by Amy Wolof
“It is beautiful!” she cried.
Her small hands struggled with the clasp, but, pre-empting the friar, I threw off my gloves and secured it around her neck. How I did so with shaking hands was nothing short of a miracle.
“See?” Frances said to the friar, skipping about the chapel.
“My child, recall where you are!” he cried.
“Oui, frère,” she answered, dropping her head. “I am sorry to displease you, Father, in the house of Our Lord.”
“I am of no consequence,” said Caussin. “It is He—” he pointed to the Crucifix, “—you must not offend.”
Frances mouthed a prayer which sounded to me like Latin.
When she had done, we three stood in silence until the Jesuit spoke.
“Well, Monsieur Megs, we must return to our teaching. Come, Frances.”
My eyes started to tear which she must have thought odd.
“Farewell,” I told her, impulsively taking her hand and pressing it to my lips. “I shall tell your mother and father that I find you in excellent health.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Would you take a message for me?”
My thoughts turned to a keepsake.
“Why not write it down?” I asked. “Then, your meaning cannot be questioned.”
“Very good,” said the friar, and headed back toward the college.
This is my chance, I thought. To tell her who am I—how I’ve missed her all these years! But all I came up with was, “My! You are tall for a girl of your age.”
As she blushed prettily, Caussin returned with paper, pen, and inkwell. I watched with a mother’s pride as Frances carefully dipped in the quill, then wrote a few flowing lines. After blowing on the ink to dry it, she solemnly folded the note and handed it up to me.
I could no longer speak. Doffing my hat to cover my face, I backed into the courtyard. Glared at by marble saints, I opened the sheet and read:
Dear Mother and Father:
Do not trouble yourselves about me. The Friars here treat me well, and I always have enough to eat. Please come for me when you can.
Your Fondest Daughter,
Frances
A Mother’s Lament
I must have swooned, for when I came to on the cross-hatched floor, I found myself circled by Jesuits, their looks expressing concern and their hands full of damp cloths. These last were daubed to my forehead; but, for the life of me, I could not recall where I was.
When some minutes had passed, I knew.
“Merci, merci!” I cried, rising from my prone position. “You are all very kind. I am fine now. Bon. I am perfectly bon.”
Seeing me restored, the Jesuits filed out to their college. I was now alone in the courtyard with its carved sundials and saints. What a near-disaster! If Friar Caussin had appeared . . . or, God forbid, Frances, how could I justify myself? Say I was overcome by the brisk autumn air?
Bending, I seized my precious note from the ground and placed it inside my coat. Knowing that this was all I had of her—might ever have—overcame all my senses. Stumbling on stairs beneath a wide arch, I felt a wave of sadness.
Why, I thought, had I given my word to Aventis? To not let Frances know . . . that I was her mother, and wanted to take her with me, to lift her up and shower her with kisses, to shout my bond to the world. But if I broke my oath . . . Aventis would despise me, and I would condemn her . . . to a fate I could hardly think on. This parting from my child was hard: harder than seeing Aventis nearly die from Plague; than feeling the hangman’s noose cinch around my own neck. All of my natural instincts, which, as “Megs,” I had thought long gone, now rose from the grave like a wight. How was it that Jeffries, I thought, the man who forbade me love, could in the peace of his home enjoy his little son? While Carnatus, father to an army, blithely ignored his issue? It was only me—and, to be fair, Aventis—who shouldered a burden as great as Atlas’s, for we must forsake the girl we would much rather raise; leave her in the care of strangers, however kind they might be.
Was it my fault? I wondered. Had my stubbornness led to this misery? I looked around at the Jesuit courtyard: all was marble and pomp. Though, unlike most of my faith, I did not hate the Papists, their rituals and secrecy seemed as strange to me as a Musselman’s. I did not worship Mary, and certainly not the pope. Must I pretend to Believe as I pretended to be a man? If my whole life became a charade, then what was left of me?
No answer came from the statues of Grammar or History—not even Philosophy.
“Forgive me,” I breathed, directing my every thought to one small girl in a classroom. I left that place of learning in the same manner I had entered—woefully ignorant—of my future and hers.
A Woman of the Sea
In truth, I was barely aware of my journey back to Paris. The leagues stretched on; I obtained a bed; occasionally ate a morsel. When I passed through Burgundy, I purchased some barrels of wine and had them fastened to the coach roof.
Paris, though lively, did not really engage me: not even its jostling markets, bustling passers-by, or Phillipe’s grand palace. Such sights appeared through my window, then receded without my really seeing them.
At the end of eight days, when Calais came into sight, my spirits noticeably rose at the thought of leaving that coach. When it stopped, I paid the driver again and gave him some instructions. As I had surmised, I found Carnatus and Gad at a tavern by the docks. Summoning my best swagger, I strode to where they were seated.
“Megs!” Carnatus cried, rising from a table that actually sagged with food. Gad remained in is chair, his head on his chest he snored. “What news?”
“Better than expected,” I said. “I have four barrels of Burgeon which will fetch a pretty price.”
“Bravo!” said Carnatus. “You must be famished. I suggest this salade de citron, morilles en ragout, and tourte de crème d’amendes. God’s blood! How could I forget the rôti de bœuf?”
“I cannot imagine,” I said with a smile, then joined him. Despite all that had passed, the presence of friends cheered me. “How did you fare?” I asked.
“Magnifique!” he cried, the plumes of his hat swaying. “We have secured wine, linen—even salt and vinegar!” He raised his glass. “To munificent King Charles, for banning it all at home!”
“To the king,” I agreed, draining a cup of my own.
I pointed to Gad.
“Why not rouse this rascal and make for home?” I looked about the place. “Where is Noah?”
“On the boat,” said Carnatus, giving his man a firm swat with his ring-laden hand.
“Ouch!” cried Gad, springing up like a tumbler. Seeing me, he said, “Oh, hullo, mistress.”
“Shhh!” I cautioned, then yelled, “Such a jokester! Let us be off.” As we left the tavern, I seized Gad by the shoulder. “I am Megs, just Megs—best you do not forget!”
“Yes, mistress . . . “I gave him a shove. “Sir.”
We all went down to the docks, where I saw our shallop lying low in the water.
“The Burgundy?” I asked Noah.
“Below,” he grunted.
I eyed our sagging craft.
“Will she sink?” I asked.
“Ha!” Noah cried. “She can carry three tons in ‘er hold!”
“Good.”
We were off with the evening tide, our black sails catching wind in a turbulent sea. Though I steeled myself to be sick, by the midpoint of our voyage, I was able to leave the ship’s side. The grey water around us, made visible by the moon, churned in endless sheets. Though this was but a canal, I could well imagine its fury during a pounding storm.
Carnatus punched my shoulder.
“You’ll make a sailor yet,” he said, holding onto a mast.
“You’re doing well,” I told him. “Before long, we’ll declare ourselves pirates and make for the Barbary coast!”
“If there is profit,” he said, “I’ll gladly swing a cutlass.”
The last few miles went quickly
and we slid into Dover unseen. As the harbor was too risky, we sailed round to a beach just below Dover Castle.
“Now what?” I asked Noah.
“Leave it to me,” he said.
Removing a flint and steel, he lit a candle, placed it in a red lantern, and swung the light. From over the castle walls, I could see an answering flicker.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing my pistol.
“No need for shootin’,” said Noah, exhaling smoke from his pipe. “See those men?”
I squinted, able to make out black shapes with the help of my lunar guide.
“Those are the lookouts,” said Noah, “for ‘customers’ such as us.”
“And we must be on the lookout,” I said, “for Customs might be near.” I scanned the beach warily. “How can we be sure they are not?”
Noah gave a hoarse laugh as the men from the castle climbed down to our rocky beach.
“There are but a handful and spread as thin as his brains.” He pointed at Gad. “‘Sides, they like guineas as well as we. Better, I should say.”
“Good,” I breathed, relieved that Noah’s account matched Jeffries’s.
We four smugglers watched as a line of men began to splash to the shallot, then empty our hold. They rolled barrels of “Spanish” wine first onto the beach, then into small wooden carts.
“Can they be trusted?” I asked Noah, my tobyman’s caution high.
“‘Course!” he said. “They work for the merchants, who offer the goods in London, shall we say, ‘from under the counter.’”
I let out a low whistle. Even I was taken aback at the trail of corruption which led from our small craft. I would not be surprised if Charlies himself took a cut.
I elbowed Carnatus, pointing to our hold’s contents being trundled over the hill. We exchanged a look.
“Better ask,” Carnatus grumbled.
“Noah,” I said, “When do we receive payment?”
“Already have,” he answered, holding up a fat purse. “They pay me upon delivery, then get theirs in town.”
“How much?” I asked, huddling with Carnatus.
“Two hundred-sixty-five,” said Noah, splitting the proceeds three ways.
“Who gets the extra?” asked Carnatus tensing as if for a fight.
“Why not Gad?” I asked, and Noah, reluctantly, flipped him a five-guinea piece.
“I like this work!” cried Gad. “We have not been shot at once!”
“Nor pursued by Guards,” I added.
“God’s legs!” said Carnatus. “I am with you both. Why did I not think of this scheme? Megs, you are a true prodigy!”
Forgetting my sex, he put his large arms around me and crushed me against his stomach.
“I-I thank you,” I gasped, fearing for the health of my ribs.
“When can we go again?” asked Gad, testing his coin with his teeth.
“Patience,” I cautioned. “Let us wait at least three days until our goods are sold.”
“Excellent,” said Carnatus. “I can think of a matter that requires my instant attention. Gad, we’re off!”
An Unfortunate Custom
Those three days passed without event. I spent my time at a modest inn, taking care to avoid the harbor. Instead, I toured Dover Castle and her chalky white cliffs. As I turned to the ancient fort where I had once been held prisoner, I thought of my old gaoler. What had happened to Richard Cromwell? Had he settled somewhere in France, or fled across the Continent, forever on the move? I shrugged. As long as he wasn’t in England, he could spend his time in Hell!
When the agreed-upon interval was over, I hiked from the Castle, and, like a good sailor, made my way to the sea. I strode to where our craft lay anchored off the small rocky beach.
“Noah?” I yelled over creaking wood. I saw his woolen cap pop up from the stern. “Have you seen Carnatus?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said in disgust. “He needs ta show up right quick or we miss the morning tide.”
Damn him! I thought, anger sparking through my veins. It would be just like Carnatus to put our trip in jeopardy for a last game of Spoil Five . . .
“If he does not appear,” I told Noah, “we still leave within the hour.”
“Yes, sir,” said Noah. “Damn shame though. That gentleman is so amusing.”
“Hmph.”
I did not feel diverted by my friend’s non-appearance. Pacing upon the beach, I did not pause until I heard six bells. Beneath our now-buoyant boat, the tide began to swell.
“Very well,” I said, splashing my way toward Noah. “Let us unmoor and be off.”
He nodded and took up the anchor, allowing the wind to drive us east. This time, I fumed my way out of Dover, seeing images of Carnatus pursued by angry bettors. Serves him right, I thought, if he lands in Fleet, the dreaded prison for debtors!
My rage went from black to grey like the rain clouds above. After a time, I felt calm but flat as the sea. I knew that once we arrived, there would be no ride to Lyon. Caussin would think me a madman if I appeared within the same week. Still, the very thought of Frances made me smile. She need not brave the road or the uncertain sea. These tasks belonged to me, and, with a mother’s sense of duty, I was glad to embrace them. For her, I would face ten shooters or the Customs men. I would go to my death with her name on my lips. As I lost myself in such musings, I was startled to hear Noah say: “Nearly there.”
I watched him head for Calais. All around us were bigger ships, sails unfurled, heading out to the Continent; then those with less lively sheets gliding their way back in. I recalled Calais from the past as a busy port, but I found myself dejected once we docked and mounted the pier. This was in dreadful shape, with torn wood planks strewn everywhere. Had it really been this decrepit when I’d seen it in 1670?
Crossing at our peril, we made for two high towers and a promise of civilization.
Now, it was left to me to solve a vexing puzzle: who were the mysterious men with whom Carnatus had traded? Damn! I should have asked. I decided to head for a lighthouse while jingling some coins in my pocket. Passing some seaside French whose faces were open and guileless, I knew I could dismiss them. I required faces that in their blankness said nothing—faces accustomed to hiding secrets. I found that the more I strolled, the angrier I became. Where in this blasted port were the knaves and thieves to be found?
Finally, I spotted a man who wore indifferent clothing, his woolen hat pulled low over his brow.
“Uh, perdoname, monsieur,” I said, feeling like a fool. Carnatus had left me not only shorthanded, but without my sole interpreter!
The man looked me over, taking stock of my highwayman’s garb.
“I speak some Anglaise, monsieur,” he said.
“Good. I’m wondering if you know my friend. Carnatus.”
The man narrowed his eyes.
“He is big.” I puffed out my cheeks. “Dresses worse than a French court fop. That is—”
“I know this man,” said the fellow, and motioned for me to follow. We passed crowds of honest folk before halting before a shop—one that bore no sign.
“This way,” said the man, and, as we entered, I saw five shadows huddled at a rough table. My guide brought life to this gloom by lighting a single candle. As he spoke to his comrades, they did not so much as grunt.
When I heard him say “Carnatus,” I felt the room’s mood lighten, and the men become less sullen.
“I am Michel,” said my host, “and these men are all Louis.”
“No relation to the king?” I asked.
Michel did not even smile.
He led me back to a warehouse filled to the roof with barrels. Wine, I thought. In a kind of alchemical fancy, I thought I could see red liquid turn into piles of gold!
“Monsieur,” said Michel with pride, “we have the Chardonnay, Burgundy, even Haut-Brion. All you could desire.”
Nodding, I recalled Noah saying that our ship could hold three tons.
“I’ll tak
e it all,” I said, throwing Michel a fat purse.
“Bon,” he said, removing a guinea and testing it with his teeth. Satisfied, he shouted in French, which summoned the five “Louis.” They wrestled down the barrels, rolling them onto small carts.
“You . . . you sell your goods freely?” I asked, trailing mine as they left the shop.
“Of course, monsieur,” said Michel. “It is your monarch who bans them, not our good King Louis.”
“More fool Charles,” I said.
I followed my precious barrels as they were trundled down the street, then bounced across the pier. When they arrived at our ship, even Noah managed a grin.
“That a’way, that a’way—no, not there!” he told the “Louis,” who turned our hold into a sort of taproom.
“Merci, Michel,” I said, as his troops turned to depart. “You are good as any English diver.”
“And you worthy of a French voleur,” he bowed.
Our national quarrels forgotten, I returned the gesture before stepping into our boat.
“Well, Noah,” I said, “that was simplicity itself. We need only speed back to Dover and find our friends at the castle.”
“Let’s get there first,” he groused, taking a pull on his pipe. “Don’t put the puddin’ in front a’ the mutton.”
I laughed.
As we set out, I could see other small craft—their sails likewise black; their keels low in the water—making their own departure. We were like so many flies swarming back to the homeland.
The first part of our voyage went well: the canal stayed smooth, reflecting clouds above like a vast grey mirror. But then the mirror shattered as black clouds drifting from England hovered straight overhead.
“Bad tidings?” I asked Noah as the first drops fell.
“‘Fraid so,” he said, fighting with our two sails. In the wind, they cracked like whips. “Best hang on ter sumpthin’. Gonna be a bad blow.”
He was right. Within seconds, bands of rain descended, their fall so fierce they were near horizontal. I had never seen such a squall!