“Who?” Élisabeth asked warily. “Who did he attack?”
Jambon swallowed and glanced at Élisabeth again. “I was told to keep the woman’s name to myself. She does not want to bring shame upon her household.”
Francoeur kept his eyes fixed on Jambon and nodded. “Was she badly hurt?”
“Her neck was bruised, but he did not break any bones.”
Élisabeth felt the demon rake along her spine, its tail knocking against every bone. She took a step back from the men to hide her shudder.
“That’s not all,” Jambon added, leaning across the table towards Francoeur.“Lafred’s slaves have gone missing. The two Panis girls. He claims they’ve run away. Only, after what happened in New York, we did wonder…”
Francoeur sat quietly, digesting what Jambon said. His fingertips traced the grain in the wooden table; the skin around his eyes was tight, as if he were wincing.
“What happened in New York?” Élisabeth asked. Her husband ran his hands over the edge of the table, measuring something in his mind. He did not look at her.
“So we came to you, of course,” Jambon continued. “We have to stop him. Once and for all.”
The muscle in Francoeur’s jaw twitched. “You don’t need me. You could have alerted the authorities yourselves.”
“Lafredièreisthe authority in Ville-Marie.”
“The church, then.”
“What can the priests do?” Jambon said. “They don’t have pistols or muskets. They can’t stop him. They might not even care about missing slaves and throttled wives.”
“They might if he’s killed those girls.”
“Killed them?” Élisabeth steadied herself against the table.
“Who in Ville-Marie would care about a pair of Panis slaves?” Lajeunesse shook his head. Everyone at the table understood his meaning. In a land of reluctant brides, indentured labourers, and new farmers trying to outwit winter to survive, who indeed would look beyond their own hardship to care about the fate of two Panis girls?
“I do not know much about their alliances,” Francoeur said slowly. “But if we French are allied to the Algonquins and the Huron, perhaps the Iroquois count the Panis as their allies. The children’s deaths could be the spark that causes the truce to be abandoned. The church would certainly care if the Iroquois took up arms again.”
“Why do you believe he’s killed them?” Élisabeth demanded. “What happened in New York?”
The taller man let out a sound halfway between a snort and a guffaw. “New York was the finest mutiny in the history of the French army. It was when your husband took a stand against Lafredière,” Lajeunesse said.
“I’ll tell her,” Jambon interrupted. “I’m better at telling stories.” He leaned back and cleared his throat. “It was a wintery day in January. Almost five years ago now to the day, in 1666. We had marched south to burn the Iroquois villages—”
“That’s enough,” Francoeur said, shaking himself from his stupor. Élisabeth could see his jaw clench. “You need to decide what to do about Lafredière, not dwell on old tales.”
“Youneed to decide,” his friend whined. “You’re the captain of the côte.”
Francoeur frowned, chewing the inside of his cheek. The room was silent, all eyes on him. Then Jambon piped up.
“You could shoot him again. Only this time, don’t miss.”
The demon shot upright so quickly that Élisabeth almost fell over. She gripped the table again.
“You tried to kill the governor of Montréal?”
“To be fair, he wasn’t the acting governor then,” Jambon said. “Only our captain.”
“And he had it coming,” Lajeunesse added.
“There will be no shots fired.” Francoeur stood up. “We have to appeal to the intendant in Québec. Get the civil authorities involved if the military can’t tame him. We can tell Intendant Talon what Lafredière has done and demand that he be recalled to France.”
“Why would the intendant listen?” Jambon stayed seated, scowling at his friend’s suggestion. “Lafred is the Marquis de Salières’s own nephew.”
