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?”
“Oui.” But there was only silence and Damienne’s whimpering sobs in the boat that took them ashore. No music, just the quiet dipping of oars in dark water, the creaking of wood against wood, the oarsman’s grunts, the scrape of the boat against rock when they landed. The oarsman hastily unloaded their meagre provisions, his eyes flinching away from theirs to scan the rocky shore and barren hills, as if he expected to see the Devil himself.
The three said nothing as they watched the boat return to the Vallentyne, nothing as they watched the sails of the ship disappear.
Still disbelieving, Marguerite poked among the provisions piled upon the rocks: torn sails, hemp rope, an axe, mallet, and bucket of nails, three arquebuses, powder, and shot, fishing line and hooks, an iron pot, two baskets of hard bread and a small cask of salt beef. Slowly the realization came to her that her uncle had been planning this punishment for days, perhaps weeks. In cold and calculating measures he had drawn up his list and made ready his retribution for her disobedience. How could she have imagined his heart was softening? The screeching gulls mocked her.
Le comportement indécent. Le scandale. Abandoned. Punished.
The twelfth day of July in 1542: the day that Roberval abandoned Marguerite, Michel, and Damienne on the Isle of Demons.
The twelfth day of July in 1542: the day that King François I declared war on the Holy Roman Empire – and lost all interest in Roberval’s adventures in New France.
I hear ravens murmuring: km-mm-mm.
“His name, Marguerite. What was his name?”
Terrified, Marguerite tried to draw comfort from Michel. Roberval would not truly abandon you, his beloved cousin, he reasoned. A few days to show you his outrage, a week at most. He smiled then. The viceroy has called this place the Isle of Demons only to frighten us, he said, trying to laugh. In just a few days Roberval will send a ship. You will see.
Marguerite did not contradict him, but she did her own calculations: two baskets of hard bread, a cask of salt beef, fishing line and hooks, three muskets, powder, and shot. Roberval did not intend to return for them soon.
“His name, Marguerite. What was his name?”
“Le jeune homme bête.”
“Stupid young man,” Thevet repeats pointedly. “Very well then. You force me to inform King François of your disobedience.” The monk heaves an angry frustrated sigh, reaches for a knife, and begins to sharpen quills. He believes he is giving me time to reflect upon my recalcitrance.
I float above and consider the balding circle at the crown of his head. I see the short list he has made on his paper:mid-summer, Isle of Demons, Damienne, arquebus, hard bread, citre. I see myself rocking back and forth, wringing my hands, trying to hold securely between my palms the memories I dare not release to the Franciscan. If I do not keep my hands clutched tightly together, they might reach for his throat, and then, I could not stop them.
A thumb unclenches. A memory slips out through the tiny gap.
While Marguerite and Damienne huddled together, Michel searched the shore and then assured them he’d seen no signs of wolves, monsters, or Indians. No signs of demons.
But I have found a level grassy place at the bottom of an inlet, he said. There is a stream with sweet water. I can use the sails to build shelters there.
When Marguerite bent to lift a basket of biscuit, Michel leapt forward and stayed her hands.Non, non, he said, this is not work for a lady. I will move everything.
So while Marguerite and Damienne followed behind, holding their skirts high above the clear green water threatening to lap at their toes, Michel carried the basket of hard bread the short distance to the inlet. Damienne’s trembling fingers clung to Marguerite’s arm as they watched him make trip after trip, until everything had been moved. Michel grabbed the axe then and strode off. He returned with stout poles he’d cut from trees in a narrow valley farther inland. Using the poles and the hemp rope, he built two rough shelters from the torn sails. By the time he had finished, the sky behind them was a rosy pink.
There is much sweet water, he said, everywhere, and I’ve seen the trails of rabbits. And foxes. No sign of les sauvages. We will be fine.
Michel made a fire from driftwood and dry boughs, and they supped that evening on hard bread and salt beef.
Beneath a cobalt sky and an iron sickle of moon, they retired to canvas shelters and make-shift beds. Giving his sabre to Damienne, Michel took with him his arquebus and dagger.
He whispered assurances to Marguerite and tried to soothe her, but she was too frightened to find comfort in his caresses, too fretful to respond to his kisses.
Eventually the rhythmic slap of wave on rock lulled them to sleep, an uneasy slumber soon disturbed by eerie warbling cries riding atop the wind’s soft breath. Damienne scrambled from her shelter into theirs. Michel readied one of the muskets, and Marguerite, fearing demons, grabbed her New Testament and prayed. Clutching the sabre, Damienne sat and moaned, her wails nearly as loud as the warbling cries.
In the morning, Damienne could not be persuaded to venture outside. Despite both her and Michel’s protests, Marguerite insisted upon going with Michel to explore the island, to discover its inhabitants, hostile or otherwise. After a hasty breakfast of hard bread and water, they set out, armed with an arquebus, fusil, and dagger.
Less than twenty-five fathoms from the shelters, they found a quiet pool where a pair of sleek black and white birds glided, low and silent upon the water. When one opened its pointed black bill and released a demonic warble, they realized that the birds were the source of the night’s haunting calls. They laughed nervously to each other and spoke of Damienne’s relief when they told her.
Laboriously loading the musket, Michel shot at one of the birds, but both dived, and neither he nor Marguerite could see where they surfaced again.
Would you teach me? Marguerite asked.
Michel shook his head.Non, it would not be proper.
But it would be good if both of us to knew how to shoot, she protested, in case of wild animals or Indians or…
Michel looked off in the distance, sighed, and then handed her the musket. Marguerite could hardly lift the heavy weapon. Thirteen steps to load and shoot, pouring and tamping powder, fire-steel at hand to light the fuse. And the same for the smaller gun, the fusil. They did not yet worry about conserving powder and shot.
I hear the explosion of the long musket and feel the tremendous recoil against my shoulder, the jolt pulling me back into my body, back into the Franciscan’s agitated presence. Sharpening his quills, Thevet has remained unusually silent.
After the shooting lesson, Michel and Marguerite returned to tell a sceptical Damienne about the birds. Still, she would not budge from the shelter.
Michel and Marguerite continued their explorations. Near shore they found small patches of scraggly spruce and fir, all bent away from the sea as if repulsed, or afraid. Taller trees grew in the valleys, trunks close and branches interlaced as if embracing each other. Michel and Marguerite came upon wet grassy meadows dotted with daisies and buttercups, and they discovered mossy bogs with scattered low shrubs bearing bright pink blossoms. The soft green moss exuded a fragrance Marguerite found peculiar but pleasant, an aroma both clean and musky.
Startling them, a partridge burst from the dense shrubs growing at the edge of a bog, but was gone too quickly for Michel even to raise the fusil.
They climbed the high granite domes in the centre of the island and from there surveyed their domain. From that vantage point, the island looked like one solid rock, an ancient turtle’s arched back laced with grey and red ridges. Dark pools and bogs lay in the depressions; short trees stood thick in the valleys. They could see at least a dozen rocky islands nearby, as well as scores of smaller ones, some no more than an outcropping of stone in a sparkling sea.
Michel rotated in a complete circle, then pulled at his dark beard. I b
elieve we are standing on the largest island, he said, perhaps two miles long and about the same wide, though it is hard to judge.
He held both arms straight out, then brought an open hand to his brow. All to the south and east, he said, reckoning by the sun.
They turned. To the northwest, at least two or three miles distant, they could see a larger landmass. Another island? New France? They couldn’t tell.
No matter what direction they turned, however, they could see no white sails.
In all of their explorations, and much to every-one’s relief, Marguerite and Michel saw no signs of demons or Indians, and Michel tried not to worry that he’d also seen little in the way of animal tracks or spoor, only a few trails made by rabbits and foxes.
Later that day, Michel used the fishing line and hooks, baiting the hook with a tiny scrap of salt beef. His catch was meagre, two flatfish, which they roasted over the fire, along with a few whelks Marguerite had collected in the pools left by the retreating tide.
That evening Michel set snares in the runs he’d seen, and by dawn two rabbits dangled in leather nooses. Marguerite, after she’d gathered her hair within her pearl snood and fashioned a bonnet against the sun, allowed herself a brief and delicate sorrow for their large amber eyes.
Michel dressed the rabbits, running his dagger the length of their tawny bellies and tossing the bowels to the screeching gulls. They roasted the slender bodies and picked apart the flesh with their fingers. Certain they’d be on the island only a few more days at most, Michel did not bother to save the skins or the bones.
La folie. La stupidité. How long, O Lord? How long?
The scrape of the Franciscan’s knife against the quill’s nib punctuates the words and chuckling laughter. The monk does not look up from his work. He is giving me more time to contemplate her sins – and mine.
Marguerite prayed. Every morning and evening she prayed for their rescue. She sang the psalms she’d learned as a child.
Her sweet voice sounds in my head:I will love thee, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my firmament, my refuge, and my deliverer. My God is my helper, and in him will I put my trust.
Silence of Stone Page 5