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—Again, La Rousse! a woman shouted.
I can’t do it again, Isabelle thought, but the sight of the red faces made her swing once more. The statue began to rock, the faceless woman rocking the child in her arms. Then it pitched forward and fell, the Virgin’s head hitting the ground first and shattering, the body thumping after. In the impact of the fall the Child was split from his mother and lay on the ground gazing upward. Isabelle dropped the rake and covered her face with her hands. There were loud cheers and whistles and the crowd surged forward to surround the broken statue.
When Isabelle took her hands from her face Etienne was standing in front of her. He smiled triumphantly, reached over and squeezed her breasts. Then he joined the crowd and began throwing dung at the blue niche.
I will never see such a colour again, she thought.
Petit Henri and Gérard needed little convincing. Though Isabelle blamed Monsieur Marcel’s persuasiveness, secretly she knew they would have gone anyway, even without his honeyed words.
—God will smile upon you, he had said solemnly. He has chosen you for this war. Fighting for your God, your religion, your freedom. You will return men of courage and strength.
—If you return at all, Henri du Moulin muttered angrily, words only Isabelle heard. He leased two fields of rye and two of potatoes, as well as a fine chestnut grove. He kept pigs and a herd of goats. He needed his sons; he couldn’t farm the land with only his daughter left to help him.
—I will plant fewer fields, he told Isabelle. Only one of rye, and I’ll give up some of the herd and a few pigs. Then I’ll only need one field of potatoes to feed them. I can get more animals again when the twins return.
They won’t come back, she thought. She had seen the light in their eyes as they left with other boys from Mont Lozère. They will go to Toulouse, to Paris, to Geneva to see Calvin. They will go to Spain, where men’s skin is black, or to the ocean on the edge of the world. But here, no, they will not come back here.
She gathered her courage one evening as her father sat sharpening a plough blade by the fire.
—Papa, she ventured. I could marry and we could live here and work with you.
With one word he stopped her.
—Who? he asked, whetting stone paused over the blade. The room was quiet without the rhythmic sound of metal against stone.
She turned her face away.
—We are alone, you and I, ma petite. His tone was gentle. But God is kinder than you think.
Isabelle clasped her neck nervously, still carrying the taste of communion in her mouth – rough, dry bread that remained in the back of her throat long after she had swallowed. Etienne reached up and pulled at her headcloth. He found the end, wound it around his hand and gave a sharp tug. She began to spin, turning and turning out of the cloth, her hair unfurling, seeing flashes of Etienne with a grim smile on his face, then her father’s chestnut trees, the fruit small and green and far out of reach.
When she was free of the cloth she stumbled, regained her balance, hesitated. She faced him but stepped backwards. He reached her in two strides, tripped her and tumbled on top of her. With one hand he pulled up her dress while the other buried itself in her hair, fingers splayed, pulling through like a comb to the ends, wrapping the hair around it as it had wound the cloth a moment earlier, until his fist was resting at the nape of her neck.
—La Rousse, he murmured. You’ve avoided me for a long time. Are you ready?
Isabelle hesitated, then nodded. Etienne pulled her head back by her hair to lift her chin up and bring her mouth to his.
—But the communion of the Pentecost is still in my mouth, she thought, and this is the Sin.
The Tourniers were the only family between Mont Lozère and Florac to own a Bible. Isabelle had seen it at services, when Jean Tournier carried it wrapped in linen and handed it ostentatiously to Monsieur Marcel. He watched it, fretful, throughout the service. It had cost him.
Monsieur Marcel laced his fingers together and held the book in the cradle of his arms, propped against the curve of his paunch. As he read he swayed from side to side as if he were drunk, though Isabelle knew he could not be, since he had forbidden wine. His eyes moved back and forth, and words appeared in his mouth, but it was not clear to her how they got there.
Once the Truth was established inside the old church, Monsieur Marcel had a Bible brought from Lyons, and Isabelle’s father built a wooden stand to hold it. Then the Tourniers’ Bible was no longer seen, though Etienne still bragged about it.
—Where do words come from? Isabelle asked him one day after service, ignoring the eyes on them, the glare from Etienne’s mother, Hannah. How does Monsieur Marcel get them from the Bible?
Etienne was tossing a stone from hand to hand. He flicked it away; it rustled to a stop in the leaves.
—They fly, he replied firmly. He opens his mouth and the black marks from the page fly to his mouth so quickly you can’t see them. Then he spits them out.
—Can you read?
—No, but I can write.
—What do you write?
—I write my name. And I can write your name, he added confidently.
—Show me. Teach me.
Etienne smiled, teeth half-showing. He took a fistful of her skirt and pulled.
—I will teach you, but you must pay, he said softly, his eyes narrowed till the blue barely showed.
It was the Sin again: chestnut leaves crackling in her ears, fear and pain, but also the fierce excitement of feeling the ground under her, the weight of his body on her.
—Yes, she said finally, looking away. But show me first.
He had to gather the materials secretly: the feather from a kestrel, its point cut and sharpened; the fragment of parchment stolen from a corner of one of the pages of the Bible; a dried mushroom that dissolved into black when mixed with water on a piece of slate. Then he led her up the mountain, away from their farms, to a granite boulder with a flat surface that reached her waist. They leaned against it.
Miraculously, he drew six marks to form ET.
Isabelle stared at it.
—I want to write my name, she said. Etienne handed her the feather and stood behind her, his body pressed against the length of her back. She could feel the hard growth at the base of his stomach and a flicker of fearful desire raced through her. He placed his hand over hers and guided it first to the ink, then to the parchment, pushing it to form the six marks. ET, she wrote. She compared the two.
—But they are the same, she said, puzzled. How can that be your name and my name both?
—You wrote it, so it is your name. You don’t know that? Whoever writes it, it is theirs.
—But—She stopped, and kept her mouth open, waiting for the marks to fly to her mouth. But when she spoke, it was his name that came out, not hers.
—Now you must pay, Etienne said, smiling. He pushed her over the boulder, stood behind her, and pulled her skirt up and his breeches down. He parted her legs with his knees and with his hand held her apart so that he could enter suddenly, with a quick thrust. Isabelle clung to the boulder as Etienne moved against her. Then with a shout he pushed her shoulders away, bending her forward so that her face and chest pressed hard against the rock.
After he withdrew she stood up shakily. The parchment had been pressed into her cheek and fluttered to the ground. Etienne looked at her face and grinned.
—You’ve written your name on your face, he said.
She had never been inside the Tourniers’ farm, though it was not far from her father’s, down along the river. It was the largest farm in the area apart from that of the Duc, who lived further down the valley, half a day’s walk towards Florac. It was said to have been built 100 years before, with additions over time: a pigsty, a threshing floor, a tiled roof to replace the thatch. Jean and his cousin Hannah had married late, had only three children, were careful, powerful, remote. Evening visits to their hearth were rare.
Despite their influence, Isabelle’s father had never been quiet about his scorn.
—They marry their cousins, Henri du Moulin scoffed. They give money to the church but they wouldn’t give a mouldy chestnut to a beggar. And they kiss three times, as if two were not enough.
The farm was spread along a slope in an L shape, the entrance in the crux, facing south. Etienne led her inside. His parents and two hired workers were planting in the fields; his sister, Susanne, was working at the bottom of the kitchen garden.
Inside it was quiet and still. All Isabelle could hear were the muted grunts of pigs. She admired the sty, the barn twice the size of her father’s. She stood in the common room, touching the long wooden table lightly with her fingertips as if to steady herself. The room was tidy, newly swept, pots hung at even intervals from hooks on the walls. The hearth took up a whole end of the room, so big all of her family and the Tourniers could stand in it together – all of her family before she began to lose them. Her sister, dead. Her mother, dead. Her brothers, soldiers. Just she and her father now.
—La Rousse.
She turned round, saw Etienne’s eyes, the swagger in his stride, and backed up until granite touched her back. He matched her step and put his hands on her hips.
—Not here, she said. Not in your parents’ house, on the hearth. If your mother—
Etienne dropped his hands. The mention of his mother was enough to tame him.
—Have you asked them?
He was silent. His broad shoulders sagged and he stared off into a corner.
—You have not asked them.
—I’ll be twenty-five soon and I can do what I want then. I won’t need their permission then.
Of course they don’t want us to marry, Isabelle thought. My family is poor, we have nothing, but they are rich, they have a Bible, a horse, they can write. They marry their cousins, they are friends with Monsieur Marcel. Jean Tournier is the Duc de l’Aigle’s syndic, collecting tax from us. They would never accept as their daughter a girl they call La Rousse.
—We could live with my father, she suggested. It has been hard for him without my brothers. He needs—
—Never.
—So we must live here.
—Yes.
—Without their consent.
Etienne shifted his weight from one leg to the other, leaned against the edge of the table, crossed his arms. He looked at her directly.
—If they don’t like you, he said softly, it’s your own fault, La Rousse.
Isabelle’s arms stiffened, her hands curled into fists.
—I have done nothing wrong! she cried. I believe in the Truth.
He smiled.
—But you love the Virgin, yes?
She bowed her head, fists still clenched.
—And your mother was a witch.
—What did you say? she whispered.
—That wolf that bit your mother, he was sent by the devil to bring her to him. And all those babies dying.
She glared at him.
—You think my mother made her own daughter die? Her own granddaughter die?
—When you are my wife, he said, you will not be a midwife. He took her hand and pulled her towards the barn, away from his parents’ hearth.
—Why do you want me? she asked in a low voice he could not hear. She answered herself: Because I am the one his mother hates most.
The kestrel hovered directly overhead, fluttering against the wind. Grey: male. Isabelle narrowed her eyes. No. Reddish-brown, the colour of her hair: female.
Alone she had learned to remain on the surface of the water, lying on her back, arms stroking out from her sides, breasts flattened, hair floating in the river like leaves around her face. She looked up again. The kestrel was diving to her right. The brief moment of impact was hidden by a clump of broom. When the bird reappeared it was carrying a tiny creature, a mouse or a sparrow. It flew up fast then and out of sight.
She sat up abruptly, crouching on the long smooth rock of the river bed, her breasts regaining their roundness. The sounds arose out of nothing, a tinkle here and there, then suddenly joined together into a chorus of hundreds of bells. The estiver – Isabelle’s father had predicted they would arrive in two days’ time. Their dogs must be good this summer. If she didn’t hurry she would be surrounded by hundreds of sheep. She stood up quickly and picked her way to the bank, where she brushed the water from her skin with the flat of her hand and wrung the river from her hair. Her shameful hair. She pulled on her dress and smock and wound her hair out of sight in a long piece of white linen.
She was tucking in the end of the linen when she froze, feeling eyes on her. She searched as much of the surrounding land as she could without moving her head but could see nothing. The bells were still far away. With her fingers she felt for loose strands of hair and pushed them under the cloth, then dropped her arms, pulled her dress up away from her feet, and began to run down the path next to the river. Soon she turned off it and crossed a field of scrubby broom and heather.
She reached the crest of a hill and looked down. Far below a field rippled with sheep making their way up the mountain. Two men, one in front, one at the back, and a dog on each side were keeping the flock together. Occasionally a few strays darted to one side, to be herded quickly back into the fold. They would have been walking for five days now, all the way from Alès, but at this final summit they showed no signs of flagging. They would have the whole summer to recover.
Over the bells she could hear the whistles and shouts of the men, the sharp barks of the dogs. The man in front looked up, straight at her it seemed, and whistled shrilly. Immediately a young man appeared from behind a boulder a stone’s throw to her right. Isabelle clutched her neck. He was small and wiry, sweaty and very dark from the sun. He carried a walking stick and the leather sack of a shepherd and wore a close-fitting round cap, black curls framing the brim. When she felt his dark eyes on her she knew he had seen her in the river. He smiled at her, friendly, knowing, and for a moment Isabelle felt the touch of the river on her body. She looked down, pressed her elbows to her breasts, could not smile back.
With a leap the man started down the hill. Isabelle watched his progress until he reached the flock. Then she fled.
—There is a child here. Isabelle placed a hand on her belly and stared defiantly at Etienne.
In an instant his pale eyes darkened like the shadow of a cloud crossing a field. He looked at her hard, calculating.
—I will tell my father, then we must tell your parents. She swallowed. What will they say?
—They’ll let us marry now. It would look worse if they said no when there is a child.
—They’ll think I did it deliberately.
—Did you? His eyes met hers. They were cold now.
—It was you who wanted the Sin, Etienne.
—Ah, but you wanted it too, La Rousse.
—I wish Maman were here, she said softly. I wish Marie were here.
Her father acted as if he had not heard her. He sat on the bench by the door and scraped at a branch with his knife; he was making a new pole for the hoe he had broken earlier that day. Isabelle stood motionless in front of him. She had said it so quietly that she began to think she would have to repeat herself. She opened her mouth to speak when he said:— You have all left me.
—I’m sorry, Papa. He says he won’t live here.
—I wouldn’t have a Tournier in my house. This farm won’t go to you when I die. You’ll get your dowry, but I will leave the farm to my nephews over at l’Hôpital. A Tournier will never get my land.
—The twins will return from the wars, she suggested, fighting tears.
—No. They will die. They’re not soldiers, but farmers. You know that. Two years and no word from them. Plenty have passed through from the north and no news.
Isabelle left her father sitting on the bench and walked across their fields, along the river, down to the Tournier farm. It was late, more dark than light, long shadows cast along the hills and the terraced fields full of half-grown rye. A flock of starlings sang in the trees. The route between the two farms seemed long now, at the end of it Etienne’s mother. Isabelle began walking more slowly.
