Chapter 1 #2
The priest élisabeth had seen on the main deck strode into the cavern.
He was old, and his belly so large it looked as though he were hiding a cauldron under his cassock.
By his side was a man with a weather-beaten face and greying hair that curled in waves above his head.
The chaperone took a step back as they approached.
“Our very survival depends on it, captain,” the priest said slowly, his face pinched, and his head cocked to one side, as if it were painful for him to listen to the other man’s concerns.
“Your quest would delay our departure by hours,” the captain explained. “The winds can easily shift, and we must take advantage of favourable conditions. If we get stuck in port, we risk eating into provisions that will be needed on the voyage.”
A smile crossed the priest’s lips, relief perhaps, at this being the sum of the old sailor’s argument.
“Captain, your passengers can survive days without food. My concern is for the survival of our souls. I must be certain that none of the Norman witches have made their way onto this ship. I must ask every girl to produce her certificate of good conduct.”
“Father de Sancy, this is your first journey across the Atlantic. You do not understand how fickle the sea can be. She is not to be trusted. We must leave now, no matter if a stowaway has crept aboard.”
“Captain, you do not understand.” The priest leaned forward, his eyes keen. “The witches I seek were convicted, set to burn. When the king chose to banish them instead, there was outrage across Normandy that they were allowed to scurry away like rats, rather than paying for their crimes.”
The captain opened his mouth to speak but the priest held up a finger to indicate he had not finished.
“The Parlement of Rouen took quite a risk in engaging me to track them down, against the wishes of King Louis himself. Does that not indicate to you how dangerous these witches are? You fear the fickle sea. Imagine one of these witches on your ship? The storms she might conjure? Or how she might steal the wind, leaving us drifting for weeks or months on end? There would be no hope of survival.”
élisabeth gripped her hands so tightly that her fingers ached. She wished the men would take their debate elsewhere, but they did not appear to be concerned with frightening the passengers, as if debating within earshot of the brides was like conversing in front of livestock.
The captain rubbed his chin. “What makes you so certain any of these witches are aboard the Saint-Jean-Baptiste?”
“According to the courthouse clerk, the most powerful among the Norman witches—their queen, if you will—took a coach to the coast after she was set free. It stands to reason, does it not? Where else would a banished witch hide but on a ship of brides bound for the New World?”
The captain looked around the deck at the girls-for-marrying, huddled and cramped in their cots. Finally, he turned back to the priest. “Very well. Do your search.”
The captain retreated and the priest turned to the lady in the shadows. “Madame étienne, please arrange for your girls to stand before me with their letters of good conduct in hand. And be quick about it.”
Madame étienne fluttered and frowned. “Father de Sancy… I can’t… it’s just… not all the parishes sent them with certificates…”
“Any girl without a letter vouching for her good conduct must rightly be suspected of witchcraft,” the priest insisted.
élisabeth fumbled in the folds of her skirt for her own letter.
She pulled it out and stared at the document.
It was short: the black scrawl on the paper stretched not longer than the length of her hand.
At the very top was an ink spot the size of a coin: the blot that betrayed the lie.
The words were a mystery to her; she could not read and did not know what Father Paul had written.
Would this inquisitor, this Father de Sancy, be able to see that the words on the page were a deception?
“Father, there are more than a hundred girls on this ship,” the chaperone said. “More than a quarter will not have certificates. I can vouch for all of the Parisians… I recruited them for the colony myself. They are impeccable… irreproachable.”
The priest frowned. “Then we shall leave aside your Parisians and interrogate only the Normans. It is among that duchy’s women that we will find whom we seek.”
“I don’t know where they…” The chaperone’s hands churned helplessly. “The girls from Normandy could be anywhere amongst us…”
“Over there!” A voice piped up from the other side of the deck. “I heard a Norman over there, under the light well.”
“You girls, there. Come out with your letters ready for inspection.”
“Come on, Lili.” Marthe swung herself out of the bunk and stood up. “They’ve heard us speak. They’ve worked out where we’re from.”
Slowly, with shoulders hunched, élisabeth followed Marthe, praying, “Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” She kept one hand on her letter while slipping the other into her pocket to grip her rosary.
She could feel the girls around them perk up and watch eagerly for what might happen next.
The chaperone swung an oil lamp in their direction.
“Good, good.” She sighed, as if all the unpleasantness would come to an end now that she had lined them up in a neat row for the priest to inspect. “I know there are at least a dozen more of you from Normandy. Do stand up so we can proceed.”
More girls clutching folded letters rose and shuffled over to where élisabeth and Marthe stood in the light well.
The chaperone moved from bunk to bunk, murmuring to herself, “Paris, Amiens, Paris,” ticking off the girls she knew.
Occasionally she paused to question a shrinking figure.
“Remind me where…?” When the timid reply came back negative—“Reims, Madame étienne, if you please” or “Orléans, thanks be to Our Lady”—she moved on, leaving the rattled girl to collapse back on her bunk.
Others were not so lucky, and despite their protests were gripped by the arm and made to stand up.
Some fifteen girls were eventually herded into the middle of the deck. Carefully, élisabeth opened Father Paul’s letter, ready for inspection, and motioned for Marthe to do the same.
Father de Sancy called for a sailor to hold up a lamp and moved towards élisabeth. “Your letter, please.”
She was instantly struck dumb. She had not expected to be first. Her arms were frozen to her sides, her certificate of good conduct shaking in her hands. She bowed her head to mask her trembling lips.
“Now, I know you cannot be deaf,” the priest said. “Because the king has instructed that only good female specimens be sent to the colony.”
élisabeth wasn’t certain if he was trying to put her at her ease or get a laugh out of the sailors, some of whom sniggered at her. She glanced at the paper in her hand and almost expected the words to slither across the page, the lies snaking away from the priest’s trained eye.
“I-I can hear,” she stammered, passing him the letter and ducking into a quick curtsey. The witch hunter peered at the village priest’s words. When Father de Sancy looked up at her, she saw his eyes were watery and his nose was mottled red with lumps and veins.
“What is your name?”
“élisabeth Jossard.”
“Have you ever been in attendance at a witches’ sabbath, élisabeth Jossard?” His eyes searched hers.
“No, Father.” She shook her head, almost not believing the question. Who would ever admit to such an atrocity?
“Have you been rebaptised in the name of Satan?”
“No, Father,” she said more emphatically.
“Has anyone you know died an unnatural death?”
élisabeth hesitated. Her younger brother had died a fool’s death, drinking too much and trying to cross the Orne at night.
It was his drowning that had started their string of bad luck.
Her older brother had lost a fight with fever and died within the year, and it was the grief over losing both his sons that had caused Papa to fall ill.
The whole of Saint-Philbert knew of their exceptional misfortune, but had it been more? Had it been unnatural?
“No, Father,” Marthe interrupted. “I am her sister, and I can vouch that no one in our family has suffered an unnatural death. Our mother died in childbirth many years ago and our father left us just three months past for the Kingdom of Heaven. We are orphans with no home of our own. We are ready to start a new life in Canada, with the help of God and the king.”
Father de Sancy frowned at the interruption and looked from one sister to the other. “I see the resemblance,” he murmured, handing élisabeth back her letter. He turned to Marthe. “Your sister is more comely but appears to be simple. How old are you, child?”
“Almost sixteen,” Marthe replied.
“Then you are fifteen. An exaggeration is a lie. Are you a liar?”
“No, Father. I beg your pardon. I am fifteen.” If Marthe felt stung by the rebuke, she did not show it. Not for the first time, élisabeth envied her courage.
“Have you ever attended a witches’ sabbath?”
“No, Father,” said Marthe, her voice calm.
“What do you know of Chamberlen’s Secret?” The priest leaned so close to them that élisabeth could smell the onions on his breath.
Marthe shrugged. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Yet, we already know that you are a liar. Perhaps you are lying again? How do we know that you have not hidden the Secret about your person? Perhaps deep in the recesses of your skirts?” Father de Sancy’s tone had turned severe.
“You can have a look in my pocket, Father. It’s got my rosary and nothing else. I have no secrets.”
élisabeth wanted to reach out and pinch Marthe to remind her of her place but instead stood stock-still as the priest studied them. Without another word he moved on to the next bride. élisabeth’s shoulders sagged with relief and her heart thumped so loudly she could not hear their exchange.
She had passed the inquisition. The lie had been believed. élisabeth raised the letter that had delivered her from suspicion to her lips to kiss it.
Except it was no longer there.
Her hands were empty. Her certificate of good conduct had disappeared.
She looked to her feet, and then all around her.
Nothing. The letter had vanished. Then she saw a rustle of movement and caught the eye of a woman jostling back into line a few places down from Marthe.
As the light from the oil lamp grew closer to the woman, élisabeth could see that she did not wear a mended chemise or rough woolen skirt like the Jossard sisters.
She had on a rich-coloured dress with a falling collar and long-waisted bodice that sloped into a deep point.
élisabeth peered at the fabric. It was velvet.
Velvet for wealth and a promise made to be broken.
Velvet for an unbiddable bride. The dress opened at the front to reveal a stain on her petticoats.
Maybe mud? élisabeth was gazing at the frilled sleeves peeking out at the woman’s elbow when she froze.
In the woman’s hand was élisabeth’s letter of good conduct, instantly recognizable by the inkblot at the top of the page.
She opened her mouth to protest, to alert the old priest to the theft, to clamour for the return of the life-saving letter but halted when she saw the woman’s face. It was as dark as the depths of a well, her eyes fixed in a pointed glare. Slowly, the woman raised her finger to her lips.
As if under a spell, élisabeth fell silent.
Father de Sancy moved towards the woman with the velvet dress. She handed him élisabeth’s certificate of good conduct and waited. The priest squinted at the letter for a second time in as many minutes.
“Recite the Apostles’ Creed.”
“As you wish,” the woman bowed her head and began to say the prayer out loud. Her vowels were crisp and her cadence smooth. élisabeth ogled to get a better view of her.
“Have you a mole on any part of your body?” the priest continued.
“No.” There was a hint of defiance in her voice, but she kept her eyes lowered.
“That’s what all the witches say, but when we strip them naked, we can see with our own eyes the mark the Evil One has left upon them.”
élisabeth followed the thief’s gaze and saw that her hands were balled into fists.
“Father de Sancy, will removing their clothing be necessary?” The chaperone fluttered at the fringes of the priest’s vision.
He waved her away. “Tell me. What purpose does Chamberlen’s Secret serve?”
The woman in velvet said nothing.
“Have you ever heard of Chamberlen’s Secret?” Marthe asked, elbowing élisabeth in the ribs.
The priest swivelled around, searching for the interruption. “Hold your tongue! The Devil is about, and I must not be distracted.” He turned back to the woman in the velvet dress. “I repeat. For what evil purpose do witches employ Chamberlen’s Secret?”
élisabeth thought the woman with the velvet dress would not answer, so long did she take to speak.
“I cannot fathom any evil purpose this secret might serve.”
The priest stood back and squinted, as if trying to read the woman’s face. After a moment he handed élisabeth’s letter back to her and moved on down the line.
“What in Heaven’s name is Chamberlen’s Secret?” Marthe asked when the priest was far enough away not to hear. élisabeth did not trust her voice to answer. She shook her head, willing her sister to be silent.
Marthe bent down, picking up a sheet of paper. “Honestly, Lili, how can you be so careless? You’ve dropped your letter.”
élisabeth looked at the certificate of good conduct in Marthe’s hand. “How…?” Her mind raced. The woman in velvet was in possession of her letter, was she not? Or had élisabeth imagined it? She whipped round.
The woman with the stained velvet dress was nowhere to be seen.
She had simply faded into the darkness.