Chapter 27
There wasn’t another soul on Rue Saint-Paul.
élisabeth and Maman Poulin bowed their heads against the cold, linking arms to move as one down the street.
élisabeth clutched the lapels of her coat tighter as they hurried past the Sulpicians’ seminary, the grey stone dwelling that bore down upon the little village.
She was starting to regret having followed the widow outside.
She preferred joining her by the fire, listening to her talk as she knit.
No one knit faster than Maman Poulin. She could produce a whole stocking in a single evening, the click-click of her needles keeping pace with her opinions.
élisabeth was soothed by the constant activity.
The demon Marcosi did not trouble her excessively in Maman Poulin’s presence.
He slumbered, wings wrapped around his fur-covered body, only one ear cocked and alert.
He no longer leapt against her rib cage, trying to break her bones in his bid for release.
And for that reason alone, for the calm she felt when Maman Poulin was nearby, élisabeth would accompany the widow to Folleville’s, or out into the frosty night, or wherever she wanted to go.
She pulled the tavern door open, and they were struck by a wave of warmth and pipe smoke.
Even in the middle of the day, in a town of only a thousand settlers, Folleville’s was busy.
It was newly built, but the scent of fresh timber could not mask the smell of sweat that hung in the air.
élisabeth had been to the tavern a handful of times since she had come to stay at the bakery, and on each outing it did not fail to both captivate and alarm her: the noise of pewter mugs slamming down on the wooden tables, the sweet strains of a fiddle matched by the beat of a pair of spoons, the laughter of fallen women in dark corners.
Someone shouted, “Shut the door!” and élisabeth did as she was bid. Maman Poulin barrelled towards the bar, licking her lips.
“Good day,” Anne Lamarque greeted them from behind her counter. Maman Poulin laid the loaf of bread upside down on the counter: a sign of bad luck meant to put the innkeeper on notice.
“The crumb on this new loaf is as fine as any Verger has ever baked. I could not let you miss out,” Maman Poulin said pushing the bread towards Anne Lamarque.
“My husband came by this morning to collect our order,” she said, eyeing the widow but taking the bread. “I am surprised that you did not know. Though I will not say no to another. Verger is a credit to Old Poulin’s skill.”
“I am as proud of him as if he were my own son. Though I will confess to you that I sometimes wish he had married this one here, rather than her sister. Lili is as dear to me as any daughter could be.”
The innkeeper gazed at élisabeth, her expression blank. Then she picked up a cloth and began to wipe the counter. “Verger and Marthe have been joined together by God, so put that thought out of your mind, Barbe Poulin.”
“Oh, I’m not saying that Verger isn’t lucky to have Marthe. She’s as sharp a girl as you’ll ever meet. It’s only that sharp girls are like sharp knives. You need skill to handle them.”
The widow followed Anne Lamarque as she moved down the bar with her cloth. élisabeth rocked back on her feet and felt the pinch of her boots on her heels.
“I hear that you have a new guest staying with you,” Maman Poulin continued. “And that she may be forced to take the path of the Magdalene.”
The innkeeper stopped wiping the counter and stared at the widow. “Who told you that?”
“It is known across the village.”
“It’s not true.”
“Not true that a certain servant is staying here, or not true that she may be forced into sin?”
Just then the door opened and a parade of men in black cassocks marched into the tavern.
Folleville’s customers grew still at the sight of the Sulpicians.
The fiddle player dropped his bow. Men standing by the fire slid into seats or turned their attention to their drink.
The fallen women melted away until the room was full of nothing but artisans, fur traders, and three-year men.
At the head of the procession of priests was Father de Sancy.
With a start, élisabeth noticed one of the men that Marcosi had attacked in the alleyway months ago.
She remembered the stench of his breath when he licked her cheek.
The demon uncoiled himself from his sleep and sat upright as élisabeth shrank back towards the bar.
Anne Lamarque glared at Maman Poulin. “What have you done?”
“Nothing!” the widow exclaimed. “I have only just heard of it myself. I did warn you that it has already spread around the village.”
“May I help you?” the innkeeper called to the priests.
“Anne Lamarque de Folleville?” Father de Sancy stepped forward, gazing around the room, taking in the men with their red eyes and unbuttoned shirts, a dog in the corner licking its groin.
The priest observed it all before turning back to the innkeeper.
“There wouldn’t be any natives among your customers today? ”
“Of course not.”
“You understand the punishment for serving liquor to the Indians?”
“My tavern only serves Frenchmen,” she replied.
“And what about French women? It is a woman whom I seek today.”
élisabeth took a step closer to Maman Poulin, hoping the priest and the man Marcosi had attacked would not notice her.
“There is no law against a woman having a drink.” Anne Lamarque’s voice was even.
“I believe a good deal more than drinking happens in this place.” The priest wheezed and pressed his hands to his chest before continuing.
“I suspect you are up to your neck in debauchery.” He pointed to the man Marcosi had attacked in the alley, the one with the brand on his face, hiding among the priests.
“I am looking for this man’s wife. I believe she is staying here? ”
Anne Lamarque crossed her hands over her chest. “That man is a disgrace, as is his master.”
“Very well.” The priest paused, his tone reasonable. But something about his manner made Marcosi jab his talons into élisabeth’s gut as he angled for a better view. “If you cannot produce his wife, perhaps I might spend the afternoon in conversation with you, Madame de Folleville.”
“Me?”
“I am curious why, of all the taverns and inns in Ville-Marie, yours is always the most frequented. Why are you so popular?”
“I serve the best wine and the best food. That is my secret,” she replied steadily.
“There is no magic involved? There is no book of spells to draw the most powerful men in New France to your door? What of the tales of you owning a grimoire written in Latin and Greek?”
Anne Lamarque made a show of shrugging her shoulders, though élisabeth could see her click her fingers behind her back. A man in the corner rose to his feet and slid up the stairs.
“There is no witchcraft here. I don’t doubt there are some who are jealous of my success and try to spread lies.” The innkeeper glanced at Maman Poulin.
“Then shall I put you to the Question?” The priest’s voice grew as soft as a cooing pigeon. “Just to make sure?”
The tavern held its breath. Marcosi gripped élisabeth’s throat so tightly she struggled to swallow.
She ached to clasp her hands together in prayer but dared not move lest she draw the priest’s attention.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone on the stairs.
The man Anne Lamarque had sent upstairs returned with the scowling servant in tow. The innkeeper nodded in her direction.
“There is no need for any questions, Father. Here is the woman you seek.”
Anne Lamarque slowly turned her back on the phalanx of priests, picking up her cloth and rubbing the already clean countertop. She did not watch as the servant was given a shove and landed in the grip of her husband.
But élisabeth did.
“Let this be the end of wives straying from their husbands in this village,” Father de Sancy called out.
The effort made him cough into his fist. When he recovered he continued, “I have been dismayed by the behaviour of the women in this colony. I have seen bare collarbones, powdered hair, rouge.” He rolled his tongue over the last word as if he regretted it leaving his mouth and wanted to hold it in his embrace a moment longer.
“The women here have turned themselves into instruments of Satan, seeking to please men’s eyes.
Do not forget, it was Eve who introduced sin into the world.
And for that sin, women must be forever penitent.
Shame and submission must be their watchwords.
They must walk with their heads bowed.” He struggled for breath.
“I decree that from this day hence, women who wear powder and jewellery will be refused communion.”
Across the room a whore stifled a snigger. Father de Sancy rounded on her.
“You find my warnings amusing?”
The woman dropped her gaze. élisabeth noticed her hair was powdered and her cheeks unnaturally red. She suspected it had been some time since her last confession.
“I would not laugh if I were you. For there is a witch in Ville-Marie.”
Folleville’s customers shifted in their seats. The haranguing of their wives and whores was one thing; one of the Devil’s concubines in their midst was another.
“Ah, I see, this does concern you. As it should. For the queen witch of the Normandy coven is surely here. And she is more than usually dangerous, for she is in possession of Chamberlen’s Secret.”
A hush fell over the customers. Marcosi’s forked tongue flicked up the back of élisabeth’s neck, standing the fine hairs on end.
“What is Chamberlen’s Secret?” Maman Poulin asked, loudly enough for the priest to hear. élisabeth cringed as he turned his gaze on them.
“It is a tool that witches use to perform acts of great evil.”
“May the Virgin in Heaven protect us!” Maman Poulin crossed herself, and élisabeth quickly copied her.
“You are right to pray to the mother of God, for this tool allows witches to rip a child straight from its mother’s womb into their greedy, gaping mouths. Witches are insatiable for babies’ blood. None of your children are safe as long as she is among you.”
The demon fed on élisabeth’s fear, growing bolder and wilder with every scrap of worry he was thrown. élisabeth started the prayer-and-squeeze ritual, wringing her hands together.
“Are you any closer to finding the witch, Father?” someone called out.
“Not yet,” the priest admitted, folding his hands on top of his large belly. “I searched for her in vain in Québec. But then I learned of the devilry in this frontier town and understood that I’d find her in Ville-Marie.”
Father de Sancy surveyed the men in the tavern. “Do not worry. Witches cannot stop themselves from committing their evil deeds. I need only wait and watch, and she will act. A child will die. It is only a matter of time.”
élisabeth felt perspiration prickle under her arms. She knew where the priest could find his witch.
She should tell him about Jeanne Roy. She owed her no allegiance; Jeanne had done nothing to help her.
And if she did have Chamberlen’s Secret, as the priest said, she was more dangerous than élisabeth could have imagined.
But when the priest put Jeanne Roy to the Question, might he ask her about the other brides? Would she tell him about Marcosi? Would Father de Sancy exorcise élisabeth’s demon with needles and whipping, only to then decide she too was a witch, and burn her at the stake?
As she wrestled with her thoughts, she watched the man with the branded face grab his wife by the back of the neck and laugh as he pushed her towards the tavern door. The servant hit and kicked him as he dragged her, with every blow cursing God’s name for making her a woman.