Francoeur managed a grin. “Then you know what to do.”
Jambon slapped his thigh and hooted. Lajeunesse adjusted his hat on his head and pulled a flask from his pocket. He took a gulp and then passed it to his friend.
“Ready?” Jambon asked, pulling a knife from his belt. Lajeunesse nodded. With a flash of his blade, Jambon cut the sleeve off his friend’s shirt as if he were skinning a hare. Then, with a clean stroke he slashed the knife across Lajeunesse’s arm. The tall lad flinched. Blood ran towards his fingers.
“Smear it,” Francoeur ordered. They painted their arms and faces red. When they looked as if they had mauled each other like dogs, Francoeur took Lajeunesse’s ripped sleeve and tied it around the wound. “Now go.”
The two men lurched forward, staggering, swinging at each other and shouting, as if they had been born to the stage and not the plough. As they tumbled along Rue Saint-Paul, the residents of Ville-Marie began spilling from their houses, checking to see what the matter was. The first cry from the crowd was fear for their own safety—Iroquois!—but when the villagers saw it was only two old soldiers in a drunken tussle, they were glad to gather round and cheer them on. The long winter had left everyone in need of entertainment and the crowd quickly swelled. Jambon and Lajeunesse led them down the street until they reached the Little River. The young jailor stepped out of the guardhouse and eyed them warily.
Jambon threw a punch at his friend, made a show of missing, and spun in a pirouette.
“Follow me,” Francoeur said to Élisabeth. Together they approached the boy standing guard outside the fort. “Aren’t you going to stop them?” Francoeur asked.
The executioner’s son craned his neck to see which fighter would get the better of the other and shrugged.
“You’re right,” Francoeur said with a shake of his head. “The short one’s got a knife. Takes a braver man than you or me to get in the way of that.”
The boy threw Francoeur a defiant look, then cast aside the twig he’d been chewing. He strode into the crowd, grabbing first for Jambon, then for Lajeunesse. The fighters evaded his reach, keeping up their drunken charade, dancing and weaving away from his grasp.
“Now,” Francoeur urged.
They slipped through the wooden gate while the boy was distracted. Élisabeth then led her husband to where Jeanne was being held. She looked around the compound for signs of anyone else before lifting the latch. Darkness spilled out of the old barracks, but Élisabeth rushed in, finding Jeanne in a heap by the wall.
“Jeanne, wake up. It’s me, Élisabeth. I’ve brought Francoeur,” she whispered. “We’ve come to free you.”
The witch raised her head. Élisabeth looked at her swollen ankles, crushed by the brodequins.
“You will need to carry her,” she told Francoeur.
He wasted no time. He scooped her up and put her arms around his neck. Jeanne clung limply to him as he made his way across the barracks and out the door.
Outside the fort the crowd was still focused on the spectacle. The jailor had managed to grab Jambon by the back of the shirt, who twisted and tried to hug the boy by his waist, weeping with feigned gratitude. Lajeunesse was rallyingthe mob with his arms in the air, before spinning back and pulling Jambon’s breeches to the ground. The crowd roared and called for more. The boy jailor lunged for Lajeunesse, letting go of Jambon. The ham pulled up his breeches and then did his own tour of the crowd, wiggling his bottom to great cheers. No one noticed as Francoeur and Élisabeth slipped out of the jail with the witch in their arms.
“Walk between me and the crowd so that they cannot see Jeanne,” Francoeur told Élisabeth. She nodded and held her head high, as if she could grow several inches just by wishing it. They rounded the corner of the fort and had nearly reached the bridge when they heard a shout.
“Stop!”
Élisabeth whipped around. Lajeunesse and Jambon had kept the crowd in thrall but the boy had marked their exit and followed them. Jeanne lifted her head. Élisabeth crossed herself and waited, frozen, to see who would move first.
“Bring the witch back,” the jailor shouted. There was a tremor in his voice.
“No. We need her,” Élisabeth called back.
The boy took a tentative step forward, then immediately hopped back when he saw Jeanne groggily lift her head. He danced on the spot, unable to take his eyes off the figure in Francoeur’s arms. Élisabeth was struck by a sudden thought. She nudged her husband backwards and slowly he took a step. The jailor moved towards them, thought the better of it, and darted backwards. The boy clearly did not have the spine to cross the witch. They turned and began to run, Francoeur lumbering forward with Jeanne in his arms, Élisabeth close by his side. As they crossed the bridge, she could hear the guard call after them.
“You will rue your actions!”
They weaved across the commons towards Rue Saint-Paul; Élisabeth was careful not to tempt fate by looking behind them, only sneaking a quick glance at Francoeur by her side. He caught her eye and Élisabeth felt a twist of hope as her husband broke into a smile. She blushed and quickened her pace.
They burst through the bakery door a moment later. Francoeur eased Jeanne Roy into a chair in the widow’s salon. The witch’s head rolled back, and she groaned. Wari rushed in from behind a curtain at the back of the room.
“Angélique,” she whispered, placing her hands on Jeanne Roy’s cheeks. The witch gave her a weak smile. “You are free.”
“Where’s Marthe?” Élisabeth demanded, striding towards Verger. The baker was standing dumb by the fire. He jerked his thumb towards the curtain. “Back there. In the widow’s bed.”
“Then what are you doing out here?” Élisabeth snapped, sick with fear.
“There is no room for me! There must be nearly a dozen women with her. Rose, Lou, Thérèse, Françoise. And more whom I do not know. Apolline bid me to come out here and heat some water. So that is what I’m doing.” Verger frowned, staring at the cauldron as if willing it to boil.
