“TheSaint-Jean-Baptistegirls have come.” Élisabeth exhaled, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders. She turned to kneel by Jeanne Roy’s side. Wari was wiping her face with a cloth, cleaning away the dirt and blood to reveal the damage the hangman had done.
“Jeanne, I am sorry to beg for your help when you are in such pain. But Marthe is trying to birth twins. And I fear they will kill her, like they did my mother.”
Jeanne’s eyes were bleary. Still, she raised her head. “Where is she?” she croaked.
“I’ll carry you.” Francoeur stepped forward, lifting the crippled witch once again into his arms. He followed Élisabeth as she pushed back the curtain to reveal a small space crowded with women: some holding Marthe’s hand, some mopping her brow, and one crooning a lullaby. When they saw Jeanne Roy they leapt and crowded around the witch, trying to touch her face and kiss her hands, as if she were a saint come to life in their midst.
“Put me down,” Jeanne instructed. The girls stood back, and Francoeur eased Jeanne to the ground. She winced as her feet touched the floor, but onceshe found her knees, she edged towards her patient. “Marthe, let me have a look at you.”
Marthe tried to nod but winced instead and made a guttural sound. Jeanne Roy was not dissuaded. She placed her hands on Marthe’s belly, feeling the flesh with her fingertips, then she reached one hand beneath Marthe’s shift. Marthe grimaced at Jeanne’s touch. After several minutes the witch withdrew her hand and spoke calmly.
“Everything is as it should be. You will be a mother before the night is out.”
Jeanne Roy nodded to Francoeur and he lifted her back into his arms. He carried her into the front room, Élisabeth following quickly behind.
“All is well? She will deliver soon?” she asked. Francoeur eased Jeanne back into a chair.
“No,” Jeanne said softly so that Marthe would not hear. “It is as you suspected. I can feel two babies. But she is clearly weak from her labours. I do not know if she has the strength to continue.”
Élisabeth closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. “Oh Blessed Virgin, have mercy on her soul,” she began. “Saint Anne, you who gave birth to the mother of Christ our saviour—”
“Élisabeth.”
She stopped and opened her eyes. Jeanne was looking at her dead in the eye. “I might be able to save her. But I’ll need Chamberlen’s Secret.”
She stared at Jeanne Roy. Verger spun away from the cauldron of boiling water.
“You needwhat?” he balked.
“It is a tool of unimaginable power,” Élisabeth said softly. “A magic wand, I believe. Or possibly a knife.”
“Élisabeth,” Jeanne Roy interrupted. “Don’t try to guess what it is. Just go and find where the priest has taken it.”
“The priest has Chamberlen’s Secret?”
“Yes, Élisabeth. Go and get my doll.”
39
There were hands upon her brow and another pair on her back. No sooner had she cried out for the Virgin to ease her pain, than thumbs kneaded her shoulders and fingers traced a circle on her belly, coaxing the child to be born. Rose tried to massage her feet, but Marthe kicked her hands away.
“Verger?” she moaned. She tried to pull her shift over her head, but another pair of hands soothed her arms back to her sides so that the rough cloth stayed clinging to her chest. She wished Lou would stop singing.
“It’s all right,” Apolline told her. “It’s only us. We sent Verger away.”
Marthe collapsed backwards onto the bed, disappointed. Strange that she would want her husband by her side in her confinement. With his shy smile and encouraging words about summer fruit, she wished that it were he who was rubbing her back and mopping her brow.
She wondered if what she was feeling was love.
A wave of pain cascaded over her. She lowed, the sound resonating around the room, causing a flurry of small hands to stroke her face and back and legs. When the wave crested, she turned and tried to bury her face in the mattress.
What a tragedy, she thought.
She had only just realized that she had married for love, and now she was going to die.
40
The brides had not been pressed together this tightly since they had stood on the wharf in Dieppe the year before, waiting for theSaint-Jean-Baptisteto take them away from all they knew.
