Chapter 41
41
There had never been a feast more sumptuous, and yet I tasted none of it. The meats, the wines, the sugared almonds, were like paste to me. Silver gleamed in candlelight. Bright as ice, our crystal goblets sparkled. The peacocks were a wonder with their iridescent feathers fanned out on the table, but my eyes were fixed upon the Queen.
She was not young, nor was she merry. Her face was white, and she was quiet. She wore her hair in a dark snood like a blackbird’s wing. Her gown was rich but did not sparkle with a thousand jewels. She wore just one, a pendant shining like a star. She sat at a high table with her hosts, and they spoke eagerly to her, but she said little as she inclined her head to listen.
When jesters pranced and tumbled, she did not seem amused. While musicians played their horns and viols, she sat back, folding her hands. I was not placed near, and yet I saw her nod as one might encourage children. She seemed the picture of forbearance—and then, suddenly, she stood to leave during the performance.
The music stopped. There was a rustling and a scrape of chairs. Lord Montfort bowed as Her Majesty murmured an excuse.
Was she displeased or fatigued? Could she be unwell? She turned to go, and with a shock I realized she would not see me. Roberval had worked his poison. He had told her I’d seduced his servant. Whatever I might say, he had prejudiced the Queen.
As once I stood upon the shore, I watched from my seat far down the table. As I had watched my guardian’s ships sail by, I saw my chance slip away—and yet, the Queen spoke to Lady Katherine. Even as Her Majesty departed, Lady Katherine beckoned me to follow.
For a moment, I feared there had been some mistake—but again, she beckoned—and this time, I moved to join Lady Katherine and her stepdaughters.
Courtiers stared. They watched my every move now that the Queen had summoned me. As I joined Her Majesty’s procession, I sensed them wondering and whispering. I held my head up, but I felt sick knowing Roberval was watching.
—
What chance did I have? Yet the Queen had asked for me. I stepped into the gold chamber where Her Majesty was now enthroned. Her ladies wore rich colors, and in her black gown the Queen seemed the velvet center of a flower.
When Lady Katherine presented me, I curtseyed low.
“Come closer.” Her Majesty’s voice was small and light, not imperious as I’d imagined.
Drawing near, I saw her eyes were gray. Standing before her, I saw that her face was lined with age. She had a sharp nose and a small mouth and kept her lips closed. Her starry pendant was a cross fashioned of three rubies and two citrines, and from the bottom of this cross hung three great pearls like teardrops.
“You are Marguerite de la Rocque,” Her Majesty told me.
“Yes.”
“Speak up,” she commanded, but she said it with good humor.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Tell me of yourself,” Her Majesty invited, but my throat was dry. She expected truth, and I was wary, loath to confirm Roberval’s account of me. “Don’t be afraid,” she encouraged me.
“My father was Jean de la Rocque,” I began. “And he died fighting for the King in Pavia.”
I said this, knowing the Queen’s devotion to His Majesty, her brother, but she only nodded. “Tell me of yourself.”
“I was born here,” I began.
She interrupted. “You have been a traveler.”
“Yes. I journeyed with my guardian to the New World.”
“So I have heard from Lady Katherine and Lord Roberval. Yours was a rare voyage.”
My cheeks burned as I replied, “I am honored that you think so because I know that you collect such stories.”
Graciously she said, “Yes. And I have written yours.”
Written it! I could not conceal my surprise. Written my own story? Before meeting me? I was startled by this news and frightened. Not only had Roberval spoken to her, but she had transcribed his words. Downcast, I said, “I do not deserve the honor.”
“This is why I wished to see you. Because it pleases me to meet my subjects and to hear all they have to say.”
The Queen’s ladies smiled at this play on words, but I, who was her subject, thought, What can I say? How can I answer you? Not with indignation. Not with sorrow. “You shall hear everything you like,” I said slowly. “I have but one request.”
Her Majesty seemed amused that I should ask her anything. “What is it?”
“That you tell me what you have written first. I am not a writer or a scholar. Therefore I beg you to read your tale so that speaking after, I may raise my words to yours.”
For a moment, the Queen did not answer—yet she smiled and looked on me with interest—and I knew that I had flattered her, for her pride was not in her appearance or her wealth but in her learning and her manuscripts. “Sit by me.”
In an instant, all her ladies parted to prepare a chair. Indeed, Lady Katherine gave me her own, just below Her Majesty.
An attendant fetched the Queen’s writing box, and another hurried to retrieve her spectacles. The ladies bustled in anticipation of this honor—to hear their sovereign read. But during these preparations, the Queen leaned down to speak to me alone. “Do not fear.”
“Your Majesty?” I lifted my face to hers.
She added, “And do not think it strange.”
I nodded, although it would be strange to hear her read my story.
“Let me set your heart at ease,” she said. “For I know from Lady Katherine how you prayed after your husband’s death—and I do not dwell on your mistakes.”
“You are too generous,” I said.
Softly she continued, “You paid dearly for your disobedience, and I will not compound your punishment. I do not write about your faults; I praise your suffering instead.”
Astonished, I gazed upon the Queen. I wanted to thank her—but gratitude meant admitting guilt, acknowledging my sins and none of Roberval’s. “Your Majesty,” I began.
She stopped me with her raised hand. “Yours is a tale of faith, as you shall hear.”
Then the Queen received her writing box and took up her spectacles. Lifting the glasses to her eyes, she secured them with ribbons behind her ears and riffled through the pages of her manuscript. The room hushed. Every lady listened, and I bowed my head as she read aloud.
“ This happened on Roberval’s voyage to the Isle of Canada. The King had appointed him leader of the expedition, and if the climate proved favorable, he was to settle there and establish towns and chateaux. To populate the land with Christians, Roberval brought artisans of all kinds—but one of these was base enough to betray his master—and nearly caused his capture by the natives. ”
A base artisan? I thought. Natives almost capturing my guardian? I looked up but said nothing, for I could not correct the Queen.
“ Fortunately, the plot was exposed, and Roberval seized the traitor. He intended to mete out the punishment he deserved—but the man’s wife who had traveled with him, suffering all the dangers of the sea, could not bear to watch him die. ” Here the Queen looked kindly on me, and her ladies murmured softly so that the gold chamber filled with approbation.
“ She wept and pleaded until the ship’s captain and crew took pity and left man and wife with just a few possessions on a little island. There they built a humble cottage and survived by killing and eating wild animals. But when their bread ran out, the husband fell sick, and though the wife prayed for his recovery, he passed from this world to the next, leaving her alone to fight the lions in that place. ”
Why did she say lions when I told Lady Katherine of bears? I did not understand it—but I heard Damienne’s voice. Hold still. Don’t ask. Do not let your back so much as touch your chair.
“ And she lived on, shooting the wild beasts with her arquebus. And she spent her time reading scripture so that although her body was half-dead, her soul was joyous. ”
Joyous! I thought. Am I comforted so quickly?
“ In prayer, she spent her days until, by God’s grace, one of Roberval’s ships sailed past, and seeing the smoke of her fire, he decided to learn what had happened to the couple he had left upon the island. ”
I looked up in alarm.
“ The poor woman saw the ship and dragged herself to the shore just as the ship landed. ”
“No,” I whispered.
“ The men could not believe how she had lived, except with the help of God, who can sustain his servants in a barren desert just as he would at a great feast. When at last they knew they must return, they took her with them… ”
“They did not.” The words escaped me. “His men did not rescue me.”
The Queen looked up, and she was quiet. The ladies hushed as Her Majesty considered me.
At last, the Queen spoke. “Roberval says they did.”
Now, if I had been wise, I would have acquiesced. If I had been prudent, I would have remembered not to argue with a Queen—but my guardian’s injustice burned, and hearing this lie, I could not control myself. “No. It was not so! I fired my gun. I stood upon the shore where Roberval’s ships were close enough to hail. I called out, knowing they could see and hear me, yet they sailed on. I lived alone until by chance Basque fishermen found me.”
The Queen’s ladies gasped to hear me speak so.
“Do you call the King’s viceroy a liar?” the Queen demanded.
I could have called him many things but said no more. The truth did not belong to me—nor was it the Queen’s. This fact remained. The King favored Roberval, and even the King’s sister could not cross His Majesty. “Forgive me.”
The Queen shut her manuscript within its box. “You dare to contradict me.”
“No!”
“Now she contradicts me in her own defense,” the Queen said drily.
I could only think, What have I done? The Queen’s tale had been generous. Why did I amend it? She had spoken to me kindly. Why, then, did I provoke her with my anger? Because Roberval had provoked me. He had trapped me once again.
I said, “Your Majesty, I was wrong. I beg you to conclude your story.”
“You beg me now?” The Queen handed off her spectacles. “You correct me and then beg me to finish reading?”
I looked toward Lady Katherine, and she was frowning. I glanced at Louise and Anne, but they would not meet my eye. I was alone. No one could speak for me—and so I spoke for myself. “Your Majesty, I beg you. Listen to my imperfect ending. I am not good, and I am not virtuous—but I did promise myself to one worthy of my love, and we were cast away upon an island, where we suffered in the winter cold. When my husband died, a white bear devoured his body, and I shot that beast and stained the snow with his blood.”
The Queen flinched, but I continued, “As for my faith, sinner that I am, I lost hope while I lived in darkness. More than once, I wished to die, for I was wretched, body and soul. My servant died upon that island and my newborn babe as well. And I, who was the least of them, survived.
“Do not write of me as uncomplaining. Rage consumed me until I thought I would grow mad. And yet I hunted, and I fought and killed another bear.”
Now the ladies murmured, thrilled and dismayed. I sensed them leaning in to hear, even as the Queen listened intently.
I said, “I wish I could tell you I grew mild and forgiving, but it did not happen while I was living in the dark.”
“How did you live?” the Queen asked.
“How? The question was why I should keep struggling. To melt snow and gather kindling. To thaw my hands, to wrap myself in rags against the wind. I prayed for an answer and heard none.”
All this I told the Queen—and I felt grim satisfaction, exposing my own bitterness. It was a relief, as though I could outdo Roberval. Let him describe my crimes; I lay my heart bare. Before all the ladies of the court, I said, “In truth, I nearly died of loneliness.”
“But you did not.” The Queen was serious and almost yearning as she gazed at me. “Where did you find strength?”
At that moment, I forgot my royal audience. I no longer sensed the court surrounding me. I thought of the white fox and the five-petalled flower. The stars at night. The shattering waves. I considered offering these visions, but I held them close. I would not trade on all I had seen and felt. Instead, I told what I had read. “Psalms did comfort me,” I told the Queen. “And I meditated on these words. That we are dust. Our lives are brief as grass. These had been my lessons before sailing. I had learned the verses, but I never understood them until I lived on the island.”
Now the Queen touched my shoulder. “Did you know then that God remembered you?”
“I knew I had forgotten him.”
The room was silent as I made this confession. The air was dead. Then the Queen spoke. “That is how it feels to struggle with your faith.”
Suddenly, her ladies murmured too, as though they knew exactly what she meant.
“All alone, I recited verses,” I told the Queen. “Until I turned to God again.”
Her Majesty sat back. “Christ guided you in wisdom, for your isle became a haven, and your solitude a refuge.”
“A burden,” I answered slowly. “A trial I longed to end. For I remained unworthy. I never embraced exile or accepted misery. As you see, I do not belong in your book of stories. I am a sinner.”
“As we all are,” the Queen said.
“But I cannot be a lesson for your readers.”
Her Majesty’s expression hardened. I had come so close—and now I’d overstepped again. “Will you tell me what to write?”
“No!”
“What to include and what to omit?”
“I only meant that I am undeserving.”
The room was still. The ladies watched their Queen as sailors watch for wind.
When at last she spoke, the Queen’s voice was quiet. All leaned forward as Her Majesty addressed me.
“I have felt as you have,” the Queen said. “I have doubted and despaired. I have known my soul to be wicked, and I have searched in scripture for the comfort that you found. I have been alone, bereft, but I know now that in solitude we find our way, and in learning, and in God’s word. Do not be surprised,” she added, “to hear that I have also searched for truth and certainty, and I have found them rarer and more precious than pearls.”
She looked to her jeweled ladies, and they nodded, even as they glittered in the candlelight.
“Those who know their faults are truly wise,” the Queen said. “And those who have endured the worst have most to teach. Do not say, then, that your story does not deserve retelling. Tell me, rather, how I might reward you for offering what you have learned.”
I heard this with a rush of joy. Although I had been foolish, I had also spoken well. I had gambled on the truth, and I’d been right to try.
“Tell me,” the Queen said. “What might I provide?”
“Nothing for myself.”
“Nothing?”
“I ask instead for one more virtuous than I will ever be. I have a sister—not by blood but friendship. Claire D’Artois and I grew up and learned together until my journey. Her mother is my teacher, the widow Madame D’Artois, who served you many years ago.”
The Queen looked grave, but I continued. “Claire is the emblem of modesty. When she was a child, you gave her this ring, which she gave me when I left home. I lost this ring on the island in the snow, but with God’s help I recovered it, and by this ring, your signet, Claire knew me when I returned.
“You see that neither salt nor blood nor snow could corrupt this ring of gold—and so it is with promises. Long ago, I vowed that Claire should become a bride of Christ. She has nothing to her name, but I have always hoped for funds to pay her dowry.”
“It is beautiful,” Her Majesty said, “to give your gift away, and I trust your choice is wise, for I remember Jacqueline D’Artois’s daughter, and she is as good as she is lovely. Bring me a purse,” she told her attendant.
In a moment, this servant brought a heavy pouch of leather, and Her Majesty directed the purse to me. “Give this to the abbess of Nontron and tell her I commend Claire D’Artois to her care.”
“My thanks,” I said with lowered eyes.
Now the Queen stood, and every lady in the room stood with her. But before she turned to go, Her Majesty looked kindly on me because I had done what was good and right, and she said, “One word more. What of yourself?”
“I would follow my sister to Nontron if I could—and I would teach if it were possible. Not only those rich enough to pay, but poor daughters and orphans like myself. I should do for many what Jacqueline D’Artois has done for me.” I paused, knowing this was bold, and then I said it anyway. “As Christine de Pizan conceived a city all of ladies, so I imagine building a school for girls.”
Silence to hear me speak this way. Uneasy rustling as the Queen’s ladies waited for the Queen’s response.
“It is uncommon,” she said at last.
I bowed my head.
“Why, then, do you propose such a thing?”
“So that I might serve.”
“And these poor orphans,” said the Queen. “Would you teach them to sew and spin?”
“Not only that, but how to read and write as ladies do.”
“That is impractical,” Her Majesty declared, and I knew she meant that poor girls should learn housewifery.
“I should like to try,” I murmured.
“How would it serve such girls to read?”
That they might learn, I thought. That they might think and know. But remembering Damienne I said, “That they might pray and study scripture deeply. That they might be comforted.”
The Queen looked gently at me, and yet she asked, “Is it right to teach the poor alongside those born better?”
“Are not the poor blessed?” I answered her. “And won’t they share the kingdom of heaven?”
The Queen nodded, and so her ladies nodded too. “But you say that you would build this school yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Although you are a woman.”
“I would lay the bricks with my own hands. I would furnish it and set food on the table. Gather wood and light the fire every morning.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The Queen spoke to her attendant, and while this woman hurried off, all waited.
When the lady returned, she walked slowly, bearing a silver casket. And this was a strongbox so weighty she could scarcely carry it.
“Open it,” the Queen told me.
Then while her attendant held the casket, I opened the lid. All around me, I heard ladies whispering. Softly they murmured as I gazed on gold écus, perfect, shining.
“This gift shall be for you,” said the Queen. “And not for lands, or ships, or marrying. Go to Nontron with your friend, and I shall write a charter for your school.”
“Most gracious Queen…” I began to express my thanks, my awe, my own unworthiness.
Her Majesty stopped me with her hand. “I prefer to remember what you said before.”
Then I saw that gratitude, like other entertainments, wearied her, so I thanked the Queen concisely, bowing in reverence as she took her leave.
The Queen’s ladies filed after her, and they were silent, although their eyes were lively. They made their way to chambers strewn with herbs and sweet pomanders where they might talk and laugh and gossip about the evening.
At last, when they were gone, I stood with Lady Katherine and her daughters, who were bubbling with excitement.
“I knew she would enjoy your tale more than any other entertainment,” Lady Katherine congratulated herself. “The way you spoke—”
“With perfect humility,” said Anne.
Louise touched my sleeve. “And you looked so well!”
Like rare perfume, the Queen’s favor clung to me, but I knew the scent would fade, and I was anxious to secure my treasure. “Let me change into my old clothes,” I said. “This gown is too good.”
“Not at all,” Lady Katherine said graciously.
But I said, “I am self-conscious in such jewels. I must return to my own chamber, and I do not want anyone to look at me.”
Lady Katherine called her maids, and together they unlaced, unpinned, and changed me into Claire’s blue gown. At my request, Collette washed my face and dried me with soft linens so that my perfect skin and scarlet lips were gone.
“Oh, you were beautiful before,” Louise said.
But I told her, “I would not frighten my companions, appearing so grand.”
After that, a servant lit my way, but I carried the Queen’s heavy gifts myself. And as I climbed the tower stairs, I held my future in my hands.