Isola

Chapter 10

10

After this, I kept my distance from the young man. I thought it best to glean what I could from Alys, who was lower placed and freer with her information. We spoke often, whispering on the stairs, and she told me that her master would not return for weeks. She informed me, as well, when the secretary rode away to join him. “More’s the shame,” she said as we stood upon the landing.

“What do you mean?”

Alys looked at me with laughing eyes. “Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

“I don’t think anything of him,” I said.

“And that is right,” said Alys. “Compared to you, he’s common. But he lords it over us because he is your guardian’s man.”

“Is he so arrogant?”

“Aren’t we all?” Alys gestured downstairs. “The cook scolds me. I cuff kitchen maids. That’s the way of things.”

“You are a philosopher,” I said.

She grinned. “What’s that?”

When I laughed, she laughed with me, for she was cheerful, unlike Damienne.

“It isn’t right, leaving you here.” These were Damienne’s words each day, for she was never quiet, just as her hands were never idle. The good woman did some work the laundress sent her, and in exchange, we had our linens washed and bleached. In this way, Damienne did what she could to improve our chamber and our bed—but as she sewed, she worried and complained until I stepped out to find some peace or hear the news.

I found Alys hanging laundry in the great room. “Skies opened up, so we had to bring the washing in,” she told me.

“I heard the storm last night,” I said.

“Oh yes, the wind!” She spread linens on a line she had rigged close to the fireplace.

“Will this weather delay my guardian’s voyage?” I asked.

“He’s at court,” said Alys. “And he won’t set out now. Even if the ships were ready, they won’t sail in winter. In this weather only fishing boats leave port.”

“Where is that?” I asked.

“Don’t you know?” She was astonished. “We’re practically upon it. You can see the harbor from the city wall.”

“What, all of it?”

“Oh yes, with all the boats. I could take you there,” she added mischievously.

I was startled. “How?”

Alys grappled with a damp sheet. “I might bring you to the market.”

“What if the cook finds out?”

Boldly, Alys said, “She won’t if we start early.”

“I mustn’t cause you trouble,” I said.

“But you could slip out—”

“Not if it’s wrong.”

“Most fun things are,” she told me.

“I shouldn’t.” I thought of Claire, who would never slip out to see a harbor—but she was far away.

“Say yes,” Alys tempted. “What’s the harm in walking out? It’s such a short way!”

“Is it really so close?” I felt foolish not knowing where I was—but there were no towers here. I had no vantage point.

“Don’t you want to look?” said Alys, and I did. At that moment, I wanted nothing more.

That very afternoon I bundled my cloak into Alys’s laundry basket as if I’d sent it out for cleaning. And I could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of the ocean, which I had never seen before.

On market day, when Alys came to light the fire, I told Damienne I was going downstairs, and I did not stop for questioning but hurried after Alys to the kitchen. There she shook out my traveling cloak and wrapped me init.

“Ready?” she asked.

I could hardly answer. I was so anxious and excited as we stepped outdoors.

In pale morning light, Alys led me to the marketplace to fill her basket. Where the ground was slippery, she steadied me. She took my arm with a firm hand as I peeked out from my hood at wooden stalls and wagons, children, servants—such a crowd and such a maze of stalls.

Pure and white, La Rochelle’s church towered over the market square, while below, rude voices accosted us. I heard shouts and curses, peddlers calling, and old women bargaining. I saw stands piled high with onions and potatoes and sausages. Here was a man selling chickens, and another with fish swimming in barrels. Ragged lads hurried past, but Alys kept me safe.

Only one youth spoke in a familiar way. When she bought carp for dinner, the fishmonger’s assistant pointed at me. “Who do you have here, Alys?”

She retorted, “I wouldn’t tell the likes of you.” And when he approached, she interposed herself. “Begone, fish guts.”

I was surprised she would provoke this youth, because he looked strong and impudent enough to do just as he pleased. But as we walked on, Alys said, “I am not afraid of him. I know him very well indeed.”

“Who is he?”

“He is my sweetheart, and we are promised to each other, so I can tease. Come now.” As morning crowds increased, she used her basket as a battering ram to drive away the other maids and men. Greeting some as friends, pushing off others, Alys made brisk progress. If any beggar dared approach, she cried, “Away with you! For shame.”

I turned to look at tables arrayed with pins and buttons, silver lace, and pretty knives, but Alys did not pause until we left the marketplace. Then she led me between narrow houses darkened by the city wall. This stone wall rose like a cliff with steps cut into it, and looking up I hesitated because the wind was strong.

“Don’t worry!” Alys said. “Hold on to me.” One by one, we climbed those stairs up to the ramparts. My hood blew back; my hair came loose. I stood with hair whipping across my face but Alys promised, “I won’t let you fall.”

“Oh, I see now,” I said, and Alys laughed. I must have seemed a child, but I had not understood this place before. From our perch, I saw the city crowded up against the wall, and now I glimpsed the harbor. A forest of masts on choppy waves. Scores of men working on the pier. Some carried nets and buckets. Others unloaded cargo. Calling to one another, they unloaded heaps of fish, bright as silver coins.

Stone towers flanked the harbor. One was steepled, one was square on top, and one was round.

The wind bellowed in my ears.

“These gusts won’t carry you away,” Alys said, and I realized how tightly I gripped her arm.

“Forgive me!” I released her and gazed upon the seawall stained black with the dark tide. Beyond the harbor, the horizon shone like pearl. Gray, blue, surging, the ocean swallowed up the sky.

Birds called overhead, and they were white underneath but ash gray on top, their beaks open, their feet spread. “What are they?” I asked.

“Only gulls,” said Alys.

“But look at how they swoop and dive.”

“For trash,” said Alys. “That’s why they come.” She glanced at the brightening sky and took my arm. “We must get back.”

“Let me look once more.” I drank in the sky and waves, trying to remember them, for I thought I might not have another opportunity.

“Now, that’s enough,” Alys said good-naturedly as she helped me down the stairs.

Back we came through the marketplace. We rushed into the lane where servants, carts, and horses vied for space. We dodged wagons and darted past men unloading wood—but I was unaccustomed to such exercise and tripped on the cobblestones.

“No!” This was the first time I saw Alys frightened. “You can’t be hurt.”

“I’m all right,” I gasped, afraid to make her late. If the cook caught her, she might lose her place.

“Lean on me.” Strong as she was, Alys nearly carried me the rest of the way home.

Entering the kitchen, we found maids cleaning, carrying water, and stacking firewood. On the floor, the cat played with a mouse, batting it from paw to paw.

Marie looked up from chopping onions and gestured in warning to the storeroom, where I heard the cook jangling her keys.

I slipped into the passageway just in time, for a moment later the cook was calling. “You, Alys. Where have you been?”

“To the market, and I’ve brought the fish.” If she was fearful, I could not hear it in her voice. Alys chattered merrily while I limped upstairs unseen.

“What happened?” Damienne demanded as soon as I walked in.

“It is nothing,” I said.

“Sit down.” She took off my shoe.

“It is only a bruise.”

“And where did you fall?”

“Where I was walking.”

I wanted to reflect upon the market and the port—the wondrous view—but Damienne berated me. “You should not associate with servants.”

“Am I the worse for it?”

“You are.” She folded a strip of linen and wrapped my foot. “You are worse in every way. It isn’t proper, and it isn’t safe.”

“How is Alys unsafe?”

“She is rude,” Damienne said simply.

“And will she make me so?”

Damienne did not argue, but I knew her answer. Every soul might be corrupted; no one was immune.

So, in words and looks, she warned me, but I didn’t listen. In my chamber, I read psalms quietly. I learned verses to recite to Damienne, but in the passageway and outside the kitchen door, I sought Alys, who enjoyed the world and all the people in it. Keen as a sparrow, she snatched every crumb of conversation. She listened to messengers and to the cook and to the grooms, and from her, I learned that Roberval was delayed again.

In this way, I passed my first year in Roberval’s house. I seldom saw him, for he was always traveling—but even when the winter weather ceased, he did not begin his expedition.

“Three ships are here and loading for New France,” Alys told me in May, “but they are not my master’s.”

“Whose then?”

“The captain’s.”

I remembered Cartier’s quick eyes, small stature, and great confidence. “Will he go instead of Roberval?”

“I do not know,” she said, “but I have better news. The secretary is coming back again.”

“Why is that better?” I asked, expecting a pert answer.

“Because he will pay our wages!”

“Haven’t you been paid already?”

“With what?” Alys demanded, but she smiled as she said, “My master captured three ships at Cádiz, and when the secretary returns—you’ll see!”

All the house was waiting. As soon as the youth arrived, Alys slipped upstairs to tell me. “You can see him from here.” She drew me to the landing.

Then I stood with her to glimpse servants carrying the secretary’s trunks inside. Maids were watching, and grooms seemed to weigh his baggage as they carried it.

“They say he has a chest of gold,” said Alys when she came to tend the fire in the evening. “He’s got a strongbox on the table.”

“And we shall see if that is true,” Damienne said after Alys left.

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

“That girl is not to be believed.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Look at her! The way she laughs and wears her gown. She is no maid,” said Damienne. “And she is not a godly woman.”

But Alys spoke truly. From a strongbox, the secretary paid servants, one by one, according to their rank and years. And suddenly, with these new funds, the whole house woke from idleness and joined together in spring cleaning.

Maids began airing beds and washing windows and scouring the pots. They scrubbed the floors, and their rags turned black. Alys told me that Marie polished the silver until she could see herself in every gleaming bowl and spoon. Then the cook cried out, “Will you stop gaping?” But she did not strike the girl, such was her good humor.

The weather was warm, the winter rains abating, and our house was buzzing like a hive. With new funds, neither damp nor dust nor creditors assailed us, for the secretary had met with Roberval’s banker to satisfy those hounds.

“They are drawing up new contracts and mortgages,” Alys told me on the stairs.

“Will my guardian still borrow?”

She shrugged. “He’ll borrow from Peter to pay Paul.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know!” she answered cheerfully. “But the secretary sends for you.”

“Does he?”

“Yes! And he will give you something, I am sure.”

Without telling Damienne, I hurried to the great room where the carved bed glowed. Newly washed, the tinted windows shone so that they seemed to me no longer glass but peridot and citrine. As for the secretary, at first I did not recognize him in his suit of glossy black. He seemed a very prince. When he looked at me, his dark eyes caught the light so that, for the first time, I felt shy to speak to him.

“You asked to see me,” I said.

A great map covered my guardian’s table, and it was marked curiously with countries and oceans. Next to this parchment stood the strongbox, a casket of iron, and when the secretary opened it, he drew out a purse of gold. Bowing, he presented this. “My master grants you these funds until he returns in winter. And if you need more, you may ask me.”

Now I could have danced with joy, but I held still. Only a little happiness escaped as I breathed out. “Oh!”

Gently, the secretary said, “I’m glad.”

It was not his place to speak this way. He was my guardian’s servant still, but I did not take offense; I felt his warmth instead. No longer shy, I spoke eagerly. “Let me write to your master. Give me paper, and if you can send it, I will pen a letter.”

The secretary looked surprised but did not question me. He offered paper, ink, sealing wax, and a blotter. “I will trim a pen for you,” he said. Sitting at his master’s table, he took a quill stripped to its barb and cut the end with his small knife. Then with his blade, he shaped the pen’s nib, scooping out each side but leaving a good point, which he cut flat and scored so that the ink would run down the middle. As he cut and shaved with his penknife, he glanced up at me just once.

“You’re quick,” I said.

“I’ve had much practice.” Finishing the nib, he said, “I’ll have Marie carry these things up for you.”

—

How Damienne rejoiced when I returned! “God has not forgotten us,” she said.

“You see, Alys was right.” I set my gold purse on the table. “You should not distrust everyone.”

When Marie arrived at the door with my supplies, I arranged them next to the gold purse and prepared to write my letter.

“Who is that for?” Damienne asked.

“My guardian. To send him thanks.”

“Now, that is well considered,” said Damienne. “But write it courteously. Do not say too much—but do not be too brief, either, or he will think you take his gift lightly.” With this advice she hovered as I ruled my paper and set down these words.

My lord, I offer humble thanks for your gift and for remembering me. I hold your regard dear and will do everything in my power to deserve your favor so that, as the Psalmist writes, I might live without sin and rejoice in God’s salvation. I learn my book and hope to demonstrate when you return that I not only know the verses there but follow them. I pray for your health and continued success and commend myself to you, cousin.

Marguerite de la Rocque

After the ink dried, I did not seal my letter but took it downstairs to the secretary. I looked for him in the great room, but he was not at the table. I found him working in the study.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He stood and bowed.

“Will you read this and tell me if it needs corrections? There is no one else to check my writing.”

The secretary took the paper from my hand, and as he read, I watched his face. At first, he studied my words gravely. The next moment, he suppressed a smile.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“No.” The secretary looked up, startled. “Not at all.”

“What is it then?”

“You write a fair hand.”

“I had good instruction.”

“You are a credit to your teachers.” He set my letter on the table—but, eager for praise, I wished he would say more.

“I miss my teachers now,” I ventured, “because there is much I would still learn.”

He considered this. “What do you want to know?”

My fate, I thought. My future. “I would like to read and study music—but I fear my guardian will not allow it.”

“I think he might.”

“After he sails?”

The secretary did not answer but glanced behind him at the wall where he had pinned my guardian’s great map.

This chart was one of ocean waves and inlets. Waterways were finely drawn in ink with swirling currents and miniature ships, but the lands were bare except for a few trees and scattered mountains. Rivers began and faded like the veins of leaves. One place was labeled Terra Nuova , and another La Nuova Francia .

“It is an Italian map,” the secretary said.

“La Nuova Francia is his destination.”

“What we know of it.”

I leaned over the table to see jagged coasts and islands dimpled all around with waves. Each was called Isola .

“Come and look,” the secretary said.

Look with him? Near him? It wasn’t proper to stand with a man alone, but the secretary’s voice was quiet, his glance serious.

I held back—and then I stepped around the table.

The secretary did not look at me, nor did I glance at him, but I sensed his height, his dark clothes and fair hair. He held still and so did I as we gazed upon the map of the New World.

“This is the Isle of Canada,” the secretary said.

“And here is the gulf.” I pointed to the waterway.

“Yes, Cartier will go there first.”

“But what is this?” Beyond the coast and rivers, unmarked with trees or even mountains, the map was blank. “Is it the east? Is it the Indies?” The white space seemed the picture of oblivion.

The secretary told me, “No one knows.”