves, needlework, several scrolls of poetry. There was a flute, Marie stating proudly that Alise played and played quite well. Alise had not been given much time to pack when she was sent to Henry's Bordeaux Court, and there were many kirtles, mixed in with the embroidered tunics, and other precious things left behind.
Roland simply nodded.
Unable to sleep, Roland lay in bed, planning and plotting until the temperature in the air dropped and soon, Roland was shivering. He got up and pulled the bed hangings back, thinking to see a fireplace that had gone cold, but he did not. Instead it was roaring, blazing, but no heat issued forth. In curiosity, he slid from the bed, his arms wrapped around himself, stepping closer.
As he moved towards the fireplace, an icy mist sprang up between him and the blaze, the mist taking shape of a man. He suspected it was the shade of Lambert, Alise's grandfather. Roland did not shrink in fear; he knew what stood before him; he, himself spent time as one such as Lambert.
Pouvez vous faire confiance?
"Of course," Roland whispered back in Occitan, "I can be trusted." The ghost regarded him in mild ire. "If you do not believe me, ask Douma," the man responded with a smirk, "the Angel of Death. We are on good terms."
Lambert hovered. Et Raymond?
The way the sound hissed in the air made Roland think. The air was frigid in his lungs as he spoke. "Raymond told me to mind the grapes."
The spirit scoffed before fleeing into the fire, dissipating in the flames, seeming to walk through the back wall.
Roland stood staring at the fireplace, while the room returned to a more normal temperature.
~~~...~~~
The next day was bright, sunny, as it typically was in that part of the Great Sea. Roland waited until noon to venture out, taking Thomas and Hervé with him. According to the steward, there was a small harbor town just south of the château, Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, but the estate itself was closer to Le Grau-du-Roi, which was located directly on the Mediterranean Coast. They toured the vineyards and the sun and wine loosened Hervé's tongue. According to the sun-wizened steward, this home had simply been the family's summer home for years, Count Lambert preferring the residence in the years after his wife and daughter's death. The Lady Alise preferred the home as well.
Sitting under an olive tree, the man regaled Roland of tales of the Lady Alise – she was quite the hoyden growing up, into everything, ever curious. For a time, the home was quite hectic with visitors, learned men and spirited discussions at times went on late into the night. On many of these evening, the Lady Alise was known to hide in the shadows, the naves, and listen and in recent years, she was known to debate such scholars as well. Realizing that he was blabbering drunkenly, the man abruptly changed the subject, praising the grapes and the simple living peasants of the countryside.
The house in Nîmes was much grander than the one on the Petit-Rhône, however this mansion was homey, comfortable. If one was to raise a family, this home was the one to raise them in. There were gardens to run in, trees to climb. Roland found himself looking for honeysuckle. He suddenly missed the hedges behind his
...Gisborne...
boyhood home, which in the summer were covered with honeysuckle. He shook his head, the season was wrong. He would have to ensure he returned with Alise in the summer. For not the first time, he stared blankly at the back of the house while his mind wandered, planning. The wine could be sold, making a fine profit, he noted to bring clippings from the gardens, to see if such would grow in the gardens of their home in Locksley, along with the seedlings brought from Nîmes. Alise would have something of her Languedoc home with her so far away.
Roland blinked rapidly.
The windows...
For some time, he closely inspected the back of the house, specifically the space between the Master's bedroom and the Lady's apartments...
...take into consideration the bathing chambers, the walk-in wardrobe, the fireplace...
Roland's face split into grin. He found it.
Now, to get to it.
~~~...~~~
Roland feigned a cold that evening after dinner, causing Marie no end of worry. She plied him with herbal teas and poultices, a scented pillow to sleep on. Roland made sure to thank her profusely, before smirking and setting it all to the side. He watched as Hervé built the fire and thanked him. As soon as both steward and wife were gone, he dropped the bar on the door, blocking anyone from disturbing him. He unstoppered the bottle of wine on the sidebar, poured a glass, and proceeded to search the wall, the mantle for an entry. He cleared the mantle, looked behind the tapestries, the knick-knacks, the paintings...
Nothing.
He searched again.
Still nothing.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he finished the bottle and pulled his boots off. As he yanked his tunic over his head in frustration, the temperature of the room dropped.
In front of the glowering fireplace, the shade of Alise's grandfather stood, shaking his head. He turned and walked through the dying fire and through the stone.
"Oui, I know it is there! How do I get to it?" Roland's whispered breath misted in the cold air. Suddenly, it dawned on him...
The embers of the fire were almost out and Roland began to shovel the ashes into the ash bucket, carefully set next to the fireplace. He smothered the glowing embers and continued until the task was complete. Considering the niggling thought in the back of his head, he went into the sitting room, stirring those embers, until the fire was roaring. He then returned into the Master's bedroom.
The fireplace was huge, large enough for a grown man to stand in. Still, Roland had to duck in order to step into it, after he'd lit a hand lamp. He began to run his free hand around the finely laid stone, feeling the crooks and crevices. It took many minutes, but finally he found a small abnormality, placed low, not in the center and not in the corner towards the outer wall. It felt like a carving and Roland raised his lamp, he saw a small etching of a bunch of grapes. As he ran his fingers around it, the carving recessed and sank into the granite.
With a grating screech, one he was sure echoed through the home, the recessed side wall slid to the right, leaving a dark opening. Grabbing the lamp, Roland looked into the space, and was not surprised to see a sturdy, wooden circular staircase going down into the bowels of the manse. There was a small shelf to the right, tinder and fire starters neatly laid in the box. He checked the room again, making sure the house was quiet, before taking his lamp and the fire starters and began the long descent down the stairs.
It was eerie, dark, and he could hear scuttling of rodents and other noises. It dawned on him he should have brought a broom, to clear away the cobwebs that seemed to cling to his hair and face. At some point, he reached what appeared to be a small, semi-bare storage room with a few empty crates and caskets stacked against the wall and flagstones that matched the flooring piled neatly to the side...
Someone was prepared for the inevitable... this is the ground floor...
...and another, separate, spiral stairwell that began just beneath the flooring.
Roland had been exhausted, but he found new energy as he descended below the flagstones and earthen floor. The glow of his lamp was meager and weak, but he continued downwards. The further he descended, the more he realized that where he was going was well beneath the lowest level of the chateau.
Finally, he touched the floor.
It was tiled, cold beneath his feet and in the low, lamplight, he could see little. In looking around, he realized there was a blunted torch in a niche in the ancient stone. Using the fire from his lamp, he lit the torch, not expecting -
It flared to life.
He turned and walked to the middle of the room.
"Mon Dieu!"
The room, or cavern, which it felt like, was huge. Truthfully, it was a series of rooms laid in a circle, and as Roland wandered, he lit torches that were attached to the wall. Roland began to laugh, an eerie sound, echoing through the chamber.
Lambert, vous les anciens païens! Vous avez un donjon caché!
At the mental mention of Alise's grandfather's name, his ghost wavered above Roland's head.
Vous a fallu assez longtemps.
Roland grinned at the old man. "Mind the grapes," he whispered.
He was graced with a smile that he recognized in his wife. Les raisins de l'esprit.
Despite being close to the water, the air, the flooring was dry. It wasn't earthen, but wood, laid over rock. He began to explore the recesses, the cells, so to speak.
Again, he swore.
Several of the cells were stacked with racks of bottles. He pulled a random bottle from the wine rack and blew the heavy dust from it. Upon closer inspection, Roland found they were bottles of wine, many of them, according to the hand-written labels, over a century old. Older.
There had to be several bottles from each year, each kind...
It was a treasure trove.
He found several caskets of jewelry, tiaras, necklaces, rings. They were old, but the workmanship was exquisite. There were tapestries, rolled rugs. He wondered if much of this had been secreted from Raymond's home in Toulouse.
As he made his way around, he found what he was looking for.
Scrolls. Books. Shelves and shelves...
A library.
It was the largest of the cells and in the middle was a table with several scrolls opened, side by side. There was stoppered ink set about the table. Careful of the flame in his hand, Roland raised the scroll on the left.
אלוהים ישפוט העמים. מערכות צדק בשבילי, אלוהים, על פי ששמעון, ועל פי שלי
The language was completely illegible to him, however fear knotted in his belly. He set it down and picked up the next scroll.
Dominus judicat populos. Constituite mihi Dominus secundum justitiam meam, et secundum meum integrity-
This language was familiar. Roland was educated, well educated, considering his low-born origins. He had been well educated when he was Guy and Latin came easily to him. This was a portion of the Holy Writ the Church would approve of. He set the scroll down and picked up the next one.
He recognized Alise's delicate handwriting. His hand began to shake and the gnarl in his belly tightened.
Le Seigneur jugera les peuples. Établir la justice pour moi, Seigneur, selon ma justice et selon mon intégrité. S'il vous plaît laissez le mal des méchants être plus, mais la valeur justes fermement en place, vous, le Dieu juste, étant celui qui examine les cœurs et les esprits.
Roland set the vellum down. "This isn't a treatise, or a scholarly discussion," he whispered.
"No, it is not."
Roland spun around, his hand going for the knife that normally hung in his belt. "Who is there?"
Valoel stepped into the light. She was dressed in velvets, befitting a woman of a well-off station. "It is part of a book of songs, written by the King David of Israel and his minstrels, over two thousand years ago." She stepped up to the table, looking down. "I thought I recognized it. Psalms seven, verses eight and nine. Would you like to hear the rest?" She took advantage of his flapping jaw. "God is my shield; he saves those whose heart is right. I will thank the LORD for his righteousness; I will sing praises to the name of the LORD most high." She tucked her hands in her full sleeves, looking relaxed and calm. "The Psalms are glorious. When I am having a difficult time of it, I always find solace in them. But," she wagged her finger and drifted to the left, perusing the shelf, "I have always loved the Song of Solomon." She pulled out what seemed to be a random canister, similar to the ones he had taken from the crypt at Ripley's and set it on the table. "I would recite it for you, but I suspect it would make you uncomfortable." With this, she smiled mischievously. "It definitely makes those dried up, pious old tarts in the Church, very uncomfortable!"
Roland finally found his tongue. "Lambert and Alise were translating the Holy Words of Christ and the Patriarchs!"
"And the Disciples and discussing them with other learned men," Val agreed. "Your wife is most enlightened." She continued to nod. "She was rather enamored of the Song of Solomon as well."
Roland stepped towards the angel, his face twisted in anger and his finger pointed towards the shelves. "These words are holy! They are NOT for unrighteous eyes!"
Val's grin grew bigger. She moved around him, serenity enveloping the room. "Why are you whispering? No one can hear. All, save us, are deep in sleep." As she glided around him, the smell of sweet incense permeated the room. "Besides, what man is to judge whose eyes are righteous and whose are not?" She gestured at the scrolls on the shelves. "These were written by men, true, holy men of God, the Apostles themselves, to be read by and to other men. Many are letters the Apostle Paul wrote to various church members, instructing them. Why should The Church have a monopoly on that?"
For several minutes, the man and the angel stared at each other, one malevolent and the other serene. Finally -
"What do you want from me?" Roland hissed. "Why am I here?"
"Why are you so angry?" Val cocked her head sideways, studying the man before her. "You are here to inspect your new assets."
"DAMMIT, WOMAN!" Roland lost his temper, his fingers bunched in white-knuckled fists, shoved at his side and his face screwed up and red. "YOU TELL ME NOTHING!"
"Wait here." She walked through the wall.
"DO NOT LEAVE! DO NOT DARE TO-" he cut off, as she returned, properly through the doorway with a bottle of wine in one hand and a glass in the other. She set the bottle down and wiped the glass with her wide sleeve. After setting the goblet down, she picked up the bottle, breaking the wax seal at the throat. She then put her finger in her mouth, seeming to suck on it and then swirled the digit over the cork, removing it. She poured a glass and handed it to him. "Ah," he sneered, "now you think to get me drunk?"
"You drank an entire bottle before you descended into this place. One would say you are already drunk!" She gestured with the glass, "The wine is especially good. It is over 150 years old and I believe you will like it." She pressed again. "Please. Drink and talk to me. Do not yell. It is unnecessary."
Roland grabbed the chalice, almost up-ending and draining it, before stopping himself. He passed the rim beneath his nose, taking in the bouquet.
Mind the grapes.
"It would serve you well," Val continued soothingly, "to get to know your grapes, your wines, the years. What works and what doesn't. What goes with what dish. Alise is quite knowledgeable in this, as well. This," she gestured grandly, "is not ale or mead, but something to delight in." He was sipping thoughtfully, his eyes on her. "As to your question: why are you here? You know exactly why you are here. You changed history when you died on the floor of Nottingham without your father's crucifix-"
"Your crucifix." His voice echoed in the bowl of the goblet.
"My crucifix," she amended. "You died without it over and over and I made your father a promise. A promise I needed to keep because of that crucifix. And in the process I became very fond of a young lady in the future who obtained your crucifix."
"Why am I here?" Holding the goblet in one hand, he tapped his index finger in the other towards the floor. "Why am I here?"
"This," Val stated grandly, "is literally the foundation of your dynasty, the power, the wealth. The basis of all of everything you can possibly be!"
"Possibly?"
She heard the sarcasm in his voice. "Yes, possibly. You can still destroy this, but I will do everything in my power to make sure you do not! Genevieve," she continued emphatically, "will be utterly destroyed if you do not!"
At the mention of her name, Roland's face fell. "Genevieve. That is another problem I have." He looked down into his empty goblet. Morosely, he reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. "I love her, but I am destined to walk this earth for eight centuries without her-"
"Guy," his eyes jerked up at the mention of his name, "you are not expected to walk for so long alone and in loneliness. Your heart is not a business arrangement, nor is it made of stone. You are not walking this earth to 'make do'. You are not a 'make do' type of person. You never have been and you never will be! Live life to the fullest. Grasp it with both hands. Love. Don't pretend, don't hope for fondness. Hope for love! Look for it. Learn from it! Open your mind and your heart to it! Take what you learn to Genevieve. You will still be you, still be Guy of Gisborne, but become that better man. Marion knew you were!" Roland's gut clenched at Marian's name. "Genevieve proved to you, you were!" She stepped forward, her hands clenched in not-angry fists. "Evolve! Do not deny yourself or Alise the love in your heart! You will become stagnant, evil if you deny yourself that."
Roland set his empty goblet down, obviously torn. He abruptly changed the subject. "I should destroy this." He looked about the strange library.
"Why? It is well hidden."
"Can you guarantee it will not be found?"
Val nodded. "Not only will itnot be found, you have been left the tools to seal it and protect it from fire, when it comes to that." Roland's eyebrow arched at that.
"How long before France claims Nîmes and Aignes-Mortes?"
Val shrugged. "Between 225 and 250 years. You have time to cultivate a peaceful relationship with the French monarchy. Your next life, mostly. Play your hand close and you will not only maintain your current lands, but future ones as well." A slow smirk slid across her features. "It will take hundreds of years, but by the time anyone realizes how much power the family of FitzGisborne welds, it will be too late and none will be able to stop it."
"I will rule the world?"
The angel shook her head. "No. There is no power in ruling anything, but you and yours will walk proud through it." Slowly, she began to fade. "Go to bed, Guy. It will be here tomorrow. You only have a few hours before sunrise." With that, she faded from sight.
Fatigue gripped him with a sudden fierceness. Finding a bucket of water, he doused all of the torches, one by one, leaving only his lamp.
He barely made it back into the bed.
tbc
Lambert, vous les anciens païens! Vous avez un donjon caché!
Lambert, you old heathen! You have a hidden dungeon!
Vous a fallu assez longtemps. - Took you long enough
Mind the grapes. Les raisins de l'esprit.