Isola

Chapter 12

12

I burst into my chamber. My gown was crumpled, my face streaked with tears.

“Dear God!” Damienne rushed to me.

My words tumbled over each other. “He sails, and he’s taking me.”

Hearing this, Damienne did not wail, nor did she weep or pray. She held still, disbelieving. “That’s wrong.”

“But that is his decision. I am to travel with him to the New World.”

She stared as though I’d said that I must travel to the moon. “You cannot go.”

“I begged him,” I said. “On my knees, I begged him to leave me here.”

“Never beg.”

“There was nothing else that I could do!”

“Your father was the King’s own knight, your mother heir to half of Languedoc. Would your father kneel? Would your mother plead on her knees?” Damienne said this as if grace were power, but I knew better.

“He has me, and he’s sold my lands.”

“No, that is impossible,” Damienne said. “He must make a match for you.”

“And who will force him?”

“There is law,” she said.

“The King is the law, and the King favors him.”

“There is honor,” she insisted.

“And who will teach Roberval that? He brought us here, and he will take me into wilderness.”

Now I saw the sadness in her face, and I knew that she believed me, although she kept repeating, “It cannot be true.”

“But you will stay here,” I said, for this I had resolved. “You will be safe because I will find a place for you.”

She shook her head. “No, I will not have another.”

“I owe you comfort, and I owe you rest,” I told her.

She answered simply, “I will come with you.”

“If I order you to stay?”

“I must obey your mother first because I promised I would never leave you.”

“You told her that?”

“I promised her before she died, and I must keep my word. If you sail, so must I.”

“No,” I protested.

But she was steadfast, saying, “We must pray and go together.”

Such was Damienne’s loyalty and faith, but I had not half her goodness. While I knelt before the Virgin humbly, I did not accept my fate.

—

In the morning, I went to look for Alys. I hunted in the hall and on the stairs and in the kitchen, and at last, I found her between the house and stables. I walked amongst the chickens, and they made way for me, spreading their wings.

Alys curtseyed—but the other maids were out as well, and I beckoned her to come a little distance.

I led her behind the stable, where the ground was sodden with old hay and dung.

“Watch your step.” She glanced nervously at me.

“You know my trouble,” I told her. “You hear everything.”

She could not deny it, and she looked at me with sorrow.

“Help me. I wish to send a letter.” I slipped a gold piece into her hand. “Do you know a man that I might send to Périgord?”

She hesitated and then said, “Jean.”

“And who is that?”

“My sweetheart,” she said faintly. She, who was usually so bold.

I said, “Ask him to hire a horse and tell him he shall have a piece of gold on his return.”

I saw apprehension in her face—but only for a moment. Then she slipped my coin into her pocket.

“You’ll do it?” I said.

In a rush, she answered, “I’ll run straight to the marketplace and give Jean money for the horse.”

Hearing this, I said, “I’ll write the letter, and you can give it to him in the morning.”

Now I had to write for help without Damienne catching me—for I would not implicate her. I resolved to take the risk myself. Carefully I arranged pen and ink and paper. I ruled my lines and set my open book of psalms before me.

“What are you doing?” my nurse said, as I began writing.

“Copying verses.”

She watched now, and I felt safe because she could not read—but Damienne was no fool. She asked, “Why are your lines longer than the poetry?”

“I am copying the argument.” I pointed to the translator’s summary and explanation beginning Here the Psalmist prays to the Lord God who comforts the good and punishes the wicked… I told her this, and she seemed satisfied and turned away—but my words were not prayerful. I wrote in haste to Madame D’Artois.

Madame, My duty, and my fond remembrance. Since departing, I have lived in great uncertainty and in a house without any companion except my faithful Damienne and yet we have not been idle but we do our work. Nor do I neglect my instrument for I have bought one new and so improve upon it. But now my guardian returns, and he will break up the house, dispersing all the servants before he sails to New France, and he has ordered me as well upon this voyage. In vain I pleaded yet he will have me—but never quickly, only by degrees, as is his pleasure. And I am captive and cannot defend myself except to beg you intercede with Madame Montfort. Please ask if she might welcome me again to teach and serve her daughters, and if she would accept us, I would make the journey with Damienne, so that she might live her final days at home. We cannot stay here and it would be death to leave with him—therefore I beg you. And I pray for your good health and for Claire and commend myself to your good mistress and her family.

Marguerite de la Rocque

And Madame, I beg you send your answer with this messenger.

The next morning, before Damienne woke, I melted sealing wax and closed my letter. Then, as I had no signet, I used Claire’s ring with the initial M . This was the very ring the King’s sister had given her. M was for Marguerite, the Queen of Navarre, and M was my mother’s initial and mine because we all shared that name. The Queen was great, and my mother had been good, and I prayed they would protect me.

Before dawn, I took a candle and hurried to the kitchen. There, in flickering light, I gave my letter to Alys so that she might take it to the marketplace. Together we stood as I told her how Jean should approach the chateau. “First, he will come upon the village and then a grove of walnut trees. He will see a river with a ferry, but a little farther, he will find a stone bridge. Crossing this, he will see my fields, but above all these, the chateau is built upon a cliff. Will you tell him?”

“Yes,” said Alys.

“Will he be quick?”

She nodded, and the next instant, she was gone.

—

While I had been active, I had been brave, but climbing the stairs to my own chamber, I lost heart. As I sat with Damienne, my scheme seemed tenuous. Alys said Jean could find the way, but how did she know? He might get lost. He might run off or lose my letter. He might get drunk. I remembered him as rough and low. Even if he did arrive at the chateau, would anyone allow him in? And were the Montforts still in residence? For two years, I had heard no news, and I was afraid Jean would find no one to receive him. I imagined all these disasters but did not conceive the simplest one.

In the afternoon, I heard a knock.

Expecting Alys, I rushed to hear how she had fared—but Marie stood at the door.

“My master asks for you,” she said.

“For lessons?”

“He did not give a reason.”

“What did he say?”

“Tell my cousin to come.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Immediately.”

My heart beat hard. He knows. He knows. “Where is Alys?”

“Out laundering,” Marie said.

“It is not the day.”

“The laundress is drying linens in the sun.”

“Wait here while I dress,” I told the girl and closed the door.

“What is it?” Damienne asked.

“Nothing,” I told her.

But she saw me pinning my own overskirt. “Let me.”

“I have it.” With numb fingers, I smoothed the heavy cloth.

“Is it a lesson?” she asked, as I turned for the door.

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t you take your book?”

Without answering, I snatched the Psalms and followed the little maid downstairs.

My guardian stood behind his table, and he did not speak except to dismiss Marie. My cheeks burned as I approached, and yet he waited. Slowly a minute passed, and he never took his eyes off me.

“Sit down, cousin,” he said at last, and pointed to a chair across from his. I saw no books on the table, no map, and no decanter. Only his cabinet, his miniature palace, remained. “Now then.” He reached across as though to take my hand.

I started back, and then I realized it was my book he wanted. I pushed the volume across the table’s dark expanse.

Opening it, he leafed through pages until he found the verse he sought, and this he read aloud. “ I trust God with all. What shall I tell my soul? ”

I looked at him, waiting for the next line, but he passed the book to me, and I had no choice but to read. “ Fly as a bird up to your mountain. ”

“And why must the soul fly upward?” His voice was very nearly kind.

“Because the wicked string their bow.”

“And who are the wicked?”

“Those who do not love the Lord.”

“Might one soul divide itself?”

I looked at him and said, “I do not know.”

“One part flies up to the mountain while the other strings its bow. But once the soul becomes divided, what happens then?”

Staring at the verses on the page, I murmured, “The Lord will try us.”

“Well said. And when he finds the wicked?”

“He will punish them.”

“With what?”

“With sulfur and with flames.”

He stood and stepped to my side of the table. He bent over me, and I felt his warm breath on my face. “And what else? How will he punish us?” He turned to his cabinet and touched the secret place between its pillars, opening a drawer.

Once, I had wondered what Roberval hid inside this palace. Years before, I had delighted in a purse of gold. Now he drew out my own letter with its seal broken. My words lay bare.

Alys, I thought, because, of course, she had done this to me.

“What will the Lord send us?” my guardian was asking. “What will he bring?”

I heard myself answer, “Violent storms.”

“Now tell me.” Roberval picked up my letter. “What were you imagining? Did you think you would escape into the night? Did you envision horses waiting? Invisibility on your journey, and at the end of it, reward? What were you expecting once you freed yourself from what you call my pleasure?”

Quiet as he kept his voice, his questions fell like blows on my bent head, for I had no defense. I had written my indictment and confession. He knew that I obeyed from fear alone and plotted to escape him.

“You are a liar,” he said simply. “Didn’t I warn you? Didn’t I say don’t play the fool? But you would anyway—and here is a new lesson. Don’t confide in servants. Now tell me what comes next.”

I looked up, astonished, as he turned to the book again. “The next verse.” Seating himself, he pointed to the psalm, but words swam on the page.

I begged, “Please, my lord, don’t force me. Strike me. Dismiss me. Punish me some other way. Do not teach me when I cannot learn.”

“But you must learn,” he said. “You are learning even now.” And he drew his chair near mine. He sat close and told me what the Psalmist meant, which was that God hates evildoers, and he will snare and drown them. He will serve the wicked tempests with lightning cracking. That will be their portion. He said all this as my letter lay before us, and then he looked at me and asked, “What is it like to drown?”

I could not answer.

“Read on,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“You must,” he told me.

Tears started in my eyes. My voice shook, but I forced myself to read the verse, because I dared not disobey.

Coolly he made me sit through the charade of questioning and recitation. Liar as I was, I must demonstrate stupidity.

Did we sit together for just minutes or for hours? I lost all sense of time. I knew only my disgrace. That I deserved to drown, that I was corrupt and vile. These were the lessons Roberval taught me. But as my misery increased, my guardian’s voice grew gentle, comforting. Looking up, I saw that he was pleased, not angry. I was sport for him, and he enjoyed catching me. Like a hunter, he might slit my throat, or tie me up, or carry me off just as he liked. I might struggle; even so, he would possess me.

“Do you understand?” he said when I had finished reading.

“Yes,” I told him bitterly.

“Then you may go.”

With no way to escape, and nothing left to try, I turned for the door.

“Take your book,” Roberval said quietly, and I obeyed.

On the stairs, I heard light voices, and laughter, as though the world were good.

It was the maids returning with their baskets. Glancing down, I saw them carrying white linens. The girls were merry. They were humming, their faces rosy from the sun. Alys was amongst them, but she hung back when she sawme.

Did she think that she could disappear?

She made for the kitchen, but I flew after her. Fury burned my shame away and I was quick, bold, vengeful. She dashed into the storeroom, but I caught her where the cook hung meat and beat her about the head with Psalms.

“Stop!” she begged.

“You cheated me.”

She was stronger than I. She might have fought, but she did not. “He found out,” she protested. “He took the letter from me.”

“He did not,” I cried. “You brought it to him.”

“I swear he took it.”

I pushed her with both hands against the bloody carcasses. With my book I boxed her ears. She let me. I struck until I was exhausted, but what good was it? I might hurt her, but my guardian possessed me. I let Alys go and walked upstairs.

Slowly I entered my chamber, where Damienne sat sewing in her chair.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

I did not answer.

“What is upsetting you?”

I turned from her, ashamed.

Damienne waited as she mended stockings. All day she worked while I thought of Alys. She who had brought me out to see the harbor. She who had come with me into my guardian’s presence when she knew I was afraid. She who had laughed and whispered with me on the stairs—and then betrayed me.

In silence I sat with Damienne and stared at my book, battered from ill use. I hated myself for using this holy volume as a weapon, but I hated my guardian more. I scarcely noticed Marie come in the evening with our food.

After she left, I stared at the mutton on my plate.

“Where is Alys?” Damienne asked.

“She is afraid to see me.”

Damienne said, “Because of the letter.”

Instantly I looked up. “Who told you?”

“The laundress,” she said, and I realized that the whole house knew.

I knelt and buried my head in Damienne’s lap as I had not done since I was small. “Forgive me for writing and for trusting Alys, who is wicked, as you always said.”

“I never called her wicked.”

“What is she then?”

“She is as she was made to be—and you were wrong to trust her. She is not your servant. She must serve her master.”

“And steal from me?”

“She will take what she is given,” Damienne said. “I am surprised at you.”

I sat back on my heels. “I had no choice!”

“You cannot deceive your guardian.”

But it was for you, I thought. For both of us. And I burst out, “What else could I do? I cannot fight him. I have no defense.”

“God will not forget you,” Damienne said.

But I was not thinking of such distant consolations. “If Roberval has me, he won’t have you. I will not let you die aboard his ship.”

“I am not afraid to die,” she said. “I am afraid for you.”