“Any girl without a letter vouching for her good conduct must rightly be suspected of witchcraft,” the priest insisted.
Élisabeth fumbled in the folds of her skirt for her own letter. She pulled it out and stared at the document. It was short: the black scrawl on the paper stretched not longer than the length of her hand. At the very top was an ink spot the size of a coin: the blot that betrayed the lie. The words were a mystery to her; she could not read and did not know what Father Paul had written. Would this inquisitor, this Father de Sancy, be able to see that the words on the page were a deception?
“Father, there are more than a hundred girls on this ship,” the chaperone said. “More than a quarter will not have certificates. I can vouch for all of the Parisians… I recruited them for the colony myself. They are impeccable… irreproachable.”
The priest frowned. “Then we shall leave aside your Parisians and interrogate only the Normans. It is among that duchy’s women that we will find whom we seek.”
“I don’t know where they…” The chaperone’s hands churned helplessly. “The girls from Normandy could be anywhere amongst us…”
“Over there!” A voice piped up from the other side of the deck. “I heard a Norman over there, under the light well.”
“You girls, there. Come out with your letters ready for inspection.”
“Come on, Lili.” Marthe swung herself out of the bunk and stood up. “They’ve heard us speak. They’ve worked out where we’re from.”
Slowly, with shoulders hunched, Élisabeth followed Marthe, praying, “Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” She kept one hand on her letter while slipping the other into her pocket to grip her rosary. She could feel the girls around them perk up and watch eagerly for what might happen next. The chaperone swung an oil lamp in their direction.
“Good, good.” She sighed, as if all the unpleasantness would come to anend now that she had lined them up in a neat row for the priest to inspect. “I know there are at least a dozen more of you from Normandy. Do stand up so we can proceed.”
More girls clutching folded letters rose and shuffled over to where Élisabeth and Marthe stood in the light well. The chaperone moved from bunk to bunk, murmuring to herself, “Paris, Amiens, Paris,” ticking off the girls she knew. Occasionally she paused to question a shrinking figure. “Remind me where…?” When the timid reply came back negative—“Reims, Madame Étienne, if you please” or “Orléans, thanks be to Our Lady”—she moved on, leaving the rattled girl to collapse back on her bunk. Others were not so lucky, and despite their protests were gripped by the arm and made to stand up.
Some fifteen girls were eventually herded into the middle of the deck. Carefully, Élisabeth opened Father Paul’s letter, ready for inspection, and motioned for Marthe to do the same.
Father de Sancy called for a sailor to hold up a lamp and moved towards Élisabeth. “Your letter, please.”
She was instantly struck dumb. She had not expected to be first. Her arms were frozen to her sides, her certificate of good conduct shaking in her hands. She bowed her head to mask her trembling lips.
“Now, I know you cannot be deaf,” the priest said. “Because the king has instructed that only good female specimens be sent to the colony.”
Élisabeth wasn’t certain if he was trying to put her at her ease or get a laugh out of the sailors, some of whom sniggered at her. She glanced at the paper in her hand and almost expected the words to slither across the page, the lies snaking away from the priest’s trained eye.
“I-I can hear,” she stammered, passing him the letter and ducking into a quick curtsey. The witch hunter peered at the village priest’s words. When Father de Sancy looked up at her, she saw his eyes were watery and his nose was mottled red with lumps and veins.
“What is your name?”
“Élisabeth Jossard.”
“Have you ever been in attendance at a witches’ sabbath, Élisabeth Jossard?” His eyes searched hers.
“No, Father.” She shook her head, almost not believing the question. Who would ever admit to such an atrocity?
“Have you been rebaptised in the name of Satan?”
“No, Father,” she said more emphatically.
“Has anyone you know died an unnatural death?”
Élisabeth hesitated. Her younger brother had died a fool’s death, drinking too much and trying to cross the Orne at night. It was his drowning that had started their string of bad luck. Her older brother had lost a fight with fever and died within the year, and it was the grief over losing both his sons that had caused Papa to fall ill. The whole of Saint-Philbert knew of their exceptional misfortune, but had it been more? Had it beenunnatural?
“No, Father,” Marthe interrupted. “I am her sister, and I can vouch that no one in our family has suffered an unnatural death. Our mother died in childbirth many years ago and our father left us just three months past for the Kingdom of Heaven. We are orphans with no home of our own. We are ready to start a new life in Canada, with the help of God and the king.”
Father de Sancy frowned at the interruption and looked from one sister to the other. “I see the resemblance,” he murmured, handing Élisabeth back her letter. He turned to Marthe. “Your sister is more comely but appears to be simple. How old are you, child?”
“Almost sixteen,” Marthe replied.
“Then you are fifteen. An exaggeration is a lie. Are you a liar?”
“No, Father. I beg your pardon. I am fifteen.” If Marthe felt stung by the rebuke, she did not show it. Not for the first time, Élisabeth envied her courage.
