The Franciscan’s face is suffused with wonder. He bends over his paper and scribbles frenetically, recording my lies. “What did the angels look like?” he asks, not looking up.
“They wore shining white robes. They had golden wings and golden hair.”
“How many?”
“Three.” Always there must be three – or seven.
“How big?”
“As big as a tall man, but slender.” I look behind the Franciscan and see a smooth bronzed face, a small white scar above the eyebrow, an ebony feather turning in the wind.
Thevet strokes his gold cross. “How did you know the angels were not demons disguised as angels?”
Kek-kek-kek. How long, O Lord? How long? Cark-cark-cark.
I pause to listen, and to think. I hear the scrape of stone upon stone: three hundred and twenty days, three hundred and twenty nights. Alone. But not alone.
“I tested them,” I say finally. “When I began reciting psalms the angels stayed. When I prayed they bowed their heads.”
Thevet closes his eyes and bows his own head.“The perfect test, Marguerite. The perfect test.” He looks up. “And did you express to them your contrition for your grievous sins?”
I stare at his sanctimonious face.
Grievous sin. Impardonnable. La pénitence. Her sin, not yours.
“Oui,” I say. “The angels offered absolution.”
Quork-quork-quork. Kek-kek-kek.
He dips his quill in black ink to record what I have said. He seems to have forgotten that only yesterday he believed me possessed. Now he believes I’ve seen and talked with angels.
L’ idiot, l’imbécile.
“Oui,” I answer.
As he writes, the monk runs his tongue over his fat lips, as if he finds my description of angels provocative.
The voices laugh: Le Père pervers. Le Père lascif.
“And in the spring,” I say, “the angels brought the seals…just like manna from heaven.”
Le cadeau. Le cadeau. Les esprits de cet endroit.
I see Marguerite, heavy with Michella, sabre raised. Like her, I filled my belly with their rich flesh and their fat, but unlike Marguerite, I did not believe the seals to be a gift from Michel or from God. The seals were a gift from the spirits of that place. They were a gift to the bears and to the ravens. The seals were their own gift to themselves.
The ravens surrounded me and ate their fill. We feasted alongside great white bears and their cubs. I did not fear them or their huff-huff-huff or their enormous paws. They looked at me, their small black eyes mildly curious, and accepted my presence among them. Then they killed seals as they had always killed seals, until all that was white – snow and ice and bear and seal – was crimson.
“Then the water opened close to shore, and the ducks and geese came. The seabirds nested. The demons – and the angels – left me alone then.”
Solitaire, solitaire.
“Non, not alone,” I murmur, but the Franciscan does not hear me.
I would sit within the cave and stroke the ebony feather, listening to its rasp. I would call him to me. And he would come. Silently, out of the grey smoke, he would come and slip beneath the furs to lie beside me on the pink rock.
L’esprit. L’amour. Le compagnon.
I feel again the touch of his lips, the rough skin of his fingertips, the silkiness of his hair on my face. I feel the smooth muscles of his arms and legs, the strength of his back, the filling of the hollowness within.
I smell the scent of his skin, like clean dry moss.
He never said a word, nor did he smile. I was careful, very careful, because sometimes I would reach out for him and my hands would grasp only furs or my fingers would slip through his chest and he would vanish into the smoke of the fire. I tried not to fall asleep, because when I awoke he would be gone and I would be alone. Always.
Solitaire, solitaire.
“Oui,” I say. “Alone. Always.”
“But God was with you, Marguerite. God was always with you.”
I wake in the garret, the feel of rough granite beneath my fingertips. The cave? Or the Church of the Innocents? But I smell moss, not blood. I reach for the ebony feather, hoping to call him to me, but he is distant now. Too far away to call back. He cannot come to me in this place.
I stand and light a candle, then see luminous green eyes at the open window. I creep toward the cat. Wary, she remains still, tail swishing from side to side. Her swollen belly stands out from her thin body. Very, very slowly I reach out. When my fingers are only inches from her yellow head she flees, bouncing away on her stiff hind leg.
I search until I find a bit of cheese to leave on the windowsill.
It is the sabbath. I am free of the girls and I am free of Thevet. I walk the muddy paths through the woods and fields outside Nontron, hoping to hear the soft beat of ebony wings. I discovered when I returned to France that ravens speak the same language here as there, and crows speak a similar dialect. It is like comparing the patois of Angoulême to that of Périgueux.
The crows are nearly as clever as the ravens. They follow the farmers when they sow barley and rye. The farmers turn on them and flap their arms as if they too would fly away, but as soon as the men turn their backs the crows return. Then the farmers make their children stand in the fields to shoo away the birds.
The crows return now, on the sabbath, when the farmers and their children are in church, or indoors. The morning sun gives their black feathers an emerald sheen. The birds eat greedily, and I am tempted to join them, to pick up the grain and grind it into flour. On the island I had no bread, and now I cannot get enough.
I step into the dark comfort of the woods and am surrounded by tall maples and beeches, branches newly leaved. I breathe in the fragrance of green. Studying a new maple leaf, I trace the intricate lines within, stroke its softness, and put it to my cheek.
Ravens gather in the trees above,quorking and pruking their greetings. I hear their wings, like welcoming whispers, rustling, sliding, rasping. Their claws scrape lightly as they grip the bark. One shuffles along a branch, then wipes her thick bill near her feet. They ruffle their feathers, then settle them again, knowing that I mean them no harm, that I have come only to rest in their company. I listen to their soft conversation,km-mm-mm, and know they will ask me no questions.
I am startled then to see Monsieur Lafrenière on the path. His lanky frame strides toward me. When he raises an arm and waves, the ravens rise silently into the crystalline sky and are gone. I turn and hurry away, pretending I have not seen him. I do not look back or slow my pace until I have climbed the stairs to my garret.
Gasping for breath, I fling open the door. The yellow-striped cat is curled on the bed. She jumps down. Body held low, her belly nearly dragging the floor, she slinks out through the window.
I close the window. I will not think of Lafrenière. Instead I study the small circles of glass, tinted blue-green, as if the glass contains the sea. And then I think of the cat. She was sleeping on my bed. Her eyes held wariness, but she was on my bed. I open the window, hoping she will return.
There is a loud banging at the door. “Madame de Roberval,” he calls out in a loud whisper. “Please, I must speak with you.”
I say nothing. What can this man want from me?
“I know you are in there. Please, come to the door.” His voice is urgent.
“Non, I will not,” I say through the door.
They taunt me then:Propriety. Une femme solitaire. Un homme. Cark-cark-cark. Scandalous.
They know I care nothing for propriety. But neither does Lafrenière – or he would not come to my garret, alone, to see me. Yet I am grateful to the voices: they have given me reason to send him away.
“I am alone,” I say. “You must go away.” I put my ear to the door to listen for footsteps descending the stairs. I hear only the shout of a child from the street below and the distant voice of a robin, its thin warble repeated again and again.
Finally he answers, “That is not why I have come, Madame de Roberval. If you wish we can walk abroad where everyone can see us. But I will not leave until I have spoken to you.”
“We can speak of Isabelle’s Latin tomorrow.”
“I do not wish to speak of Isabelle. Or Latin. I wish to speak of…other things.”
“What other things?” But I already know. Lafrenière would ask me about Marguerite.
“Please. Open the door.”
“I will answer none of your questions.”
“Then I will ask no questions. But I will not leave until you open the door.”
I crack it open.
His face is flushed, his forehead beaded with sweat. He smells of mud and fresh air, and stale wool. “Please,” he says. “May I come in? I cannot speak to you through the door.”
I stand for a long time, staring through the narrow gap.
“Shall we walk then?”
I open the door wider and Lafrenière steps in. His breeches and doublet are rumpled. Brown mud clings to his stockings and boots. His white collar and cuffs are smudged and threadbare. He looks around, then remains standing. There is only the bench near the hearth and the bed.
I close the door behind him. He removes his cap and holds it before him, as if expecting me to invite him to speak. I cross my arms over my chest. Let him say whatever he has to say and then leave, quickly.
He proceeds without my invitation. “My half-brother knew Monsieur de Roberval.”
“So you have told me.”
“I want you to know,” he blurts, “that I believe it was Roberval who was the sinner.”
I shrug. I do not care what Lafrenière believes about Roberval.
“My brother, my half-brother, went with him on his expedition. He did not return.”
Michel? I put a hand to my heart to quiet its loud beating.
“Saintonge…Roberval’s pilot. He told me my brother drowned when he went with Roberval on one of his forays from Charlesbourg Royal.”
Non, not Michel. My heart slows.
“Searching for gold and jewels,” Lafrenière says bitterly. “My brother drowned for Roberval’s folly and greed.”
I realize then that Lafrenière’s brother was among the pathetic noblemen who stood aside, hands folded over their codpieces, and did nothing when Roberval abandoned Marguerite, Michel, and Damienne to their deaths.
I cannot hold back my snort of contempt. “So you wish me to weep for him?”
“Non, of course not, but I thought…”
“What?”
“That it might be some comfort…” He searches for words. “I do not believe that you and your husband did anything wrong.” He pinches the brim of his cap, folding and unfolding. “Or scandalous…”
So this is what he wants. Monsieur Lafrenière would have me whet his carnal appetites. He thinks that if he offers forgiveness and understanding, I will be eager to speak of such things, then he will smile unctuously and watch my mouth speak of lascivious behaviour, desire, scandal.
“You are mistaken,” I say. “That was not me.”
He steps back. “Are you not Marguerite de la Roque de Roberval?”
“You said you would ask no questions.”
“Was it not you that Roberval left on the Isle of Demons?”
“She died. I lived.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We have talked too long,” I say. “You must leave now.”
“Non, please. Not before I beg your forgiveness on behalf of my brother. He was young and he lacked the courage to oppose the viceroy.”
I see again the eyes averted, hands folded over codpieces, balance shifting from foot to foot. “Many lacked such courage,” I say.
“Please, I beg your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness is not mine to give.”
“But you–”
“It was not me!”
Lafrenière cocks his head, just like the Franciscan. He stares at me for a long time, eyes the colour of iron, deep lines at the corners. He is not a man without worries – or intelligence. His grey eyes soften then and he nods slowly, as if he understands. “Of course,” he whispers.
What can he possibly understand about Marguerite? Or me?
He persists, speaking softly now. “Saintogne’s biggest regret, he told me, was that he could not persuade Roberval to return with Cartier to France.” He presses the cap to his chest. “And that he could not prevail upon the viceroy to punish y–” He stops, then continues, “to punish Marguerite in a different way.”
“I know nothing of Roberval or Saintogne…or Marguerite.”
Lafrenière’s eyes glisten, as if he might weep. He goes down on one knee. “Please, let me beg your forgiveness on behalf of my brother.”
“I told you, forgiveness is not mine to give.” I turn away from his show of weakness. Just like his half-brother. Weak and lacking courage, fondling his cap instead of his codpiece.
He speaks to my back, his words rushing out, “Roberval should never have taken you…I mean Marguerite…with him. Why take a young noble-woman on an expedition like that?”
Pourquoi? Km-mm-mm. Pourquoi?
“You would have been justified in killing him.”
La vengeance. La justice. Murderer.
“Murderer,”I answer, turning around.
His flushed cheeks pale. “Oui,” he says finally. “Roberval was a murderer. And I, for one, am glad he was assassinated.” Peering at me warily, he stands.
La culpabilité. Debts must be paid.
“You have said what you came to say. Now you must go.”
“Of course.” Lafrenière bows his head, a supplicant. “But please think upon what I have told you. And search within your heart for mercy and forgiveness.”
I hear mocking laughter:La pitié et le pardon. Le cœur tendre. Être indulgent, c’est mourir.
“Oui,” I agree, “to be soft is to die.”
He shakes his head. “Non, Madame de Roberval, to be soft is to be merciful.” He places a hand on the open door, pauses. “You are bitter…understandably so. But beneath your bitterness lies goodness, and mercy.”
Chuckling echoes off the walls:La bienveillance et la pitié de Marguerite. La bienveillance et la pitié de Marguerite.
“Please forgive my forwardness, but I can see that in you. And I believe Isabelle sees it as well.”
I want to laugh out loud with the voices. No matter what he and Isabelle might wish to see, there is only savagery in me. No goodness, no mercy.
“May I visit you again?” he asks stupidly. “To hear your answer. Perhaps in a more appropriate place…where we can speak of more pleasant things.”
“You must go now.”
“Of course,” he says. “Of course.”
He presses his cap between his palms, trying to gather his dignity. Finally Lafrenière dons his cap, squares it, and closes the door behind him.
My day of freedom, my day with the ravens, has been ruined.
I listen to the girls recite prayers to Saint George, slayer of dragons in the defence of young maidens. Tomorrow is the saint’s feast day – another day of freedom from the girls and Thevet. The Franciscan will spend the day on bended knee before his Christ, praying for the strength to slay dragons.
For now, though, I must listen to the girls’ halting Latin, voices disharmonious, words garbled. Only Isabelle says the words precisely and correctly. I listen for her voice: “O God, who didst grant to Saint George strength and constancy in the various torments which he sustained for our holy faith, we beseech thee to preserve, through his intercession, our faith from wavering and doubt, so that we may serve thee with a sincere heart faithfully unto death.”
Isabelle studies me as she recites, as if she would confirm her suspicions that I teach what I do not believe myself. I wonder what her father has told her and what she watches for in my face. Yesterday, after Lafrenière left, I went to the window and examined my reflection in the blue
-green glass. I lit a candle and gazed long into the night. I could see no goodness there, no kindness, no mercy. Only the hue and texture of granite.
The striped cat did not come back.
When the girls have finished the prayer and taken up their slates to practise forming letters, Isabelle approaches. She is bored with simple letters and words, but I have no other books to give her.
“Madame de Roberval, Papa has shown me some of his maps. Did you ever see the dragons?”
“I know nothing of dragons.”
“You didn’t see any?” Her face is bright with the thrill of danger. “Not one? Even way out in the sea?”
“Nullus,” I say firmly in Latin.
“Oh.” Her shoulders slump in disappointment.
I walk to the window. Isabelle follows relentlessly. Her small hand tugs on my skirt. “But they are very ugly, aren’t they?” Her small body shudders. “And dangerous. Do you believe Saint George really killed one? All by himself?”
“Isabelle,” I sigh. “I know nothing about dragons.”
“But what do you believe?”
“It matters little what I believe.Nullus.
” Isabelle considers this a moment, then says, “I saw a very ugly man once. One with scars all over his face. He was like a monster…or a dragon. He came to our door, and Papa let him in.” She mimics dragging a leg. “He walked like this.”
I spin away to hide my distress. The pockmarked man, Roberval’s colonist. He was not a dream, not an apparition.
“They went into Papa’s study.” Isabelle covers a mischievous smile behind her hand. “I hid behind the door and peeked through the keyhole,” she confesses.
I hear again Lafrenière’s words:I am glad Roberval was assassinated.
Did he pay the pockmarked man? Is this what he came to tell me?
Murderer. Le sang rouge. Grievous sin.
“Non,” I answer softly. “Not murder…justice.”
“Jus, juris,” Isabelle says in Latin.
Silence of Stone Page 13
