The King's Daughter

by Suzanne Martel

  Carefully, Jeanne lowered the trap door. The turf was in its proper place. In the “rehearsals,” it fit perfectly with the grass around it.

  “Grandfather, take care of everything for me. You can see it from up there. Hide us well.”

  Jeanne quickly told her Huron companion about the latest events. Together they took silent inventory of their riches. The water would have to be rationed.

  The children were stretched out on the unrolled furs, and Jeanne covered them with her cape. Then she wrapped the wolfskin coat around her; if she survived, her baby should not be made to suffer from her carelessness. She smiled at the tardiness of her concern.

  Jeanne stretched out next to the children, placed the flint stone and her musket beside her and stuck her dagger into the earthen floor as Simon did. The food was piled close by and the water was not far. A final wave of her hand to Gansagonas; the Indian nodded her head. Then Jeanne blew out the candle. Like a presence, the darkness surrounded and crushed them. The interminable vigil began. Fortunately the children were sleeping, and as soon as they woke up, they would be given something to eat and another potion to swallow. The cat purred at Jeanne’s feet, the only symbol of life in that frigid tomb.

  “Grandfather, Mother Berthelet, François, I love you very much, but don’t expect me right away, for pity’s sake. I still have so many things to do, so many people to love. Simon, where are you? Simon, if you come to my aid, watch out for the Iroquois. What good would it do for me to get out of here alive if you’re not waiting for me in the sunshine?

  “Simon, our son will have your eyes. We’ll build our house again. Simon, we’ll be happy. I want us to be happy.”

  36

  INCH BY INCH, very carefully, the trap door was lifted. It was light. The time was still not right.

  Silence. Waiting. Her straining ears heard only silence and more silence. The cat’s purring had become maddening. It echoed and reverberated and seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  Was it better to sleep and dream, or to stay awake and imagine? Was it time for a new attempt? A breath of fresh air cautiously filtered in and hit her full in the face, making her dizzy, almost forcing her to let go of the ladder. Was it dark, or did her eyes, too accustomed to blackness, no longer know how to see?

  Carried by the wind, the acrid odour of the fire caught in her throat.

  By lifting the trap door, she could see in front and to the sides. Perhaps the enemy was behind, crouching there for hours, waiting with the infinite patience of the Indian for the victim to fall into his trap. So much the worse. She had to know.

  Three days and as many nights had passed, maybe more. She had to get a change of scenery; she had to breathe. If necessary, she would dive back into the shadows.

  Silence. Night noises. The cicadas, the frogs. The soft moon silvered the foot of the trees.

  No more house before her. Blackened beams in the sky. The chimney standing. Simon’s chimneys don’t fall down. They remain, like monuments to bereavements. They will have to sweep all that, rebuild, live again in the light.

  Were there carefree people who dared to go out into the sunlight, to lift their voices, to laugh in its brightness?

  The raised trap door allowed young Madame de Rouville to come out, little belly and all. Nothing behind? Nothing in front?

  Her nose in the grass, how good it was to smell the night. Mathurin had his nose in the grass, too, and a hatchet in his skull. Poor Mathurin. Poor Miraud. Poor Simon and Jeanne’s house.

  Come now, buck up. This was meant to be an exploration. All right, then. Explore.

  It was less dangerous on all fours. It was easier, too. It was even necessary since the stiff-limbed troglodytes no longer knew how to walk. What a lovely word Grandfather had taught her: troglodyte. Simon would laugh when he heard her say it.

  Could Simon still laugh?

  What was that noise? Now it was too late to return to the trap door. The mother partridge does not betray her young.

  Someone was talking. Who dared to speak in front of the ruined house? Two men. Two shadows sitting on the blackened doorstep. She had to get away, lead the enemy far from her young partridges, towards the river.

  Slowly, gently.

  The men were talking. An indistinct murmur. Here was the sand under her hands and knees. And the bush where Mathurin was sleeping, his nose in the hay.

  There were two canoes on the bank. Had her trick not completely succeeded? The Iroquois had stopped. They were waiting, in spite of everything.

  One of them called out. He said, “Are you coming, Rouville?”

  A sigh answered him, coming from very close, from the shore.

  Iroquois don’t speak French, don’t say, “Are you coming, Rouville?”

  In the moonlight a man was kneeling on the ground, his shoulders bent. He was running his fingers through the long hair he had taken from the branch where it had been hanging.

  Iroquois don’t cry softly, repeating, “Jeanne, my Jeanne.”

  It’s funny, that story about the Iroquois, the cat, and the dog, and the hair...I’ll have to tell it to Simon; he won’t listen all the way through. The earth is turning so much I’m dizzy.

  Suddenly the man stood up. His knife was gleaming in his hand. He moved soundlessly. The hair was hanging from his left hand.

  Hair doesn’t grow on your hand. How tall and silent he is. Is he a shadow? A dream like the others, or a nightmare?

  The dagger was shining in the moonlight as it shone in the sunshine another time...another...another time...

  Now I don’t have to wake up because the dream is marvellous.

  Strong arms, warm lips, a voice reverberating and repeating the same thing a hundred times. I’ll have to sleep again, for a long time, to dream of Simon who’s cradling me and crying in my hair. The hair on my head, not the hair on the tree.

  I have to tell him the children are sleeping under the earth. Simon will be happy...he’ll laugh and build a beautiful house...he’ll stop shouting, “Charron, Carrot-Top. She’s here. Jeanne is here. They’re safe.”

  We’ll need a new cradle for the green-eyed baby...and a cradle for Zeanne...and a new dog...another frying pan to hit the Iroquois over the head with...there will be an army of the king’s daughters brandishing frying pans...we’ll need a sugar bowl for the mustard...why those fingers on my lips? I can talk for five hours at a time. I did it once before. But no one was kissing me to make me quiet. No one was holding me so tight I was suffocating.

  When I wake up, I’ll tell all that to Simon. I’ll lose myself in his eyes as pale as light.

  37

  VILLE-MARIE, August, 1674

  Dear Marie,

  Not one year but two have gone by since I gave this yellowed notebook to Mademoiselle Crolo. In it I find my anxieties as a young bride and my promise of an epilogue. Here it is. This evening some voyageurs are leaving for Quebec to trade the northern trappers’ furs. They will bring you this tale.

  Jeanne raised her head and contemplated the river flowing by the window where she sat. For two days she and her little family had been the guests of Sister Bourgeoys at Pointe Saint-Charles. The founder had bought the Saint-Gabriel farm; it now sheltered her live-in students and king’s daughters who were learning how to keep house as they awaited their husbands.

  The congregation sisters, several of whom were novices who had come over with Jeanne Chatel, took possession of the children and spoiled them outrageously. Cries of delight were heard coming from the dairy. Isabelle and Nicolas had never seen a cow being milked, and the sight enchanted them.

  Lost in thought, Jeanne leaned her elbows on the little rickety table a grateful soldier had built for Sister Bourgeoys. How could she express all the happiness her joyful heart contained on a piece of paper?

  Where can I begi
n? Jeanne wondered. If I could talk to her in person, it would be so much easier. I’ve always been known for my dramatic tales. This paper paralyzes me. She dipped her pen resolutely into the ink and in a firm hand wrote:

  I was afraid I’d be a poor replacement for you at Monsieur de Rouville’s side, you who are so pretty and gentle.

  In the end, it was much better that I became his wife instead of you. How can I say that politely?

  I dreaded his dead wife’s ghost. I looked too much like her.

  How many misunderstandings there had been because of that unfortunate coincidence!

  I had no need to fear poor Aimée’s memory.

  She faded away in death as she had in life, a sad, fearful little shadow. It wouldn’t be very tactful to mention that.

  The pale, frightened children broke my heart when they called me “Mama.”

  Now they’d break my heart every bit as much if they didn’t call me that. But in spite of it all, I do appreciate this time off, when I hear them just at a distance.

  Simon has been bustling around the town since morning, meeting his friends. How can I describe my husband to Marie?

  If I tell her he’s tall and tanned, with sparkling white teeth and extraordinary eyes, she’ll think I’m exaggerating as usual. And that description might make her think her own husband, that nice little Lieutenant Dauvergne, is colourless and commonplace.

  Should I admit to her that my lord is authoritarian, blunt and given to mockery? That he bullies me without thinking twice, treats me cavalierly and expects me to understand everything instinctively? My poor friend would think I have an unhappy marriage with a brute lacking in all refinement.

  Jeanne, still lost in her thoughts, chewed on her goose feather pen without deriving any inspiration from it. She continued, searching for words:

  Your cousin Simon de Rouville is exactly the kind of husband I needed, the very opposite of the ideal we used to dream of long ago. That proves romantic young girls don’t know what’s right for them.

  I saw our Thierry with the white horse again. He’s wandering through the forests of Canada pursuing his dream of freedom.

  We live in a cabin in the middle of the woods; it’s barely big enough to contain our happiness.

  I wouldn’t dare say that I set fire to it myself. She’d think it was out of carelessness.

  We are just finishing building our new house. It will be magnificent.

  Preoccupied, Jeanne pictured it. She saw the log house that Simon, Carrot-Top and Charron had built on the blackened ruins. Two chimneys, two rooms, an attic and three glass windows—an unheard-of luxury. Even if she listed all that, Marie, who lived in town, wouldn’t have the proper idea of the splendour of their second residence. Too bad!

  The nuns in Troyes would be proud of me. Here I am, a decent housewife who can handle a needle, a broom and especially a frying pan, all with ease.

  Hmm! A little too well, perhaps. Oh, well, let’s get on with it.

  Jeanne sighed, exasperated. So many things in her daily life would seem unthinkable to her peaceable friend. Jeanne reread what she had written and frowned.

  It’s time I described my life a little, and set myself off to advantage. If I don’t, Marie won’t recognize me.

  Her pen flew across the paper.

  We were isolated by the snow for months, shut up for days at a time. Simon hunted, set traps and collected furs. I made warm clothing from them, under the direction of an Indian woman, and the children would come inside with their cheeks pink from the cold. I got used to living with a musket over my shoulder, never venturing more than a hundred feet from the house. I learned some essential things they didn’t teach us in the convent: how to fashion snowshoes and moccasins, make tea from spruce bark to guard against scurvy, boil roots to combat fever and rub noses with snow to unfreeze them. I know how to prepare pemmican, light a fire from green wood and tan hides and gather wild honey.

  I became a healer and people come from far away to see me. It’s my way of repaying for all I’ve taken from life.

  It’s also an excellent way to get rare commodities, but if I say that, I’ll seem mercenary.

  We have known cold and hunger as well. But for the first time in my life I am happy, flowering, useful and, I really must say...in love.

  My trousseau is scattering in all directions. I made myself a dress of soft leather, like the Hurons wear. I wear moccasins all the time. My skin is tanned, my face has filled out and my eyes shine. When I look at myself in the river water, I think I’m almost pretty. Simon calls me his otter when he strokes my hair.

  Jeanne caught herself dreaming, a smile on her face. She gave herself a shake and went on with her epistle.

  Our daughter was born in the spring in a tent made of skins. Her name is Honorine, in memory of my grandfather. She has green eyes like her father.

  Jeanne sighed. Marie couldn’t possibly guess how difficult it was to stand up to those green eyes. You had to be surrounded by them to understand.

  It would be premature to announce that our next son will be called François and the third, Thierry, she thought.

  When we have another daughter, she will be baptized Marie, in honour of you.

  And the next ones will be Marguerite, Anne and Geneviève. Oh, I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.

  The sun was setting on the horizon. Simon would appear soon, hurrying along to wreak havoc on the peaceful farm and make the busy sisters blush and laugh.

  He would admire her chaste white cap and high, immaculately clean collar and whisper in her ears, “Madame de Rouville, that looks splendid on you.”

  At the same time, he’d pinch her on the behind or slip his arm around her waist when no one was looking.

  She had to finish this letter as soon as possible. Her pen took flight again, which did not improve her untidy handwriting.

  Life here is always at the mercy of the Iroquois. Every year the Five Nations become more threatening. The weight of this uncertainty crushes some and seems to give others the need to live more intensely.

  I am of the latter. I count the hours of my happy life as a miser counts his treasure.

  I am told your husband is prospering in his father’s business, but that you wish to return to France to live. Wherever you go, Marie, my gratitude will go with you.

  I’ll end this notebook by thanking you for having made my happiness.

  Tomorrow we will return to our house in the forest. It is my chateau, on my lord’s estate. Surrounded by my children, I will live and die there as a king’s daughter.

  Your friend forever and always,

  Jeanne Chatel de Rouville

  It was time. At the end of the road, Simon was coming. He was walking along, Isabelle perched on his shoulders. Nicolas, proudly weighed down with the heavy musket, was stretching his little legs to keep up with his father.

  Then came that strong voice that asked impatiently, “Where is your baby sister? And what did your remarkable mother do today?”

  Publisher’s Note to the Reader

  The King’s Daughter was first published in 1974; the first English edition was published in 1980. When the book was written and translated into English, a number of terms were used to describe native people which today are considered offensive. In this new edition we have tried to remove that offensive language.

  The book describes the experiences of a young woman who was sent to Canada from an orphanage in France, in order to become a wife to a widowed French coureur de bois. Many young French girls came to this country under these circumstances.

  Because the book is written from Jeanne Chatel’s point of view, there are many scenes in which she is frightened by the wilderness around her, by the rough French hunters and woodsmen she meets, and by the native people in whose country she finds herself. Th
is book does not claim to present a true picture of the First Peoples who were living in what is now Quebec at that time. But it does show us how the world might have seemed to a young European woman.

  About the Publisher

  GROUNDWOOD BOOKS, established in 1978, is dedicated to the production of children’s books for all ages, including fiction, picture books and non-fiction. We publish in Canada, the United States and Latin America. Our books aim to be of the highest possible quality in both language and illustration. Our primary focus has been on works by Canadians, though we sometimes also buy outstanding books from other countries.

  Many of our books tell the stories of people whose voices are not always heard in this age of global publishing by media conglomerates. Books by the First Peoples of this hemisphere have always been a special interest, as have those of others who through circumstance have been marginalized and whose contribution to our society is not always visible. Since 1998 we have been publishing works by people of Latin American origin living in the Americas both in English and in Spanish under our Libros Tigrillo imprint.

  We believe that by reflecting intensely individual experiences, our books are of universal interest. The fact that our authors are published around the world attests to this and to their quality. Even more important, our books are read and loved by children all over the globe.