The Virgin Blue

by Tracy Chevalier

  — Ten. Ten horses, Jacob announced. Isabelle dropped her rake, took Jacob's hand and ran.

  Petit Jean was the fastest; only nine, even after a day's work he outran his father easily. He reached the barn and raced to draw the bolts. Etienne and Jean brought water from the nearby stream while Isabelle and Jacob began closing shutters.

  Marie stood in the middle of the room, pressing an armful of lavender to her chest. Hannah continued to work at the fire, as if oblivious of the activity around her. Once they had all gathered around the table, the old woman turned and said simply: — We are safe.

  They were the last words Isabelle ever heard her speak.

  They took their time appearing.

  The family sat silently around the table in their usual places but with no meal before them. It was dark inside: the fire was low, no candles had been lit and the only light came through cracks in the shutters. Isabelle perched on a bench, Marie close at her side holding her hand, the lavender in her lap. Jean sat very straight at the head of the table. Etienne was staring down at his clasped hands. His cheek twitched; otherwise he was as impassive as his father. Hannah rubbed her face, pressed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger, eyes closed. Petit Jean had taken out his knife and laid it on the table in front of him. He kept picking it up, flashing it, testing its blade, setting it down again. Jacob, slumped alone on the bench where Susanne, Bertrand and Deborah usually sat, held a round stone in his hand. The rest were in his pocket. He had always loved the brightly coloured stones in the Tarn, preferring deep reds and yellows. He kept them even when they dried into dull browns and greys. When he wanted to see their true colours he licked them.

  The gaps along the bench seemed to Isabelle to be filled with the ghosts of her family – her mother, her sister, her brothers. She shook her head and closed her eyes, trying to imagine where Susanne was now, safe with the Duchesse. When that failed she thought of the blue of the Virgin, a colour she had not seen in years but could picture at this moment as if the walls of the house were painted with it. She took a deep breath and her heartbeat slowed. She opened her eyes. The empty spaces at the table were shimmering with blue light.

  When the horses arrived there were shouts and whistles, then a loud banging at the door that made everyone jump.

  — Let us sing, Jean said firmly and began in a deep, confident bass: J'ai mis en toi mon espérance: Garde-moi donc, Seigneur, D'éternel déshonneur: Octroye-moi ma délivrance, Par ta grande bonté haute, Qui jamais ne fit faute. Everyone joined in but Hannah, who had always said singing was frivolous and preferred to mumble the words under her breath. The children sang in high-pitched voices, Marie hiccuping with fear.

  They finished the psalm to the accompaniment of rattling shutters and a rhythmic pounding on the door. They had begun another psalm when the pounding stopped. After a moment they heard a scraping thud against the bottom of the door, then crackling and the smell of smoke. Etienne and Jean stood up and strode to the door. Etienne picked up a bucket of water and nodded. Jean quietly drew the bolt and swung open the door a crack. Etienne dashed the water out just as the door was kicked violently open and a wave of flames leapt inside. Two hands grabbed Jean by his throat and shirt and pulled him violently outside, the door slamming shut after him.

  Etienne scrambled for the door, flung it open again and was engulfed in smoke and fire.

  — Papa! he shouted and disappeared into the yard.

  Inside there was a strange, frozen silence. Then Isabelle stood up calmly, feeling the blue light surround and protect her. She picked up Marie.

  — Hold on to me, she whispered, and Marie wound her arms around her mother's neck, her legs around her waist, the lavender crushed between them. Isabelle took Jacob's hand, gesturing to Petit Jean to take his other hand. As if in a dream she led the children across the room, drew back the bolt and entered the barn. They skirted around the horse, now stepping sideways and whinnying at the smell of smoke and the sounds of other horses in the yard. At the far end of the barn, Isabelle unbolted a small door that led into the kitchen garden. Together they picked their way through cabbages and tomatoes, carrots, onions, herbs. Isa-belle's skirt brushed against the sage plant, releasing into the air the familiar tangy odour.

  They reached the mushroom rock at the bottom of the garden and stopped. Jacob pressed his hands briefly against the stone. Beyond it was a fallow field the goats had cropped short, dry and brown now from a full summer of sun. The four began to run across it, the boys ahead, Isabelle behind with Marie still clinging to her.

  Halfway across she realized Hannah had not followed them. She cursed aloud.

  They reached the chestnut trees safely. At the cleda Isabelle put Marie down and turned to Petit Jean.

  — I have to go back, to get Mémé. You are good at hiding. Wait here until I return. But don't hide in the cleda; they might set fire to it. And if they come and you have to run, go towards my father's house, through the fields, not on the path. D'accord?

  Petit Jean nodded and pulled his knife from his pocket, his blue eyes sparkling.

  Isabelle turned and looked back. The farm was alight now. The pigs were screaming, the dogs howling, howls taken up by the dogs all around the valley. The village knows what is happening, she thought. Will they come and help? Will they hide? She glanced at the children, Marie and Jacob wide-eyed and still, Petit Jean scanning the woods.

  — Allez, she said. Without a word Petit Jean led the other two into the undergrowth.

  Isabelle left the trees and skirted the edge of the field. In the distance she could see the field they had worked in that day: all the bundles she and Petit Jean and Jacob had raked together were smoking. She heard distant shouts, and laughter, a sound that made the hair on her arms stand on end. As she got closer she smelled burning flesh, a scent both familiar and strange. The pigs, she thought. The pigs and – she realized what the soldiers had done.

  — Sainte Vierge, aide-nous, she breathed and crossed herself.

  So much smoke filled the bottom of the garden that it seemed night had fallen. She crept through the vegetables and halfway up the row found Hannah on her knees, clutching a cabbage to her breast, tears cutting grooves down her blackened face.

  — Viens, Mémé, Isabelle whispered, putting her arms around Hannah's shoulders and lifting her. Viens.

  The old woman made no sound as she wept, letting Isabelle lead her back through the garden to the field. Behind them they heard the soldiers galloping into the garden, but the wall of smoke kept the women hidden. They stayed at the edge of the field, following the low granite wall Jean had built many years before. Hannah kept stopping and looking behind her, and Isabelle had to urge her on, putting an arm around her, pulling her forwards.

  The soldier appeared so suddenly he seemed to have been dropped by God from the sky. They would have expected him behind them; instead he emerged from the very woods they were heading toward. He crossed the field at a full gallop, sword raised and, as Isabelle saw when he got closer, a smile on his face. She moaned and began stumbling backwards, pulling Hannah with her.

  When the horseman was so close she could smell his sweat, a grey mass detached itself from the ground and rose, casually shaking a back leg. Immediately the horse reared up, screaming. The soldier lost his seat and fell heavily to the ground. His horse wheeled round and headed wildly back across the field to the chestnut grove.

  Hannah looked from the wolf to Isabelle and back to the wolf. It stood watching them calmly, its yellow eyes alert. It did not even glance at the soldier, who lay without moving.

  — Merci, Isabelle said quietly, nodding at the wolf. Merci, Maman.

  Hannah's eyes widened.

  They waited until the wolf turned and trotted away, leaping over the low wall, disappearing into the next field. Then Hannah moved forward again. Isabelle began to follow, then stopped and looked round, staring at the soldier and shivering. Finally she turned and approached him warily. She barely looked at him;
instead she crouched next to his sword and studied it intently. Hannah waited for her, arms crossed, head bowed.

  Isabelle rose abruptly.

  — No blood, she said.

  When they reached the woods Isabelle began calling quietly for the children. In the distance she could hear the riderless horse tearing through the trees. Presumably it reached the edge of the forest, for the sound stopped.

  The children did not appear.

  — They must have gone ahead, Isabelle murmured. There was no blood on the sword. Please let them have gone ahead. They have gone ahead, she repeated more loudly for Hannah's benefit.

  When there was no reply she added: — Eh, Mémé? You think they have gone ahead?

  Hannah only shrugged.

  They began the trek across the fields to Isabelle's father's farm, listening for the soldiers, the children, the horse, anyone. They met nothing.

  It was dark by the time they stumbled into the farmyard. The house was black and bolted shut, but when Isabelle knocked softly on the door and whispered, Papa, c'est moi, they were let in. The children were sitting in the dark with their grandfather. Marie jumped up and ran to her mother, pressing her face into Isabelle's side.

  Henri du Moulin nodded briefly to Hannah, who looked away. He turned to Isabelle.

  — Where are they?

  Isabelle shook her head.

  — I don't know. I think — She looked at the children and stopped.

  — We will wait, her father said grimly.

  — Yes.

  They waited for hours, the children falling asleep one by one, the adults seated stiffly round the table in the dark. Hannah closed her eyes but sat very straight, hands clasped on the table before her. At every sound she opened her eyes and jerked her head towards the door.

  Isabelle and her father were silent. She gazed around her sadly. Even in the dark it was clear the house was falling apart. When Henri du Moulin learned his twin sons were dead, he stopped keeping up the farm: fields lay fallow, roofs leaked, goats wandered away, mice nested in the grain. It was dirty and dank inside, damp even in the heat and dryness of the harvest season.

  Isabelle listened to the mice rustling in the dark.

  — You need a cat, she whispered.

  — I had one, her father replied. It left. Nothing remains here.

  Just before dawn they heard a movement in the yard, the muffled sound of a horse. Jacob sat up quickly.

  — It's our horse, he said.

  At first they didn't recognize Etienne. The figure swaying in the doorway had no hair left except for a few patches of singed black stubble on his scalp. His fair eyebrows and lashes were gone, making his eyes seem to float anchorless in his face. His clothes were burnt and he was dusted all over with soot.

  They stood frozen except for Petit Jean, who took the figure's hand with both of his.

  — Come, Papa, he said, and led Etienne to a bench at the table.

  Etienne gestured behind him.

  — The horse, he whispered as he sat. The horse stood patiently in the yard, hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle them. Mane and tail had been burnt off; otherwise it appeared unharmed.

  When Etienne's hair grew back, a few months later and many miles away, it was grey. His eyebrows and lashes never reappeared.

  Etienne and his mother sat at Henri du Moulin's table in a daze, unable to think or act. All day Isabelle and her father tried to talk to them, without success. Hannah would say nothing, and Etienne simply stated, I'm thirsty, or I'm tired, and closed his eyes.

  Finally Isabelle roused them by crying in desperation: —We must leave here soon. The soldiers will be looking for us still, and eventually someone will tell them to look here.

  She knew the villagers: they were loyal. Offered enough, though, or threatened enough, they would give away a secret, even to a Catholic.

  — Where do we go? Etienne asked.

  — You could hide in the woods until it's safe to return, Henri du Moulin suggested.

  — We cannot return there, Isabelle replied. The crops are ruined, the house is gone. Without the Duc we have no protection from the Catholics. They will continue to search for us. And – she hesitated, careful to convince them with their own words – without the house, it is no longer safe.

  And I do not want to return to that misery, she added silently. Etienne and his mother looked at each other.

  — We could go to Alès, Isabelle continued. To join Susanne and Bertrand.

  — No, Etienne said firmly. They made their choice. They left this family.

  — But they — Isabelle stopped, not wanting to ruin with argument what little influence she now had. She had a sudden vision of Susanne's belly sliced open by the soldier in the field and knew they had made the right decision.

  — The road to Alès will be dangerous, her father said. It could happen there, what has happened here.

  The children had been listening silently. Now Marie spoke.

  — Maman, where can we be safe? she demanded. Tell God we want to be safe.

  Isabelle nodded.

  — Calvin, she announced. We could go to Calvin. To Geneva, where it is safe. Where the Truth is free.

  They waited till nightfall, hot and restless. Isabelle had the children clean the house while she baked as much bread as she could in the chimney shelf. She and her sister and mother had used that shelf daily; now she had to brush off mouse droppings and cobwebs. The hearth looked unused and she wondered what her father ate.

  Henri du Moulin refused to go with them, though his connection to the Tourniers made him a target.

  — This is my farm, he said roughly. No Catholic will drive me from it.

  He insisted they take his cart, the only valuable possession he had left besides his plough. He brushed it out, repaired one of the wheels, set the plank in its place across the box to sit on. When darkness came he pulled it into the yard and loaded it with an axe, three blankets, two sacks.

  — Chestnuts and potatoes, he explained to Isabelle.

  — Potatoes?

  — For the horse and for you.

  Hannah overheard him and stiffened. Petit Jean, leading the horse from the barn, laughed.

  — People don't eat potatoes, Grandpapa! Only poor beggars.

  Isabelle's father tightened his hands into fists.

  — You will be thankful enough to have them to eat, monpetit. All men are poor in the eyes of God.

  When they were ready, Isabelle looked at her father closely, trying to take in every part of his face to keep in her mind always.

  — Be careful, Papa, she whispered. The soldiers may come.

  — I will fight for the Truth, he replied. I am not afraid. He looked at her and with a brief upward flick of his chin added: — Courage, Isabelle.

  She tightened the corners of her mouth into a smile that kept back the tears, then put her hands on his shoulders and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him three times.

  — Bah, you have picked up the Tournier kiss, he muttered.

  — Hush, Papa. I am a Tournier now.

  — But your name is still du Moulin. Don't forget that.

  — No. She paused. Remember me.

  Marie, who never cried, cried for an hour after they left him standing in the road.

  The horse could not pull all of them. Hannah and Marie sat in the cart while the rest walked behind, with Etienne or Petit Jean leading the horse. Occasionally one of them got in to rest and the horse went on more slowly.

  They took the road over Mont Lozère, the moon bright, lighting their way but making them conspicuous. Whenever they heard a strange noise they pulled off the road. They reached the Col de Finiels at the summit and hid the cart while Etienne took the horse and went in search of the shepherds. They would know the route towards Geneva.

  Isabelle waited by the cart, the others sleeping. She listened for every sound. Close by she knew the source of the Tarn welled up and began its long descent down the mountain. She would never see the river a
gain, never feel its touch. Silently she began to weep for the first time since the Duc's steward woke them in the night.

  Then she felt eyes upon her, but not a stranger's eyes. A familiar feel, the feel of the river on her skin. Glancing around, she saw him leaning against a rock not a stone's throw away. He didn't move when she looked at him.

  Isabelle wiped her wet face and walked over to the shepherd. They held each other's eyes. Isabelle reached up and touched the scar on his cheek.

  — How did you get this?

  — From life.