The Winemaker of Deuxreines

I watch them every morning, the line of men walking past my farm. Each man carries a thin box. Some have small boxes they can carry in the palm of their hands, others need two hands to carry theirs and every now and then a donkey will accompany one of the men whose box is too large to carry himself. The donkey men are my favourite - so proud of themselves! Sometimes the men with the tiny boxes lose their nerve at this stage; they look at their own little box, and then to the donkey man’s box and back to theirs. Surmising that all hope is lost, they dash their box on the ground, relinquish their place in line and skulk off the way they came. I used to go out and collect these discarded little parcels. I’d bring them back to my kitchen table and open them as I pushed a hot jam and buttered croissant into my mouth. I always hoped I’d be surprised but I never was, so I stopped gathering them after a while. Always the same. An oil painting of the fields of Deuxreines. Most had cornflower blue skies, some were indigo and moonlit, others in the snow; pretty enough and they’d certainly look well above a fireplace but they would not do for our queen.

This daily procession of hopeful men began almost five years ago to the day. I remember it distinctly because it was my first planting day since my father died. That morning I’d taken a pair of garden shears to my waist-length, chestnut hair and cut it to my jaw. I tucked it under a wool cap and swapped my sun dress for a pair of black breeches and a linen shirt. The vineyard was my father’s pride and joy and I had been his apprentice from seed to bottle for 37 harvests. Now it was in my care and that day I would plant my first crop alone. I had just gotten a sapling vine into the soil when a young lad in the queen’s livery flopped over my fence and bounded towards me, dragging a bulging messenger sack behind him.

“Are you the master of this house, sir?”

I thought about this for a moment. My cap and britches had obviously deceived the boy but there was no mistaking that I was now the master. I started as I meant to go on and replied,

“I am.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a vellum envelope fastened with the royal seal. He handed it to me with a deep bow and set off again.

The contents of the letter revealed that the queen was to finally marry. She was entering the autumn years of her reign and so far had withstood the pressure from her advisors to take a consort. When it was suggested that she was incapable of loving another she retorted Nonsense! I am in love with my country. I am married to my land! which I always thought was rather marvellous. My father thought so too and would often steal the phrase when his friends ribbed him for being the only unmarried vingneron in the region. I am married to my land! he would say, and this little one, as he tossed a black grape in my direction.

Now she was approaching her middle years, the queen wanted a companion. But not without stipulation:

“All artists hailing from Deuxreines are invited to present themselves as suitors to her majesty. Each suitor is entitled to a private audience with the queen whereupon they will present her majesty with an artwork of their own creation - depicting Deuxreines. The artist capable of most accurately capturing her majesty’s beloved land will be deemed worthy of the royal matrimony.”

For the five years that followed this announcement, an endless stream of men have made the walk past my farm and up the hill to the castle for their date with the queen. All of them have returned disappointed. Canvas after canvas was set before the her but none could move her majesty’s heart as much as a simple glance out of her tower window could. As time went on, the villagers joked that this was the queen’s cruel trick all along; that nobody could paint Deuxreines as beautifully as nature herself had and her majesty knew it. To me though, her challenge made sense. Whoever the queen took as her partner would rule alongside her, inheriting the treasures and tragedies thrown up by our land year after year; she needed somebody who understood this blessing and loved Deuxreines just as she did.

As the men went to work at their easels, I set to work on my vines. My father taught me that wine and people aren’t so different.

“A person’s character is shaped by their parents, where they are born, when they are born, the food they eat, the sun on their skin. It’s the same with wine. You, Rosa, are just like these grapes. I am their father too; they eat from Deuxreines soil, they drink from our well, they play in this sunshine and wash in this rain. They are made as you are, do you see? Drink their juice and you are tasting their memoirs.”

Sometimes he would take me into the fields on a clear night and point out the stars, The Great Bear and Orion’s Belt were his favourites.“Heaven’s grapes,” he whispered as he traced their silvery vines through the sky.

I pick, press and bottle on a Full Moon; my father taught me that this is when all the flavour from the land is pulled into the fruit. Last night’s moon was pink and plump and ripe for plucking. By the morning I had ten full casks of Deuxreines Merlot and one corked and waxed green bottle - the winemaker’s prerogative.

I was cooking a well-earned breakfast when I heard a commotion outside of my window. A gilded carriage had swept through the line of men making their way up the hill and almost sent a young artist into the river. The carriage, I learned, belonged to Monsieur Laverte - the most celebrated artist in all of France and the current toast of Paris. He was born in Deuxreines and had returned to try his luck with the queen. It was said that he had produced his greatest masterpiece yet. I took a plate of sardines on toast out to the sorry looking group of men still gathered at the foot of the hill.

“Well, that’s that.” they commiserated.

“I heard he wept when he finished it, it’s that magnificent.”

“I was told he studded his sky with real diamonds!”

“Did you see the size of the canvas?”

Sighs were sighed and backs were patted and eventually the men dispersed, leaving their boxes at my feet. All bets were off, it seemed. I picked up the last sardine with my fingers and devoured it as I gazed up towards the castle, licking the oil off my thumb.

The walk up the hill was strenuous, I now envied the donkey men. The wooden box I carried had no handle so I had to keep swapping arms to save my aching. I’d expected to see at least a few straggler artists around the castle gates but it seemed Monsieur Lavert had seen them all off. A guard strolled over and I pulled my cap down over my ears. He gave me a sorry glance and called over,

“I wouldn’t bother lad, looks like it’s done and dusted.’

I straightened my back and mustered a gruff tone from my throat, “I’ll bother.”

“Suit yourself” he chuckled, opening the gate to let me through.

As I approached the castle steps I could hear shouts coming from inside. Shouts, a rip and a crash. Suddenly the huge wooden doors burst open and a little man in Parisian silk practically threw himself out onto the stone floor. Behind him I could see a canvas, at least six times the size of him, slashed from end to end. Tiny jewels sparkled from the painting and some of them had rolled outside after the small man, joining his tears on the ground. I handed him a handkerchief as I passed through into the queen’s reception room.

Her majesty was slumped at a table, her head resting on her hand and the other hand was pulling at a strand of hair which had fallen from her chignon. She heard my footsteps and sighed without looking up.

“Last one. You’re the last one.”

“Yes, your majesty. I believe I will be.”

The queen looked up, registering me for the first time. I removed my cap, as royal regulations dictate, and my hair fell to my waist (another thing my father taught me, cut your hair on a full moon and it will grow strong and fast). Sitting up in her chair, the queen held my gaze for what seemed like an eternity. She was about my age, perhaps a little older. Her nose was stronger than it looked on our coins, far more more beautiful in the flesh. Finally she released me from her coal eyes.

“Do you have a canvas to show me?”

“You have the canvas, your majesty. I have the paint.”

A little smile threatened the corner of her mouth. She leaned back in her seat and motioned for me to approach the table. I set the wooden box down on the lace cloth and lifted the lid. From inside, I produced a green bottle (corked and waxed) and a small glass which I set before her. I slowly poured five years of creation into the glass.

“The paint...” I said. I took hold of her majesty’s hands and gently placed them over her eyes “...and the canvas”.

I lifted the glass to her nose and swirled the merlot around the vessel. The tiny, fair hairs on her arms stood up as I guided the glass to her lips,

“Drink.”

She drank. After some time she placed her hands on the table, her eyes remaining closed.

“What do you see?” I asked.

“Deuxreines” she whispered. She opened her eyes - sparkling with tears. “You have put it in a bottle!”

The wedding took place the following New Moon, for new beginnings. The feast lasted for a week and the ten casks of merlot I had prepared were sent down the hill - on donkeys - to the well-wishers. The people of the town were overjoyed that the queen had found a consort and weren’t in the least surprised to find me of the female variety; they had, after all, grown up on the idea...

Deuxreines ~ Two Queens.