Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

Etienne glanced up at Isabelle before looking down at his hands; she was certain then that they would not follow Bertrand. Etienne's marriage to her had been his one act of defiance. He had no will left for another.

Isabelle turned to her sister-in-law.

– When you ride the ass, she whispered, you must ride sideways to support the baby with your legs. That will keep it from coming too soon. Ride sideways, she repeated, for Susanne was staring into space as if in shock. She turned to look at Isabelle.

– You mean like the Virgin riding into Egypt?

– Yes. Yes, just like the Virgin.

They had not mentioned Her for a long time.

Deborah and Marie were sleeping with a sheet twined round them when Susanne and Isabelle went to wake Deborah just before dawn. They tried not to disturb the others but Marie woke up and began to say loudly: – Why is Deborah leaving? Why is she leaving? Jacob opened his eyes, his features pinched. Then Petit Jean, still dressed, sat up.

– Maman, where are they going? he whispered hoarsely. Will they see soldiers? And horses and flags? Will they see Uncle Jacques?

– Uncle Jacques is not a Catholic soldier; he fights with Coligny's army in the north.

– But the steward said Coligny was killed.

– Yes.

– So Uncle Jacques may come back.

Isabelle did not answer. Jacques Tournier had gone to the army ten years before, at the same time as other young men from Mont Lozère. He had returned once, scarred, raucous, full of tales, one of them about Isabelle's brothers, run through with the same pike.

– As twins should be, Jacques had added brutally, laughing when Isabelle turned away. Petit Jean worshipped Jacques. Isabelle hated him, whose eyes had followed her everywhere, never resting on her face. He encouraged a hard boisterousness in Etienne that disturbed her. But Jacques had not stayed long: the call of blood and excitement had been too strong, stronger even than the claims of family.

The children followed the women down the ladder and out into the yard, where the men had loaded the ass with a few possessions and food: goat's cheese and hard dark loaves of chestnut bread that Isabelle had quickly made during the few hours before dawn.

– Come, Susanne, Bertrand gestured.

Susanne looked for her mother, but Hannah had not come outside. She turned to Isabelle, kissed her three times and put her arms around her neck.

– Ride sideways, Isabelle whispered in her ear. And make them stop if you begin to have pains. And may the Virgin and Saint Margaret keep you and bring you safe to Alès.

They lifted Susanne onto the ass, where she sat among the packs, legs to one side.

– Adieu, Papa, petits , she said, nodding to Jean and the children. Deborah climbed onto Bertrand's back. He gathered the rope attached to the ass's halter, clucked and kicked, and started down the mountain path at a quick pace. Etienne and Petit Jean followed, to accompany them as far as the road to Alès, where they would meet the Duchesse. Susanne looked back at Isabelle, her face small and white, until she was out of sight.

– Grandpapa, why are they leaving? Why is Deborah leaving? Marie asked. Born only a week apart, the cousins had been inseparable until now. Jean turned away. Marie followed Isabelle inside and stood by Hannah, busy at the fire.

– Why, Mémé, why is Deborah leaving? she kept saying until Hannah reached out and slapped her.

Soldiers or not, the crops were waiting. The men went to the fields as usual, but Jean chose a field near the house to scythe, and Isabelle did not follow with the rake as she normally would – she and Marie remained at the house with Hannah and helped with preserving. Petit Jean and Jacob worked behind their father and grandfather, raking the rye into bundles, Jacob barely tall enough to handle the rake.

In the house Isabelle and Hannah said little, the hole left behind by Susanne shutting their mouths. Twice Isabelle stopped stirring, staring into space, and cursed when hot plum spattered her arms. Finally Hannah pushed her away.

– Honey is too precious to be wasted by idle hands, she muttered.

Isabelle, boiling crockery instead, often went to the door in search of a cooling breeze and to listen to the silence of the valley. Once Marie followed and stood next to her in the doorway, her tiny hands stained purple from picking through the plums to find the unripe or rotten.

– Maman, she said quietly, knowing now to keep her voice down. Maman, why did they leave?

– They left because they were afraid, Isabelle replied after a moment, wiping sweat from her temples.

– Afraid of what?

– Of bad men who want to hurt them.

– Bad men are coming here?

Isabelle tucked her hands under her smock so Marie would not see they were shaking.

– No, chérie , I think not. But they were worried about Susanne with the baby.

– Will I see Deborah soon?

– Yes.

Marie had her father's pale blue eyes and, to Isabelle's relief, his blond hair as well. If it had been red, Isabelle would have dyed it with the juice of black walnuts. Marie's bright eyes gazed up at her now, perturbed, uncertain. Isabelle had never been able to lie to her.

Pierre La Forêt visited the field at midday just as Isabelle was bringing the men their dinner. He told them who had fled – not so many, only those with wealth to be looted, daughters to be raped, connections with the Duc.

He saved the most surprising news for last.

– Monsieur Marcel has left, he announced with poorly disguised glee. He has gone north, over Mont Lozère.

There was silence. Jean picked up his scythe.

– He will return, he said shortly, turning back to the rye. Pierre La Forêt watched him begin his rhythmic swinging, then glanced fearfully around, as if just remembering that soldiers might descend at any moment. He left quickly, whistling for his dog.

Their progress in the field that morning had been slow. Besides the absence of Bertrand and Susanne, the workers Jean had hired for the harvest never appeared, fearful of the farm's connection with the Duc. The boys had not been able to keep up with the men, so that now and then Jean or Etienne had been forced to drop a scythe and to rake for a time to catch up.

– Let me rake, Isabelle suggested now, eager to escape Hannah and the stifling house. Your mother – Maman can handle the preserves alone. Jacob and Marie will help her. Please. She rarely called Hannah Maman, only when wheedling was necessary.

To her relief the men agreed, sending Jacob back to the house. She and Petit Jean followed in the wake of the scythes, raking as fast as they could, bundling the rye, leaning the bundles upright against one another to dry. They worked quickly, sweat soaking their clothes. Occasionally Isabelle stopped to look around and listen. The sky was yellow with haze, wide and empty. It seemed the world itself had paused and was waiting with her.

It was Jacob who heard them. Late in the afternoon he appeared at the edge of the field, running fast. They all stopped and watched him, Isabelle's heart beginning to race. When he reached them he leaned over, hands on his thighs, gasping for breath.

– Ecoute, Papa , was all he said when he could speak, gesturing towards the valley. They listened. At first Isabelle could hear nothing except birds and her own breathing. Then a dull rumble emerged from the countryside.

– Ten. Ten horses, Jacob announced. Isabelle dropped her rake, took Jacob's hand and ran.

Petit Jean was the fastest; only nine, even after a day's work he outran his father easily. He reached the barn and raced to draw the bolts. Etienne and Jean brought water from the nearby stream while Isabelle and Jacob began closing shutters.