Silence of Stone by Annamarie Beckel

does not see the sacrificed son raise his head and wink. He does not see the pointed pink tongue lapping blood from the nailed feet.
    Thevet rises and enters our small chamber. I take my place on the bench opposite the desk. He lights a candle from the banked coals in the hearth, then lights three more. The amber stink of tallow fills the room.
    He settles in his chair, smoothes his cassock, and considers his notes. Today he is righteous and does not caress his crotch. “Where were we? Ah, yes.” His smile is oily. “We’d arrived at the point in the story where you’d taken a lover and then engaged in wanton and shameless passions…carnal abominations.”
    â€œThey were married,
Père
.”
    â€œRoberval never granted permission. He told me that himself.” Thevet draws himself up, proud of his friendship with the Viceroy of New France. “And under French law,” he continues, as if lecturing a schoolgirl, “a marriage contracted without your guardian’s consent is invalid. So
non
, Marguerite, youwere not married. You engaged in an illegitimate union.”
    He gives a small incredulous laugh. “How could you imagine you were free to choose?” He dips a brown quill into ink. “When did Roberval choose to punish you?”
    â€œIt was mid-summer when he put them ashore.”
    A day of clear blue skies and brisk winds. Just seven days after the ships left St. John’s, Roberval ordered the pilot to guide the
Vallentyne
into a deep harbour within a cluster of islands. Men muttered to each other, puzzled, knowing they had not yet arrived at Charlesbourg Royal.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    Shrill voices:
Roberval. Le comportement indécent. Roberval. La putain. Le scandale terrible.
    I put my hands over my ears. I cannot answer. And I cannot forget.
    Roberval ordered everyone to gather. Step forward, Marguerite de la Roque de Roberval, he said. It is the appointed time for you to be duly punished for the terrible scandal you have brought upon the honourable name of Roberval.
    Coldness in the alabaster face, ice in the blue eyes.
    Marguerite looked around desperately for Michel, spotted him standing off to the side, his face as grey as the rope to which he clung.
    Did you imagine that we did not see your lascivious behaviour? said Roberval. Your brazen and impudent indecency?
    A few of the murderers and thieves sniggered.
    Stepping slowly toward her uncle, Marguerite feared she was about to be flogged, laid bare before the prisoners, the leather biting into her back.
    Le sang rouge. La pénitence, l’humiliation.
    I rock back and forth on the bench.
    â€œPut your hands down and tell me what happened.”
    I wrap my arms around my waist and continue to rock.
    Whore, Roberval pronounced, you shall be put ashore on the Isle of Demons – to be tormented by lost and wicked souls like your own. And because Damienne has acted to protect your indecency, she shall be put ashore with you. I shall not stain my own hands with your blood. I now put your fates in the hands of God.
    Hands of God. O Lord, rebuke me not…nor chastise me in thy wrath. Hands of God. Save me for thy mercy’s sake. La putain. Whore. Les mains de Dieu.
    â€œRoberval left some biscuit, three arquebuses…”
    Marguerite watched in disbelief as a small boat was loaded with supplies and her few possessions: her trunk, her New Testament, her cloak.
    The assembled noblemen did not move or say a word. They stood, shoulders slumped forward, soft clean hands crossed in front of their codpieces. Their downcast eyes slid away from hers. Only Jean Alphonse de Saintogne had the courage to approach Roberval. This time the pilot would not be discouraged by the viceroy’s malevolent gaze.
    Face flushed with alarm, hands outstretched and pointing, the pilot shook his head. The buzzing in her ears was so loud that Marguerite could not hear his words, saw only his mouth