Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

I would never have guessed there had been a painter in the family.

Isabelle sat up straight and glanced across to the children's bed. Jacob was already awake, arms around his legs, chin on his knees. He had the best ears of all of them.

– One horse, he said quietly.

Isabelle nudged Etienne.

– A horse, she whispered.

Her husband jumped up, half-asleep, his hair dark with sweat. Pulling on his breeches, he reached over and shook Bertrand awake. Together they slipped down the ladder as someone began pounding on the door. Isabelle peered over the edge of the loft and watched the men gather, clutching axes and knives. Hannah appeared from the back room with a candle. After whispering through the crack in the door, Jean set down the axe and drew back the bolt.

The Duc de l'Aigle's steward was no stranger. He appeared periodically to confer with Jean Tournier and used the house to collect tithes from the surrounding farms, carefully recording them in a calfskin-bound book. Short, fat, completely bald, he made up for his lack of height with a booming voice that Jean tried in vain now to stifle. There could be no secrets with such a voice.

– The Duc has been murdered in Paris!

Hannah gasped and dropped the candle. Isabelle unthinkingly crossed herself, then clutched her neck and looked around. All four children were now sitting up in a row, Susanne perched next to them on the edge, balancing precariously, her belly huge and distended. She'll be ready soon, Isabelle thought, automatically assessing her. Though never used now, the old knowledge was still with her.

Petit Jean had begun whittling with the knife that he kept with him even in bed. Jacob was silent, eyes large and brown like his mother's. Marie and Deborah leaned against each other, Deborah looking sleepy, Marie's eyes bright.

– Maman, what is murder? she called out in a voice that rang like a copper pan being beaten.

– Hush, Isabelle whispered. She moved to the end of the bed to hear what the steward was saying. Susanne came to sit beside her and the two leaned forward, resting their arms on the railing.

– … ten days ago, at the wedding of Henri de Navarre. The gates were locked and thousands of followers of the Truth slaughtered. Coligny as well as our Duc. And it is spreading to the countryside. Everywhere they are killing honest people.

– But we are far from Paris and we are all followers of the Truth here, Jean replied. We are safe from Catholics here.

– They say a garrison is coming from Mende, the steward boomed. To take advantage of the Duc's death. They will come for you, a syndic for the Duc. The Duchesse is fleeing to Alès and passes this way in a few hours. You should come with us, to save your family. She is not offering to take others. Just the Tourniers.

– No.

It was Hannah who replied. She had relit the candle and stood solidly in the middle of the room, back slightly humped, silver braid running down her spine.

– We do not need to leave this house, she continued. We are protected here.

– And we have crops to harvest, Jean added.

– May you change your mind. Your family – any of your family – is welcome to join the Duchesse.

Isabelle thought she caught the flash of the steward's eyes directed toward Bertrand. Watching her husband, Susanne shifted uneasily. Isabelle reached for her hand: it was as cold as the river. She glanced at the children. The girls, too young to understand, had fallen back to sleep; Jacob was still sitting with his chin on his knees; Petit Jean had dressed and was leaning against the railing, watching the men.

The steward left to warn other families. Jean bolted the door and set the axe beside it while Etienne and Bertrand disappeared into the barn to secure it from within. Hannah moved to the hearth, set the candle on the mantel and knelt beside the fire, banked for the night under ashes. Isabelle thought at first that she was going to build it up, but the old woman did not touch the fire.

She squeezed Susanne's hand and nodded towards the hearth.

– What is she doing?

Susanne watched her mother, wiping her cheek where a tear had strayed.

– The magic is in the hearth, she whispered finally. The magic that protects this house. Maman is praying to it.

The magic. It had been referred to obliquely over the years, but Etienne and Susanne would never explain, and she had never dared ask Jean or Hannah.

She tried once more.

– But what is it? What is there?

Susanne shook her head.

– I don't know. Anyway, to speak of it is to ruin its power. I have already said too much.

– But why is she praying? Monsieur Marcel says there is no magic in praying.

– This is older than praying, older than Monsieur Marcel and his teachings.

– But not older than God. Not older than – the Virgin, she finished silently.

Susanne had no answer.

– If we go, she said instead, if we go with the Duchesse, we will no longer be protected.

– Protected by the Duchesse's men, by swords, yes, Isabelle responded.

– Will you come?

Isabelle did not answer. What would it take to draw Etienne away? The steward had not looked at him when urging them to go. He knew Etienne would not leave.

Etienne and Bertrand returned from the barn, Etienne joining his parents at the table. Jean glanced up at Isabelle and Susanne.

– Go to sleep, he said. We will keep watch.

But their eyes were on Bertrand, standing uncertainly in the middle of the room. He looked up at Susanne as if searching for a sign. Isabelle leaned toward her.

– God will protect you, she whispered in Susanne's ear. God and the Duchesse's men.

She sat back, caught Hannah's glare, met it. All these years you have taunted me because of my hair, she thought, yet you pray to your own magic. She and Hannah stared at each other. Hannah looked away first.

Isabelle missed Susanne's nod but not its result. Bertrand turned resolutely towards Jean.

– Susanne, Deborah and I, we will go to Alès with the Duchesse de l'Aigle, he stated.

Jean gazed at Bertrand.

– You understand that you will lose everything if you go, he said quietly.

– We will lose everything if we stay. Susanne is near her time, she cannot walk far. She cannot run. There will be no chance for her when the Catholics come.

– You do not believe in this house? Where no babies have died? Where Tourniers have thrived for 100 years?

– I believe in the Truth, he replied. That is what I believe in. With his words he seemed to grow, his defiance giving him height and girth. Isabelle realized for the first time that he was actually taller than his father-in-law.

– With our marriage you gave no dowry because we live here with you. All I ask for now is one horse. That will be dowry enough.

Jean looked incredulous.

– You want me to give you a horse so you can take away my daughter and grandchildren?

– I want to save your daughter and grandchildren.

– I am the master of this family, yes?

– God is my master. I must follow the Truth, not this magic you are so convinced by.

Isabelle would never have guessed Bertrand could be so rebellious. After Jean and Hannah chose him for Susanne, he had worked hard and never crossed Jean. He had brought an ease to the house, arm-wrestling with Etienne every day, teaching Petit Jean to whittle, making them laugh by the fire at night with his stories of the wolf and the fox. He treated Susanne with a gentleness that Isabelle envied. Once or twice she had seen him swallow his defiance; it appeared to have grown in his stomach, waiting for a moment such as this.

Then Jean surprised everyone.

– Go, he said gruffly. But take the ass, not the horse. He turned and strode to the barn door, yanked it open and disappeared inside.