Chapter Twenty-One - Her Lawfully Wedded Husband
Troyes to Paris November 1617
Anne dined with the priest and his ordinands. Maurice was still too young to undertake formal training for priesthood, but a place had been found for him in the new Jesuit school nearby. He was given permission to join them at the meal at the clergy house that night. Anne insisted on accompanying the curate to collect the young scholar before the meal. She could not help but be shocked at the state of the streets. She knew she’d have to dispose of her fine silk slippers when she returned to the clergy house.
Even as she tried to avoid the worst of the filth, she found much to impress her. Her attention was drawn to a glamorous couple who stood waiting outside a hotel to enter a large carriage. The woman laughed up at her partner, and even though she was veiled over an enormous hat and feather, Anne could see her beauty as if through the eyes of the tall man who smiled down at her. Both were dressed in travelling capes, but Anne noted their indoor garments were made of shimmery fabrics; their flounces and bows just visible before they pulled their capes together against the chill. Anne saw other fine people through windows of grand buildings. She could see candles lit on candelabras, fine furniture, symmetrical architecture, could hear music, smelled shit and offal, of course, but beyond that were hints of flowers and wine and … Romance.
There was the Seine again. Small boats and barges lined the shores, settling ready for the night. People promenaded by the river and Anne could hear singing from a café near the school. She breathed it all in, for she supposed she’d never see this place again.
Maurice waited in the foyer of the building. As soon as he recognised her he stepped toward her, grinned, and was about to greet her but, at Anne’s urgent signalling, paused, and stayed silent. She was terrified he might call her ‘Comtesse’ in front of the curate. As they walked she managed to whisper to him that she was mere, ‘Madame de Troyes’, and she would reveal all after their meal. He stared at her in surprise and thenceforth said little but pleasantries. After dinner Anne and Maurice found a quiet corner in the withdrawing room and sat together by the fire. They pulled their chairs close and spoke conspiratorially. She thanked him for his quick understanding but explained that there had been dramatic changes that even she little understood since she last saw him. She knew she could not tell him the truth; he was too young and charming for that. Trusting to her instincts that boys were not so interested in the activities of old married ladies, she did inform him that her husband was gone away for good, and she was desperate for news of François.
With some reluctance Maurice explained, only days after the marriage ceremony, he had discovered François weeping in the little church of the estate, Chapelle Saint Jean et Saint Jacques. Maurice hid nothing in his green-brown eyes, he looked at her openly and explained that, as she knew, Father François was overwhelmed by the honour she had done him of requesting his service in the Cathedral. It appeared Maurice found it difficult to speak of these memories, saying he missed François very much. Anne saw his eyes fill with tears. He struggled to control himself. Anne looked away to give the young man privacy. Then, when she felt he had time to collect himself, she urged him to explain further, if he could, for she had been so caught up in her own life at the time…
Which Maurice fully understood, of course, she newly married and busy …
Anne brought their focus back to François. She was sorry her brother had been so distressed by her actions.
Maurice did not think her brother’s grief was due to Anne. He tried to reassure her than none of François’s conscience searching had been in response to Anne in any way. When they left Fère, they were thinking only of spiritual matters. It was a personal quest. He felt François had been agonising for a long time. His struggles with God were not new and the Cathedral had been a step too far, a symbol of his inner abyss. Was that fair to say?
Anne said, yes, the grandeur of the basilica did make it a formidable building. Although heaven was not on earth, that magnificent vault made it seem as though it could be, and she could see how a troubled soul might lose balance.
Maurice, not being François, could not tell her exactly how her brother was feeling, but he guessed and, if she did not mind that he could not be completely certain, he surmised that François felt he had overstepped his trust in God. It was as though he had fallen from a cliff. He felt Father François wanted to serve God honestly and directly but there, in the high vaulted ceilings of that stupendous building, his voice was weak, his energy pathetic. He felt abandoned. The overwhelming music, glorious stained-glass windows and power of those archways had shaken him empty. He had reached for God in the heights and majesty but could not find him. He thought God was rejecting him for some reason. He longed to seek the truth. He sought to retreat to the seminary where he knew Father Bourdoise was helping priests relearn their way, to refresh the French congregation’s relationship with the church. That was where he felt God was calling him. To a purer objective. To study. And Maurice had immediately been drawn to that calling too. They had left as soon as they could organise support and housekeeping for Father Hubert.
Anne asked again if anything she had done or omitted had caused François any pain? Maurice completely exonerated her and continued his account. When they had only been at Saint-Nicolas a few days, Maurice told her of François’s sudden determination to get to Lille. It seemed, after he had made his confession, François insisted there was no other option but that he must see his brother, make amends with his family, to fulfil his legal duties. He intended to go back to prison and serve out his sentence.
Maurice supposed, when he saw how happy Anne had become, François hoped for some of that comfort himself. He wanted family life as well, even if it was as the family of the Executioner, his true, flawed, family of flesh and blood. And, most importantly for this spiritual man, he wanted to rebuild an honest relationship with God. That meant accepting his penance. He would return to prison in Lille. Alone.
Before he had left Paris he had arranged a replacement curate for Father Hubert. Both priest and curate had written positive letters back to Father Froger, who in turn, had reported back to Maurice that all was, indeed, well.
Anne agreed, she had heard something like that from Isabeau, but she dissembled slightly to say she believed that, between Renée and the new curate, Father Malliard was extremely comfortable.
Apart from her selfish dismay that she couldn’t see François immediately, Anne was taken aback to hear how much François had trusted this young boy. François had never told her any family secrets until it was all too late, when it was certain she was going to discover them for herself. Therefore, here was a lad who François trusted more than Anne. She frowned at him. What was so special about Maurice?
Maurice was working hard at his studies to become a priest. He was certain he had found the correct path of life for him. He was thinking of taking a pilgrimage to Rome before taking up his curacy where-ever Father Froger would think to send him. But he had much to learn before then. He hoped to see Father François again one day. Somewhere.
Anne fell silent, looking at the young boy in front of her. He was a soft, beautiful creature, with sand-coloured hair and hazel eyes. He seemed full of emotion and sincerity, not quite man, just beyond boy. As he spoke he unconsciously reached out to touch Anne on the knee, as naturally as if she had been his own sister. And Anne returned his touch with a gentle pat. Her gloved hand lightly touched his and he lifted his eyes to her once more. ‘You will give him my love, will you not, Anne?’
The next morning found Anne sitting back in the shared interior of a coach. This was a smaller carriage than that which had brought her to Paris in the last two days. She felt as though she was inside a bouncing acorn as they ricocheted from gutter to drain along the road. Still, the team of four made steady pace until the roadhouse where the horses rested, and the travellers slept in a shared chamber. And on again for the next day.
When they arrived in Lille, on recommendation of the driver, Anne found a relatively clean, private room at a small inn in the centre of the city. There she rested for the night while she considered her options. She decided she had no choice but go straight to the jail to visit Francois. She trusted that he’d be quiet and not give her up by nervous means. She hoped beyond hope he would be pleased to see her. After her flimsy shoes had been destroyed in the streets of Paris, she kept to her old-fashioned wooden clogs. At least she’d be able to move confidently through all terrains.
She remembered enough of the layout of the city to find her way. It seemed like she had been away for a decade, a lifetime, but no, it had hardly been eighteen months since she had last walked these streets. She had lived and died since she had worked with Sister Marie Madeline. She wondered how that kind girl was faring and thought to inquire after her after she and François had reunited.
She dined quietly in her private room and slept well. She rose early, breakfasted, and walked to the prison. She must be mad. A lion’s den? What else could she do?
Adjusting her veil well over her face, she knocked at the big wooden gate, studded with huge black nails, and asked for Father Bellamy? The guards looked at each other. ‘You want to visit Monsieur Bellamy?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Anne felt sick and exposed even though she knew they could not see her face. But why were they not calling him Father? Could he no longer be a priest?
‘Who wants to see our Monsieur Bellamy?’
Anne remembered that everyone was related in Lille. It was likely these guards were cousins to François. She could not think for a moment, but inspiration hit just in time to save her, ‘My name is Madame de Troyes. One of the nuns from the Hospice told me of your ‘Monsieur’ Bellamy and his miraculous recovery. I wondered if I could see for myself how his health might be now.’
The guard looked her up and down and then past to the empty road behind her. ‘You have come here by yourself?’
‘The nuns do not travel abroad. They are enclosed, sir.’
‘Wait here.’
Anne waited, expecting to be arrested at any moment. Well, if that was God’s will, so be it. She had run out of options. At least she would be near François.
But the guards let her in. ‘Poor bastard never gets any visitors.’
Behind them was the great arched door, to the left, the guards’ watch room and, in the middle, a fireplace, now cold for the day ‘He’ll not mind this one, I think.’
‘I’d not mind this one, myself!’
‘What harm can it do?’
Little did they know.
One of the guards escorted her along the dismal stone hallways without speaking further. And then, horror. The jailor walked towards them. Anne froze. But the jailor merely nodded at the guard and went past. She was still nervous about being seen but, as he’d not noted her as of any interest, she didn’t think anyone else would take care to recognise her. She was now a finely dressed lady whereas before she had been a timid nun in simple peasant clothes. She straightened her spine. Perhaps all would be well after all. Then they arrived at the cell.
The guard clanged his musket on the bars and said, ‘Hey, Evert! Visitor for you!’
Evert?
Perhaps it was time for his breakfast, or the end of his duty, for it was certainly the end of the guard’s interest. He had no compunction in leaving them alone at once.
No. Surely not. Evert?
Anne stood in the corridor and stared into the cell in panic. Evert, the Executioner of Lille, sat at a small table. Monsieur. Not Father. Not François.
It was Evert.
This man, dark, sharp, and angular, wrote with a stubby quill. He finished scratching his sentence with a full stop and looked up to see her.
She was beyond shocked to find him there, behind bars. The words escaped her before she could censor them, ‘But, where is François?
The man rose to his feet in swift reaction. ‘You?’ The Executioner snarled. There was no doubt he knew her at once. ‘Dead, you bitch. Dead and gone.’
She staggered, leaned on the bars then sank to her knees, falling to the ground, weak, staring at him, disbelieving. ‘No.’ She was felled, in shock. She curled and muttered into her knees, ‘Mother of mercy ...’ She raised her face and stared at the man, who now moved. He stood, safe beyond reach, behind bars, looking down at her as she continued to question him, ‘Where is he? François? Really. Tell me the truth.’
‘Because of you, harlot, my brother is dead.’
This time she allowed his words to sink in and closed her eyes. ‘And mine.’
‘No brother of yours, Madame.’
Anne clambered to her feet and stared the enemy in the face. To her eyes, his black beard and hard features hardened even further.
She found strength in her truth. ‘François was my saviour.’
He snorted. ‘See how you repay your saviour. Since he said magic words over you and your high and mighty Comte. Those marriage vows broke his heart. I suppose now, from the sight of you here, those vows snapped as easily as the vows you made to Jesus Christ himself. Count yourself lucky I’m locked behind bars for you’d not last long if I could stand before you on equal footing. On that account you may be sure.’
‘Monsieur, tell me it’s not true!’
‘He died of a broken neck and not a broken heart, although that’s one and the same to me.’
‘No,’ She whispered and stared.
‘He hanged himself from the bars of this window, this window there, there, look at it, here, you viper, the day he released me from my sentence. Oh, well you may weep … Madame? I suppose you are still married.’
‘My husband is dead.’
He laughed. ‘Probably killed him too.’
‘You’re unjust, Monsieur.’
‘I’m judge and jury here and I see, plain as day, you killed my brother. You’re guilty.’
Anne knew she should flee but this man of weapon and murder was related to François. A flood of emotion and words, now the gates were open, she couldn’t stop herself, she couldn’t stop her rising tide of justifications, ‘Monsieur! I’m just a poor girl, rescued by your brother. He asked nothing of me that I could not freely give, and we found a safe place. We were happy, for a time.’
‘You are guilty!’
‘I cared for him. I cleaned and cooked. It’s true, Monsieur.’
He shouted, ‘Guilty!’