Chapter 31
Her husband’s face was drawn and serious when he emerged from his conversation with Marthe.
élisabeth wished she knew what her sister had told him.
Marthe would not have spilled her secrets; she was too quick to deny élisabeth’s suffering to tell Francoeur she was possessed.
But what had they discussed? élisabeth watched as her husband pulled his men to one side and spoke to them quietly.
Within moments Lajeunesse had taken his coat from the peg and slipped out of the bakery.
Francoeur refused the drink Maman Poulin offered him, and stood up stiffly, almost rudely, to announce that they must be on their way or they would be without rooms for the night.
élisabeth and Francoeur walked side by side down Rue Saint-Paul.
Jambon turned left to take Lou and Rose to the inn a few streets away from the river; Francoeur explained that there was nowhere left for them to stay for the night but Folleville’s.
As he spoke, she noticed that his shirt was worn at the neck and determined she would make him a new one.
She would use what was left of her dowry to get some serge from Le Moyne’s and stitch him as fine a shirt as he had ever worn.
She would not settle for buttons made of bone; she would show him how she felt with buttons wrapped in silk.
She imagined him unbuttoning his new shirt to reveal his bare chest and felt the stirring of lust. She shook herself to loosen the demon’s grip on her mind.
“Francoeur,” she said abruptly. “What did you discuss with Marthe?”
“I explained that our petition was only a modest success.”
“But why tell her—”
He pulled open the door to the tavern. The room was full, voices were high and bright, and faces pleated with laughter. In the corner, a boy with wispy hairs on his chin smacked a pair of spoons between his hand and his knee as an older man cranked a bow across a fiddle.
“I too would like to hear about your petition.” She was aware she sounded petulant, even jealous, as he steered her towards a table.
“I will tell you all,” he said, looking over his shoulder towards the bar. “Though I felt I should take a moment to reassure Marthe privately that she is safe. The governor has been recalled. He cannot hurt her again.”
“Why would—? Hurt her?” At once élisabeth realized what she should have known for months. All the parts of the riddle were now clear: the governor had attacked one of the wives, Francoeur had leapt to the woman’s defence, Marthe had been sullen and angry all winter.
How had she not known? Why had Marthe not confided in her?
She felt a spasm of despair. Marcosi had prevented her from seeing what should have been plain. The unholy spirit had blinded her to her sister’s pain. She thought for a moment of all the hours she’d spent in the widow’s company, and how hard Maman Poulin was on Marthe.
Through my fault, through my fault, my most grievous fault.
“There’s Anne Lamarque,” Francoeur said, rising to his feet. “Stay here while I see about a room.” He strode towards the bar, spent a moment in conversation with the innkeeper, then followed her upstairs.
The fiddler started on a sombre tune, weaving his way among the tables, his head shaking in time to the music.
élisabeth knew the song. It was about a shepherd who went to gather wildflowers for his true love, but he took so long that his milkmaid died while waiting for him.
For some reason the lament filled élisabeth’s heart with an unbearable sadness.
She closed her eyes and listened to the grey-bearded fiddler sing, wondering if it was too late to beg for her sister’s forgiveness.
The fiddler and the boy on spoons stopped playing abruptly. élisabeth opened her eyes. At first, she did not recognize the man they gawped at in the doorway, for he was not wearing his wig.
“Good afternoon, good citizens of Ville-Marie,” Governor de Lafredière bellowed. He swept into a mock bow. “So pious. So devout. So treasonous.”
The patrons clutched their drinks. No one spoke. The demon hammered his fists against élisabeth’s heart. This man had choked her sister. He had tried to kill Marthe.
“Yes, treasonous. Do you think you can be rid of me? That I will not have my revenge against those who wronged me?” The governor unsheathed his sword and pointed it at every person in the tavern, turning in a circle. When his gaze landed on élisabeth he stopped.
“Where is she?”
élisabeth trembled and said nothing, though she longed to tell this monster what she thought of him.
“Are you a mute? Or just stupid? Where is your sister?” Lafredière’s lace cravat was loose, his justaucorps unbuttoned, the gold brocade unravelling on one side. “Where is the baker’s wife?”
As she gaped at the dishevelled nobleman, she could feel the pressure in her gullet as the great marquis of Hell shook his horned head.
She remembered what Father de Sancy had said: that the demon Leviathan had spoken to him through the weak flesh of a possessed nun.
Possessed. She clamped her hand over her mouth lest Marcosi take command of her tongue.
“I will not be sent home in disgrace on the word of some little tart,” Lafredière sneered. “Where is the lying whelp? Where is the baker’s bitch?”
It was too late. With a sickening feeling, élisabeth felt Marcosi rise from the chair. With complete power over her trembling body, the demon turned to face the governor.
“You pathetic cur,” Marcosi boomed, his voice clear and bold. “You have the mind and the morals of a rabid dog.”
Not one person in the room breathed. They stared at the girl and the governor. Lafredière gaped at her, licking the spittle from the corners of his mouth.
“Do you believe that it is on the girl’s word alone that you are banished?” Marcosi continued. “Fool. Your own men turned against you—every soldier on the march to New York. Every one of them still laughs at your weakness, your impotence, the worm-filled hole where your eye used to be—”
Lafredière roared and lunged for her neck.
Marcosi vanished. élisabeth ducked and put her hands over her head, bracing for a blow that never came.
Instead, through her fingers, she saw the governor crumple, tackled from the side.
Francoeur had Lafredière pinned to the floor.
He grabbed for the governor’s hands, but Lafredière twisted away.
Francoeur drew his fist back and punched his head.
Blood erupted from Lafred’s nose and his eye patch slid off, revealing puckered skin stitched closed in a dreadful, permanent wink.
“You whore! I will see you hanged!” the governor shouted at her.
Francoeur sprang, this time grabbing Lafredière by the waist. The governor slapped at his hands but Francoeur flipped him over onto his face and placed his knee on his back. Lafredière twisted, trying to lift his head.
“You are supposed to be locked in the fort,” Francoeur panted. “How did you escape?”
“Oh look, it’s Francoeur.” He spat out his name like a wad of tobacco.
“The worst of the slapsauce ruffians on this miserable island.” The governor squirmed, trying to free himself.
“Do you think for a bag of coins my jailors wouldn’t let me say goodbye to my people?
” he shouted at the room. “My people who have turned on me!”
“The people have never been with you.” Francoeur’s voice was as low as a growl.
“They love me!” the governor roared.
“And yet not one of them ever came forward to reveal who shot you. It’s as if they wanted you dead.”
Lafredière tried to turn over, but Francoeur pressed his knee in deeper. “Was it you?” the governor said. “Are you the coward who shot me? Once my uncle hears of it, you will be hanged.”
“Your uncle has forsaken you. In the morning you will be off the island and on your way back to France. Hundreds signed our petition, willingly. The Montréalists want nothing more to do with you.”
Someone threw Francoeur a whip to tie Lafredière’s hands.
Lafredière laughed and gnashed his teeth as he tried to wriggle free. “You pig. You think you have won? Soon I will be back home in France. And you will all be here in Hell.”
Francoeur snapped his fingers at a boy by the bar. “Run for the bailiff. We’ll put him in the pillory until morning.”
He stepped off Lafredière’s back and two men came forward to haul the governor to his feet. They whisked him out the door and towards the Place Royale, their prisoner writhing and cursing as they went.
élisabeth gaped after him, stumbling backwards into a chair. Francoeur sat down next to her.
“What were you thinking?” Her husband’s eyes searched hers. She turned away. How could she explain what had just happened? “élisabeth? Tell me what you were thinking, speaking to him like that. He could have killed you.”
A sense of great weariness came over her. Finally, it was time to confess.
“No, husband. He could not hurt me. Marcosi would savage anyone who tries to touch me.”
“Marcosi?” Francoeur froze. “Who is Marcosi?”
She blinked, trying to find the words.
“I see.” Francoeur swallowed. He laid his hands on the table, pressing his fingertips into the wood. “Do you love him?”
She shook her head, drawing her hands into her lap. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I hate him.”
“élisabeth, listen to me,” he said, leaning forward. “I would not begrudge you if you once hoped to marry another. I have a past too.”
She looked down at her hands. The skin between her thumb and forefinger was cracked and red from the number of times she had wrung her hands.
“I want to know about your past,” she said.
“Then I will tell you, if it means you might tell me about your Marcosi.” He laid his hand on top of hers. When she did not speak, he began.