There was a rush of movement and the two Parisians scattered. The sailor turned towards Élisabeth and Marthe. “Down the passageway to the stern. Two to a bunk.”
“Who will bring our trunks on board?” Élisabeth asked, but Marthe pulled her forward, and if there was a reply, she didn’t hear it.
She had to stoop not to hit her head on the low beams spanning the width of the ship. A grating in the ceiling gave the lower deck just enough light for Élisabeth to see the rough wooden bunks lining the walls, providing two layers of sleeping quarters along the sides of the ship. A few coarse blankets were laid in each bunk. The air was already thick with the smell of goats and sheep; nearby Élisabeth could hear the animals’ terrified bleating.
She closed her eyes and clutched her rosary.What in God’s name have you done?
Marthe let go of her hand. “We’ll sleep here,” she declared, placing her foot on a bottom bunk. She ducked her head and stepped into the coarse wooden box.
Élisabeth had a sudden premonition of her sister climbing into her owngrave: wrapped in a death shroud, her feet pointing to the east, a beaded rosary looped around her fingers, the crucifix pressed into her palm. She could not tell how she’d died. Had she bellowed with pain, like Maman? Or had the life slowly drained from her eyes like Papa? Élisabeth shuddered, then crossed herself. Her parents’ ghosts melted into the dark corners of the ship.
Marthe pulled her knees to her chest. “Come sit. You’re in the way.”
“The man said to find bunks at the back.” Élisabeth peered towards the end of the deck.
“Don’t be a goose,” Marthe said.
Élisabeth pressed her lips together. She knew her sister would not budge, so she joined her in the bunk under the light well. She wished she had her holy water vessel with her. The little clay pot would help ease the strange feeling in her stomach, but it was packed deep in her trunk, and so Élisabeth clasped her hands instead, squeezing her palms together as if she were the most contrite sinner on earth. After a moment she released her grasp, letting her fingers glide until they touched in prayer, before her right hand fell into a reverse grip and she squeezed again. She repeated the movement over and over, squeezing tighter and tighter until the friction from her calloused palms worked a spell that allowed her mind to drift.
Take more care, or the Devil will come for you, wayward girl.
She opened her eyes and rubbed her palms back and forth. The floating coffin was stifling. When she tried to draw breath, brambles twisted around her heart. She stopped the squeeze and prayer motion long enough to grab the ribbon in her stays and jerk the knot loose. She closed her eyes as her corset eased its grip, and all of a sudden, she was in the apple orchard where Rémy first touched her hand. When the scent of blossom on the wind—white lilac for innocence, honeysuckle for binding love—foretold a happy marriage.
A clash of voices near the stairwell interrupted her thoughts. Murky light filled the deck as a lady carrying a lamp appeared, a silver cross glinting at her throat; on her heels a pair of sailors followed with more lamps. For the first timesince they’d boarded, the full deck was visible. Every bunk, top and bottom on both sides of the cabin, was filled with young women, and in each bed two or three pairs of blinking eyes were fixed on the lady with the lamp. The chaperone they were promised, possibly.
She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment, then her words tumbled out all at once. “We face an obstacle, girls. But there is no reason for fear to overtake us.”
“I was not fearful until she spoke,” Marthe whispered and nudged herself closer. Élisabeth nodded.
The priest Élisabeth had seen on the main deck strode into the cavern. He was old, and his belly so large it looked as though he were hiding a cauldron under his cassock. By his side was a man with a weather-beaten face and greying hair that curled in waves above his head. The chaperone took a step back as they approached.
“Our very survival depends on it, captain,” the priest said slowly, his face pinched, and his head cocked to one side, as if it were painful for him to listen to the other man’s concerns.
“Your quest would delay our departure by hours,” the captain explained. “The winds can easily shift, and we must take advantage of favourable conditions. If we get stuck in port, we risk eating into provisions that will be needed on the voyage.”
A smile crossed the priest’s lips, relief perhaps, at this being the sum of the old sailor’s argument.
“Captain, your passengers can survive days without food. My concern is for the survival of oursouls. I must be certain that none of the Norman witches have made their way onto this ship. I must ask every girl to produce her certificate of good conduct.”
“Father de Sancy, this is your first journey across the Atlantic. You do not understand how fickle the sea can be. She is not to be trusted. We must leave now, no matter if a stowaway has crept aboard.”
“Captain,youdo not understand.” The priest leaned forward, his eyes keen. “The witches I seek were convicted, set to burn. When the king chose to banish them instead, there was outrage across Normandy that they were allowed to scurry away like rats, rather than paying for their crimes.”
The captain opened his mouth to speak but the priest held up a finger to indicate he had not finished.
“The Parlement of Rouen took quite a risk in engaging me to track them down, against the wishes of King Louis himself. Does that not indicate to you how dangerous these witches are? You fear the fickle sea. Imagine one of these witches on your ship? The storms she might conjure? Or how she might steal the wind, leaving us drifting for weeks or months on end? There would be no hope of survival.”
Élisabeth gripped her hands so tightly that her fingers ached. She wished the men would take their debate elsewhere, but they did not appear to be concerned with frightening the passengers, as if debating within earshot of the brides was like conversing in front of livestock.
The captain rubbed his chin. “What makes you so certain any of these witches are aboard theSaint-Jean-Baptiste?”
“According to the courthouse clerk, the most powerful among the Norman witches—their queen, if you will—took a coach to the coast after she was set free. It stands to reason, does it not? Where else would a banished witch hide but on a ship of brides bound for the New World?”
The captain looked around the deck at the girls-for-marrying, huddled and cramped in their cots. Finally, he turned back to the priest. “Very well. Do your search.”
The captain retreated and the priest turned to the lady in the shadows. “Madame Étienne, please arrange for your girls to stand before me with their letters of good conduct in hand. And be quick about it.”
Madame Étienne fluttered and frowned. “Father de Sancy… I can’t… it’s just… not all the parishes sent them with certificates…”
