“There is no witchcraft here. I don’t doubt there are some who are jealous of my success and try to spread lies.” The innkeeper glanced at Maman Poulin.
“Then shall I put you to the Question?” The priest’s voice grew as soft as a cooing pigeon. “Just to make sure?”
The tavern held its breath. Marcosi gripped Élisabeth’s throat so tightly she struggled to swallow. She ached to clasp her hands together in prayer butdared not move lest she draw the priest’s attention. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone on the stairs. The man Anne Lamarque had sent upstairs returned with the scowling servant in tow. The innkeeper nodded in her direction.
“There is no need for any questions, Father. Here is the woman you seek.”
Anne Lamarque slowly turned her back on the phalanx of priests, picking up her cloth and rubbing the already clean countertop. She did not watch as the servant was given a shove and landed in the grip of her husband.
But Élisabeth did.
“Let this be the end of wives straying from their husbands in this village,” Father de Sancy called out. The effort made him cough into his fist. When he recovered he continued, “I have been dismayed by the behaviour of the women in this colony. I have seen bare collarbones, powdered hair, rouge.” He rolled his tongue over the last word as if he regretted it leaving his mouth and wanted to hold it in his embrace a moment longer.
“The women here have turned themselves into instruments of Satan, seeking to please men’s eyes. Do not forget, it was Eve who introduced sin into the world. And for that sin, women must be forever penitent. Shame and submission must be their watchwords. They must walk with their heads bowed.” He struggled for breath. “I decree that from this day hence, women who wear powder and jewellery will be refused communion.”
Across the room a whore stifled a snigger. Father de Sancy rounded on her.
“You find my warnings amusing?”
The woman dropped her gaze. Élisabeth noticed her hair was powdered and her cheeks unnaturally red. She suspected it had been some time since her last confession.
“I would not laugh if I were you. For there is a witch in Ville-Marie.”
Folleville’s customers shifted in their seats. The haranguing of their wives and whores was one thing; one of the Devil’s concubines in their midst was another.
“Ah, I see, this does concern you. As it should. For the queen witch of the Normandy coven is surely here. And she is more than usually dangerous, for she is in possession of Chamberlen’s Secret.”
A hush fell over the customers. Marcosi’s forked tongue flicked up the back of Élisabeth’s neck, standing the fine hairs on end.
“What is Chamberlen’s Secret?” Maman Poulin asked, loudly enough for the priest to hear. Élisabeth cringed as he turned his gaze on them.
“It is a tool that witches use to perform acts of great evil.”
“May the Virgin in Heaven protect us!” Maman Poulin crossed herself, and Élisabeth quickly copied her.
“You are right to pray to the mother of God, for this tool allows witches to rip a child straight from its mother’s womb into their greedy, gaping mouths. Witches are insatiable for babies’ blood. None of your children are safe as long as she is among you.”
The demon fed on Élisabeth’s fear, growing bolder and wilder with every scrap of worry he was thrown. Élisabeth started the prayer-and-squeeze ritual, wringing her hands together.
“Are you any closer to finding the witch, Father?” someone called out.
“Not yet,” the priest admitted, folding his hands on top of his large belly. “I searched for her in vain in Québec. But then I learned of the devilry in this frontier town and understood that I’d find her in Ville-Marie.”
Father de Sancy surveyed the men in the tavern. “Do not worry. Witches cannot stop themselves from committing their evil deeds. I need only wait and watch, and she will act. A child will die. It is only a matter of time.”
Élisabeth felt perspiration prickle under her arms. She knew where the priest could find his witch. She should tell him about Jeanne Roy. She owed her no allegiance; Jeanne had done nothing to help her. And if she did have Chamberlen’s Secret, as the priest said, she was more dangerous than Élisabeth could have imagined.
But when the priest put Jeanne Roy to the Question, might he ask herabout the other brides? Would she tell him about Marcosi? Would Father de Sancy exorcise Élisabeth’s demon with needles and whipping, only to then decide she too was a witch, and burn her at the stake?
As she wrestled with her thoughts, she watched the man with the branded face grab his wife by the back of the neck and laugh as he pushed her towards the tavern door. The servant hit and kicked him as he dragged her, with every blow cursing God’s name for making her a woman.
28
Word had travelled around Ville-Marie that Father de Sancy hunted a witch in their midst, and the villagers had grown watchful and wary. Now when Marthe fled the bakery in search of a moment’s peace from Barbe Poulin, she no longer met smiling housewives, newsmongers strolling the streets to engage in a little gossip. She saw only the stern gazes of men who questioned why she was afoot alone.
Marthe reached the corner of Rue Saint-Paul and Rue Saint-Joseph. Her feet were swollen and her back hurt. She was not even seven months along, yet she felt like the whale that swallowed Jonah. Marthe stopped, eyeing a nun outside the hospital door. She could continue walking past the Hôtel Dieu or she could cross the icy street and loop down to the river. No, the Saint-Laurent was too far and she might run into the governor.
She seethed with frustration to be tethered such a short distance from her own hearth.
