Chapter 36
36
We saw more vessels the next day. Tall ships sailing bravely, and then scores of fishing boats. On the third day, just as Barthold reckoned, the harbor appeared, forested with masts. We sailed for La Rochelle’s sea-stained walls and towers, and the waves were little as we entered port.
A clamor. Shouts of laborers, the clang of chain and windlass, and the bang of crates. We heard all the noise of industry. A stench from rotting trash. I covered my face, and yet the fishermen leaned over the rail. They would have jumped ashore if it had been possible, but the whaler preceded us, and we had to wait to sail closer.
When at last we anchored, we were still some distance from the dock, and a rowboat came to ferry us. Mikel helped me in, and all the oarsmen stared.
“She is a nun,” said Mikel, but they laughed openly at him. In this place, alone amongst these men, I could only be a whore.
My face burned as the oarsmen helped me from the boat up to the dock. I was quiet and confused to stand upon those planks, but the sailors celebrated, for they would have their wages, meager though they might be. The men were calling out for food and drink—but they paused to gather as I drew a gold coin from my pocket and presented it to Aznar.
“I thank you for safe passage,” I told him. And then I gave a piece of silver to each man and two to Mikel, my interpreter. Bidding farewell to my rescuers, I said, “God bless you for the kindness you have shown me.”
The others hurried off, but Mikel asked, “Can you find your way?”
Then, gratefully, I said, “Please help me to the house of Jean Alfonse, the navigator. He is my friend and will assist me.”
Together we made our way into the market square. Mikel went first, and I followed in the crush. My ears were ringing with so many voices. Bargaining and laughter, threats and shouts. The noise was painful, and I blinked to see such colors, and such clutter. Men selling chains, toys, tools, buckets, soap, cups, candles—all the conveniences of the modern world. The crowd was thick and jostling, and I walked unsteadily. I had not my land legs yet.
When Mikel paused, I lifted my eyes and saw stalls selling meat and capons and butter. There were lettuces and pears, and there were plums, some black, some red as wine, and some so ripe that they had split, and their juice dripped onto crates and cobblestones. Mikel bought dark grapes and offered some to me, but I could not eat, for I felt sick facing such plenty.
There was a man selling cheese, and he cut pieces for passersby that they might sample his great wheels. He gave a taste to Mikel, but, seeing my rags, he did not offer one to me.
“Where is the navigator’s house?” Mikel asked.
The tradesman answered, “Which? There are so many.”
“Jean Alfonse, the Portuguese,” I said.
The cheesemonger ignored me and turned to Mikel, who echoed, “Jean Alfonse, Portuguese.”
“It is the tall house over the harbor,” the cheesemonger said. “The one with the blue door.”
We made our way up a street almost as steep as my own cliff on the island. Together, we climbed until we found a mansion with a blue door. This house perched high above stone steps.
“Shall I help you up the stairs?” said Mikel.
“No, please wait.” I did not think it respectable to appear with him—although my shoes were split and all my clothes in rags.
What would the navigator say? Would he shout with joy? Would he weep to hear of Auguste, his companion? I believed Jean Alfonse would take me in—but could he shelter me from Roberval? Standing at the door, I raised an iron ring to knock and waited, eager and afraid.
Slowly the door opened. A manservant appeared and glanced at me. Then, before I could say a word, he shut it in my face.
“Oh, please!” I begged. “Please, let me speak.” When I heard no answer, I let the heavy knocker fall again. “I am Marguerite de la Rocque,” I called.
The door reopened, and I told the servant in a rush, “I journeyed with your master—and he knows me well. Wait!” I kept talking, but even as I spoke, the servant hoisted me in his arms and threw me down the stairs.
Wrist throbbing, hip bruised, I looked up at Mikel’s frowning face. Although I claimed friendship with the master of the house, his servant did not welcome me.
“They do not understand,” I said.
“Who are you?” Mikel demanded.
And I was insulted as I had never been upon the island or aboard the fishing boat. Crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, I said, “How dare you speak to me that way?”
“How dare I?” He spat grape seeds at my feet.
Painfully, I sat. Testing my legs, I found that I could stand. “You may go. I see you wish it—and there is nothing you can do for me.”
“You played a part,” he said.
“Indeed, I did not.”
“Even now,” he said, “you do not speak truly.”
I steadied my voice and answered, “This is the truth. God is with me. With his help, I will find my way.” And in my hurt and pride, I gave Mikel a gold piece of his own. “Take this for all that you have done.”
Astonished, he began to thank me, but I waved him off. “No more. No more.”
At last, my interpreter departed, and it was a relief to stand alone, because I could not explain myself to him, and I would not let him see me beg.
Limping, I made my way behind Jean Alfonse’s house, and there I found a pebbled court with troughs of water where maids laundered clothes. The tallest was directing all the rest, and she looked the oldest too. She stirred the washing with a long stout stick—until she caught me staring.
“Get out,” she said.
“I do not ask for alms,” I said. “Only to see your master.”
“Begone,” she told me. “You don’t know him.”
“I do,” I insisted.
“No, you don’t.”
“Only listen,” I pleaded. But while I spoke like a lady, I could not be one with my rough hair and salt-stained clothes. The tall maid raised her stick.
At that moment, I saw a girl descend the back stairs with a bucket full of scraps. Chickens left their pen to gather at her feet.
“Wait now. Patience,” this girl murmured to the fluttering hens.
I knew my luck had changed as soon as she lifted her face. She was the little maid from my guardian’s house. Her legs were longer, and her dress had been let out, but I recognized her bright eyes and her soft voice.
“Marie!” I called.
Affronted, she said, “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“I am Marguerite, Lord Roberval’s ward.”
“No.”
“I have suffered since you saw me last,” I said. “But I am indeed Marguerite. I lived in your master’s house.”
She drew in her breath. “That cannot be.”
“Marie,” I said. “Were there not green windows? Windows green and gold? And was there not a maid named Alys, a mocking girl?”
“That house is sold,” Marie said.
“Yes, all the servants were dismissed when Roberval set sail.”
Marie did not answer, but she drew closer, and as she stepped, the chickens followed.
“He had a map, and a secretary who came to pay the servants. You had a stye when we first met, and my nurse told you to cut a potato and place it on your eye to draw the fluid out.”
She could not deny this but gazed at me.
“The secretary and my nurse are gone, but I have returned.”
All the other maids stood watching as she stood transfixed.
“Please,” I said. “Believe me.”
“They said you died,” Marie told me.
“Who said it?” Anger welled up in me. “Who told you that? I will prove I am alive if you take me to your master.”
“I cannot.”
“He knows me,” I protested, but Marie stepped into the chicken pen.
“Our master is at sea,” the tall maid declared.
These words fell like blows, for I had counted on the navigator’s invitation, but I drew a piece of silver from my pocket and spoke to Marie, now scattering scraps as hens crowded her feet. “Who is his steward?”
“My master’s brother—” Marie began.
The tall maid called out, “That is not for you to say.”
But I entered the pen and pressed the coin into Marie’s hand. “Take this and tell your master’s brother that I journeyed with Jean Alfonse to the New World.”
Before the girl could answer, the tall maid swooped in like a gull and snatched the coin. “I will have this. And I will ask.” As she ran up the back stairs of the house, she called to the other maids, “Keep washing.”
The girls stirred and splashed and wrung their laundry out, but all the while they snickered at me. “She smells of fish,” I heard one say.
“She stinks,” another answered, laughing.
With my uninjured hand, I felt for my long knife—and yet I kept it hidden. Inside the chicken pen I spoke low to Marie. “I need new clothes.”
“I have none.” Her face was flushed. I saw a red mark on her cheek.
“Listen,” I whispered, “that girl snatched up your silver, but I have a piece of gold for you. You shall have it if you meet me after dark and bring me what I ask. You would have the money for yourself. And you could come with me to my old house. I would treat you well. I wouldn’t strike you.”
So I spoke, and Marie looked yearningly—but the next moment, the tall maid returned and seized my hand, pulling me away. “My master will not see you,” she declared.
“Did you tell him I traveled with his brother?”
“Out,” the tall maid said, “before I call the grooms.”
—
Because I could not stay, I trudged back to the market, where I bought bread and a cup of ale. I drank quickly because I had to return the cup, but after that, I sat on the wide steps of the church to eat my loaf. My wrist and hip throbbed painfully, but fresh bread was a feast unto itself, so filling and so soft under the crust.
Alas, because I looked a beggar, I attracted ragged children. They swarmed for pieces and, as soon as I obliged, demanded more. Finally, I shooed them off, but I could not enjoy my loaf as I had at the beginning.
Alone I turned in to the narrow streets and wondered where to go. I dared not approach my guardian’s house, although it had been sold. I was so fearful he would catch me. But from a distance, I spied upon the property, and I saw that a new family lived there with their own horses, grooms, and maids. As for Jean Alfonse’s home, that door was closed to me, and if I approached Marie again, the grooms would beat us both.
I could not stop long in any place without questions and curt words. Who are you? Move along. And so, I walked until the sun sank low.
Now in the market, tradesmen were packing up their wares. I saw a bald man loading used clothes, along with pins and hats. He was handing these up to his wife, who stood in their cart.
I hesitated, dreading scornful words or worse. I backed away, and then I approached because I had no choice.
“Nothing for you,” the old man said.
“I do not ask for alms. I ask to buy—and I have money.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I am an honest woman,” I insisted.
“And if you are,” he answered, “why do you need to say it?”
“Take this.” I held out a gold piece.
“Where did that come from?”
“My pocket.”
“Your pocket.” He smiled, revealing bad teeth.
“I need clothes and shoes,” I said.
“Well.” He took the coin. “We may have something.” He called up to the wagon. “Jeanne!”
His gnarled wife helped me into the wagon and showed me where I might crouch to change. The linens she handed me were scratchy; the gown and cloak and stockings had a musty smell. As for shoes, she was hard put to find a pair in her pile of used clothes.
“These are too small,” I said.
“No,” she answered. “Your feet are too big.”
“But they don’t fit.”
“Yes, they do. I have no others,” Jeanne told me.
And so, I accepted what she offered.
It was twilight when I stepped down, dressed in servant’s clothes. The tradesman and his wife hastened away, eager to be done with me—and I saw that the market was now closed.
The watchman had begun his rounds, and as he strode by, he did not hesitate to cuff and question any he saw loitering. Already he had apprehended an old man and accused him of drunkenness. Seeing this, I knew I could not linger, so I hurried up the church’s stairs and slipped inside its doors.