Silence of Stone Read Free

Marguerite’s secrets, not to an ignorant monk who calls her wanton and shameless, who wishes only to chastise. Thevet would have her play the Magdalene,
la putain repentante
, the penitent whore.
    L’idiot.
Marguerite’s sin had naught to do with her sex.
    The candles smoke and drip great pools of stinking tallow. The gorge rises in my throat at the odour of putrid flesh roasting. I look behind the monk’s bland face and see a rotting seal wedged in a crevice, eyes hollow, picked by ravens. I smell rancid grease dripping into flames and taste slimy flesh on my tongue.
    N’oubliez pas, do not forget. Grievous sin. Impardonnable. Remember, but do not tell. Do not tell.
    The voices mingle with the monk’s blather about Huguenots. I put my hands to my ears and rock back and forth. “
Non
,” I say, “I will not. Stop. Stop.”
    I look up. Thevet has closed his mouth mid-sentence. I fear at first that he has heard them, but then see that he is merely annoyed, not alarmed. In the sixteen years since the voices first addressed me, I have learned that they speak only for me. No one else ever hears them.
    I lower my hands and fold them in my lap. “Please stop,” I say quietly. “Do not speak ill of the Huguenots.” I do not give a damn about Huguenots, but I assume now a contemplative countenance to make him believe I am considering his most recent aspersions upon Marguerite’s faith.
    â€œThe demons…tell me more.”
    â€œShe kept her faith. She prayed. They did not bother her greatly.”
    He drums his fingers. I wait, knowing that he wants to hear more about demons, but also knowing that he loves his own voice far better than mine. He twirls coarse strands of grey and black beard in pink fingertips, then can restrain himself no longer. He begins lecturing about his journeys through the Levant where, as a young man, he met Turks and Arabs.
    â€œFoolish and superstitious,” he proclaims. “I prefer the Tupinamba. Though these wild men of America have no civility at all.” He opens his hands wide, the better to share his wisdom. “Walking in darkness and ignorant of the truth, they are notreasonable creatures. They are subject to many fantastic illusions and persecutions of wicked spirits. Indeed, they worship the Devil.” The last he whispers, as if the word itself might seduce him to heresy. His wine-purpled lips pull to one side.
    There is much concern these days about heresy. The word assumes a twisted black shape above his head, swirling crepe laced with scarlet ribbons. The crepe settles like a scapular upon his shoulders, and I see men and women, throats slit, bellies run through with sabres, because the Church has called them heretics. I cannot help wondering what Marguerite, the believer, would think of a God who ordains such killing as good. Could she embroider such murder and torture into a mantle of beauty and grace?
    Give glory to the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy endureth forever.
    The Franciscan drones on about the Tupinambas’ worship of idols. He has forgotten me. I am naught but an audience.
    Images appear, unbidden: Bones, fragile, like a robin’s. Shallow rocky crypt. Fingernails scraping, broken and ragged. Hands and feet blue with cold.
    La culpabilité. Grievous sin. Impardonnable.
    I hear the whimpering of a baby and clench my teeth to contain the wails building within.
    Thevet remembers me then. He dips his quill into the pot of ink. “Demons?” he asks. “What did you tell the Queen of Navarre about demons?”
    â€œNothing. She did not ask about demons.”
    Shortly after I returned to France, she summonedme to Paris. The Queen of Navarre, sister of François I, held my calloused brown hand within her own soft palms and looked kindly upon me while others stared rudely, mouths gaping. Wildly curious about my adventure, as she called it, the queen listened intently.
    Then she