Silence of Stone by Annamarie Beckel Page A

moving:
non
,
non
,
non
.
    When Saintogne’s arguments could not dissuade Roberval, Michel stepped forward.
    â€œâ€¦a few tools, torn sails…”
    â€œHow did it transpire that your lover was put ashore with you?”
    â€œâ€¦her trunk, an axe…”
    â€œMarguerite, look at me.” The loudness of Thevet’s voice startles. “Roberval intended to punish only you. Why was the young man left with you?”
    I rub the wound on my wrist, press a thumb down upon it, comforted to feel a familiar pain. “Husband. He was her husband.” I gather myself in. “He was an honourable man. When he insisted that he be put ashore with Marguerite and Damienne, Roberval relented.”
    I stare into the candle’s flame and see jade eyes flecked with gold, haunted and grim. Weeks later, when Marguerite would rather have believed in Michel’s courage and honour, he confessed to her that he had feared the viceroy would abandon him on a different island or order him to be drowned or hanged.
    â€œHis name. What was his name?”
    â€œHe brought his own arquebus, his fusil and citre.”
    â€œA citre? Your young man was a musician?”
    â€œ
Oui
.” But there was only silence and Damienne’swhimpering sobs in the boat that took them ashore. No music, just the quiet dipping of oars in dark water, the creaking of wood against wood, the oarsman’s grunts, the scrape of the boat against rock when they landed. The oarsman hastily unloaded their meagre provisions, his eyes flinching away from theirs to scan the rocky shore and barren hills, as if he expected to see the Devil himself.
    The three said nothing as they watched the boat return to the
Vallentyne
, nothing as they watched the sails of the ship disappear.
    Still disbelieving, Marguerite poked among the provisions piled upon the rocks: torn sails, hemp rope, an axe, mallet, and bucket of nails, three arquebuses, powder, and shot, fishing line and hooks, an iron pot, two baskets of hard bread and a small cask of salt beef. Slowly the realization came to her that her uncle had been planning this punishment for days, perhaps weeks. In cold and calculating measures he had drawn up his list and made ready his retribution for her disobedience. How could she have imagined his heart was softening? The screeching gulls mocked her.
    Le comportement indécent. Le scandale. Abandoned. Punished.
    The twelfth day of July in 1542: the day that Roberval abandoned Marguerite, Michel, and Damienne on the Isle of Demons.
    The twelfth day of July in 1542: the day that King François I declared war on the Holy Roman Empire – and lost all interest in Roberval’s adventuresin New France.
    I hear ravens murmuring:
km-mm-mm.
    â€œHis name, Marguerite. What was his name?”
    Terrified, Marguerite tried to draw comfort from Michel. Roberval would not truly abandon you, his beloved cousin, he reasoned. A few days to show you his outrage, a week at most. He smiled then. The viceroy has called this place the Isle of Demons only to frighten us, he said, trying to laugh. In just a few days Roberval will send a ship. You will see.
    Marguerite did not contradict him, but she did her own calculations: two baskets of hard bread, a cask of salt beef, fishing line and hooks, three muskets, powder, and shot. Roberval did not intend to return for them soon.
    â€œHis name, Marguerite. What was his name?”
    â€œ
Le jeune homme bête.
”
    â€œStupid young man,” Thevet repeats pointedly. “Very well then. You force me to inform King François of your disobedience.” The monk heaves an angry frustrated sigh, reaches for a knife, and begins to sharpen quills. He believes he is giving me time to reflect upon my recalcitrance.
    I float above and consider the balding circle at the crown of his head. I see the short list he has made on his paper:
mid-summer, Isle of Demons, Damienne, arquebus, hard bread, citre
. I