When the priest spoke next his voice was softer. Élisabeth crouched so that her ear was closer to the keyhole, the better to make out his words.
“There once was a young nun who was bewitched and taken to a Black Mass, where she was wed to a demon. As part of the celebrations, the couple feasted upon suckling infants and watched as bystanders were crucified. An orgy ensued, wherein the nun copulated with her demon on the Satanic altar. She performed acts of great obscenity in front of the gathering, kissing his anus for all to see—”
“Father, come now!” For the first time, Élisabeth heard the captain’s voice clearly. “There is a lady present.”
“No, please,” Madame Étienne said. “I want to hear it.”
“Well, the horrors had only just begun,” the priest continued. “For it was not just young Madeleine Bavent who had been possessed, but as many aseighteen nuns in the convent. They bore all the hallmarks of their curse: blasphemy, fits, staccato movements, animal noises, sudden rigidity then extreme fatigue, the ability to understand Latin and Greek, and their strength! Feats of strength surpassing anything a mortal woman might be capable of.”
A bony finger curved up Élisabeth’s spine, tripping against each vertebra until it reached the hair at the nape of her neck. A terrible feeling came over her, a notion only just beginning to simmer. She glanced over her shoulder, but she was alone in the unlit corridor. She blinked at the closed door. She knew she should return to her purpose: knock and tell Father de Sancy about the stolen letter. But she yearned to hear more of the priest’s tale. She pressed her ear against the door.
“And then the devils spoke to us. I was a younger man then, but by God Almighty, the dialogues I had with those demons when they spoke through the mouths of nuns have marked me my entire life long.”
“Father de Sancy, please. Madame Étienne will not sleep tonight with all this talk of witches and demons.”
“Very well, captain. As you wish. But forewarned is forearmed.”
“I would rest better knowing the outcome for those poor wretches,” the chaperone said.
“Be assured, Madame Étienne, we were able to exorcise the demons while building a case against the witches who caused the nuns’ suffering. It took us many months and some of the nuns were quite broken after their ordeal. It is no easy thing to cause an unclean spirit to leave a woman’s body. We had to shave them and prick them with needles to see if they retained any sensation, or if the Devil had control of their flesh. We then beat them with sticks—”
“Father, I must insist,” the captain interrupted. “This conversation cannot continue. I will remain alert to these signs of possession amongst the passengers, in case the worst has come to pass and there is indeed a witch aboard the ship.”
Therewasa witch on the ship, wasn’t there? Élisabeth’s letter had disappeared and magically returned to her, as if the woman in velvet had cast some kind of glamour. After what had happened in Saint-Philbert, surely Élisabeth would recognize the work of another witch. She must tell them what she knew. She must rid the ship of danger.
Maybe she should also confess to the priest the truth about her curse? She lifted her hand to knock.
“Beware, captain. While most of the nuns at Louviers were innocents, demoniacs are not always so. The nun Madeleine, that supposed victim of witchcraft, through careful exorcism and interrogation was discovered to be a witch herself.
“I advise we keep an especially keen eye on the Norman girls during our journey,” Father de Sancy said. “I am not satisfied with the answers that I heard today. If any of them should show signs of demonic possession, we shall put them to the Question. So shall I unravel the hive and get to the queen.”
Slowly, Élisabeth lowered her hand. A chair scraped across a floorboard, and she realized someone had stood up. She crept away from the door, her legs weak. Candlelight spilled from the cabin into the corridor and Élisabeth cowered against the wall, hoping the darkness would obscure her figure. She could see the captain standing in the doorway.
“I wish you luck with your enquiries, Father.” The captain held up his hand, as if to halt an objection. “Though if you are looking for a rack or brodequins to assist with your questions, we do not have such equipment on board.”
“It is of no matter, captain. We can make do with a whip or a stick. Just enough pain so that the truth comes out. Remember, I am quite experienced in the art of interrogation.”
The door shut and Élisabeth heard the captain’s boots striking the ship’s boards. When she was certain he had gone, she stole past his cabin, making her way back to the staircase and her bunk. She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.The supposed victim… was discovered to be a witch herself.
What would be worse: allowing the velvet witch to wield her power on the open sea, or confessing her own sins to the priest who might discover her secret and put her to the Question?
Élisabeth slunk down the corridor, bound to hold her tongue, lest the priest put her to the test by cutting it out.
4
During their first few weeks at sea, Marthe could not say what disturbed her most: the feeling of her stomach travelling into her mouth when the ship lurched in rough waters, having to share a bucket with so many other seasick women, or trying to pick a growing army of fleas and lice from her hair. She knew she was in Hell, for the darkness and discomfort could have no other name.
Yet somehow, despite the hardship, she did not suffer. For the kinship she felt on board theSaint-Jean-Baptistewas a blessing.
Of all the Parisians, she loved Marie-Rose the best. The girl with the plump cheeks and wide smile prattled all day long, although never over anyone else. She was as happy to listen as to talk. She had questions for everyone she met—Where are you from? How do you fare? Do you miss your mother still?—and when any of the girls could no longer bear the stench of their sleeping quarters or the bickering of their neighbour, they could climb into Rose’s bunk and tell all their worries to the girl with the big heart.
By and by Marthe got to know the others as well. Marie-Louise was the one to be admired most, in Marthe’s opinion. Not quite eighteen, Lou was among the youngest but twice as bold as anyone aboard. She hung upside down fromthe bunk she shared with Rose and told rude jokes into the night. She was wiry and strong and liked to leap from bunk to bunk to rally the girls when they felt low. She often fought with snub-nosed Françoise and tiny Thérèse, but as Lou put it, she had known them almost all her life and they were as close as sisters, if not cousins raised next door. Apolline told them that was no excuse for bad behaviour, whereupon everyone jeered and called her an old maid.
“Come now, my little ones,” Lou said one afternoon to the fleas caught in the hair on her legs. It was hot and the stench of the sheep and goat manure was so strong Marthe felt almost dizzy. The brides were sitting together in the top bunk, thinking of ways to suspend their boredom as they waited for their turn to go up on deck. Lou had decided to coax her fleas to jump onto Apolline’s legs. “Come, Perrette and Nenette, there you go. Good girls. You too, Georgette. Over to that ogre, there.”
A flea jumped, startling Apolline, who kicked Lou’s arm and caused her to tumble sideways and jostle Rose.
“Stop,” Rose begged. “I’m dropping so many stitches that my child’s blanket will have a great hole in the middle. Every stitch is already too crooked or too loose.”
