Isola

Chapter 39

39

I stood at the window and remembered Madame Montfort’s invitation long before: Tell me what you need for lessons. Protection, I thought. Shelter. If only she would ask me now—but no carriage appeared.

During lessons, I would stand and pace because it was difficult to sit cramped in chairs. I counted hours until we might take the girls out to the garden. Then I took deep breaths and strode the paths so quickly that Claire could not keep up.

“Where are you running?” she asked.

“I had forgotten that the garden is so small.”

Suzanne objected, “But it isn’t.” For she was proud of the flower beds and lovely paths, the borders of lavender.

“It is perfect here,” I assured her. “But I grew accustomed to walking farther while I was away.”

“Had you no horses?” Ysabeau asked.

“No, none at all.”

The girls were astonished. Even Claire and her mother turned to me, surprised. They were so accustomed to horses, carriages, and carts.

“Nor were there pastures where I lived. The soil was—”

“What’s that?” interrupted Ysabeau. “Do you hear?”

I listened, but all I heard was the wind rustling.

“A trumpet,” Ysabeau declared.

“Are you sure?” Claire asked.

“I hear nothing,” Suzanne said.

But now we heard it faintly and far off, a silver note—and we could not restrain the girls. They ran inside and through back rooms and upstairs to our tower while we followed with Agnès. There, from my window, we saw two men riding.

“Heralds!” said Ysabeau.

And Suzanne said, “The carriages will follow.”

There could be no further lessons. The girls must dash to their rooms to dress. “No rushing,” Agnès admonished them. “Walk nicely.” But we heard them whispering and laughing on the stairs.

Claire said, “They have already forgotten us.” She spoke lightly, knowing that her charges loved her, but I knew she meant it too. They had forgotten that day’s lessons, and soon they would forget their teachers, for they longed to finish learning and become ladies.

I asked Claire, “What will you do when they marry and leave home?”

“I hope that they will take us with them.”

Her mother said, “Or we must find another place.”

I protested, “Surely the Montforts would not let you go.”

“They will not need us,” Madame D’Artois said. Of course, she had considered this—that the girls had no little sisters. Lady Katherine had been brought to bed while I was gone, but her new baby was a boy.

Claire pointed to four men riding over the hill. “Those are Lord Montfort’s grooms.”

“There is the luggage,” Madame D’Artois said as we watched lumbering wagons follow. And now, at last, the family’s painted carriage appeared. I could not see the passengers, but I clasped my hands together as I imagined Lady Katherine within.

—

The afternoon of her arrival, the girls stayed with their mother. She kept them close all day because she was so pleased with them—so the maids said. Lady Katherine had brought a virginal for the girls to play in her own chambers, and Suzanne tried it, playing well. Then Ysabeau performed and made mistakes, but the wrong notes made her mother laugh. All this, the maids reported, and they said Lady Katherine was merry because Her Majesty had given her a gold pin and twelve gold buttons. And while she could have such things made, Lady Katherine treasured these because they were from the Queen, but she prized her daughters’ music almost as much. She said twice that she was pleased with the girls’ teachers.

Did she speak of me? I could not ask. I could only wait to hear if Lady Katherine would grant me my old place.

All day I wondered, and all that evening, but no word came. I began to think my students’ mother was displeased. I thought, I am disreputable now, without inheritance or dowry. I have no claim upon this house except to charity.

The next morning at prayers, I knelt before the Virgin on her altar, and she looked upon me with clear eyes. This was the Virgin I had worshipped as a child, the one resembling my mother. Her hair was pale gold like winter wheat, her eyes were green. Her crown was bright, her face uncracked because she had never been voyaging. Protect me, I begged silently. Do not let me fall into my guardian’s hands. I bowed my head, but hearing voices at the door, I sprang to my feet.

There stood Suzanne and Ysabeau, eager, beaming. Impatiently they waited for Claire and Madame D’Artois to finish their devotions—and then they rushed to take our hands.

“We have a message,” Suzanne said.

My heart jumped, but Claire answered with her usual courtesy. “We are honored.”

“Our mother asks to speak to you,” Suzanne said, all in a rush. “She sends her compliments and asks to see our teachers.”

“But especially you!” Ysabeau told me.

I could not suppress my hope and my excitement. “Truly? Did she mention me?”

“She did,” said Suzanne.

“Yes!” said Ysabeau. “Because we told her all about your journey. Hurry!”

“Give me just a moment.” I slipped into my chamber and opened the linen chest. I took out my treasures and slipped on my gold necklace, while in the other room Madame D’Artois fastened a new collar and Claire arranged her hair. Such was the occasion as we descended the stairs. Claire and her mother went first, and the girls followed. I was last. Stepping down, I remembered heavy sleeves and warnings. Hold still. Don’t speak. Don’t ask.

We waited but a moment at the bottom of the stairs. Almost immediately, a maid appeared to usher us into the great hall.

I scarcely recognized the room; it was so rich. Under the windows the new virginal shone like a jewel on a carved table. Between beams the high ceiling was now patterned red and gold. Everywhere I looked, I saw fresh adornments. Chairs tall as thrones, cushioned benches covered with green velvet, a chest with burnished clasps. All that was left of the old furnishings were the tapestries of men hunting in trees. I looked at those and thought of Nicholas. That brilliant morning, the horses and the dogs—the screams.

“Welcome.” Lady Katherine approached and greeted each of us—but spoke to me especially. “How wonderful you are returned.”

And I saw she had two ladies with her. At first, I did not recognize these women, but when Lady Katherine presented me, I realized they were her stepdaughters, the older girls I used to glimpse in silk. Louise was fair, with a languid beauty as though she knew her worth. She had an air of calm, and she was dressed in a mantle edged with pearls. Anne was animated as her sister was not, her eyes darker, her frame bigger. She seemed in all ways robust and bold, and yet she wore white mourning clothes. I remembered the procession to her wedding, her bridegroom arriving on his horse—and with a shock I understood that Anne was widowed. Had she loved her husband? Did she grieve? Of course, I did not ask.

What could I say to ladies such as these? Maids were seating us, and I knew I must speak soon. Already, Lady Katherine was complimenting Claire and Madame D’Artois. “I thank you for the girls’ music. They begin to play so that I recognize the tune.”

Suzanne looked hopefully at the virginal, but her mother did not ask her to perform. She kissed her instead, and then she kissed Ysabeau. “Go, both of you, with Agnès.”

The girls pouted. They looked back at us as they left the room, but their mother only smiled at their sad glances.

“Now.” Lady Katherine turned to me. “Tell us about your journey, for we have heard the strangest things! And I would know if they are true or if my daughters are indulging their own fancies.”

All eyes were on me. Louise and Anne looked curiously while Claire and Madame D’Artois watched, hoping for my success.

“I do not know what your daughters said,” I began, “but I will tell you where I have been. I sailed with my husband in Roberval’s ship, and we journeyed to Charlesbourg-Royal on the Isle of Canada.”

“We know about the colony,” said Louise, and her voice was soft, refined. “Everyone at court has heard of Cartier’s winter there.”

“Is it true,” Anne asked, “that savages attacked you?”

“No.”

Anne frowned. “But they besieged Charlesbourg-Royal and murdered all who ventured out.”

“My husband and I did not live there, but in seclusion, on our own estate.”

Louise considered me as though I was a strange creature indeed. “You chose to live without society?”

“It pleased God for us to live alone.”

Louise turned to Lady Katherine and said, half-laughing, “I did not know the New World was so dull!”

But Lady Katherine said, “The little ones insist that you saw wonders in New France. Won’t you tell us of your time there?”

I twisted the ruby ring upon my finger. Wealthy, worldly, quick to judge, these ladies would not listen to the story of a flower.

“In that country, the winters are so cold that even native people set out in their boats to row away. The birds fly off. The snow descends. And that is when the white bears come hunting.”

“White bears?” said Louise.

“White entirely.”

“And did your husband kill them?” Anne asked.

“I killed them myself.”

“No!” Claire whispered in dismay.

But Anne leaned forward. “Truly?”

“When my husband died, I had no choice but to take his arquebus to defend his body.”

The ladies shuddered, half-disgusted, half-enthralled. I knew I risked repelling my fair listeners—but I spoke anyway. “The white bears steal upon you in the drifts. When they rise, they stand taller than a man.”

“How, then, could you combat them?” Lady Katherine asked.

“I hid inside my house to load my arquebus. Then I took my shot, even as a bear tried to break down my walls.”

“What if you missed?” asked Louise.

And Anne asked, “What if he had broken down the door?”

I looked at her and said, “He would have raked my flesh with his long claws and bitten off my head.” Seeing Anne shudder, I paused before I spoke again. “But I stopped him with a bullet through his heart. And when the beast was dead, I skinned him with my knife.”

“Your knife!” said Lady Katherine.

“Here it is.” I drew the blade from the folds of my dress.

The ladies started back. Hands flew to mouths.

“With this knife, I butchered him.”

“Alone?” said Anne.

“Yes. And here is the bear’s claw.” I pulled the black claw from my pocket.

The ladies gasped as though I held a viper, yet they could not look away.

As if to dare the others, Anne touched the claw’s point with her finger. “Did you really cut this from the bear’s dead body?”

“Listen,” I said softly. “I will tell you.” And now the room hushed, and all its riches were forgotten as I told of hunting birds and sleeping under skins. I explained how I had harvested my salt and dried berries for raisins. I spoke of storms and ice, and, at last, I described praying to the Virgin until Christ sent a ship to rescue me. The ladies shook their heads, amazed—although I revealed only part of what I’d done.

Lady Katherine said, “We must present her to the Queen.”

Anne clapped her hands, and Louise said, “We will dress her!”

With a thrill of fear, I asked, “Will Her Majesty come here?”

“Yes, in a month, she has agreed to honor us.”

“And you must speak before her,” Anne said.

“I am unworthy,” I murmured.

“We will have you ready,” Louise said.

I stole a glance at Claire and Madame D’Artois, but their good manners never failed them, and they did not look at me, nor did they speak after we took our leave. Only as we walked upstairs did I hear agitation in their steps and rustling gowns.

“Oh, did you really use that blade?” said Claire when we entered our rooms.

“I had no choice,” I told her.

Her mother asked, “Did you truly skin a bear?”

I set claw and knife upon the windowsill. “The first time, Damienne did it for me.” Then, seeing Claire’s distress, I said, “Forgive me for mentioning such things.”

“It is not disapproval of what you said,” she told me earnestly, “but sorrow for what you have endured.”

“I had to satisfy the ladies’ curiosity.”

Soberly, Madame D’Artois said, “And now you must tell Her Majesty.”

Claire took my hand. “If she does come, and if she hears what you have suffered—then surely she will do something for you.”

“Do not say surely,” cautioned Madame D’Artois, and I remembered she had served the Queen.

“Was she good to you?” I ventured.

“Of course,” my old teacher answered.

I dared not ask the next question—Why, then, did you leave? But I could not stop wondering, nor could I sleep for thinking of the Queen.

That night I crept from bed. Lighting a candle, I entered Claire’s room.

I touched her hand, even as she slept beside her mother, and softly as I could, I whispered, “Come.”

Drowsily, Claire let me lead her to my chamber. “What is it? Are you unwell?”

“Forgive me,” I told her. “I am quite well, except for the Queen’s visit.”

“Aren’t you glad?” She was still imagining what the Queen might do forme.

We sat together on my carved chest, and I said, “Your mother never mentions why she left Her Majesty.”

Claire said nothing.

“Why did she leave court?”

Claire’s eyes flickered in the candlelight. “I shouldn’t say.”

“Was the Queen not quite so good to her?” Claire hesitated, but I pressed. “Please tell me, so I can prepare myself. Tell me how Her Majesty behaves.”

My friend was silent, thinking. “Her Majesty is learned,” Claire said at last, “and she enjoys what is most rare. She loves to see what she has not seen before and to hear what she has never heard. She collects stories to retell and writes them in a book, and those stories are not made-up but true. She is wise and good, and devoted to the King, her brother. That is her giving nature—to serve His Majesty and give charity herself. When we arrived at court, a widow and an orphan, the Queen admired my mother’s languages, her music, and her reading—and she brought us into service.”

“That much I know,” I said.

“But we displeased her.”

“How could that be?”

Claire turned away. “There was a knight.”

I held up the candle so I could see her face. “A knight fell in love with you!”

“No, not at all! I was nothing but a child.”

“Do you mean he loved your mother?” I was astonished, because Madame D’Artois was so plain, pious, and severe.

“You must never speak of this,” said Claire.

“Who was he?”

“A poet and a scholar. A translator of psalms.”

I thought of Psalms of David Set in Rhyme . “Clément Marot.”

“Shh.”

I remembered my book now lost at sea. My guardian saying, You can live on these.

“He wished to marry my mother,” Claire said, “but he was a favorite of the Queen.”

“And she would not allow it?”

“He pled his case and angered Her Majesty. Then he asked my mother to marry secretly, but she would not leave her place—and so he left court for Ferrara.”

“Surely the Queen forgave your mother then.”

“Alas, she did not.”

“How could she fault your mother for rejecting him?”

“She blamed her for hearing him at all. After that, my mother never regained favor—nor did he—although Her Majesty kept the books Marot had given her.”

“My guardian gave me his Psalms .”

“Yes, your guardian was his patron. He offered us this position teaching you for love of him.”

In silence, I took this in. My enemy had been my teacher’s benefactor. My guardian tormented me with psalms, and later the same verses comforted me. He had carried me away aboard a ship, where I pledged myself to a princely man, his servant. How was life so full of contradictions? Good and evil intermixed—but I could never say that. I could not explain it—nor could I excuse my behavior to one so pious as the Queen. “Claire,” I whispered.

“What is it?”

“I cannot speak before Her Majesty.”

“If she asks, you must appear.”

But I was thinking of my disobedience. “If she was offended by your mother, what will she think of me?”

“That you have suffered,” Claire said. “That you repent your sins and forgive all the wrongs done you.”

“The first part is true,” I told her. As for the rest, I was afraid to say.