Written on Silk

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Once Guise gave his order to set the building on fire, his followers would set about to obey his command without a thought of wrong doing. They did not see themselves as murderers, but as crusaders, holy warriors preserving God’s truth from the onslaught of wicked apostates who followed that diable Luther. Bertrand knew there was no chance he could ever sit down across from Guise, with a Bible between them, to discuss Christian doctrines from the Scriptures. To be caught with the Scriptures in French brought death.

  “Father God, Your sheep are trapped. Your little lambs too. I know You have the power to deliver us. Deliver us, O God, is my plea — but like Daniel’s three friends, faced with bowing to the golden image or being cast into the flames — even if You choose not to deliver us, we will not deny the Scriptures to please men or demons! Give us the grace to die for Your truth if need be. Strengthen Your servants to endure. In the name of Him who alone has secured our eternal safety, Jesus, amen.”

  From somewhere ahead in the barn, Bertrand heard someone shouting at the door, “Let us out, Seigneur Guise, I beg of you. We have women and children in here. Arrest us, but let the women and children go!”

  Bertrand prayed for the men not to panic. Many were shouting, banging on the door, and pushing against it with their shoulders. He hurried to the platform with his Bible raised so that the others who remained seated would follow his example of confidence in death. He was reading Psalm 41 in a loud unwavering voice when the young Englishman, Sir James Hudson, rushed up to him.

  “Pasteur Bertrand, every window-shutter is nailed fast.”

  “I know, I know, my son. What is your relationship with the only Savior?”

  “It is well, sir.”

  “Bon!”

  “I have found a pick and a few pitchforks. I am going to try and break through that window in the back. Be prepared to escape with Mademoiselles Idelette and Avril.”

  “Do what you can with His strength!”

  “Pasteur Bertrand,” another shouted. “We are trapped!”

  “God knows, mon ami.”

  “Why does He not help us then?”

  “Like Elisha the prophet, I ask you to remember, ‘They that be with us are more than they that be with them.’ Come, now, quit yourselves like men and be strong. Let us comfort the little children.”

  Bertrand again commanded everyone’s attention and called loudly to the parents to gather closely in a circle to kneel, hold hands, and pray. Although his heart ached to see the children and women, he kept his voice and manner calm.

  “Women and children, over here by me. Come! The old, to your knees in supplication! Younger men and brothers, continue to labor to break open that far window, be quick! The strength of Samson flow through you.”

  “It is too late, Monsieur Bertrand! There is smoke.”

  “Work! Let our faithful God decide when it is too late.”

  “Should we not pray with the old instead?” another cried.

  “Pray and work!” Bertrand called. “Even now angels surround this place. If God wished to stop these merely deceived men, He can.”

  “Then why does He not?” came another shuddering cry.

  “We are appointed as sheep for the slaughter. Nay, in all these things — tribulation, sickness, nakedness, famine, or sword — we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us. Nothing can separate us from His love, least of all suffering and death.”

  “Yes,” Monsieur Lemoine called. “Weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning. Our morning will come. We will join the martyrs for Jesus under the altar near His throne.”

  Bertrand stuffed his French Bible into his frock coat, and using his walking stick, made for the crying children huddled together with the older women who were trying to comfort them. Two young women with babes in their arms knelt beside the group of children and tried to sing to them. One of the babes awoke and began to cry pitifully.

  Bertrand came up and gathered them around him, pulling the smallest into his arms like a mother hen. He laid his hand on the baby and prayed. He tried to soothe their fears and ease their confusion, patting the young mothers on the heads. “Be strong, mes petits; His grace will be sufficient for even this. He is never so close as when His own are suffering. Let us pray, little ones, let us talk to our Savior Jesus.”

  AVRIL MACQUINET LOST SIGHT of her older sister Idelette in the smoke and din. Nor could she find Cousin Bertrand. Drawn by singing, she came upon him.

  “Oh, Cousin Bertrand. I am so thankful ma mère is not here, nor is Rachelle.” She huddled close beside him, trying to sustain her courage.

  The shouts from soldiers outside sent fear thundering in her heart. Even now the smoke was spreading and she began to cough.

  She gripped his arm. “Will it hurt very much?”

  “His promised grace will strengthen you, ma petite. The many who have gone before us would bear witness if they could. What hymn do you know? Sing, ma chère, sing, and do not look about you. Remember Peter and the waves? Do not look, keep your eyes closed and sing and pray. Imagine Jesus in your mind. Think of Him in His glorious white robes, comforting arms outstretched, welcoming you to our everlasting home.”

  Avril tried to sing, but coughing overcame her and the smoke made her eyes sting and water. She had memorized the new words, recently placed into the 1556 Geneva Psalter, and whispered them:

  “Praise God from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below. Praise him on high you heavenly host, praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen.”

  AT THE REAR OF THE BARN, Idelette searched desperately for Avril. Where is she, Lord? Oh thanks be to You, Father, that Rachelle and ma mère are not here! Your providential hand detained them both! Do not let them be ruined by grief over Avril, Bertrand, and me. Help them to carry on with new courage in the knowledge that all things work together for good to those who love You.

  She came upon a group of younger men who were breaking through a window shutter with a pick and shovel and saw the Englishman, James Hudson. He should have stayed another night at the inn. He would have escaped this moment. But if she believed that circumstances in the lives of His own are governed by God, then, was he here by providence?

  “You are making progress, Messieurs. Have courage, Monsieur Hudson!” she called. “Do not tremble because of them. Be strong in His grace.”

  The young Englishman looked over at her. “Ho! Do not stray afar, Mademoiselle, we may get out yet!”

  Would they? Idelette prayed as she moved on. Give us peace in the midst of suffering.

  Flames were spreading from the front of the barn. The smoke troubled her breathing. She clasped a handkerchief over her mouth and knelt, crawling forward on her hands and knees. Even if some did escape through the window, how could she leave without Avril? What good to escape and remember all the rest of her years that she had left behind her baby sister?

  Keeping close to the floor helped, but her eyes teared and she could not see. The smoke silenced her, though her words continued to the Lord of Hosts. I am going to die . . . This is my time.

  The heat was terrible now. The old were gasping, sinking to the floor, coughing — she tried to encourage them and was surprised when they tried to encourage her to remain strong and trust.

  The aged Monsieur Fontaine and his wife, married for fifty years, held hands like young sweethearts as they knelt low, praying together, their silver heads reminding Idelette of halos. The last she saw of them before the smoke thickened was a strangely sweet smile on Madame Fontaine’s wrinkled face.

  The shutters on one window burst open. “This way, through the window, quick!” sounded a voice of new hope.

  “Children to the window!” Hudson shouted.

  Idelette followed his voice, believing that if Avril was to be saved, she would find her way to the window and Hudson’s voice.

  Idelette crept along the floor to where the children were being hoisted through the window; a breath of fresh air came against her like
the touch of an angel’s wing. With renewed strength she called, “Avril? Avril!”

  There was no answering call from her sister, but she recognized Cousin Bertrand’s voice: “This way! To the window! Form a line, send the children first!”

  There was singing now. “The prince of darkness grim — we tremble not for him — ”

  The men below the window, James Hudson one of them, were hauling children and women through the opening as fast as they could lift them. “Run!” they were charged as soon as they got their footing. “Run toward the road and the mulberry orchard!”

  “We will attempt to open the barn door,” one of the young Huguenot men called from outside the window.

  “Guise’s soldiers will cut you down. Run for help!” James Hudson called back.

  “Idelette!”

  It was Avril’s voice. Idelette turned toward the voice. Merci, Father.

  Avril stumbled forward, and Idelette grasped her small, trembling sister into her arms. Clinging together, they moved in faltering steps toward the window.

  James Hudson saw them. “Both of you! Come quickly, that’s it, up and out!”

  He lifted Avril and thrust her through the window, then grabbed Idelette before she could protest to let others go before her. “Out with you, lass! And run for your life!”

  “Bertrand — and you, Monsieur — ” Idelette cried.

  “I’ll look for him.”

  Idelette sank to the ground, sucking in clean air, gasping and coughing to clear her lungs, as well as her sluggish mind. She caught hold of Avril’s arm and pointed toward the road and the mulberry trees lining the Macquinet estate. “Run to the trees and hide. I — I will catch up.”

  “But Cousin Bertrand and Monsieur Hudson?”

  “They rest in the hand of God. Go sister — run.”

  Avril was crying now, the tears smudging the traces of smoke on her tender young face. She tugged at Idelette’s arm, her eyes pleading.

  “Come sister, come with me — ”

  Idelette looked back. Flames were spreading. All the others unable to get through this one unguarded window would soon be overwhelmed by heat and smoke.

  Avril was yanking on her arm. “We will hide in the bushes. There are not as many soldiers in that direction.”

  Idelette relented. God be with you, Bertrand and James — au revoir.

  Idelette and Avril ran together toward the trees and bushes. Idelette glanced back again.

  Guise’s men-at-arms were everywhere like swarming hornets. Some on horseback and others on foot, running in every direction, as though driven by madness. Those on horseback rode down those who were able to flee like helpless sheep. Without mercy the soldiers slashed their swords, whacking them down, trampling them under their horses’ hooves as they fell to their knees.

  Avril tripped on a clump. Idelette struggled to get her back on her feet.

  They ran on, the clods of dirt slowing their pace. “Hurry, sister — ”

  Horse hooves pounded in the distance. Idelette turned, still gripping Avril. Perhaps one of us can get away.

  As the soldier on horseback neared, Idelette gave Avril a push toward the trees. “Run, do not look back.”

  AVRIL FLED FOR THE DARK SHADE OF THE MULBERRY TREES. Tears filled her eyes. I think Bertrand will die in the smoke and fire — and James. Poor James. He was so beau-looking —

  Avril heard another horse galloping up beside her. She turned her head to look. She uttered a cry as a sharp blow whacked against her head.

  She fell, blood running down her face. She could not think; she could not move. Then, turning her face from the dirt, she saw the broad chest of a horse. Its raised hoofs coming down upon her.

  IDELETTE, IN HORROR, SAW Avril’s fate. She threw her hands over her head and screamed. She doubled over, clenching her fists. “Beasts! Antichrists!”

  Someone grabbed her from behind, a hand going over her mouth, an arm going roughly round her waist, dragging her backward. She kicked and fought with a rage she did not know she possessed. She chomped her teeth into the fingers covering her mouth and tasted his blood. She slammed her elbow into his ribs — heard his revolting grunt, all to no avail. Exhausted emotionally, her strength fell away into hopelessness.

  She was being dragged away, then flung over his shoulder like a slab of beef, carried off as booty to be devoured.

  ACROSS THE DIRT ROAD, Rachelle remained hidden among the oleanders, knuckles bared against her teeth. The ugly sounds of terror continued until she thought she would go insane with her helplessness. She covered her ears with her sweating palms.

  No doubt the duc believed he had done God a ser vice by ridding Lyon of heretics. “Beasts, made to be taken and destroyed,” he often repeated from clerics who misquoted from the epistle, 2 Peter. That was their excuse for the Inquisition!

  She remembered Christ had said, “The time will come when whosoever kills you will think he is doing God ser vice.”

  The sounds of madness ceased. Rachelle opened her eyes, taking her hands from her ears, listening.

  Wood crackled; a gust of smoke blew in her direction. The mulberry leaves shuddered. A lone bird gave a short reluctant trill then, and as though in sadness over the evil of mankind, the bird flew away.

  Rachelle peered through the oleanders to see gray smoke coming from the barn. The soldiers had ridden away — or had they?

  She unclenched her fists; there was blood on her palms from her finger nails. She lifted herself from the ground, weak and damp with sweat. Keeping her head low among the oleanders, she surveyed the field as far as she could see. She squinted, able to see bodies. She was shaking now and strangely chilled.

  How many dead — non, how many murdered? How many had been bound with rope and carried away for the dungeons, to be burned later?

  She straightened, hearing the wind swirling through the trees, and what had earlier seemed a chorus of praise was now mournful to her ears.

  Grant me courage, Lord. If there were any yet alive and wounded, she must go to them. Possibly her own sisters and Cousin Bertrand were among them. And poor James Hudson.

  Rachelle pushed through the oleanders and walked across the road.

  Although she wanted to run, her feet felt heavy.

  Her heart froze with fear as she made her way into the field with the smell of smoke on the breeze. The grasses rustled. She stopped in the midst of the wreckage, stunned by the gruesome sight of so many cut down, including children. For a shocked moment she could do nothing except stare at the bloody carnage. Her stomach sickened as she began to recognize friends she had known since childhood, all of them members of her church. How could this have happened?

  Rachelle raised her tearstained face to the sky and felt the sun warming her damp cheeks. I want revenge. I hate them!

  If she expected heaven’s rebuke, it did not come. This patience with her anger and frustration did more to melt her resistance than any rebuke. Oh, Father, she prayed, anguish gushing from her soul and forming a river of hot tears that drenched her cheeks. She fell to her knees, her clenched fists slowly loosened.

  Be strong, yea, be strong.

  Fret not thyself because of evildoers . . . For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb.

  She forced herself forward into the midst of death, running, then pausing to see who had fallen and if there were any signs of life. Onward she moved, searching, searching — afraid of whom she might find.

  Here was Monsieur Lemoine who had requested Bertrand to teach his flock. He had found something more precious to him in life than appeasing the powerful. For belief in Scripture alone as the final authority, he had received a sword through his heart; his Sunday shirt now soaked crimson. The Bible had been snatched from his hand and the pages were ripped out, scattered and trampled around his lifeless body, the wind now fluttering some pages.

  On she ran.

  Here was Madame Hershey —She would not be bringing the silk scarf to her da
ughter today to celebrate the birth of her first grandson. Her daughter would soon be mourning her death.

  Rachelle blundered on, the hem of her skirt stained. She saw several little ones cut down without mercy.

  A lone baby cried beneath the shield of its mother’s arms. Madame Scully had died bent protectively over her baby girl.

  Rachelle stooped, removing the infant from Madame Scully’s embrace. It was difficult to loosen the mother’s hold and Rachelle choked back sobs. Finally freeing the child, she carried her into the shade, remembering the time her birth was announced.

  “I will come back for you.”

  She walked on, coming closer to the charred barn until she saw her — Rachelle inched forward, moaning, and slipped to her knees beside a familiar silken dress the color of an April daffodil, the white Alençon lace was now stiff and brownish red. It was Avril. Avril, at sweet thirteen, her once smiling face now lifeless and crushed.

  Rachelle fell across her body and wept loudly.

  THE SUN’S RAYS INCHED behind the mulberry orchard. The wind sighed a mournful dirge through the tall trees.

  Dazed, Rachelle sat beside her sister’s body. Her gaze was fixed on the gentle face of a blue wildflower that had somehow escaped the fanatical trampling of men and horses. She became fixated on the sight. What did it mean? What, if anything, was the Lord expressing to her in this hour? The flower stood unmolested, green, flourishing, its leaves and petals waving in the breeze as though dancing. How had it survived the madness?

  Rachelle stirred as a hand touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes, swollen from crying, from dust and smoke. Idelette looked down at her. Rachelle sucked in a breath. Idelette?

  Idelette’s hair was torn loose from her carefully arranged modest curls. There was a dazed look in her pale blue eyes. Her mouth was cut and bleeding. There were other bruises on her cheeks and neck, and blood had dried with dirt and sweat. Her belle Sunday dress was ripped, telling Rachelle the brutal facts.