Silence of Stone (7 page)

I will, Uncle. I will!

Roberval drew back his arm and slapped her, so hard that she fell to her knees. Foolish girl, he said. Without my permission your union cannot be legal. You will marry no one.

I put a hand to my cheek and feel the stinging burn, the humiliation purple like a bruise, streaked with yellow confusion and black anger.

Marguerite scrambled to her feet. Before she could unlatch the door and flee, he said, You have already lain with him, haven't you?
La putain!
Whore!

Lain with Michel. La putain! Whore! Le scandale.

The voices are like cobwebs covering my hair and face. I wave my hands to brush them away.

Michel saw her running and followed her to the cabin. When Marguerite told him what had happened, he put a trembling palm to either side of her face, careful not to touch her swelling cheek. I will kill him, he said.

Non
,
non
! Then you will be killed, hanged as a traitor.

But this…
this
. How could he do this to you?

He is viceroy.

Why would he forbid you to marry? I do not know, she said. She considered, then discarded the other noblemen on the expedition. Surely Roberval did not intend for her to marry one of them.
You will marry no one
, he had said.

What will we do?

Silence. Waves slapping indifferently against the hull.

Her words then were deliberate and carefully chosen. In the new religion, she said, hand-fast marriages are permitted when there is no one to perform the ceremony.

But the marriage will not be legal, Michel protested, looking away. His perfect teeth worked at his lower lip. What will he do to me? Now that he knows.

Marguerite persisted. If we place our hands on the New Testament and swear, in God's eyes, we will be married.

Humiliation made her brazen. And once I am carrying your child, none of the other noblemen will want me. Uncle will have no choice. He will have to accept it, then marry us publicly and welcome the addition of a wedded couple and their child to his colony. We must do it soon, Michel. Tonight.

Their marriage was like
un divertissement
performed at court: Marguerite in her rose silk gown, Michel in his soldier's doublet, yellow beeswax candles, Marguerite's New Testament, a bit of bread and wine, all within the cabin, and a fretful Damienne as both lookout and witness, their only guest.

Marguerite pronounced the words: Wilt thee take…honour and cherish…this is my body…this is my blood.

Then Damienne withdrew and they lay together, their loving both sweet and desperate, infused with the thrill of the forbidden.

The next day Marguerite kept her hand to her cheek and carefully avoided her uncle, although she
was now more fearful for Michel than for herself. If Roberval hanged him, there would be no marriage. But surely, she told herself, the viceroy would not dare to hang a nobleman.

That evening Jacques Cartier's ships sailed through the narrows and into the harbour, diverting Roberval's attention from his ward and her lover. The colonists were jubilant, but Marguerite could see the hard questions in the set of her uncle's jaw.

When Cartier boarded the
Vallentyne
, Roberval greeted him coldly. Why are you not at Charlesbourg Royal? he asked.

Cartier struggled to be deferential, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps we should speak privately, he said, glancing at the expectant faces of those who had gathered around him.

Why are you not at Charlesbourg Royal? Roberval repeated.

Marguerite stepped closer.

Cartier spread his hands, palms empty. Because we are returning to France, he said. There is not enough food for another winter. I have already lost too many men to hunger and sickness.

He leaned closer to Roberval. And to Indians, Cartier said quietly.

Indians.
Even the word made Marguerite's belly churn.

You will return with us to Charlesbourg Royal, said Roberval.

Cartier shook his head.
Non
, we will not. It is far too late in the summer to plant. And the Indians will
not help us. They will kill us all if they can. We should all return to France.

The low murmuring ceased; ruddy cheeks paled. Trembling fingers pulled at ragged beards, then trailed across mouths that were drawn and pinched.

Marguerite saw fear to match her own.

Roberval's pilot, Jean Alphonse de Saintogne, stepped forward. He opened his mouth, but a venomous look from Roberval stopped the words on his tongue. The assembled noblemen put their hands behind their backs and shifted from one foot to the other. Marguerite heard a sheep's plaintive baa.

I order you to return to Charlesbourg Royal, said Roberval, his voice as sharp and abrasive as ice.

You are mad, Cartier whispered.

As Viceroy of New France, I order you.

Cartier nodded once to acknowledge the pilot, then turned on his heel and disembarked. One of his own men rowed him back to his ship.

By dawn Cartier and his ships were gone, vanished into darkness and grey fog.

Marguerite was now even more heartsick and terrified, worried not only about her and Michel, but about the fate of the entire colony. If the great adventurer Jacques Cartier had abandoned the expedition, what hope was there for them?

Michel tried to reassure her. Roberval is a cruel man, he acknowledged, but King François must have had sound reasons for making your uncle Viceroy of New France. He is a hard leader, but he must know what he is doing.

Did he know what he was doing when he slapped me? she retorted. What does my uncle know of growing grain and raising sheep? Of Indians? And what about us, Michel? What will he do to us?

Marguerite and Michel did their best to stay out of sight and to avoid provoking the viceroy, but in his fury at Cartier, Roberval seemed to have forgotten them. He did not, as they had expected, put them onto separate ships, and he said nothing more to Marguerite about marriage. In fact, he hardly spoke to her at all.

Foolishly Marguerite imagined that her uncle was reconsidering, that his heart was softening.

La demoiselle naïve. La demoiselle bête.

“
Oui
,” I answer, “she was a stupid, stupid girl.”

Roberval's discipline became even more severe. He allowed only selected nobles to go ashore, and he regularly threatened the felons with hanging. He swore that King François himself would hang Jacques Cartier when he arrived in France.

How the king would know that Cartier had defied the viceroy, Marguerite wasn't sure, but then she quickly realized that Cartier assumed they would all die: the fate of the colony would vindicate his decision.

Finally, after nearly four weeks in St. John's, Roberval's ships departed for Charlesbourg Royal.

I hear a loud thumping. The Franciscan, his arm raised, blocks the light from the doorway. His cassock snaps in the wind. “Have you forgotten our meeting?” Annoyance rides high atop his words.

“I have forgotten everything…and nothing.”

“Do not be coy,” he says. His hat bobs, the wide brim caught by the wind. Thevet removes it to swipe a sleeve across his damp brow. He stinks of sweat and impatience. “Let us proceed at once to the chapel.” He re-positions his hat, then turns and strides away, assuming my assent.

I watch the billowing cassock recede and consider again the order from King François II. Reluctantly I stand and follow.

Outside, the sky is a smooth undappled grey. A few fat raindrops strike my face. This wind is nothing. I have walked in winds so fierce I could not breathe, winds that drove ice pellets into my face so that my reddened cheeks stung for hours, winds so cold my eyelashes froze, stitched together by my tears.

This wind is nothing. Nothing. The Franciscan is nothing.

Keeping a hand on his hat, André Thevet looks from one side to the other, uneasy to be in Nontron, where, despite Henri's
Chambre Ardente
and Catherine de Medici's harsh measures, there are many Huguenots. A few men and women stare at the monk as he passes. Everyone in Nontron knows why he is here, and they wonder what I am telling him, if I am answering the questions they are too timid to ask themselves.

A skeletal cur creeps out from an alley. She follows Thevet, snarling and snapping at his heels. He kicks her away, fear pulling hard at his mouth.

I know the bitch from my nighttime wanderings. Like me, she is hungry, but harmless.

Thevet hurries into the sanctuary of the chapel. Out of breath and puffing, he kneels before the crucifix and crosses himself. He gives me a sidelong glance, expecting me to do the same.

Quiet laughter echoes off the stone wall behind the cross:
Hear, O Lord, my prayer…Turn not thy face from me.
I hear ravens calling:
cark-cark-cark.

The Franciscan does not hear, and he does not see the sacrificed son raise his head and wink. He does not see the pointed pink tongue lapping blood from the nailed feet.

Thevet rises and enters our small chamber. I take my place on the bench opposite the desk. He lights a candle from the banked coals in the hearth, then lights three more. The amber stink of tallow fills the room.

He settles in his chair, smoothes his cassock, and considers his notes. Today he is righteous and does not caress his crotch. “Where were we? Ah, yes.” His smile is oily. “We'd arrived at the point in the story where you'd taken a lover and then engaged in wanton and shameless passions…carnal abominations.”

“They were married,
Père
.”

“Roberval never granted permission. He told me that himself.” Thevet draws himself up, proud of his friendship with the Viceroy of New France. “And under French law,” he continues, as if lecturing a schoolgirl, “a marriage contracted without your guardian's consent is invalid. So
non
, Marguerite, you
were not married. You engaged in an illegitimate union.”

He gives a small incredulous laugh. “How could you imagine you were free to choose?” He dips a brown quill into ink. “When did Roberval choose to punish you?”

“It was mid-summer when he put them ashore.”

A day of clear blue skies and brisk winds. Just seven days after the ships left St. John's, Roberval ordered the pilot to guide the
Vallentyne
into a deep harbour within a cluster of islands. Men muttered to each other, puzzled, knowing they had not yet arrived at Charlesbourg Royal.

“What happened?”

Shrill voices:
Roberval. Le comportement indécent. Roberval. La putain. Le scandale terrible.

I put my hands over my ears. I cannot answer. And I cannot forget.

Roberval ordered everyone to gather. Step forward, Marguerite de la Roque de Roberval, he said. It is the appointed time for you to be duly punished for the terrible scandal you have brought upon the honourable name of Roberval.

Coldness in the alabaster face, ice in the blue eyes.

Marguerite looked around desperately for Michel, spotted him standing off to the side, his face as grey as the rope to which he clung.

Did you imagine that we did not see your lascivious behaviour? said Roberval. Your brazen and impudent indecency?

A few of the murderers and thieves sniggered.

Stepping slowly toward her uncle, Marguerite feared she was about to be flogged, laid bare before the prisoners, the leather biting into her back.

Le sang rouge. La pénitence, l'humiliation.

I rock back and forth on the bench.

“Put your hands down and tell me what happened.”

I wrap my arms around my waist and continue to rock.

Whore, Roberval pronounced, you shall be put ashore on the Isle of Demons – to be tormented by lost and wicked souls like your own. And because Damienne has acted to protect your indecency, she shall be put ashore with you. I shall not stain my own hands with your blood. I now put your fates in the hands of God.

Hands of God. O Lord, rebuke me not…nor chastise me in thy wrath. Hands of God. Save me for thy mercy's sake. La putain. Whore. Les mains de Dieu.

“Roberval left some biscuit, three arquebuses…”

Marguerite watched in disbelief as a small boat was loaded with supplies and her few possessions: her trunk, her New Testament, her cloak.

The assembled noblemen did not move or say a word. They stood, shoulders slumped forward, soft clean hands crossed in front of their codpieces. Their downcast eyes slid away from hers. Only Jean Alphonse de Saintogne had the courage to approach Roberval. This time the pilot would not be discouraged by the viceroy's malevolent gaze.

Face flushed with alarm, hands outstretched and pointing, the pilot shook his head. The buzzing in her ears was so loud that Marguerite could not hear his words, saw only his mouth moving:
non
,
non
,
non
.

When Saintogne's arguments could not dissuade Roberval, Michel stepped forward.

“…a few tools, torn sails…”

“How did it transpire that your lover was put ashore with you?”

“…her trunk, an axe…”

“Marguerite, look at me.” The loudness of Thevet's voice startles. “Roberval intended to punish only you. Why was the young man left with you?”

I rub the wound on my wrist, press a thumb down upon it, comforted to feel a familiar pain. “Husband. He was her husband.” I gather myself in. “He was an honourable man. When he insisted that he be put ashore with Marguerite and Damienne, Roberval relented.”

I stare into the candle's flame and see jade eyes flecked with gold, haunted and grim. Weeks later, when Marguerite would rather have believed in Michel's courage and honour, he confessed to her that he had feared the viceroy would abandon him on a different island or order him to be drowned or hanged.

“His name. What was his name?”

“He brought his own arquebus, his fusil and citre.”

“A citre? Your young man was a musician?”