Chapter 35
The sickening sound of the chapel bells rang out across the village, each clang reverberating deep into Marthe’s bones.
She wished she were braver. If she had more daring, she would stand outside the fort—now twice consecrated to make sure the Devil could not come to the aid of Ville-Marie’s most prized prisoner—and chant her prayers out loud so that Jeanne might hear them through the walls and know that she had supporters still.
But if Marthe did that, the village might point their fingers at her next.
And worse, she might hear the grunt of the executioner as he did the priest’s bidding, and the low moans of their victim, the witch.
Marthe had brought fresh bread and water to Jeanne that morning, and her stomach had turned at what she had seen: ankles bruised and twisted from being shut in the brodequins, and fresh lash marks on her back and arms. She remembered the pain and terror of the governor’s hands around her neck and could not fathom how Jeanne had withstood the Question for more than two weeks.
Perhaps it was because Father de Sancy was going about his task languorously, standing over his prisoner hour after hour, day after day, watching as the executioner hammered the brodequin boots while he asked her precisely when—and how—she fornicated with the Devil.
“How much longer, do you think?” Thérèse asked in a forlorn voice. Marthe shrugged, a timid movement that the others barely registered.
“The other Sulpicians have left the chapel,” Apolline told them. She had all the answers as usual. “So Nones has finished. It can’t be much longer.” She made the sign of the cross, and the others did the same.
“I pray for Jeanne every night,” Francoise murmured.
“Look, Marthe,” Thérèse nudged her with an elbow. “Maman Poulin is already at the wall.”
“Don’t call her Maman,” Marthe said.
In the distance the widow peered through a gap in the palisades.
She took a step back to speak to a woman standing next to her.
The woman laughed and tried to look through the crack herself, but Barbe Poulin pushed her away.
Marthe knew the widow rose early to claim the peephole for herself.
Marthe’s stomach churned at the thought of what she saw.
“I need to sit,” she said and took a step away from the other girls.
She lumbered over to a fallen tree on the edge of the commons and eased herself down, feeling her heavy stomach settle between her legs.
She grunted as she moved. The burning in her chest had not stopped and she felt as though her heart were on fire.
The others were not as fat with child and pestered her with questions about what to expect in the months to come. Marthe wished she knew.
She needed Jeanne Roy. She needed her so badly it fueled the burning in her heart and kept her awake at night.
Jeanne would know what to do to ease the fire in her chest. She would have a simple or a potion that would take the ache away.
And when she gave it to her, she would tell Marthe not to worry, the child would arrive safely from Heaven and all would be well—words Marthe was desperate to hear.
“I don’t believe my eyes.” Thérèse let out a whistle and then rushed over to the tree where Marthe sat. “Your sister is on the path.”
Marthe grabbed Thérèse’s hand but even then struggled to pull herself to her feet.
Her back hurt and there was a dull ache in her groin.
It felt as though the child could come that very day.
But she had not even been married eight months—the child could not be born so soon.
She felt a stab of panic. Since Jeanne’s arrest, Barbe Poulin had repeated her muttered warnings about girls who were whipped and sent back to France for being spoiled before marriage.
The widow knew her own power; now she had the priest’s ear.
Marthe shuddered, thinking of Jeanne’s battered ankles and bloodied back.
She put a hand to her own throat. No, the baby could not be born so soon. She would be whipped raw if he was.
“You are bold to show your face here.” Francoise glared at élisabeth when she reached them. “Go and stand with those gleeful hags who wish our sister of the sea harm.”
“I mean Jeanne no harm,” élisabeth said meekly, holding up her hands. Her face was flushed and she was breathing as if she had run from afar. “I have come to save her.”
Apolline snorted. “It is you who have condemned her! And us all. For there is not one among us who will not be in need of a midwife soon.”
“I promise, I am here to make amends—”
“It’s too late!” Thérèse cried. “She is in his grip. He tortures her at least twice a day. It’s been going on for more than a fortnight. She cannot hold out much longer.”
“Marthe, please.” élisabeth turned away from the others. “I was not myself. The demon, it…” Her voice trailed off for a moment, then she drew breath. “No, it was not the demon, it was me. I made a grave error. I will set it right.”
“How can you fix this, Lili?” Marthe demanded. “Father de Sancy has found his witch queen. The only reason she is still alive is that she has not confessed to the crimes she is accused of. But she will surely die by his hands if her ordeal goes on much longer.”
“I know what to do.” élisabeth beckoned the girls closer. “We will petition the king, just as my husband did to rid us of the governor. The king saved her once before, when he banished the Normandy coven. We will write a letter—”
“Write a letter?” Marthe exclaimed. “A girl who cannot even write her name will write to the king?”
élisabeth only hesitated for a moment. “Apolline can write it,” she said, nodding in her direction.
“Or Rose, or Lou. They will be here by nightfall. Jeanne’s Agnier friend has gone to fetch them in her canoe.
If every one of us young wives—everyone who was on the Saint-Jean-Baptiste this year, and on bride ships in years past, or indeed any woman who is expecting a child or one day hopes to—if we all sign and tell the king that without a midwife to safely deliver our babies the whole colony will founder, then she will be freed!
We do not need to send it to France, we need only do as Francoeur did and take the letter to Intendant Talon in Québec. ”
There was a wildness about her sister that Marthe did not recognize. Her knotted hair was long and loose, like a mane she had not brushed for weeks. Her eyes shone with a fierceness that was unsettling.
“Lili, listen. Listen to the bells. They ring to keep Satan at bay while Father de Sancy and the executioner are with Jeanne, torturing her. They believe it is how they keep themselves safe, so that the Devil does not come to her aid. Those bells ring for hours on end, every day.”
“Then we must not delay! Thérèse, you and Francoise go round the village. Apolline, your husband has a horse, does he not? Send him west to fetch the others—”
“Lili, listen to me!” Marthe stopped her. “How long do you think it will take to get your petition to Québec? Francoeur was gone two months. Go up to the fort and look. You will see that Jeanne does not have time for your plot to succeed.”
The determination in élisabeth’s eyes waned. She shifted on her feet and looked across the commons towards the fort. “Very well. Show me.”
Marthe led the way to the bridge across the Little River, towards the run-down wooden fort, leaving the other Saint-Jean-Baptiste girls on the commons. As they approached, the widow Poulin saw élisabeth. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a round hole the shape of a cherry stone.
“Oh, ma chère, you are here!”
Marthe bristled as élisabeth kissed the widow on both cheeks. “Good day, Maman Poulin.”
“I do not like to be the bearer of bad tidings.” The widow licked her lips and leaned forward.
“But the witch still has not confessed. It can’t be long now, though.
The priest is doing good work. He’s very precise in his questions.
Just now, he asked her if she has lain with Satan. Isn’t that frightful?”
“None of it is true,” élisabeth started, her voice soft and her eyes lowered. “I was wrong to accuse Jeanne. I am here to recant what I said.”
“Don’t be a ninny-hammer!” the widow exclaimed. “She’s a witch as sure as I’m a widow. The truth will come out. I have also heard him ask about Chamberlen’s Secret.” Barbe Poulin whispered the name of the magical tool with awe.
Marthe had an urge to kick her in the shins.
“Dufossé froze because he was drunk,” élisabeth explained. “Jeanne Roy has done no ill to anyone.”
The widow gave both sisters a withering look. “That’s not even her name. She’s Lady Angélique de La-Dee-Da. She cast that spell on your neighbour, and if she’s not stopped, she’ll go after our children.”
“Please, Maman,” Marthe grabbed the widow’s arm. “I beg you. We need Jeanne’s skill. She trained in Paris with the man-midwives. We need her.”
“For goodness’ sake!” The widow shrugged Marthe’s arm away.
“Look for yourself. You will soon hear her admit all manner of horrors.” The widow pulled élisabeth towards the crack in the palisades and Marthe could not help but follow.
Tentatively, they took it in turns to press their eyes to the peephole.
“Can you see her?” the widow asked.
“Not well.” Still élisabeth did not pull away.
Marthe leaned her head against the wall, feeling sick.
She wished she could sit down. The thought of what was happening in the middle of the fort’s compound was too much to bear.
The ache in her back had grown much worse and had spread to her belly.
She heard the sound of a whip and a strangled gasp of pain that was so close she could feel it on her own flesh.
She grabbed her stomach with both hands.
“What did the witch say?” Barbe Poulin glinted.
“The priest is still asking about Satan,” élisabeth replied. “Jeanne has not spoken.”
There was another crack and Marthe felt the whip bite into her belly again.
She doubled over. She could not prevent a moan from escaping her lips.
She had to get away from the sounds of the whip on flesh.
She stumbled away from the fort, clutching her belly in her hands.
She staggered back across the Little River to the commons and saw that the other brides had disappeared.
They could not bear the sounds of Jeanne’s torture either.
They would have gone home to pray. She did not blame them.
Marthe reached the safety of the bakery and shut the door, breathing steadily through her nose. The pain eased. She straightened her shoulders and turned to see Verger rounding the corner from the workroom, flour dusted on his face and his beard.
“How now, wife?” he asked. She cut him with a look. He had been sulking more of late, asking pointed questions, now even seeming to query their marriage vows. Barbe Poulin’s malice had made it to his ears.
“I am well,” she grimaced. Suddenly, the pain was upon her again. She gripped her belly and cried out. Verger was instantly by her side, all trace of anger melted.
“Marthe? Are you well? Is the child coming?”
“No,” she grunted, looking at the floor. “It is a bit of bad fish that turns my stomach, is all.”
“I shall run and fetch Maman Poulin, she will know what to do.”
“Do not… call her… mother.” Marthe’s words were strangled and raw.
“Come and lie down, chérie, and I will fetch Barbe—”
The pain eased and Marthe stood up straight again. “Do not instruct me! You’re barely more than a boy the way you carry on, following after her apron strings as if she had any claim to good sense or judgement.”
Verger dropped his outstretched hand and his back stiffened.
He shouted back, “If I am barely more than a boy, it is because you forbade me to act as a man! How do you think I feel, not being able to challenge Lafredière for fear of ruining us? Then you ask your brother-in-law to be your champion? How am I to feel?”
Verger wiped his hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of flour on his brow. Marthe glowered. He was no more use than a cart with one wheel. She could feel her temper rising.
“Why do you think you could take on the governor of Montréal when you could not take on the widow Poulin? You have done nothing to ensure she marries and leaves our house. You are ignorant of how she spreads rumours about me around town. You are ignorant of her scheme to sell liquor to the natives. You are an ignorant boy who does nothing and says nothing and I wish… I wish I had never married you!”
Something shifted inside her and suddenly water rushed from between Marthe’s legs. She grabbed her belly as Verger sprung forward.
“Marthe, chérie—”
“Oh, leave me in peace,” Marthe sobbed, pushed him away. “I have just wet myself, for pity’s sake!”
The door flew open and Barbe Poulin barrelled in. The widow took in the sight of the water on the floor and a triumphant smile spread across her face.
“I knew it,” Barbe Poulin jeered. “Your child comes and you are not yet eight months married. You sly whore.”
“Maman Poulin, please. Marthe missed the chamber pot,” Verger started, then recoiled when she rounded on him.
“You fool! The waters mean the child is coming. Just look at the size of her belly! She’s well past her term. Count on your fingers, boy. That bastard is not yours.”
Verger’s jaw dropped. His hands dangling by his side, uncertain what to do. While he hesitated, the widow turned to Marthe, a vicious glint in her eye.
“You came into this house, pretending to be a maid, and married this blameless man. I will tell Father de Sancy! I will see you whipped in the pillory for this!”
Marthe laid her head down on her knees. If it was true, and the child was coming, she did not need to fear the whip, for she was as good as dead.
The child was too early; he would die and take her with him to Heaven.
She wished, as she had a thousand times before, that she was rich enough to send for the best man-midwives in all of Europe, as the fashionable ladies did.
“Whipping is too good for a common hedge-whore like you.” The widow’s voice pierced her thoughts. “I’ll see you and your bastard cast out of Ville-Marie for good! I’ll see you sent back to France—”
And then came the sound of Marthe’s salvation.
“Shut your mouth, you old toad! How dare you say such a thing to my sister?”