Silence of Stone Read Free Page B

Marguerite’s husband’s name.
Non.
The voices demand my silence.
    â€œIf you were married, as you allege, and if his family is wealthy…” Thevet strokes the quill against his beard, making an annoying rasp.
    â€œHis family was as poor as Marguerite’s.”
    â€œBut they lost a son, an heir. And apparently a grandchild. They would want to know.”
    â€œHer husband’s family believes that he died a soldier, defending the colony from Indians.”
    â€œHow did he die?”
    â€œPerhaps they would rather believe in their son’s courage and bravery,” I say, ignoring the monk’s question, “and not know of Roberval’s foolishness and cruelty.”
    â€œCruelty!” He points the quill at my heart. “You and your lover sinned. You caused a great scandal. Roberval was justified in punishing you.”
    I feel anger’s dark humour gathering within me, bile rising from deep within my belly.
    Abandonnée. La justice. Kek-kek-kek.
    Thevet lays down the quill to place a new candle in the holder, his plump fingers clumsy with excited self-righteousness. He lights the candle from another, dripping a greasy tallow circle on his list of questions. The Franciscan can be profligate with candles. And with paper. He is an emissary of King François II.
    â€œThey have not yet found his assassin. Would you reveal that name?”
    I gag at the stink. And the accusation. “Roberval was a cruel leader. There are many who hate him, many who would wish him dead.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œDid I not have cause?”
    â€œDid you kill him?”
    â€œAnd how would I have traveled to Paris?”
    He shuffles his papers and looks toward the window. “You could have flown,” he mumbles.
    L’imbécile.
I cannot stop the howl that explodes from my throat. I try to quiet my laughter before I speak. “
Père,
if I possessed the powers of a witch, Roberval would have been dead long ago.”
    Thevet raises a finger as if he has just solved a difficult puzzle. “Ah, but it is safe to kill him now…now that his protectors – François I and Henri – are dead.”
    I tilt my chin and allow myself a small provocation. “Don’t you mean François I and Diane de Poitiers – King Henri’s whore? The whore was Roberval’s cousin.”
    â€œHow dare you!” His nostrils flare, and I see pale wiry hairs glistening against ruddy skin. He takes deep breaths to calm himself. “How dare you speak of Henri’s trusted advisor in such terms.” His face is pinched, as if he has a griping in his bowels. “But then again, you have always lacked propriety. Indulging yourself in carnal abominations.”
    The yellow clack, clack, clack of his words circles between us:
La convenance. Carnal abominations.
    We sit quietly, watching the words spin, listening to his belly rumble, until Thevet can contain himselfno longer. “Did you hire someone?”
    I stand, and without waiting for the Franciscan’s assent, turn and walk away. I can hear his agitated huff behind me.
    Hurrying through the sanctuary, I do not cross myself, nor do I bend a knee to the Christ who was deaf to her prayers. I turn my back to him, draw my cloak and hood around me, and push open the arched door. I step from the chapel into the rain, my foot crushing lily-of-the-valley. I bend low to touch the wounded white bells, to draw within their sweet fragrance and dispel the dank odour of granite, the putrid stink of tallow.

    I sit near the hearth, wrapped in a wool blanket. I am always cold. And no matter how much I eat, I am thin and hungry, bone knocking against bone. When the little girls bring biscuits from home, I want to snap them up and swallow them whole. They see my hunger, the copper glint of a wolf’s eyes, and hide their biscuits in the folds of their skirts.
    The glowing embers wink and yawn puffs of smoky