“I pray for Jeanne every night,” Françoise murmured.
“Look, Marthe,” Thérèse nudged her with an elbow. “Maman Poulin is already at the wall.”
“Don’t call her Maman,” Marthe said.
In the distance the widow peered through a gap in the palisades. She took a step back to speak to a woman standing next to her. The woman laughed and tried to look through the crack herself, but Barbe Poulin pushed her away. Marthe knew the widow rose early to claim the peephole for herself. Marthe’s stomach churned at the thought of what she saw.
“I need to sit,” she said and took a step away from the other girls. She lumbered over to a fallen tree on the edge of the commons and eased herself down, feeling her heavy stomach settle between her legs. She grunted as she moved. The burning in her chest had not stopped and she felt as though her heart were on fire. The others were not as fat with child and pestered her with questions about what to expect in the months to come. Marthe wished she knew.
She needed Jeanne Roy. She needed her so badly it fueled the burning in her heart and kept her awake at night. Jeanne would know what to do to ease the fire in her chest. She would have a simple or a potion that would take the ache away. And when she gave it to her, she would tell Marthe not to worry, the child would arrive safely from Heaven and all would be well—words Marthe was desperate to hear.
“I don’t believe my eyes.” Thérèse let out a whistle and then rushed over to the tree where Marthe sat. “Your sister is on the path.”
Marthe grabbed Thérèse’s hand but even then struggled to pull herself to her feet. Her back hurt and there was a dull ache in her groin. It felt as thoughthe child could come that very day. But she had not even been married eight months—the child could not be born so soon. She felt a stab of panic. Since Jeanne’s arrest, Barbe Poulin had repeated her muttered warnings about girls who were whipped and sent back to France for being spoiled before marriage. The widow knew her own power; now she had the priest’s ear. Marthe shuddered, thinking of Jeanne’s battered ankles and bloodied back. She put a hand to her own throat. No, the baby could not be born so soon. She would be whipped raw if he was.
“You are bold to show your face here.” Françoise glared at Élisabeth when she reached them. “Go and stand with those gleeful hags who wish our sister of the sea harm.”
“I mean Jeanne no harm,” Élisabeth said meekly, holding up her hands. Her face was flushed and she was breathing as if she had run from afar. “I have come to save her.”
Apolline snorted. “It is you who have condemned her! And us all. For there is not one among us who will not be in need of a midwife soon.”
“I promise, I am here to make amends—”
“It’s too late!” Thérèse cried. “She is in his grip. He tortures her at least twice a day. It’s been going on for more than a fortnight. She cannot hold out much longer.”
“Marthe, please.” Élisabeth turned away from the others. “I was not myself. The demon, it…” Her voice trailed off for a moment, then she drew breath. “No, it was not the demon, it was me. I made a grave error. I will set it right.”
“How can you fix this, Lili?” Marthe demanded. “Father de Sancy has found his witch queen. The only reason she is still alive is that she has not confessed to the crimes she is accused of. But she will surely die by his hands if her ordeal goes on much longer.”
“I know what to do.” Élisabeth beckoned the girls closer. “We will petition the king, just as my husband did to rid us of the governor. The king saved her once before, when he banished the Normandy coven. We will write a letter—”
“Write aletter?” Marthe exclaimed. “A girl who cannot even write her name will write to the king?”
Élisabeth only hesitated for a moment. “Apolline can write it,” she said, nodding in her direction. “Or Rose, or Lou. They will be here by nightfall. Jeanne’s Agnier friend has gone to fetch them in her canoe. If every one of us young wives—everyone who was on theSaint-Jean-Baptistethis year, and on bride ships in years past, or indeed any woman who is expecting a child or one day hopes to—if we all sign and tell the king that without a midwife to safely deliver our babies the whole colony will founder, then she will be freed! We do not need to send it to France, we need only do as Francoeur did and take the letter to Intendant Talon in Québec.”
There was a wildness about her sister that Marthe did not recognize. Her knotted hair was long and loose, like a mane she had not brushed for weeks. Her eyes shone with a fierceness that was unsettling.
“Lili, listen. Listen to the bells. They ring to keep Satan at bay while Father de Sancy and the executioner are with Jeanne, torturing her. They believe it is how they keep themselves safe, so that the Devil does not come to her aid. Those bells ring for hours on end, every day.”
“Then we must not delay! Thérèse, you and Françoise go round the village. Apolline, your husband has a horse, does he not? Send him west to fetch the others—”
“Lili, listen to me!” Marthe stopped her. “How long do you think it will take to get your petition to Québec? Francoeur was gone two months. Go up to the fort and look. You will see that Jeanne does not have time for your plot to succeed.”
The determination in Élisabeth’s eyes waned. She shifted on her feet and looked across the commons towards the fort. “Very well. Show me.”
Marthe led the way to the bridge across the Little River, towards the run-down wooden fort, leaving the otherSaint-Jean-Baptistegirls on the commons.As they approached, the widow Poulin saw Élisabeth. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a round hole the shape of a cherry stone.
“Oh, ma chère, you are here!”
Marthe bristled as Élisabeth kissed the widow on both cheeks. “Good day, Maman Poulin.”
“I do not like to be the bearer of bad tidings.” The widow licked her lips and leaned forward. “But the witch still has not confessed. It can’t be long now, though. The priest is doing good work. He’s very precise in his questions. Just now, he asked her if she has lain with Satan. Isn’t that frightful?”
“None of it is true,” Élisabeth started, her voice soft and her eyes lowered. “I was wrong to accuse Jeanne. I am here to recant what I said.”
“Don’t be a ninny-hammer!” the widow exclaimed. “She’s a witch as sure as I’m a widow. The truth will come out. I have also heard him ask about Chamberlen’s Secret.” Barbe Poulin whispered the name of the magical tool with awe.
Marthe had an urge to kick her in the shins.
