by Rock, Judith
“I have no doubt of it,” Pernelle said gravely. To her relief, Julie—for once—kept quiet, and the two of them traded desperate looks. Unless they could rid themselves of this fool, they were going to be discovered, because he would stick to them like mud until they arrived at their imaginary destination. Startled by birds flying from a pine, Blazon danced under Pernelle and spattered her skirt with mud. She brushed at it and then her hand stilled. Mud. Her eyes grew thoughtful and she patted the horse’s neck. Thick, sticky, slippery mud. Not everywhere, the road was drying out, and not deep everywhere. But the chattering servant—when he wasn’t regaling them with stories of his dice-throwing triumphs—had warned them every mile, it seemed, that where the track was most rutted, the mud might be over the horses’ hocks, even up to their knees.
Suddenly, he swore, called them to a momentary halt, and dismounted to tighten his horse’s girth. He didn’t see the rider some way ahead of them swerve wide around a place in the track’s center. Pernelle watched the rider disappear as the road curved. The servant remounted and they began moving again. She looked over her shoulder. No one was in sight behind them. She let Blazon drop back a little, under the pretext of shifting Lucie’s weight, and caught Julie’s eye. “Hold on,” she mouthed, tilting her head slightly toward the road in front of them. “Hold tight.” Julie’s eyes widened and she nodded. Pernelle brought Blazon close up beside the servant again and began to talk, asking with smiling admiration how he’d gotten so good at dice. Still talking, he glanced at the track’s muddy center and turned his horse to pass it on the right, but as he did, he looked back at Julie to see if she, too, was appreciating him. Pernelle tightened her grip on Lucie, forced Blazon sideways, and sent the servant’s horse into the mudhole.
“Oh,” she cried, “I am so sorry, but Blazon stumbled! Is your horse hurt?”
Cursing steadily, the man urged the horse forward, but the beast only shook the reins and refused to budge. Finally, the man had no choice but to dismount into mud well over his ankles. To his credit, he held out his arms to Julie.
“Come, mademoiselle, I will get you to dry ground.”
She leaned into his hands, and he swung her to the side of the mudhole and set her on her feet. Then he stepped deeper into the mire and led the horse out of the hole. But once out of the mud, the horse tried to pull away, tossing its head, and they saw that it was limping. Pernelle had dismounted, too, carrying Lucie, and stood in the road, joining her voice to the servant’s in loud complaints against rain, mud, and the king’s failure to see to the roads.
She reached into the small slit in her skirt and took several small coins from her purse. “Your horse can go no farther. It looks to me as though you will have to lead him home, so you had best turn back now. Julie, you can ride behind me. Blazon will not mind. It’s not far to Chalex, and there’s only one small stream to cross, just before the village itself. I cannot be late, my sister will be very angry if we make her wait even longer to start the rest of the journey, you know. So if you will be so good, please untie my maid’s saddle bag for her.”
Julie took the bag and went to tie it to Blazon’s saddle. Pernelle thrust the coin into the protesting man’s hand, remounted, and held out her hand to Julie. They left him pocketing the coins and resignedly coaxing his lame horse back toward Chastillon.
When they’d rounded the bend in the road and were far enough away, Julie burst out laughing. “That was wonderfully done, Pernelle! I could never have thought of it!”
Pernelle laughed grimly. “I owe the poor horse an apology, though.”
“How much farther to the village—to Chalex?”
“Much of the rest of the day, because most of the way is uphill. Just before the village we’ll come to the stream I mentioned. Then we have to get past the village without being seen. And then we’ll be at the border.”
“And then, if God keeps the soldiers away, we’ll be across and nearly home. I keep thinking of Geneva as the Promised Land, Pernelle.”
“Mmmm.” But Pernelle remembered that in Scripture, Moses didn’t reach the Promised Land. He died on the border. She sighed inwardly. Even if they reached Geneva, Pernelle doubted it would be a Promised Land for her, already homesick as she was for Languedoc and vineyards and her own musical language. She smiled down at Lucie, who lay quietly in her lap, talking to herself in Provençal and pointing as she watched clouds like fat sheep floating across the sky. But it might be a Promised Land for her daughter. At the very least, they would not be hunted there. Behind her, Julie had begun singing a psalm under her breath.
“When God brought back the captives of Zion, we were like those who dreamed . . .
And they said among the heathen, God has done great things for them.”
Chapter 5
The day was nearly gone, and dusk was turning the pine shade black. The fugitives were nearly invisible under the trees, huddled together and listening in dismay to the roar of the rain-swollen stream that lay between them and the village of Chalex. Pernelle tucked the edges of her cloak more tightly around Lucie, who had fallen asleep after their small supper of what was left in the bag Mme de Vouvray had given them. Then, reaching up, she fumbled with the coils of her hair and pulled out the tiny bible de chignon she kept hidden there, as so many fleeing Huguenot women did. Julie moved closer. The palm-sized Bible fell open at the Psalms and Pernelle read softly,
“Let me be rescued from those who hate me, and out of the deep waters.
Let not the torrent of waters wash over me, neither let the deep swallow me up . . .”
When she reached the end, they prayed. Then she hid the Bible again in her hair and shoved the bone hairpins in more tightly. The stream, a small outflow of the Rhône River, seemed to get louder by the moment.
“Can we really can do it?” Julie’s voice shook. “Maybe we should risk the bridge.”
The bridge was several miles upstream. It would have been an easier crossing, but it was better guarded than the gates of heaven.
“I’ve told you and told you,” Pernelle said wearily, “there are too many soldiers there. We can cross here if we do it now, before the light goes.”
“But if the soldiers—”
“God let me get rid of the servant. He won’t fail us now.”
“What if we are predestined not to cross?”
“If God has already decided that we will fail to cross, then there is nothing to be done about it.” Pernelle stood up, leaving Lucie asleep on the cloak. “But you won’t know if God has decided that until a soldier has you in his grip and you cannot escape. No matter how hard you kick. And bite. And gouge his eyes.” She shook out her skirts. “And you’d best remember exactly where I taught you to kick! Now listen. I will lead Blazon and you will ride. We will tie Lucie to the saddle in front of you.” She bent and tilted Julie’s chin with her hand, holding the girl’s eyes with her own in spite of the dusk. “Because if anything goes wrong, Julie, you are going to kick Blazon forward and hold on to Lucie for dear life. You will get across this stream and you will keep going. If God wants to stop you, He will. But you are not to stop yourself and Lucie, not for anything, on peril of your soul! No matter what happens to me. Give me your word.”
Tears shone on Julie’s cheeks and her voice shook. “I will do as you say.”
“If we are separated,” Pernelle went on relentlessly, “get across the stream—and remember to go wide around Chalex. You mustn’t be seen. The border itself is beyond the village, a little this side of that ridge we can see above the trees. After that you’ll come to the Rhône and you can follow it to Geneva. You remember the map. It isn’t far. If I—if we are separated, I will follow you as best I can.” She patted the purse under her skirt. “Even after what I’ve given you, I have some money. There must be soldiers more interested in money than in theology. Now come. It’s time.”
Julie kilted her skirts, untied Blazon, and mounted. Pernelle unwound Lucie from the cloak and handed her up to Julie. Together, they wound a rope around the child’s waist and secured the rope to the saddle. Pernelle kissed her daughter’s fat stubby leg and made herself step back from the horse. She put on her cloak, pinned an escaping loop of hair back in place, and pulled up her hood.
“Wait here. I’m going to look up and down the stream. And make sure the road is clear.” She melted into the trees. But she was quickly back, bringing reassurance with her.
“I saw no one. All’s clear. Ready?”
Julie nodded. Lucie smiled beatifically, and Pernelle reached up to touch her daughter’s cheek. She took Blazon’s reins from Julie and led him onto the narrow track. The footing was treacherous and the going was slow, because the track sloped steeply down to the water and was slick with mud. But she saw now that the water, foaming white over rocks and coldly green where it ran smooth, wasn’t as wide as she’d thought. The far bank wasn’t forbiddingly steep. Heartened, she pushed her hood back and peered through the twilight for the best place to cross. A smothered cry came from Julie. Pernelle looked up and her heart nearly stopped. A soldier was riding out of the trees on the far side of the stream. Julie grabbed for the reins and kicked Blazon.
“Not yet,” Pernelle hissed. “He’s seen us. Watch where he crosses and let me talk.”
Pernelle’s terror seemed to give her extra eyes. She saw the tiny pebbles on the bank where the man’s black horse stepped into the stream, saw that nothing moved under the trees the man had come from, and hoped that meant there were no more soldiers. She saw that the water came not much above the horse’s knees, saw the separate water drops as the animal heaved itself up the bank, saw the hairy wart on the man’s left cheek, saw his sword and the heavy pistol dragging at his belt. She pulled Blazon off the track, on the chance that he would take them for women going home to Chalex, and ride past them.
“I wish you a good evening.” The man smiled as he drew rein, but he kept himself between them and the stream. His eyes darted appraisingly between the two women. “And where might you be going in the near dark?” he asked Pernelle.
She drew herself up. “To Chalex,” she said haughtily. “If it is any of your concern.”
“Oh, yes? Why might that be?”
“To meet my sister who waits for me there.”
He laughed and urged his horse closer. “Pretty little heretics, you don’t fool me. We caught the rest of your party this morning.” He reached for Blazon’s reins.
Pernelle jerked them away and backed up with the horse. “By the Blessed Virgin,” she cried indignantly, crossing herself, “we are no more heretics than you! God and all his saints forbid!” She crossed herself again and Julie followed suit. Lucie sucked her thumb and stared at the soldier. “What’s more, I am a cousin of Bishop du Luc of Marseille. So school your tongue, fellow.” Pernelle laughed inwardly, imagining her cousin the bishop’s horror at a fleeing Protestant hiding behind his name.
The soldier frowned. Marseille was a long way off, but a bishop was a bishop, and you never knew. “Why are you on foot and alone, like peasants?” he growled, trying to scratch his belly under the edge of his belly-shaped peascod breastplate.
“Not from choice, I assure you.” Pernelle huffed with exasperation. “Our carriage threw two wheels and when we set out on horseback, our servant’s horse lamed itself in a puddle deep as hell. In the middle of this cursed wilderness. We only kept on because my maid here is not well and needs to reach shelter and care. And if we do not arrive soon, my sister will be beside herself with worry.” She shook her head and looked anxiously up at Julie. What she saw seemed to alarm her anew, because she stood on tiptoe to peer closely at the girl’s face. “Be ill,” she mouthed and turned quickly to the soldier.
“Oh, dear. I think it probably isn’t spotted fever. Though those children at the convent guest house had it. You can see the rash doesn’t show much. Not yet, anyway. I hoped we had left in time . . .”
Julie, already pale with fear, coughed obligingly and swayed a little in the saddle. The soldier backed his horse a few steps and crossed himself.
“Spotted fever? Blessed Saint Firmin keep us! Three of my brother’s children died of it last year. Terrible, he said it was. What’s this bishop’s name again?”
Haughtily, Pernelle told him, struggling with the urge to laugh hysterically as she imagined her episcopal cousin’s face if this ever reached him.
“I won’t keep you then, madame. God bring you safely to Chalex.” He urged his horse past them, staying well away on the far side of the track. “Have a care where you cross the water. It’s fast, but not deep.”
“We will. God keep you, also.”
Pernelle led Blazon forward, feeling as though her pounding heart might jump out of her mouth. Julie and Lucie were still as statues. Pernelle could feel the soldier watching them as she pulled her skirts higher with one hand and stepped into the freezing water. Blazon hesitated, shaking his white-starred head and pricking his ears at the foaming stream. Suddenly desperate to reach the safety that was so close, Pernelle tugged on the reins. The horse surged forward and pulled the reins from her hands. She stumbled, slipped on the wet rock and landed heavily on her side, half in and half out of the water. Her hair spilled loose from its pins and her little Bible tumbled to the ground. She twisted and reached for it, but the soldier was already on her, cursing and dragging her to her feet.
“Ride!” she screamed at Julie, who had gathered the reins but was looking back in horror. “Go on, ride!”
Chapter 6
Geneva, Switzerland
September 1686
The fire in Pernelle’s bedchamber had burned low and outside it was full dark. The clocks in Geneva’s towers began to chime, answered by the clock in the downstairs salon. Jarred out of her remembering, she looked down at Lucie. The little girl’s head rested in her lap, her little white coif slipping off and her feathery dark hair spread like a silken net across her skirt.
“Time for prayers, birdling. Are you asleep?”
The little girl stirred. “Du lait, Maman?”
Pernelle laughed and set Lucie on her feet. “Yes, time for milk. But prayers first.”
She settled Lucie’s coif and stood to shake the wrinkles out of her skirt. Then she thrust a sliver of wood into the fire, lit a candle, and took Lucie by the hand. The Bayle house was old, but comfortable in the austere bourgeois Genevan way. Watchmakers for several generations, the family had done well, well enough to send David to establish Bayle watchmaking in Nîmes. Pernelle and Lucie went down the steep wooden stairs, toward the candlelight shining from the salon where Monsieur Bayle led morning and evening household prayers. One thing Pernelle liked about the old house was its smell. In Languedoc she would have expected the scent of lavender in a well-run household. But here it was something else, something sweeter. Dried roses, perhaps. She had never asked her mother-in-law. Even so small a question invited the chilly gray stare, which was turned on her often enough as it was.
In the salon, her father-in-law, a stocky, graying man of fifty or so, was already standing with his back to the blue-and-white tile stove and holding his Bible. His wife stood on his right with the three household servants, and Julie on his left. Pernelle picked up Lucie and went to her place beside her sister-in-law. Julie smiled at her and tickled Lucie’s cheek. Pernelle smiled back. Julie was preparing for marriage to a worthy young Genevan notary and was happier than Pernelle had ever seen her.
“You are late, Pernelle.” Mme Bayle.
M. Bayle frowned at his wife and looked at the imposing long case clock standing across the room. Shining oak, with delicate marquetry patterns of green-stained bone, it had been his master’s work for his guild, and he still tended and fussed over it as though it were his baby. “No, no, not la
te at all, my chimes have only just stopped.” Smiling at Pernelle, he left his place and planted a smacking kiss on Lucie’s cheek.
Grandfather and granddaughter laughed with delight, and Pernelle laughed with them. No one else dared, since Mme Bayle was glaring as though the unseemly display were Pernelle’s fault. Which in a way it was, Pernelle supposed, hushing Lucie as M. Bayle cleared his throat and opened his Bible. David’s fault, too, of course, for agreeing to the marriage, but his mother would never say that, let alone think it, having cast Pernelle as the black-eyed siren who had lured her son.
“Psalm one hundred thirty-four.” M. Bayle began the psalm tune. Everyone joined in, Pernelle singing gladly with the others, whose unexpectedly musical Genevan French was not so unlike her own Provençal-accented French.
“Behold, bless ye the Lord, all ye servants of the Lord,
which by night stand in the house of the Lord.
Lift up your hands in the sanctuary and bless the Lord.
The Lord that made heaven and earth bless thee out of Zion.”
When the short bedtime prayers ended, the household wished each other God’s blessing for the night, and most went to their beds. Pernelle followed Annette, the youngest maidservant, to the kitchen for Lucie’s milk. The kitchen hearth fire had burned low, and the big room was hung with shadows. The girl took Lucie’s cup of milk from a wall cupboard and held it out. Lucie reached for it with both hands, and Pernelle steadied it while she drank. Annette went to the hearth and picked up the big couvre-feu, the pierced pottery bowl that confined the fire for safety at night but kept the embers alive.