Chapter Seventeen

Troyes winter/spring/summer 1617

Both Isabeau and Bridgett smiled and nodded and talked over each other in their urgency to make her comprehend they did not need to hear when Anne tried to thank them. They insisted they completely understood, and, please, she needed to keep quiet so that her throat could heal. Bridgett told her of course they would help her and would continue to assist her back to health as much as they could.

Isabeau continued, ‘In case you’re worried, I’ve brought money so you may rest assured that mother can be paid. There’s jewels and clothing too, so you can make a future for yourself. All shall be well.’

Anne did not believe anything would be well ever again, but she nodded and tried to sit up. Tried to behave like a human being. Tried to be civilised. These things happened several times when Isabeau came to visit, Anne came to presume, on her monthly Sunday visit.

Then it was winter, the windows closed against the cold, a fire burning in the thin brick fireplace with the white stone mantle, by the long weary time Anne was able to concentrate on Isabeau’s story. The maid wanted Anne to understand all that had happened when the Comte de la Fère arrived home on that warm green summer’s day. How the household grew frightened by the Comte’s rushed and stern behaviour and how Isabeau, surprised Anne had not returned, asked him, ‘But, where’s the Comtesse? Something has surely happened?’

The Comte changed into travelling clothes, ordered a trunk, and prepared to leave for Paris immediately. He ordered all the Comtesse’s clothes and belongings to be burned. Yes, everything. He would not speak to his manservant. He took only one lackey, an old man who belonged to his father who would surely die soon.

Isabel told Anne she had to stay the hand of the manservant who would follow the orders. The staff she spoke to were shocked and worried. All agreed it was a shame to waste such beautiful garments and jewels and perhaps it might be good to delay, just a day or two, to see if they could account for the young Comtesse. She must rest assured; Anne was favoured by the staff at the chateau. All were terrified some disaster had befallen her, and still were to this day, not knowing her fate. ‘The manservant, Jacques, you know Jacques, he didn’t want to disobey the Comte, but I pleaded with him to wait, just for a day, ‘til I could find where you’d gone. He had to agree, he wanted you found, too.’ They worked together to pile everything up. If the Comte came back, then no harm done, they could throw the heap out the window and burn it quick enough.

Isabeau took it upon herself to go out to search in the forest. Luckily it was she who found Anne, balanced precariously on Gabriel’s back, still with the rope around her neck. The pony, for some miraculous reason, had come to rest under Anne, taking her weight. The maid, horrified, managed to unravel the rope from around the tree and loosen it from her neck. Anne had slumped onto the pony in such a manner that Isabeau was able to balance her over the horse’s back and get her to Renée’s empty house, isolated from the rest of the community on the estate. Renée had moved to the clergy house with her children and managed to encourage Father Malliard’s new curate, François’s replacement, to teach the children basic Latin and numbers. During the tutor’s time, she could slip away and help Isabeau.

The two women secretly ministered to Anne’s survival needs: cleaning, dressing and getting water and gruel into her. From there, Isabeau wrapped Anne with blankets and, together with Renée, lifted her up onto the back of a cart. Isabeau brought Gabriel and the cart to her mother’s house. It had taken two long days during which Isabeau was sure Anne was often close to death. But she had managed to get Anne to Troyes, still bleeding after the miscarriage, with arduous breathing and faint pulse. Bridgett had agreed to nurse Anne back to health. Where was Gabriel now? Isabeau had taken her back to the estate stables because she thought the Comte might suspect something if the pony was missing. If, indeed, he ever did come back to check.

Bridgett reassured Anne. There was no need to go anywhere. She was welcome to stay here in Troyes for as long as needed.

Anne croaked when she tried to speak but she managed to ask Isabeau where the Comte was at this moment? Isabeau shook her head. No-one knew. He’d not been heard of. He’d disappeared. Gone. With his face set like stone and his eyes red as if from crying but when Isabeau last saw him those eyes were red as if lit from flames within, burning with malevolent passion.

Anne snorted, coughed, and began to cry again. She wanted it to be over. She wanted to die. ‘I can’t go on … ‘ She tried to stop weeping when she saw the look that Bridgett gave Isabeau. Then Bridgett came forward and urged her, ‘Your body wants to live, Anne. Now you must find out what your heart wants. There’s a reason you’re here. What is it? What do you have to do?’

Anne stared at her then fell back on her cushions, closed her eyes, and weighed her situation. She’d wanted to die when Olivier hanged her. She’d even tried to help him, but the pony brought her back. Her beautiful, friendly little pony. At heart, Anne was Roman Catholic, born and bred. She saw the symbolism in Gabriel saving her life.

She couldn’t kill herself. She’d been offered mercy. She’d been offered life. God had preserved her. Why?

‘Anne, Isabeau told me you used to help the tenants.’ Bridgett spoke quietly but so seriously Anne had nowhere to hide. ‘You made them soup, didn’t you? And carried it to them, into their dwellings? Even before you were Comtesse. That’s why I’ve helped you. Because she told me of your kindness. Of course, I’m grateful for the money and I’d not have just anyone lie in this bed for nothing, I’m not mad, I’m not running a hospice for poor people. But equally, Anne, I’m not running a hospice for hopeless cases. It’s Christmas Day tomorrow and I want you to come to church with me. We’ll borrow the cart from Monsieur Allaire. Will you come?’

Bridgett stood up straight and put her arm around Isabeau. Both sincere faces looked at Anne and smiled encouragingly.

‘Sleep well, Comtesse,’ said Isabeau.

‘We’ll help you dress, we’ll breakfast, and we’ll be off to the Cathedral.’

The last time Anne had been in a Cathedral was her wedding day.

She did not sleep well.

When she heard Bridgett moving in the kitchen, Anne arose. Her movements slow, she began the arduous process of dressing herself as best she could. By the time Bridgett brought her porridge to the table she’d almost made herself presentable. Bridgett helped her with laces, gave a hug, but made no comment. Anne tried to concentrate on small but necessary tasks. She knew it was time. Bridgett had told her so. She had to take control of herself. Of her life. She recognised she was going to keep breathing whether she liked it or not. She had better work out how she was going to survive in a useful manner. Bridgett was right. She was young. She was sixteen years old. She did have a life to live. But what was she worth?

Between Bridgett and Isabeau she managed to climb into the cart. She sat up straight, her face covered with a veil, and obeyed her carers. She had to be supported by the two women as they walked into the Cathedral. Isabeau must have guessed how she felt but none of them said anything. From the outside, Troyes Cathedral was not so imposing as Saint Étienne in Bourges. Saint Peter and Saint Paul seemed unfinished to Anne. There were no sturdy buttresses and there was only one tower. But inside, the nave, about the same size, rose to a glory of stained glass full of light, bringing heaven down to earth.

Anne could not stand and so she sat, and tried not to compare the two brilliant edifices, one from her memories and the other immense and immediate around her. One from the covenant of marriage and the other, and she almost dared not even name it, tried not to even think it, but she supposed it was her own resurrection.

Then, as the birth of Jesus was announced, she saw the baby Jesus in the coloured windows, the statue of the Virgin Mother holding the babe in adoration, and she heard the babies snuffling or weeping in the arms of the human women present, praising the Lord on High. She saw the Sacred Family, she saw the Holy Child, she sighed and slumped back down in her chair. She should have been holding her own baby. She failed that child. Her arms ached with emptiness. Baby Jesus waved a plump fist in the air. The Virgin Mary smiled.

Where was her child? Her baby. She became aware that she had been stopped from falling to the ground, amazed by Bridgett’s strength. Perhaps her carers had been expecting such a reaction for in a short time they managed to return to the cart, cover her with blankets and take her back to Bridgett’s warm home. Anne had no sense of time. Just longing.

Bridgett said she was sorry. She had hoped Anne was ready. She could see there was more healing to be done.

Anne tried to smile, but feared her expression closer to a grimace, when she replied, ‘Fresh air good.’

Isabeau reached down to take her hand. ‘You’ll feel better soon, Comtesse.’

Bridgett added, ‘It will not always be so bad.’

Anne fell into her bed and slept. She woke, sipped some soothing herbal tea, and then slept again.

There was another clear day when the church bells ordered her out of bed. She was able to dress herself. Ate more food. Drank more. Straightened her back and picked up a broom. More clear days turned into weeks. Dressed in simple working clothes, ignoring the trunks of fine gowns Isabeau had saved from the chateau. Wiped tables and even split wood for kindling. Saw to the herbs. Infused dried tarragon and lavender in different oils. Set up the loom. Worked with humdrum repetition rather than interest. She knew how to weave a piece of fabric and took over making cords to tie the bunches of herbs. She knew how to be useful. As the weather warmed, she worked in the garden, planting out annuals and protecting new shoots from late frosts. These things she had done for Sister Beatrice, Sister Matildé, and for Sister Marie Madeleine, as a matter of course. Nothing took much thought.

After more time, as the spring rains cleared into lush summer greenery, she noticed Bridgett’s house stood at a good position on the main road of the busy town. Realised they could do more with herbs than merely sell them in bunches at the market stall. She could help package them in medicinal mixtures, in attractive linen packages of seeds or dried leaves, tied with woven cords, skills learned from the revolving shop window back at the Priory. She could design labels and help explain basic medical information to people who came to buy from both stall and front door. And they did come. Bridgett was grateful for her increased income and pleased to see Anne’s initiative.

The black cat stayed by the fire but at night he went out to kill.

In return for her efforts, both Isabeau and her mother tutored Anne as to the ways of men. From now she should understand men were not to be trusted. She must harden her heart the way her neck had been hardened. For scar tissue is always harder. Anne began to wonder about the marks around her neck.

Bridgett said she was relieved when the Comtesse de Fère began to worry about appearances; she was healing, and caring about her looks, as normal women did. The wise woman reassured Anne the bruises had faded but the scars from the abrasions would take more time. Because the rope was new, even though she must have been hanging for some time, it had stretched. The deep indentation was to the left-hand side of her neck. The knot must have been up on the right, tight above her ear. Bridgett touched her finger to the graze scar. She held a small mirror so Anne could see the remaining mark surrounding the rope line.

The wise woman rubbed the stain around her neck with a paste made from the jelly of aloe vera mixed with ground curcumin root. She offered Anne drinks flavoured with honey and thyme and the juice of pomegranate to soothe her crushed throat. And, because there was no hiding here, she had also tried to fade the fleur-de-Lys with different pastes, some using chamomile, another crushed fenugreek seeds, and cow’s milk mixed with curcumin. Perhaps something would work in time.

Both Bridgett and Isabeau encouraged her to believe she did not deserve to be hung just because she ran away from a nunnery! Anne spent hours at the loom, weaving simple linen pieces which she sewed into small bags for seeds or medicinal teas. As she made these useful packets at the table, or wove attractive cords on the lucet, she and Bridgett talked of little else but her husband.

Their conversations, mainly guided by Bridgett, and Isabeau when she visited, ranged over and around his actions. Anne must grieve her losses. She’d been in love with Olivier - and he with her - but to kill the thing he loved just because it was flawed? Did Olivier so value perfection? He was mad. Perfection could only exist in heaven. He despised her not because she was marked but because she did not say so. Omission was a falsehood. A sin that might be confessed to a priest. And forgiven. It could never deserve murder.

Anne, when her throat was strong enough to speak a few words, denied he tried to murder her. She thought he was simply redressing the balance. She had brought shame to his name although, as Bridgett pointed out there was no witness, only Anne and Olivier had known of this so-called scandal. Shame lived in public eyes. And, if it was never known, how could it cause humiliation?

Anne felt numb. She thought he did the right thing. The two other women thought he did evil. There was another cry in her that needed to be made, and she fought tears as she asked Isabeau. She whispered, ‘The babe?’ Anne spoke louder and looked directly at Isabeau as they shook dried chamomile flowers into jars. ‘My baby?’

Isabeau sighed as though she’d been dreading this question. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Tell me.’

‘He’s buried.’

Anne heard the ‘he’. She asked, ‘A boy?’

‘Tiny. We washed him and wrapped him in clean linen. Reneé took him to the church yard. The grave isn’t marked. It’s near a rose bush.’

‘Consecrated ground?’

‘We named him Jean Jacques, after the brothers in the church.’

Anne whispered, ‘Jean Jacques?’

‘Did we do wrong?’

Anne tried to tell the girl with her eyes, no, not wrong. It could not be more right. Eventually she growled ‘Grateful, Isabeau.’

But she had to leave the room and walk.

She walked outside and looked at the chickens scratching and listened to their burbling.

Scratching into the ground.