Chapter 32
Marthe lay on her side on her straw mattress unable to sleep. The ticking was rough to the touch but she did not lift her cheek from the burlap. She could feel the child inside her struggle. She placed her arm around her belly.
“Hush, baby.”
The more the child pressed against her, the more she felt the walls closing in around her.
But where could she go? Fifteen paces outside of the village there was nothing but forest all the way to the end of the world, and the cost of a return passage to France was a lifetime of labour, too dear by half.
She was trapped. Under the thumb of a shrew who marked her every step and a man too weak to stand up to her.
Her child kicked again. A foot was at once in her groin and in her throat. He must be the most active of all the babies on the island. She felt a surge of pride.
“You shall go far,” she whispered. “I may have travelled across an ocean, but I can go no farther. You, though, will run as far and as fast as you like. You will touch the stars.”
“Marthe?” Her husband’s voice sleepy. “Why are you still abed?”
She thought about not responding, feigning that she had spoken in her sleep. Was this the only place she could hide from her husband and the widow now, in her dreams? But if sleep was her only escape, what was the point of living?
“I’m tired,” she said finally.
“Is the child moving again?” Verger loved to hear about the exploits of his son, as if the child were already grown and sending them letters boasting about his accomplishments from afar.
For a moment Marthe thought about relenting, about curling her back into his warm body and murmuring her fears to him.
But it had been too long since they had sought comfort in each other’s arms. She would not reward him with tales of his child now.
“I’m getting up. I can hear customers next door.”
“Rest here with me. Maman Poulin can see to them.”
“Don’t call her Maman,” Marthe said through gritted teeth. “She is not your mother.”
She hauled herself out of bed and pulled on her bodice, lacing the ribbons loosely.
She did not care how she looked. Modest or slattern, comely or unkempt, she truly did not care what anyone in Ville-Marie thought of her.
How ridiculous she had been to primp for the governor of Montréal.
How stupid to have thought she could throw herself into the path of wealth and good fortune.
Lafredière was right. He would be led from the village in a sleigh and horses, waving like a king to his people, while they were all left behind in Hell.
She made her way across the hallway and saw her sister and Francoeur in the widow’s salon.
“Good day.” Francoeur was formal, standing by the door, fidgeting. “We’ve come for my wife’s trunk.”
Marthe knew he must be waiting for Lajeunesse to return with Jeanne Roy. élisabeth sat at the table, wan and morose.
“Where’s Barbe?” Marthe muttered.
“Asleep,” élisabeth said. “When she saw we were not customers she went back to bed.”
Good, Marthe thought. She deserves her sore head. But there was no doubt the widow could hear them well enough on the other side of her curtain.
At that moment, Rose and Lou rushed in with Jambon at their side.
“Is it true?” Rose began, taking off her coat and hanging it on a peg.
“Our innkeeper said there was a fight at Folleville’s last night.
He meant it as a boast that his inn is a better sort of establishment, but I am certain it must have bedbugs for I could not stop scratching all night long.
And then he told us that the fight was between the governor and you, Francoeur!
Imagine how shocked we were to hear that man was loose in the village.
Jambon made us go straight to the tavern to hear what had happened, but we found you had already left!
We have been chasing you all over town.”
“Lafredière?” Marthe’s hands froze on her stomach. She turned to Francoeur. “I thought you said it was safe.”
“Don’t worry. The governor spent the night in the pillory and the intendant’s guards will take him to Québec this morning.”
élisabeth gave Marthe a rueful look. “I’m sorry I did not know what he did to you,” she mumbled.
Marthe looked away. It was far too late for her sister’s comfort now.
She had sat by the widow’s side for almost three months, listening as Barbe Poulin cackled and dreamed up ever more frightening creatures to terrify them both: drooling goblins, giant Iroquois werewolves, yellow-toothed witches.
Not once had her sister been curious about the real danger the women of Ville-Marie faced.
Rose prattled so long about the night’s events that no one heard the door open. All of a sudden Lajeunesse peered around the corner with a toothy grin. Then he stepped back to reveal the prize he had delivered.
Jeanne Roy’s cheeks were bright and rosy from the cold.
Her twilight-coloured velvet dress could be seen beneath the native shawl on her shoulders.
As she walked into the widow’s salon, the rich fabric rustled and the room was filled with the scent of pine needles and woodsmoke, and the crispness of a winter’s day.
“Madame, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Francoeur said. He exhaled like he might crumple with relief. Rose and Lou swept into reverent curtseys and Marthe rose to take the native shawl that was wrapped around Jeanne’s shoulders. Only élisabeth remained seated.
“I am sorry to have interrupted your visit to La Prairie,” Francoeur continued.
Jeanne Roy nodded graciously. “It is no matter. I am happy to assist.” She looked at élisabeth.
Before Jeanne could speak, Barbe Poulin came bustling into the room.
Marthe knew that she had not been able to resist the temptation of greeting their guest. The widow looked Jeanne up and down with an appraising eye.
“Good day. I’m the old baker’s widow,” she said. “You may call me Maman Poulin. I’ve lived in this village long enough to have everyone call me mother.”
“I never knew my mother,” Jeanne Roy remarked. “I am not in need of one now.”
The widow opened her mouth and then closed it, as if she could not think of what to say.
“You do not know the excitement we have had, Jeanne,” Lou cut in.
“The governor of Montréal has been banished. He was choking girls and doing other stuff besides. And Lili found a man frozen on top of her woodpile. He was dead, of course.” Lou shivered and danced on the tips of her toes, unaware of the danger she was stirring.
“It was a terrible accident,” Marthe said hurriedly.
“It was witchcraft,” Barbe Poulin said at the same time. “I will not forget it for the rest of my days. Blue and stiff as a board. The man’s eyes locked on the place where the witch who killed him stood to cast her spell.”
Jeanne Roy’s nostrils flared. She looked at Francoeur and then back at the women. “Excuse me, I have business with my neighbour,” she said coldly. “Is there somewhere we might speak alone?”
“Come with me,” Marthe said, beckoning Jeanne and Francoeur across the hallway. When she realized élisabeth had not followed them into Verger’s workroom, she dashed back and motioned to her. “Lili, you must come too.”
Francoeur and Jeanne Roy had their heads together when she returned with her sister.
“You are certain there is no other option?” Francoeur said.
“None that I, nor any other student of medicine, knows of.” Jeanne Roy’s eyes were flat and steady. “I have my tools. If you are ready, we can do it now.”
“Tools?” élisabeth asked.
“élisabeth, I have sent for Jeanne Roy so that she might help you with your melancholy. I fear you are in need of help. She has brought her lancet. She is going to bleed you.”
élisabeth looked stunned, the expression on her face a mixture of fury and fear. “Y-you brought her here? For this purpose?”
Francoeur stepped towards her. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did. élisabeth, I am worried about you. Let Jeanne help you.”
“I already asked Jeanne for help and she refused me.”
“We are discussing medicine now, not folklore,” Jeanne Roy replied, her voice dripping disdain.
“Medicine? Do you mean gibberish about black bile?”
“It is curious to me how humoral theory, understood since the time of the ancient Greeks, can be called gibberish by one who believes in witches,” Jeanne snapped. “That is true gibberish.”
élisabeth began to wring her hands, looking from Jeanne to her husband. Marthe could not let her twist any longer.
“Lili, listen. I know you fear what happened to Papa. But Jeanne says that if we let out a little bit of your blood, it will release the… demon. Isn’t that right, Jeanne?”
“No, that is not correct,” Jeanne said. “There are no such creatures as demons. Or witches. But letting a vein breathe will let out the bad humours that are making your sister ill.”
“Let my vein breathe?” élisabeth was veering into panic. She turned to Francoeur. “Breathe? She will butcher me. And then God help us all. Marcosi will not stand for it! Marcosi will attack—”
“Stop.” Francoeur held up his hand. “It is because of this… this thing that we must listen to Jeanne. A little bloodletting will not kill you.”
“But it did kill my father,” élisabeth cried, her eyes darting between them.
“Every time the barber came with his nasty little knives, Papa only weakened. So the barber said he must take more, more, more. He gouged Papa’s vein with his fat fingers and then, too late, he tried to stop the flow.
The cut was too deep. The blood would not stop.
The fool stammered and squeezed our father’s arm, as he lay bleeding at the kitchen table.
He was such a strong man. But he faded away, as meek as a lamb.
And I could do nothing—nothing!—but take my cloth and wipe his blood from the floor. ”
“A country barber with no training might kill a patient,” Jeanne Roy said softly. “But I won’t make that error. You will be safe.”
“But you know the cure I need. I asked you to use your magic and you laughed at me. You called me a peasant! You said I was ignorant.”
“I did not mean it as an insult. It is a fact. You are ignorant. You talk of magic and have no education, no learning—”
“I do have learning. I know my sums. I can run a household and a farm, which I wager is more than you can do.” élisabeth was speaking quickly, like a rat in a trap, scrambling for any escape.
“Listen. You need to be bled to get well. The more you argue against it, the more you demonstrate your ignorance.”
“I do listen! I listen and learn all the time. I listen in church, and at market. And here in the bakery.” élisabeth’s tongue slowed. “And I certainly listened when Father de Sancy told us about Chamberlen’s Secret.”
Jeanne Roy took a step backwards and nearly bumped into Francoeur. “What do you know about Chamberlen’s Secret?”
“I know how powerful it is,” élisabeth said, her voice steady. “And I know it must be you who has it.”
Jeanne Roy paused, and looked at élisabeth as if she was assessing her for the first time. Finally, she shifted her weight and spoke.
“It is true. I do have Chamberlen’s Secret. But whatever that priest has told you is wrong. It is certainly not what you imagine. It can be no use to you. What you need, élisabeth, is to be bled.”
“Chérie, listen to Jeanne,” Francoeur reasoned. “Don’t be so wayward.”
élisabeth’s hands flew to her ears. Her eyes were wild, and a red flush crept up her neck to her cheeks. Marthe took a step forward to calm her sister but stopped when élisabeth began to scream.
“Maman Poulin!” élisabeth rushed out of the workroom. Marthe gasped and bolted after her, Francoeur and Jeanne Roy close behind. “Maman Poulin!” élisabeth cried again. “Jeanne Roy has confessed! She has Chamberlen’s Secret!”
Marthe’s heart raced. The child inside her began to kick furiously as élisabeth lifted her hand and pointed her finger at Jeanne Roy.
“She… she killed the man on the woodpile. She is the witch that Father de Sancy seeks. Jeanne Roy is the queen of the Normandy coven!”