“François Mauriceau, my tutor, was not cruel. Not in the least. Indeed, we were… fond of each other.” Jeanne’s voice grew soft and wistful. “A friendship developed. Some days we would step away from our work and walk together from the Hôtel Dieu to Notre-Dame in the middle of the day just to take in its glory.” A bug crawled up Élisabeth’s leg from the dirt floor, but she did not move lest she interrupt Jeanne’s tale. “Paris is the heartbeat that gives life to all of France. It is as intoxicating as you can imagine: the cathedral, the hospital, the bridges, the fishermen along the river, the markets every day of the week. But what Mauriceau and I loved most were books. I read all day and every night until my candles burned to stubs: Galen, Hippocrates, Vesalius’sFabrica, Galileo’sTwo New Sciences, Paracelsus—dear Paracelsus, like a watchful parent urging me to put my books aside and turn to nature for wisdom. I read it all and more; anything to do with medicine, chymistry, astronomy, mathematics, I devoured. Then I would discuss all that I had learned with Mauriceau.”
Her words wove an enchantment around them. Élisabeth did not know what all of them meant, but she could see in her eyes the glamour the witch used to transport herself from the dimly lit prison back to a city on the other side of the sea.
“Two years ago, during my association with Mauriceau, he had a visitor from England. A man called Chamberlen wanted to share with him a secret—one his family had hidden for many years. Chamberlen feared the knowledge of it would see him executed, and he came to ask for Mauriceau’s counsel. We were both intrigued and excited by what the Englishman showed us, but Mauriceau wanted time to consider what should be done with it. I was incensed. What Chamberlen had in his possession was so…” Jeanne hesitated and glanced at Élisabeth. “You would call it magical, I believe.
“I knew it could not be kept hidden—it had to be shared with the world. So, against my nature, I took it. I did not think twice. I stole it and fled backto my estate in Normandy with it. That was what drove Mauriceau mad. That I had the Secret, and its exceptional power, and he did not.”
Élisabeth could not contain herself. “But Jeanne, whatisChamberlen’s Secret? If it is magical, can we use it to free you from—”
Sudden light spilled into the shadowy room, startling them both. Élisabeth jumped up as the jailor’s thin frame appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood another figure.
Father de Sancy.
“What is this woman doing here? Villagers are only permitted to bring the food, not to stay and dine.”
Élisabeth’s heart began to pound so loudly she could not hear the jailor’s mumbled reply. She drew a deep breath and turned to face the priest.
“Father, I have come to recant my accusation,” she said, as firmly as her quaking body would allow. “My neighbour Dufossé died because he was drunk. His wife told me he drank a bottle of brandy the night he froze to death. This woman is not a witch, she is innocent.”
The old priest raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down. Behind her she could hear Jeanne Roy struggling to sit up.
“You are the girl with all the questions.”
“Yes, Father. I’m Élisabeth Jossard. I was jealous of this woman and sought to do her harm. I am a busybody and a gossip.”
The priest gave her a piteous look. “I was never in any doubt that whoever accused this witch possessed a backbiting tongue. It’s a wonder women’s tongues aren’t forked like the Devil’s own, so much do they spread scandal.”
Élisabeth dug her feet into the ground. She would not back down. “I swear to you, she is innocent.”
The priest waved her away. “You may have led me to this lady, but she is not here on your accusation alone. She has already confessed to being Angélique Aubert de Brétigny, whom I know to be the queen of the most powerful covenof witches France has ever known. She slipped away once before, but there will be no reprieve for her this time.”
The priest’s eyes drifted to the floor. “What is this?” He bent down and reached a liver-spotted hand towards the ragdoll.
“No,” Jeanne Roy said, clutching it to her chest.
“Boy, bring me the creature the witch is holding.”
The young jailor hesitated until the priest snapped his finger. Then he stomped two paces towards Jeanne and gave her a hard kick in the hip before darting backwards. She writhed in pain but did not drop the doll. The boy bent down and pulled it roughly from her grasp, scampering over to hand it to Father de Sancy. The priest received it as carefully as if it were a golden chalice.
“Heavy,” he noted, weighing it up and down. “Is this some kind of familiar? Or a replica of a child you meant to torment?” Father de Sancy turned the doll over in his hands several times, looking from Jeanne Roy to Élisabeth for an answer before tucking it under his arm.
“I wish I had more time to question you, Lady Angélique. For someone of such high rank to have been seduced by the Devil is a rarity. I long to know more about you. It would be wondrous material for my treatise onmaleficia…” The priest seemed lost in his thoughts, then he sighed. “Still. This doll will give me something to study long after you’ve been burned to ash.”
The priest turned and pushed his way out of the makeshift prison. The jailor gripped Élisabeth firmly by the arm and marched her out of the barracks and through the fort’s gate, pushing her onto the path outside. Élisabeth stumbled into the mud but did not let herself fall. She righted herself and stared back at the fort.
She had no idea what to do next. There was no time to get a petition to the intendant. Marthe was already in labour. Even if the doll could somehow free Jeanne, she had let it slip into Father de Sancy’s possession.
She clasped her hands together and prayed to all of the angels—and all of the demons—to help her.
37
Marthe was in a sea of pain, bent over, hands on her sides, feeling a surge of agony until the wave crested and she was left bobbing along, exhausted, waiting for the current to drag her under again. Verger had moved her into the widow’s room, to the bed with the cattail mattress. In between the waves, Marthe wearily rubbed her palms over the ticking and noticed that indeed it was much finer than straw.
“What can I do? I am not usefully employed. Employ me!” Verger fretted, at once by her side and then instantly pacing the room in long strides. Élisabeth had been gone more than an hour. In that time Verger had run his hand through his hair so often that flour had coloured his hair white.
“Thirsty,” Marthe said in a small voice.
Her husband leapt to fetch her small beer. He returned and held the pewter mug to her lips as she drank, sickly swallows that would never quench a thirst. He pushed her hair back from her face, tucking a loose tendril behind her ear.
