Isola

Chapter 11

11

While the secretary was in residence, the cook had funds for better meat. Our fires were lit, and we were well supplied with candles. Grooms caught drinking were dismissed, and maids received a share of fabric for new clothes. With my guardian’s gift, I had gowns made for Damienne and myself. We purchased a new picture of the Virgin and kneeling cushions for devotion, and we lived so well all spring and summer that we began to trust we would continue.

In autumn, we commissioned the secretary to buy a virginal, which Alys carried up the stairs and set upon our table. The painted lid did not promise sweet reward, but it was painted green with gold leaves and flourishes as though the treble and bass clefs grew in a garden. This instrument was by far the loveliest thing that I possessed, and I, who had begrudged the time when I was small, now practiced so much that Damienne marveled at my progress.

One morning I heard other music drifting up the stairs. Strings, faint and crisp. Lifting my hands, I tried to catch the tune, and seeing this, Alys told me that the secretary had a cittern. She had seen him playing in his chamber—but as soon as she came in to clean the room, he hid his instrument away.

“He does not want anyone to know he’s practicing,” she told me as she cleared our dishes.

“Then he doesn’t realize that we can hear.”

Alys smiled. “You should time your melodies to his and play together, upstairs and downstairs.”

“You forget your place,” Damienne rebuked the girl.

“Forgive me. I beg pardon.” Alys bent her head abjectly. “It was a poor jest.”

“I trust you will do better,” Damienne said.

“I will,” Alys promised.

But that evening, she saw me on the stairs and beckoned with a saucy air.

“Damienne is angry with you,” I said.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” she told me. “I will never speak that way again—in front of her.”

I smiled. “You prove her point.”

“But I have good news.”

“What is it?”

“Lord Roberval is coming here this winter and brings a treasure chest of gold.”

Eager as I was and hopeful, I heard this with delight. “How long will he stay?”

“Until he sails for New France.”

—

In December, Roberval returned to a well-ordered house. The kitchens were well stocked, and rooms were clean.

“Is he pleased?” I asked Alys.

“He is in an excellent humor,” she told me. “The banker is come, and the shipwright, and the navigator.”

The men dined together that night, but Roberval did not invite me, nor did he send greetings, and I began to worry he had disapproved my letter. I had not expected a reply, but I’d imagined he would speak to me when he was in residence. Was he too busy, or had my words annoyed him? I had written as gratefully as I thought possible, but perhaps he considered my thanks forward.

“I am afraid that I offended him,” I told Damienne as we sat sewing. “Last time he invited us to table.”

She said, “It is better not to dine with gentlemen. Wait patiently. Stop fidgeting.”

But I tapped my thimble in just the way she hated. I fretted, wondering if I’d be locked upstairs forever. That night I lay awake imagining I would be a prisoner all my days—but in the morning, Alys came and said, “Your guardian will see you now.”

At last! I stood for Damienne to dress me. “And you must hurry,” I told my nurse, because she had not yet dressed herself.

“He does not want Damienne,” said Alys. “He asks for you alone.”

At first, I thought I had misheard her. “He means for the two of us alone.”

“Just you,” Alys said.

Damienne frowned. “But that is strange.”

“I will bring you with me,” I assured her.

“Only you, without your servant,” Alys said.

Damienne shook her head as she tied my bodice. “What can he mean?”

“He has made a match for me,” I predicted. “He has planned my wedding.”

“Don’t say it,” Damienne warned, because I should not speak this way in front of Alys, and telling wishes meant they would not come true.

“It might be good news,” I insisted.

“Shh.” She was worrying, but there was nothing she could do.

“I won’t speak,” I promised, “unless he asks me to.”

“Come,” Alys told me.

“God keep you,” Damienne said. I knew she feared for me, and while I spoke bravely, I was troubled too. My guardian’s intentions might be good, but if they weren’t, what could I do? I hoped for favor, but he might disgrace me. He might do anything while we were alone, and as I followed Alys, I felt like a prisoner coming to trial, the narrow stairs confining me.

“Would you come with me?” I asked at the door of my guardian’s great room.

“If I could,” Alys said.

“Would you just step inside?”

She looked uncertain, as I had never seen her. “I don’t think so.”

“Only for a moment.”

She hesitated and then took pity. “Yes.”

As I entered Alys followed, and I was grateful, knowing that for me, she risked her master’s displeasure.

“Cousin.” My guardian stood near his table. “Come here.” Then, seeing Alys, he said, “Leave us.”

I turned, but she was gone, quick as a shadow.

“Sit with me,” my guardian said, and he drew a chair near his.

Straight as possible, I sat before him. Casting my eyes down, I saw his map spread on the table once again.

“Look at me,” said Roberval.

I was frightened by these commanding words, but when I looked up, I saw he was amused and his expression kind.

“Now tell me how you fare.”

“I am in good health,” I answered.

“Do you play your music?”

“Yes.”

“And read your book?”

“I read psalms every day.”

“So I hear.”

“You did read my letter,” I murmured.

“You write well,” he said. “Now, tell me. What have you discovered?”

“Discovered?” I echoed nervously.

“Recite a verse.”

I knew many, but none came to me. “Please let me get my book,” I said.

Lightly, he chided, “No. If you know your verses, they are in your heart, not on the page.”

“I cannot remember them,” I confessed, for I was flustered sitting there with him.

“Try.”

“But I—”

“Think.”

“ O Lord, ” I blurted out, “ rebuke me not in your anger. ”

“Good!” he encouraged me. “Continue.”

“ Do not chasten me in hot displeasure .”

“What does that mean?”

His question startled me, for I had not considered meanings. I thought these verses meant exactly what they said. “Do not rebuke me,” I repeated in confusion. “Do not chasten me.”

“And who is pleading?”

“His Majesty, King David.”

“Why?”

“Because he sinned.”

“But if he did, why would he beg for mercy? Why not accept God’s punishment instead?”

Again, I did not know what to say.

“Why are you afraid?” my guardian said sharply.

Because I am here with you alone, I thought. Because you have every power over me. But I said, “I fear disappointing you.”

My guardian softened. “I hear that you would like to study.”

Then I knew the secretary had spoken to him. “I would like to learn again from my good teachers.”

“But they cannot come.”

What prevents them? I thought. Only you. But I said nothing.

Roberval continued, “You are old enough to learn your book and music properly.”

“Forgive me,” I began.

“For what?”

“For thinking I learned properly before.”

He smiled at that. “You don’t need more teachers. If you wish to study music, you may learn from me. And if you read your book, you will find a rule and an example. You will see how God works upon a spirit ready and prepared. Psalms are a glass in which to see your faults.” He looked into my eyes and said, “God’s word is a mirror.”

“Yes,” I told him because I could not disagree.

“Now, try again.”

Softly I recited, “ Have mercy on me, Lord. I am perplexed. / Heal me, Lord, my bones are vexed. ”

He nodded, and he looked approvingly. “You may go now. And next time, I will hear you play.”

Curtseying, turning, and walking to the door, I maintained my stiff and proper posture, but as soon as I was out of sight, I ran upstairs.

“What did he say?” demanded Damienne as I rushed in.

Breathing hard, I said, “I hardly know. He is like a priest, anxious for my soul.”

“How can that be?” she asked.

“He is a scholar, and he wants to teach me.”

“Alone?”

“But there is more. He wishes me to play for him.”

“That isn’t right,” said Damienne. “He cannot come to your chambers.”

“He asked me to come down again.”

“And does he have an instrument?” she asked suspiciously.

“I did not see one.”

But the next day when my guardian sent for me, he revealed a fine virginal his servants had unpacked for him. This instrument was larger than mine and did not need to sit upon a table. It stood on its own legs and was in every aspect glorious. When my guardian opened the lid, marquetry leaves ran along the border like vines in an illuminated manuscript. Above the keyboard, gold letters spelled Omnis Spiritus Laudet Dominum. Let all who breathe praise the Lord.

I was afraid to approach this treasure, but Roberval placed a chair for me. “Come here. Sit down and show me what you know.”

I said, “I do not think that I can play a virginal so fine.”

“Do it anyway,” he told me.

Then I was trapped. If I played poorly, I would displease my guardian, and if I refused to play, I would displease him more.

I began a piece I had practiced many times—a pavane, slow and melancholy. But this keyboard was differently proportioned and more resonant than mine.

Startled, I lifted my hands.

“Why do you stop?” my guardian asked.

“I did not expect the keys to be so loud.”

Roberval laughed at this. He was merry as I had not seen him before. “You started back as though you’d burned your fingers.”

“Forgive me.”

“Listen.” He drew his chair near mine. Then, placing his hands, he played with such bravado that the pavane filled the room. His notes were perfect, his chords brave and true.

“Well done!” I exclaimed when he was finished.

Perhaps he sensed true admiration. He must have known this wasn’t fear or false humility because he looked upon me gently. “Now I will teach you.”

When I began again, my guardian instructed me. If I touched keys timidly, he said no, and made me try until I hit with proper force. When I missed notes or could not reach keys quickly, he covered my hands with his to correct my position and show me his own fingering. It was strange to sit so close and feel his hands on mine. It seemed wrong and, at the same time, necessary. I scarcely dared to look at him but felt his mastery. The music played through us both.

“Do you understand?” He lifted his hands.

“Yes,” I said as he released me. “I thank you for the lesson.”

He said, “Good. You will come again.”

—

I began to understand that my guardian had much to teach, and I hoped that he would treat me as a daughter. When I performed well, he looked on me with pride. Humming, he leaned over the keyboard, checking my melodies. Excellently done, he told me. You play with grace when you attend to rhythm. And hearing these words, I felt a peculiar joy.

Alas, he had a temper too. If I missed notes, my guardian rapped my knuckles with a wooden rule. My fingers smarted, but if I cried out, he called me fool. Hesitating, I enraged him. When he rebuked me, I lost confidence, and as I stumbled more, his fury grew. Then I longed to hear him speak again with gentleness, and I ached for his sweet words. So, by degrees, he instilled a strange obedience. I feared, and yet I craved his lessons.

One day after music, he tested my memory, commanding one verse after another. He held my book to correct me, but I recited well, which pleased him. Setting down the volume, he touched my shoulder as I recited Psalm 37. “ The righteous have more —” His hand lingered, and I looked up at him.

“Yes?” he said.

Quick, quick, I thought. Remember. “ The righteous have more / Though they are poor… ”

“Look at me,” my guardian said. I lifted my eyes to his as I recited, but I scarcely understood the words while his hand rested on my shoulder. “ For the arms of the wicked… ”

“What happens to the arms of the wicked?” Roberval asked.

I shook my head.

“You know it,” he declared.

“I do not.”

“Stand up.”

I stood, hoping he would dismiss me, but he did not. He stepped behind me, and he seized my arms, crossing them behind my back.

“ The arms of the wicked, ” he said.

“Please,” I gasped.

“Say it.” He pulled my arms until I thought he’d rip them from the sockets. Racking my body, he said, “Finish the verse. The arms of the wicked .”

I sobbed, “ Shall be broken .”

“There.” He let go.

I sank into my chair.

He took his seat and gave me a moment to compose myself—but I could not face him as I had before.

“Did your arms break?” he demanded.

“No.” My shoulders throbbed. My arms were torn and bruised. I felt the imprint of his thumbs.

“Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

“Why are you cowering like that?”

“You frightened me.”

And strange to say, this answer pleased him. Kindly he looked on me as though his anger had blown out. “Now tell me the rest.”

“No, I cannot.”

“Cannot or will not?”

I did not answer, and his eyes hardened. “Go upstairs and learn the verse, then.”

I did not move. I was injured; I was disrespected, and my heart rebelled.

“You may go.”

Still, I would not retreat.

“Call the maids and get yourself upstairs.”

Even then, I did not move—and so my guardian left me there. He quit the room and went on errands of his own.

I tried to catch my breath and understand what Roberval had done. Why was he kind one moment, cruel the next? Like a cat, he loved to play with me. His pleasure was to give and take away again, to reassure and then unsettle me. He praised me when I performed well, but he enjoyed my failings even more. When I was ruffled and unsure, he taunted me. When I was hurt, he pounced.

Remembering my eagerness for lessons, I could only think that I’d deceived myself. Had I imagined I could earn this man’s regard? His interest was dangerous, his affection rough. His teaching bruised me. My one comfort was that Roberval had gone and I could cry freely.

But I was not alone. The door of the adjoining study opened, and the secretary rushed out. “Can you stand?”

“Were you listening?” I asked indignantly.

“Let me help you,” he said.

“No.” I stood, holding the back of my chair.

“Let me call Marie.”

I shook my head. “If you would help me, tell me when he sails. Will it be in May? Or June?”

“You are injured,” the secretary said.

“ He injured me! He has kept me here two years, and tells me nothing.” Desperately I asked, “When does he depart?”

The secretary looked pityingly at me but did not speak.

I turned on him. “You know his plans and keep them from me even when you see I’m hurt.”

“He sails in May,” the secretary said.

For a moment, the words did not register. Then I thought, May. In three months, Roberval will sail across the world. Once he is gone, he cannot touch me.

With a handkerchief I dried my tears, and the secretary pretended not to see. Silently he took my arm.

Feeling his hand above my elbow, I turned to him, surprised.

Later I remembered what the secretary said and how he said it. His voice was so quiet that I heard his words like thoughts. “I will never hurt you,” he said, as he helped me to the door. I felt the pressure of his hand, and when I looked at him, his eyes met mine.

That the young man cared for me was clear, that he spoke to me and took my arm, I could not forget—but he could do little. He promised not to hurt me, but he could not prevent his master. When my guardian was in residence, the young man had no authority, and while I lived in Roberval’s house I remained at his mercy.

—

Dreading my next lesson, I considered pleading illness, but if I did, Roberval might bring a physician up to see me. When he summoned me again, I thought I might delay—but feared provoking him. If he lays hands on me, I’ll run, I told myself as I crept downstairs. I will cry out and escape into the kitchen. I’ll rouse the house and if he calls me mad, so be it.

I hesitated on the threshold of his room, but Roberval received me as though nothing had happened. Graciously he invited me to sit with him, and lightly he suggested fingerings for the new music I was learning. In that lesson and the next, and even the one after, he was so kind I began to doubt my memory. Had he hurt me? Had I cried? He did not show his temper, nor did he touch me. This was his nature, changeable, surprising, charming when he chose to be.

To my relief, lessons were few that spring. Distracted by his map and his ship’s manifest, Roberval had little time to teach and chastise me.

“His ships are now in port,” said Alys, as she dusted and wiped woodwork in the passageway. “Three of them. But his men must load them up and rig the sails.”

“Do you worry where you’ll go?”

“No, not I,” she said stoutly. “And you shouldn’t either.”

“Easy to say,” I murmured.

She smiled up at me. “My master won’t forget you. Not when he favors you with lessons.”

“Favors me?”

“He will give you something,” she predicted.

If only he would grant a house, I thought, and funds to live and servants for protection. I was twenty and no longer expected a good match. Even so, I hoped Roberval would provide for me. Would he leave me in this house or some other? Might he send me home? I waited every day for his decree. Tell me what it is, I pleaded silently. Tell me. Tell me. Then his decision came, and I understood why Damienne did not think anticipation worse than anything.

On a bright April day, he called me down, and I saw him waiting where sunshine streamed through his windows, green and gold. I sat across the table from him, and he said, “Choose any psalm you like.”

“Twenty-seven,” I said.

And he answered, “Good.”

“ In time of trouble, he shall hide me. / In his secret places, he shall protect me. He shall set me upon a rock / Though my mother and my father forsake me, The Lord is my aid / Though I have fainted / Yet I will be brave… ”

He smiled at this. “You speak as though you understand.”

“Imperfectly.”

My guardian glanced at his great map, unfurled on the table. “We will educate you yet.”

For what? I thought. For marriage? For the Church? But seeing him in an expansive mood, I risked a question, beginning with what I knew. “The ships are now in port?”

“We are provisioning.”

“Godspeed,” I said, and when he smiled, I ventured, “Will I stay in this house?”

“This house has a buyer.”

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“What of the servants?”

“They will find new places.”

“And the rest of us?”

He looked at me with clear blue eyes. “Are you speaking of yourself?”

“Will I return to Périgord?”

“That is your home no longer.”

“Though my estate is mortgaged…” I began.

“It isn’t mortgaged,” my guardian said. “It’s sold.”

Strangely I saw myself sitting in my chair. Oddly I heard my voice as though it belonged to someone else. “To the Montfort family?”

“Yes.”

He is a speculator, I remembered. He is an adventurer. He had sold my lands to fund his expedition, trading my future for his own. He had done this to me, but I could not object. My guardian served as my protector, but I had no one to protect me from him. Distantly, my question sounded. “Where will I go?”

He said, “You’ll come with me.”

“ I will?” I asked in disbelief.

“Of course.”

I was shaking, and I could not stop. I was shivering with cold. “But I cannot! I cannot go to sea.”

“I think you can,” my guardian said. “I think you must.”

His face, his foxlike beard, his icy eyes, his map of waves and jagged islands, I saw all this as I dropped to my knees. “Oh, do not force me.”

“Get up.”

He offered me his hand, but I could only call out. “Please, my lord.”

He was irritated. “Get off the floor and stop your whining.”

And yet I begged. “Do not take me where no one knows me, and no one will remember that I lived. I will vanish. I will belong to no one.”

“Don’t be a fool,” my guardian said. “You will belong to me.”