Chapter 9
A priest with a grey mustache stepped up to the altar for the communal confession.
élisabeth forced herself to look away from Jeanne Roy and the native women.
It would not be long now until she would know if the curse was lifted.
When the pangs in her belly would cease and she would once again know the sanctified peace that she had lost that night in the tavern, when her life changed with the flick of a witch’s finger.
Unless—if there were a demon inside her, might she pull a face and recoil as the Eucharist touched her tongue?
She stood to recite the Confiteor in French, then sat when the priest switched into Latin to enumerate their sins.
She let the incomprehensible words wash over her and glanced around the nave.
This newly built chapel was much smaller than the church in Saint-Philbert.
Though still modest, their place of worship back home was infinitely richer than this.
Three hundred years old and built from the same uneven stone as the rest of the dwellings in her part of Normandy, the church had the comforting look of an old amber-and-brown patchwork shawl.
Inside its walls was the memory of centuries of penitent devotion.
Protective, penitent devotion. The contrast with a chapel so new she could smell the sap from the freshly cut pine boards made her worry.
Rémy had told her to find the strongest cure she could, even if she had to travel far from Saint-Philbert to discover it.
Was this new chapel on the edge of the world sacred enough for the task?
The Sulpician priest rang the altar bells and stepped back to prepare the Eucharist. élisabeth clasped her hands.
“Stop your twisting about,” Marthe muttered beside her but élisabeth did not care if her sister was ashamed of her.
It was time, finally. élisabeth prodded Marthe to get up, and when she dallied, élisabeth pushed past her to the altar.
The body of Christ. Her mouth was already dry when the priest placed the unleavened bread on her tongue.
She fell to her knees and nearly wept with relief when she neither grimaced nor brayed from the touch of the Eucharist. Still, her heart beat so forcefully she thought she might die.
She remembered a prayer that called on sinners to prostrate themselves before God, so she lowered herself onto her elbows and stretched out face down on the floor. The stone was cool on her forehead.
Have mercy upon me, O Christ, the hope, refuge, and support of sinners.
“Lili has fainted!” A voice behind her cried.
Graciously this day hear my prayer and rid me of this curse. But there was no steam, no contortions, no last howls of the damned.
“It is the heat, there are too many of us in this chapel.”
O God my God, I humbly implore and beseech Thee, if there be an unclean spirit within me, cast this demon back to Hell. In the Holy Virgin’s name, I pray.
“Stand back, stand back. Let her breathe.”
“Get up, Lili,” Marthe whispered in her ear. “For pity’s sake, get up.”
élisabeth raised her head an inch off the stone floor. Had it worked? Or did she feel the same?
“My sister is very delicate. She needs some air.”
I have greatly sinned… through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.
“Let me assist you, child.”
“It’s the governor, he’s helping her!”
“Oh, thank you sir,” Marthe exclaimed.
“I need a moment longer,” élisabeth rasped. She could hardly breathe and felt as if she might faint dead away.
“Give me space,” the governor said. The crowd stood back. The nobleman crouched over her, hooking her under both arms and pulling her to her feet.
It was too soon. Her head swam and she did not even know if the curse was lifted. She felt the governor’s hands travel from under her arms to her waist, where they lingered for a moment, before he set her down on the bench.
“You are quite safe now,” he said, his face full of concern. She twisted away. She was not safe in the least. In fact, with his actions, the governor had perhaps snatched her from the safety she had travelled across an ocean to reach.
“Are you well, Lili?” The brides fussed around her.
“She is pale.”
“Thank you, Governor de Lafredière,” Sister Gagnon said gruffly. “We are in your debt.”
“I am glad to have been of service.” He gave the nun an elegant bow.
Before élisabeth could rest, Marthe took her by the arm and tried to guide her towards the chapel door. But both brides and suitors surged into the aisle, sending the sisters stumbling into the arm of a pew.
Sister Gagnon struggled to gather her flock. “Everyone out,” she ordered the brides.
Most of the men had rushed out of the chapel, lining the pathway to greet the brides as they left, while a few remained inside the nave to pick off any stragglers. Some of the younger girls were swarmed and burst into nervous laughter as Sister Brodeur tried to corral them towards the exit.
No sooner had Marthe and élisabeth walked through the chapel door than a man with a shy grin stepped forward to address them.
He was not old enough to have much of a beard, and his thick brown hair was cut short at the back, making him seem even younger.
“May I escort you through the village?” he said to them.
“I need to sit down,” élisabeth said faintly.
“I should stay with my sister.”
“It’s just… I would be honoured to show you my shop,” the man persisted. “I took over the business earlier this year. It is the best… rather, it is said to be the best bakehouse in the village. I have seen an increase in my income year after year.”
“You are a craftsman? With a living in town?” Marthe asked.
“Yes. I am a master baker.”
Marthe let élisabeth’s hand drop and stood blinking at the man for a moment.
Then she smiled. “Perhaps my sister can wait by this tree until she is well enough to walk.” She turned to whisper in élisabeth’s ear.
“It will do no harm to get the measure of some of these men before we make our choices, after all.”
Before élisabeth could protest, Marthe walked down the path with the stranger, leaving her outside the H?tel Dieu.
élisabeth gripped a tree with one hand and tried to steady her breathing.
She looked around: Sister Gagnon had been waylaid by the mustached priest at the church door, and the other brides were taking advantage of her distraction to chat eagerly to their suitors.
Only Jeanne Roy did not have a man hanging by her side.
Instead, she walked through the hospital gates with the two native women, her eyes bright.
Then, élisabeth spotted a man with a long beard slinking around the chapel door.
His eyes were dark and hard, and on his cheek was a scar from a branding iron that marked him as a thief.
The skin on the back of élisabeth’s neck prickled.
She looked for help but most of the brides had left the H?tel Dieu grounds and Sister Gagnon was nowhere to be seen.
élisabeth pushed herself off the tree and started to walk towards the gate.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw the man take steps to follow her.
She hurried to catch up with Marthe, turning right onto Rue Saint-Paul and breaking into a stride.
She did not get more than ten paces along the road before the branded man overtook her.
He blocked her path and leered, revealing a gap where his front teeth should have been.
“Hello, my beauty.”
élisabeth stopped in her tracks. She glanced around her.
She could see Marthe and her companion in the distance, peering into the window of a house.
She tried to move past the roughneck, but he loomed right and forced her to turn on her heel.
She started back towards the hospital. Still he followed.
“What’s yer name? What’s the harm in telling me yer name?”
She felt a jolt in her stomach, as though a horse had reared up and landed a blow. She crossed to the south side of the street. The man followed, weaving and darting around her like a sheepdog herding a ewe. Without thinking, she ducked down the alley to her left.
Several empty market stalls were crushed together along the laneway. Before one of them stood a native man with long hair down his back and nothing on his chest but a silver gorget. Startled by the sight of his bare flesh, élisabeth quickened her pace past him.
“Don’t run, my beauty.” The branded man was so close behind her she could smell his breath when he spoke. “If it’s a tour of the fur fair you want, I can show you. Bet you’ve never seen a savage up close before.”
“Leave me be,” élisabeth blurted. The end of the alleyway opened onto the common.
élisabeth started to break into a run, then halted.
All along the riverbank, as far as the eye could see, were native men and their tents.
More men than she had ever seen in her life.
Dozens of fires dotted the shore, and the smell of meat cooking rose in the air.
French men milled about, drinking straight from bottles of liquor and laughing at two women hiking up their skirts to squat on the ground.
Another drunkard spotted élisabeth and called out to her pursuer, “Who d’you got there, Claude?” He was tall with greasy hair hanging around his face. élisabeth froze. She was now trapped between the two men.
“One of them new brides,” Claude said proudly. “I’m showin’ her the fur fair.”
The taller man smiled at her. “He’s not worth yer time. Let me show you.”
“She’s mine,” the one called Claude growled. The men squared off, as if they might fight.
“Please,” élisabeth begged, breathing in short, quick gulps. “I don’t want to see the fur fair.”
Her words broke the men’s hostility towards each other. They closed ranks and turned to face her.
“That’s not very polite,” the taller one said. He spat in the dirt and then rubbed his heel in his saliva. “My friend Claude is givin’ you a tour. It’s not nice to leave a man adrift.”
“And if my mate Graton wants to cut in, it’s only right to give him a turn.”
élisabeth’s heart pounded. “My sister is waiting…” Her voice trailed off as both men took another step closer.
“D’you think you’re too good for the likes of us just because the governor came to your rescue?” The one with the brand grimaced. “He might get the first swive, but he won’t get the last.”
“The king only sent you girls over to convince us to stay in this hellhole,” the taller one leered.
élisabeth felt a jolt of terror when she saw he was rubbing a knife on his breeches.
He laughed at her surprise, raising his knife so that she could see the glint of its blade. Claude leaned in, his mouth open.
“Don’t forget your place. You’re a whore sent to keep us happy.”
He licked her cheek with a warm, slippery tongue.
Overpowered by disgust, élisabeth erupted.
In a surge of strength, she clamped her teeth down onto Claude’s face, pulling back so hard that she ripped his bottom lip. When she opened her eyes, she saw that it hung loose and bleeding from his face.
“Christ, what was that?”
“She bi’ me! Tha’ whore bi’ me!” He struggled to speak through his torn lip.
Before the taller man could grab her, élisabeth swivelled and gouged at his eyes with her fingernails.
He dropped his knife. As he scrambled to pick it up, she kicked him in the head.
She heard a crack and he fell to the ground, clutching his face as the blood streamed from his nose and through his fingers.
Staring at the men on the ground, élisabeth began to shake. It started as a deep pulsing in her thighs that travelled down her calves. Her stomach quivered and roiled, her heart pounded. What had she done?
She ran back towards Rue Saint-Paul, past the empty market stalls, towards the little chapel, now silent as a ghost.
How had she bested two men? Two men at once?
She tasted the branded man’s blood as it dripped into her mouth and recalled the priest’s words: Strength surpassing anything a mortal woman might be capable of.
In that moment she knew. There was no question of how she had managed to savage her attackers.
Like the nuns of Louviers, tormented and broken by unclean spirits, the Devil had control of her flesh.
The witch had not just cursed her.
She had sent a demon to dwell within her.
She was possessed.