The Virgin Blue

by Tracy Chevalier

  A flash in my peripheral vision made me look toward a painting on the opposite wall. A shaft of light had fallen across it and all I could see was a patch of blue. I began to walk toward it, blinking, my stomach tightening.

  It was a painting of Christ taken off the cross, lying on a sheet on the ground, his head resting in an old man's lap. He was watched over by a younger man, a young woman in a yellow dress, and in the centre the Virgin Mary, wearing a robe the very blue I'd been dreaming of, draped around an astonishing face. The painting itself was static, a meticulously balanced tableau, each person placed carefully, each tilt of the head and gesture of the hands calculated for effect. Only the Virgin's face, dead centre in the painting, moved and changed, pain and a strange peace battling in her features as she gazed down at her dead son, framed by a colour that reflected her agony.

  As I stood in front of it, my right hand jerked up and involuntarily made the sign of the cross. I had never made such a gesture in my life.

  I looked at the label to the side of the painting and read the title and the name of the painter. I stood still for a long time, the space of the church suspended around me. Then I crossed myself again, said, ‘Holy Mother, help me,’ and began to laugh.

  I would never have guessed there had been a painter in the family.

  3

  THE FLIGHT

  Isabelle sat up straight and glanced across to the children's bed. Jacob was already awake, arms around his legs, chin on his knees. He had the best ears of all of them.

  — One horse, he said quietly.

  Isabelle nudged Etienne.

  — A horse, she whispered.

  Her husband jumped up, half-asleep, his hair dark with sweat. Pulling on his breeches, he reached over and shook Bertrand awake. Together they slipped down the ladder as someone began pounding on the door. Isabelle peered over the edge of the loft and watched the men gather, clutching axes and knives. Hannah appeared from the back room with a candle. After whispering through the crack in the door, Jean set down the axe and drew back the bolt.

  The Duc de l'Aigle's steward was no stranger. He appeared periodically to confer with Jean Tournier and used the house to collect tithes from the surrounding farms, carefully recording them in a calfskin-bound book. Short, fat, completely bald, he made up for his lack of height with a booming voice that Jean tried in vain now to stifle. There could be no secrets with such a voice.

  — The Duc has been murdered in Paris!

  Hannah gasped and dropped the candle. Isabelle unthinkingly crossed herself, then clutched her neck and looked around. All four children were now sitting up in a row, Susanne perched next to them on the edge, balancing precariously, her belly huge and distended. She'll be ready soon, Isabelle thought, automatically assessing her. Though never used now, the old knowledge was still with her.

  Petit Jean had begun whittling with the knife that he kept with him even in bed. Jacob was silent, eyes large and brown like his mother's. Marie and Deborah leaned against each other, Deborah looking sleepy, Marie's eyes bright.

  — Maman, what is murder? she called out in a voice that rang like a copper pan being beaten.

  — Hush, Isabelle whispered. She moved to the end of the bed to hear what the steward was saying. Susanne came to sit beside her and the two leaned forward, resting their arms on the railing.

  — … ten days ago, at the wedding of Henri de Navarre. The gates were locked and thousands of followers of the Truth slaughtered. Coligny as well as our Duc. And it is spreading to the countryside. Everywhere they are killing honest people.

  — But we are far from Paris and we are all followers of the Truth here, Jean replied. We are safe from Catholics here.

  — They say a garrison is coming from Mende, the steward boomed. To take advantage of the Duc's death. They will come for you, a syndic for the Duc. The Duchesse is fleeing to Alès and passes this way in a few hours. You should come with us, to save your family. She is not offering to take others. Just the Tourniers.

  — No.

  It was Hannah who replied. She had relit the candle and stood solidly in the middle of the room, back slightly humped, silver braid running down her spine.

  — We do not need to leave this house, she continued. We are protected here.

  — And we have crops to harvest, Jean added.

  — May you change your mind. Your family – any of your family – is welcome to join the Duchesse.

  Isabelle thought she caught the flash of the steward's eyes directed toward Bertrand. Watching her husband, Susanne shifted uneasily. Isabelle reached for her hand: it was as cold as the river. She glanced at the children. The girls, too young to understand, had fallen back to sleep; Jacob was still sitting with his chin on his knees; Petit Jean had dressed and was leaning against the railing, watching the men.

  The steward left to warn other families. Jean bolted the door and set the axe beside it while Etienne and Bertrand disappeared into the barn to secure it from within. Hannah moved to the hearth, set the candle on the mantel and knelt beside the fire, banked for the night under ashes. Isabelle thought at first that she was going to build it up, but the old woman did not touch the fire.

  She squeezed Susanne's hand and nodded towards the hearth.

  — What is she doing?

  Susanne watched her mother, wiping her cheek where a tear had strayed.

  — The magic is in the hearth, she whispered finally. The magic that protects this house. Maman is praying to it.

  The magic. It had been referred to obliquely over the years, but Etienne and Susanne would never explain, and she had never dared ask Jean or Hannah.

  She tried once more.

  — But what is it? What is there?

  Susanne shook her head.

  — I don't know. Anyway, to speak of it is to ruin its power. I have already said too much.

  — But why is she praying? Monsieur Marcel says there is no magic in praying.

  — This is older than praying, older than Monsieur Marcel and his teachings.

  — But not older than God. Not older than – the Virgin, she finished silently.

  Susanne had no answer.

  — If we go, she said instead, if we go with the Duchesse, we will no longer be protected.

  — Protected by the Duchesse's men, by swords, yes, Isabelle responded.

  — Will you come?

  Isabelle did not answer. What would it take to draw Etienne away? The steward had not looked at him when urging them to go. He knew Etienne would not leave.

  Etienne and Bertrand returned from the barn, Etienne joining his parents at the table. Jean glanced up at Isabelle and Susanne.

  — Go to sleep, he said. We will keep watch.

  But their eyes were on Bertrand, standing uncertainly in the middle of the room. He looked up at Susanne as if searching for a sign. Isabelle leaned toward her.

  — God will protect you, she whispered in Susanne's ear. God and the Duchesse's men.

  She sat back, caught Hannah's glare, met it. All these years you have taunted me because of my hair, she thought, yet you pray to your own magic. She and Hannah stared at each other. Hannah looked away first.

  Isabelle missed Susanne's nod but not its result. Bertrand turned resolutely towards Jean.

  — Susanne, Deborah and I, we will go to Alès with the Duchesse de l'Aigle, he stated.

  Jean gazed at Bertrand.

  — You understand that you will lose everything if you go, he said quietly.

  — We will lose everything if we stay. Susanne is near her time, she cannot walk far. She cannot run. There will be no chance for her when the Catholics come.

  — You do not believe in this house? Where no babies have died? Where Tourniers have thrived for 100 years?

  — I believe in the Truth, he replied. That is what I believe in. With his words he seemed to grow, his defiance giving him height and girth. Isabelle realized for the first time that he was actually taller than his father-in-law.

&nb
sp; — With our marriage you gave no dowry because we live here with you. All I ask for now is one horse. That will be dowry enough.

  Jean looked incredulous.

  — You want me to give you a horse so you can take away my daughter and grandchildren?

  — I want to save your daughter and grandchildren.

  — I am the master of this family, yes?

  — God is my master. I must follow the Truth, not this magic you are so convinced by.

  Isabelle would never have guessed Bertrand could be so rebellious. After Jean and Hannah chose him for Susanne, he had worked hard and never crossed Jean. He had brought an ease to the house, arm-wrestling with Etienne every day, teaching Petit Jean to whittle, making them laugh by the fire at night with his stories of the wolf and the fox. He treated Susanne with a gentleness that Isabelle envied. Once or twice she had seen him swallow his defiance; it appeared to have grown in his stomach, waiting for a moment such as this.

  Then Jean surprised everyone.

  — Go, he said gruffly. But take the ass, not the horse. He turned and strode to the barn door, yanked it open and disappeared inside.

  Etienne glanced up at Isabelle before looking down at his hands; she was certain then that they would not follow Bertrand. Etienne's marriage to her had been his one act of defiance. He had no will left for another.

  Isabelle turned to her sister-in-law.

  — When you ride the ass, she whispered, you must ride sideways to support the baby with your legs. That will keep it from coming too soon. Ride sideways, she repeated, for Susanne was staring into space as if in shock. She turned to look at Isabelle.

  — You mean like the Virgin riding into Egypt?

  — Yes. Yes, just like the Virgin.

  They had not mentioned Her for a long time.

  Deborah and Marie were sleeping with a sheet twined round them when Susanne and Isabelle went to wake Deborah just before dawn. They tried not to disturb the others but Marie woke up and began to say loudly: — Why is Deborah leaving? Why is she leaving? Jacob opened his eyes, his features pinched. Then Petit Jean, still dressed, sat up.

  — Maman, where are they going? he whispered hoarsely. Will they see soldiers? And horses and flags? Will they see Uncle Jacques?

  — Uncle Jacques is not a Catholic soldier; he fights with Coligny's army in the north.

  — But the steward said Coligny was killed.

  — Yes.

  — So Uncle Jacques may come back.

  Isabelle did not answer. Jacques Tournier had gone to the army ten years before, at the same time as other young men from Mont Lozère. He had returned once, scarred, raucous, full of tales, one of them about Isabelle's brothers, run through with the same pike.

  — As twins should be, Jacques had added brutally, laughing when Isabelle turned away. Petit Jean worshipped Jacques. Isabelle hated him, whose eyes had followed her everywhere, never resting on her face. He encouraged a hard boisterousness in Etienne that disturbed her. But Jacques had not stayed long: the call of blood and excitement had been too strong, stronger even than the claims of family.

  The children followed the women down the ladder and out into the yard, where the men had loaded the ass with a few possessions and food: goat's cheese and hard dark loaves of chestnut bread that Isabelle had quickly made during the few hours before dawn.

  — Come, Susanne, Bertrand gestured.

  Susanne looked for her mother, but Hannah had not come outside. She turned to Isabelle, kissed her three times and put her arms around her neck.

  — Ride sideways, Isabelle whispered in her ear. And make them stop if you begin to have pains. And may the Virgin and Saint Margaret keep you and bring you safe to Alès.

  They lifted Susanne onto the ass, where she sat among the packs, legs to one side.

  — Adieu, Papa, petits, she said, nodding to Jean and the children. Deborah climbed onto Bertrand's back. He gathered the rope attached to the ass's halter, clucked and kicked, and started down the mountain path at a quick pace. Etienne and Petit Jean followed, to accompany them as far as the road to Alès, where they would meet the Duchesse. Susanne looked back at Isabelle, her face small and white, until she was out of sight.

  — Grandpapa, why are they leaving? Why is Deborah leaving? Marie asked. Born only a week apart, the cousins had been inseparable until now. Jean turned away. Marie followed Isabelle inside and stood by Hannah, busy at the fire.

  — Why, Mémé, why is Deborah leaving? she kept saying until Hannah reached out and slapped her.

  Soldiers or not, the crops were waiting. The men went to the fields as usual, but Jean chose a field near the house to scythe, and Isabelle did not follow with the rake as she normally would – she and Marie remained at the house with Hannah and helped with preserving. Petit Jean and Jacob worked behind their father and grandfather, raking the rye into bundles, Jacob barely tall enough to handle the rake.

  In the house Isabelle and Hannah said little, the hole left behind by Susanne shutting their mouths. Twice Isabelle stopped stirring, staring into space, and cursed when hot plum spattered her arms. Finally Hannah pushed her away.

  — Honey is too precious to be wasted by idle hands, she muttered.

  Isabelle, boiling crockery instead, often went to the door in search of a cooling breeze and to listen to the silence of the valley. Once Marie followed and stood next to her in the doorway, her tiny hands stained purple from picking through the plums to find the unripe or rotten.

  — Maman, she said quietly, knowing now to keep her voice down. Maman, why did they leave?

  — They left because they were afraid, Isabelle replied after a moment, wiping sweat from her temples.

  — Afraid of what?

  — Of bad men who want to hurt them.

  — Bad men are coming here?

  Isabelle tucked her hands under her smock so Marie would not see they were shaking.

  — No, chérie, I think not. But they were worried about Susanne with the baby.

  — Will I see Deborah soon?

  — Yes.

  Marie had her father's pale blue eyes and, to Isabelle's relief, his blond hair as well. If it had been red, Isabelle would have dyed it with the juice of black walnuts. Marie's bright eyes gazed up at her now, perturbed, uncertain. Isabelle had never been able to lie to her.

  Pierre La Forêt visited the field at midday just as Isabelle was bringing the men their dinner. He told them who had fled – not so many, only those with wealth to be looted, daughters to be raped, connections with the Duc.

  He saved the most surprising news for last.

  — Monsieur Marcel has left, he announced with poorly disguised glee. He has gone north, over Mont Lozère.

  There was silence. Jean picked up his scythe.

  — He will return, he said shortly, turning back to the rye. Pierre La Forêt watched him begin his rhythmic swinging, then glanced fearfully around, as if just remembering that soldiers might descend at any moment. He left quickly, whistling for his dog.

  Their progress in the field that morning had been slow. Besides the absence of Bertrand and Susanne, the workers Jean had hired for the harvest never appeared, fearful of the farm's connection with the Duc. The boys had not been able to keep up with the men, so that now and then Jean or Etienne had been forced to drop a scythe and to rake for a time to catch up.

  — Let me rake, Isabelle suggested now, eager to escape Hannah and the stifling house. Your mother – Maman can handle the preserves alone. Jacob and Marie will help her. Please. She rarely called Hannah Maman, only when wheedling was necessary.

  To her relief the men agreed, sending Jacob back to the house. She and Petit Jean followed in the wake of the scythes, raking as fast as they could, bundling the rye, leaning the bundles upright against one another to dry. They worked quickly, sweat soaking their clothes. Occasionally Isabelle stopped to look around and listen. The sky was yellow with haze, wide and empty. It seemed the world itself had paused and was waiting wit
h her.

  It was Jacob who heard them. Late in the afternoon he appeared at the edge of the field, running fast. They all stopped and watched him, Isabelle's heart beginning to race. When he reached them he leaned over, hands on his thighs, gasping for breath.

  — Ecoute, Papa, was all he said when he could speak, gesturing towards the valley. They listened. At first Isabelle could hear nothing except birds and her own breathing. Then a dull rumble emerged from the countryside.