Shadowbrook Part 24

"Without doubt. Somewhere near the governor's mansion, in the court part of the town. Where Bede Devrey and John Hale are as like to see us as to p.i.s.s. Don't make yourself sound a fool, man. I am never comfortable doing business with fools," John Lydius said.

G.o.d's truth, neither was Hamish Stewart It was just the whole poxed day that had put him out of sorts and made him likely to complain about anything, whatever the excuse. Hamish twisted on the upturned crate that served as his seat. The proprietor stood a little distance away, busying himself with drawing an ale for a bald-headed dwarf who waited near the door, huddled in a threadbare cloak, stamping his feet and blowing on his hands for a bit o' warmth. The poor misshapen sod's chin barely reached the level o' the bar, and his bandy legs looked as if they might be going to break if the stomping dinna stop. "Landlord, if you'd bring a few more coals for this fire, your guests would na all be perishing wi' cold. Give this fine establishment a bad name, frozen corpses will."

The man finished filling the tankard and pushed it down the bar toward the dwarf, then disappeared out the back and returned cradling two large logs in his arms. It unnerved him that a pair of one-eyed strangers had shown up at the same moment on a night not fit for man or beast. Bound to be the devil's doing, that was. He had all he could do not to throw the wood on the fire and run for the woods. But a man had to take his opportunities where he found them. "I'll put one of these on the fire, if ye likes. Take yer pick. Cost yez a penny extra."

John Lydius reached into his pocket and came out with a couple of wooden coins. "Here's tuppence. Put 'em both on."

The logs were moldy with damp and seamed with pitch. They just smoldered and sparked, but the sight of them on the grate made it feel warmer. "Why did Hale chase you?" Lydius asked.

"Said he wanted to be sure I dinna need anything, seeing as how I was an Albany neighbor."

"And you believed him?"

"Of course I dinna believe him. What do you take me for?"

Lydius leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. He studied the Scot with the eye not covered by the black patch. Stewart's missing eye was a rough ugly scar on one side of his face and he made no attempt to hide it. Lydius calculated the chances of Hamish Stewart getting Shadowbrook to be forty out of a hundred. Not the best odds, but not the worst either. And now that Ephraim was dead and that horse's a.r.s.e John Hale was master of the Patent, it might be the odds had improved. "That leaves me with the same question I asked originally. What do you think Hale wanted?"

Hamish had been asking himself that for most of the day. "G.o.d's truth. I do na know. Only to get a better look at me, I think. Take my measure. Because seeing me down here in this poxed city struck him as na the ordinary way o' things."

Lydius nodded. "Whereas in Albany he pays you no mind. You're the Scot who rents the room above the gristmill from the Widow Krieger. Nothing worthy of note."

"Aye, that's the way it seems to me."

"Then tell me, in G.o.d's name, why you had to come down here?" Lydius slammed his empty mug on the rickety table between them. "Why expose-"

"Hold you tongue if you want to keep the use o' it." Hamish had not moved, but the menace in his voice was unmistakable.

Lydius sighed. Too late now to moan about this ill-advised visit And John Hale, who up to now had shown not the slightest interest in Hamish Stewart, was alerted to the fact that the Highlander was skulking about on the periphery of his affairs. But was the Scot aware that John Hale was attempting to mortgage the Patent to buy cane land in the Islands, in that h.e.l.lhole St. Kitts, G.o.d help them all.

And if you don't know Hale's plans, how do I use whatever advantage it might give me? How do I play you and John Hale off one against the other and come out owning the Patent myself?

Sweet Christ, it's a wild idea. Makes me feel I've drunk three bottles of sack The same singing in my head and roaring in my belly. Genevieve would say, Your reach exceeds your grasp, John Lydius, and that will be the ruin of you. But the Hale Patent ... sweet Christ Almighty. Ah, perhaps it's too much to hope for. Even with Quentin out of the picture. Didn't even come to the Frolic Ground to drink his father's health after the funeral.

Might be this was the time to bow out of the business, say a pox on both your houses and leave Hamish Stewart and John Hale to their fate. Could be the odds had shifted more in John's favor. But to own the Hale Patent ... Do you hear the way my heart thumps at the thought, you Jacobite idol worshiper? No, not likely. You're too blinded by your own land l.u.s.t to have a clue about mine. But if I make you an enemy ... What forces do you command, you papist wh.o.r.eson? Very well, say Genevieve has the right of it this time and I'm in waters too deep for swimming, say it's not possible to get the land, what about continuing to have you as an ally and business partner? At the very least it means a safe and steady way to ship guns to New France. Albany to Quebec hidden in shipments of grain, and from there to the Ottawa and Mascoutin and Ojibwe and Potawatomi of the pays en haut. Christ Jesus, even a minor victory in this business, a small win, provides the opportunity of a lifetime.

Lydius watched Hamish swig the last of the rum and waited to speak until the Scot put down the mug. "You say Hale bought three slaves?"

"Aye, an Ibo la.s.s canna be more than nine, with a hairless c.u.n.t and b.r.e.a.s.t.s like little black walnuts-"

"Not difficult to figure what he wants her for."

"-and two seasoned Ashanti lads. Paid four hundred guineas for the lot. In coins, mind." Hamish leaned over and spat into the fire. "Fit to vomit, it made me.

"Yes, seeing as he'd been all but burned out before this year's harvest. Odd, don't you think, that he could pay so much. Considering."

Aye, G.o.d's truth, it's odd. And would you na like to know if I had any knowledge o' that, any share in the bringing o' those Indians all Albany now knows were Huron from Quebec. But you'll rot in h.e.l.l before I'd trust you that far, John Lydius. You're no better than the womb that bore you, a heretic bound for h.e.l.lfire, but G.o.d's truth, you're useful just now. "The rain saved them the worst o' the blaze. And who's to say what Hale had put by from better times?"

"Who indeed?"

Wall Street was deserted at this hour of the night John Hale stood a few strides from the front door of the fine house that belonged to his uncle Bede, just beyond the broad iron gates with the pineapple finials, unable to make up his mind. One of the servants had doubtless been instructed to wait up for him. He could ask for a gla.s.s of hot punch, or some rum with honey. Might be that would calm the churning of his belly and the thumping of his heart. Or if he chose he could find a tavern or an inn where the fires were not yet banked, the candles burned bright, and men pa.s.sed the punch bowl and sang. He'd not yet heard the watchman calling the hour; it wasn't yet ten o'clock, for the love of Christ. No need to declare the night done unless he wanted to. Deciding what he wanted, that was the difficult thing.

No, by Christ, it wasn't. He wanted to kill James Alexander and Oliver De Lancey. And the Jew, of course. Sweet G.o.d in heaven, nothing would make him feel better than ripping Hayman Levy's guts out with his bare hands. Though the meeting not long ended had taken place in Alexander's office, on the ground floor of his elegant house in Hanover Square, it was Levy who'd done most of the talking. "Times have changed, John. Your father is gone, and those savages ... We must be cautious, you understand."

He did indeed understand. And so did they. It was all nonsense, a stall. If his father were not gone John wouldn't have been in a position to offer the Patent as collateral and secure the loan. That's what all four of them had been waiting for these past two years, since he'd first come to them with the scheme. "Nothing is different than it was," he'd told them, his throat dry with insisting, sickened by the whine he could hear in his own voice. "The St. Kitts land is still available, and with it I can make us all rich beyond dreams."

"Of course, John. Of course. But we're men of business." Levy indicated by a nod of his head that he was speaking for all of them, while the others wagged their greasy chins in agreement. "Men of business, but honorable. We made you a promise and we'll keep it. As long as you see our need for something a bit more substantial."

As if the Hale Patent were not the most substantial thing on this earth. It was worth ten times the five thousand guineas he needed to secure his claim in the Islands, his share of the cane. Probably more. "Bright Fish Water was part of the original grant. It was given to my grandfather by Queen Anne. It has always belonged to the Patent."

"A good thing, too. How else could you make it over?"

Sweet Christ, the way Levy smirked when he said that. It had taken all John's control not to smash the little weasel's face. But it was Oliver De Lancey who put the matter beyond discussion. "My brother tells me there is much interest in the buying and selling of land in St. Kitts these days. I don't think you've much time to sit here and argue terms with us, Mr. Hale."

Sodding Oliver De Lancey's sodding brother was James De Lancey, Governor of the Province of New York So what Oliver was saying was that if John Hale didn't choose to take the terms being offered by himself and Alexander and Levy, Hale's scheme was finished; not another merchant in New York City would dare to finance his plans. So he'd gritted his teeth and signed their G.o.d-rotting agreement, made over the top tenth of the Patent outright. Bright Fish Water and everything above the northern edge of Do Good were no longer part of Shadowbrook The rest, every sc.r.a.p of Hale land and Hale holdings, was pledged as collateral against the five thousand guineas needed to secure the plantation in St. Kitts. "Done, gentlemen." He'd managed not to let his hand tremble when he signed his name. And he'd waited for the cash.

G.o.d help him, it did not materialize in hard coin as he expected. "Excellent," Levy had said. "We will open the negotiation in the Islands, Mr. Hale. When everything is in place we will inform you." And he'd handed over a piece of paper, a copy of the note all four had signed, spelling out the terms of their arrangement.

G.o.d rot his perfidious soul. It had been all John could do to keep from s.n.a.t.c.hing back the papers and ripping them to shreds. There had been a time, moments only, a few heartbeats, when that might have been possible. Then James Alexander, who was a lawyer as well as a man of business, had whisked them away. G.o.d curse all lawyers, particularly the canny Scots. Never do business with a Scot, his father had told him. Get the better of you every time.

And what about this other Scot, then? This Jacobite idol worshiper? Why did John have the feeling that Hamish Stewart had far more interest in the affairs of the Hale Patent than he should have. How long now since Stewart had shown up in Albany? A year or so. It was twenty-five years, since he had come to the Patent seeking to buy land and bring over a parcel of his Scottish Highland clansmen to settle on it. Ephraim had enjoyed playing with the notion, but in the end he refused to sell even a single blade of gra.s.s for the price the Scot could pay. Was his father spinning round in his grave now? Did he know John had just made over Bright Fish Water, and the Great Carrying Place, and the birch woods where the fattest pheasant were always to be found in the autumn, and the northernmost hills where the last of the fiddleheads and sparrowgra.s.s appeared in the spring?

His mother would die of grief if she knew. And Quent? Quent would probably kill him.

"Ten o'clock on a dark and frosty evening." The watchman's voice rang out from a few streets away and his bell grew louder. Any minute now John would be asked to account for himself.

Sweet Christ, he must find some relief. Something to make the knots in his belly go away and calm the dread in his soul. A wh.o.r.e, perhaps. Plenty of wh.o.r.es to be had in New York City. But truth to tell, he could ill afford the two shillings a good one-young and pretty, with a face not marked by the pox and privates not stinking with the French Disease-was bound to cost.

The watchman's bell again. Closer. John thought a moment longer, then turned away from the Devrey gates and walked east on Wall Street, toward the slave market at the river's edge.

There was a black man asleep in a shed near the long row of holding cages that ringed the area adjacent to the wharves known as Burnett's Key. Most of the cages were empty now, the slaves they'd housed all bought and paid for and taken away by their new owners. John nudged the sleeping man with his toe. "You there, wake up. I've business with you."

Robby, the auctioneer's a.s.sistant, opened his eyes, and sprang to his feet. "What business might that be, master? Sales all be ended for the time. Don't be no new sale until the Susannah docks, master. Going to be at least a week 'fore she's here."

"I bought those three slaves this morning." John jerked his head in the direction of the cages. "You're boarding them for me until I'm ready to return to Albany."

Robby blinked the sleep from his eyes and nodded furiously. "Oh yes, master. I remember. I surely do. They be waitin' on you, jus' like you arranged."

"Fine. I want you to bring the girl here to me. For a time."

"The Ibo, master? Where you want me to bring her?"

"Yes, the Ibo. To the shed." Built of raw planks, the structure was bare of any comfort except a cot with a corncob mattress and a primitive fire pit with a chimney hole above it, but it would do. The way he was feeling now, anything would do.

"Yes, master. Robby gonna do that right away."

"Fine. But first throw a bit more fuel on that fire. Then bring me the girl and wait outside until I call you."

Robby walked over to the fire and picked up a shovelful of the Newcastle coal that traveled as ballast in the holds of the merchantmen that plied the seas between New York and England, and tipped it onto the smoldering embers in the pit. There was a low c.h.i.n.king sound, then a puff of dirty black smoke, followed by the hiss of the coals giving up the last of their moisture. "You wait right here, master. I be bringing her, like you say."

Her name was Taba and she spoke no English. "Not a word, eh?" John asked. "That's the truth?" Taba stared at him, no sign of understanding even in the depths of her eyes. "Very well. I wasn't planning on talking much to you, anyway. Take that thing off." He mimed the motions of pulling her shift over her head. "Off."

She didn't move.

The guard's bullwhip was coiled in the corner. John picked it up. Good heft and excellent length. He fancied himself a skilled hand with a bullwhip. There wasn't a lot of headroom in the shed, but the leather lash uncoiled and released with a satisfying snap. He hadn't meant to touch her with it, only to indicate that he meant business, but his control wasn't perfect and the lash grazed her left forearm. The whip was tipped in lead and it laid open a cut that welled blood. The girl didn't make a sound. "Off," John said. "Or I'll cut the d.a.m.n thing off you with this."

Taba pulled the shift over her head and dropped it on the dirt floor.

John nudged her with the handle of the bullwhip, turning her so she was full front to the glow of the fire. "Let's see what I bought, shall we? Spread your legs." He forced the whip between her thighs, prying them apart so she had to do what he wanted or fall on her face. "It appears I got you before the cutters did." He'd had a few African-born blacks over the years; their c.u.n.ts were usually mutilated in ways he found disgusting. "Excellent," he said. "Full value for money. At least so far."

He could feel himself swelling, and some of the knot in his belly relaxing. He put down the whip, removed his jacket and loosed the b.u.t.tons of his breeches, then took a step doser to the girl. She stared straight ahead, her eyes dead and face expressionless. John smiled. We'll see how long that lasts, little girl. He put both hands on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. "We'll teach you a few simple tricks first, shall we? Something easy." He made broad signs to indicate the meaning of his words. "And I warn you, bite me even once and you'll wish you hadn't."

Robby sat on the cold ground staring at the East River lapping at the wharves, and at the masts of vessels anch.o.r.ed a bit offsh.o.r.e, listening to the sounds from the shed. A fair amount of time went by during which he heard only the grunts and groans of the white master, and something he couldn't quite place until he recognized it as the sound of retching. He grinned when he thought about what it likely was the little Ibo was choking on, but it was a long time after that before he heard Taba's first moan of pain. Then a few little screams, followed by one long one. Not so bad, he told himself. Wimmins always screams the first time. Only thing is, why she be goin' on screamin' that way? Going to wake the tars as is drowned in this here river since the beginning of time, she is, the way she's screaming. Ain't no f.u.c.k, first or fifteenth, is worth screams like that. Never mind. Ain't Robby's job to worry about a little Ibo is maybe getting more than she should the first time. Robby's job is to keep the slaves in line while they's in the pens and on the block. Long as Robby do that, the bullwhip stay in his hand not on his back. But those is some screams. Some screams.

There was no resistance when he finally threw her down on the corncob mattress and shoved himself inside her, and not a drop of blood in evidence a few moments later when he pulled out. "Little b.i.t.c.h," he muttered. "You weren't a virgin after all."

He'd make her scream, by G.o.d. And bleed, too. He picked up the coal shovel and rammed the handle into her v.a.g.i.n.a. Three times, four, all his strength behind each thrust. When he staggered back, gasping for breath and breathing hard, sweat pouring off him, he saw a narrow rivulet of blood making its way down her thin little thigh. "What do you think of that, then? Better then a c.o.c.k, is it? Want some more?" She was silent, her face wearing that look of total apartness, as if she were not present. "I'll make you scream, you b.i.t.c.h slave."

A pair of iron tongs hung on the wall beside the fire. John grabbed them, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up a red-hot coal. For the first time Taba's eyes betrayed her feelings. Not just fear but terror. She gasped and tried to roll off the cot, but he hurled himself on top of her pinning her in place with his knee. Then he pressed the live coal to her budding left breast and held it in place until the stench of roasting flesh filled his nostrils and Taba's screams filled the night.

Chapter Fifteen.

MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1755.

QUeBEC LOWER TOWN.

THE ICY COLD rain pelted down mixed with snow, and to Philippe Faucon it tasted of salt. New France. G.o.d grant he might see the real France again someday before he died. In Versailles in April the gardens were greening and spring flowers bloomed. The air of April was like a caress in Versailles, and the rain was sweet and full of summer promise.

He huddled deeper into the heavy black cloak. It had been given him by Monsieur le Provincial especially for this journey, but it had been made for a shorter man; the folds ended well above his knees and the lower half of his soutane was sodden. Philippe turned and glanced upward, shading his eyes with his hand to protect them from the slanted sheets of rain. The Upper Town was shrouded in cloud. He could not make out the steeples of the College des Jesuites, or the cathedral or seminary. Even the chateau of the bishop-much below the fortresses atop the hill-was obscured. The whole of Quebec appeared to have disappeared and left nothing but these impoverished shacks clinging to the bank of the half-frozen St. Lawrence.

The river lapped noisily at the place the priest stood, a small wharf at the northern end of the harbor, upriver from the places where larger boats moored. The ice floes of winter were beginning to break up, enough so there was a pa.s.sage over to Pointe-Levis on the opposite bank, but the water was turbulent and angry and rough with whitecaps. The falling rain stabbed the surface like a hail of arrows. An hour he'd been standing here in the wet and cold and still no sign of the small craft Monsieur le Provincial had told him to expect. Blessed Mother of G.o.d, he was chilled to the bone.

The deerskin envelope with his sketchbooks crayons, and pens was clutched close to his heart beneath the cloak. A black leather satchel containing his clothes and his breviary, and a chalice and paten so that he might offer Holy Ma.s.s, was on the ground at his feet. A last look at the empty river, then Philippe hoisted the satchel and turned toward the town; there must be somewhere to wait out of the rain. The boatman knew he was collecting a Jesuit. He would come looking rather than incur the wrath of the powerful black robes.

A single cobbled street lined with fishermen's cottages fronted on the river, but no fishwife opened her door to beckon the priest inside. The habitants of the Lower Town were caught between the temperamental St. Lawrence from which they must wrest a living and the demands of the priests up on the hill who claimed dominion over their souls. They might not love the diocesan priests, but they thought of the black robes as arrogant oppressors.

Philippe turned into a narrow alley at the end of the road. He looked for an innkeeper's sign, hoping for a pet.i.te biere. He had not developed a real taste for the local brew, a powerful concoction of spruce, mola.s.ses, ginger, and Jamaica pepper, but it would warm him on a day like this. One door was marked with a rough cross that appeared to have been hacked into the raw wood with an axe. Mere de Dieu! Of course, the monastery of the Poor Clares. Philippe pushed and the door opened.

The public chapel was long and narrow, lit only by two small windows close to the ceiling, and largely empty except for a few battered prie-dieu scattered randomly about. It was only slightly warmer than the street outside, but at least he was out of the rain. Philippe blessed himself in thanksgiving and genuflected in the direction of the tabernacle. There was a strong smell of incense and burning candles. He heard the murmur of voices "Mystical Rose, ora pro n.o.bis. Mother of Divine Providence, ora pro n.o.bis, Mother of Mercy, ora pro n.o.bis." Philippe dropped to his knees on a prie-dieu and murmured the responses along with the unseen nuns. "Mother of all graces, ora pro n.o.bis, Mother of Divine Hope, ora pro n.o.bis. Mother of the Seraphic Order, ora pro n.o.bis."

There were faint rustling sounds from behind the grille and the nuns began to chant. It sounded like the chirping of birds rather than a melodious monastic choir. "Quinque prudentes virgines aptate lampades vestras ..." The five wise virgins took their lamps and went to meet the Bridegroom.

Up on the hill it was said that the Poor Clares had a postulant, so they were six wise virgins these days. Or maybe not so wise. The damp was seeping into his bones. It was hard to imagine living walled into this hovel, forever separated from a big roaring fire, or a roast of beef turning on a spit, or even a gla.s.s of decent Burgundy. "Veni sponsa Christi ..." Come, bride of Christ, accept the crown that has been prepared for you.

Today Nicole took the habit. She had imagined that as a bride she would wear flowers in her hair. Quent will wait in the Frolic Ground and I will come down the stairs of the big house, wearing a gown of lawn and lace sashed with ribbons, and there will be flowers in my hair. There were few flowers in bloom in Quebec in April. Soeur Marie Francoise, the keeper of the tiny garden behind the monastery walls. She had scoured the small square of earth and managed to find only three snowdrops and a few greening twigs. These she had woven together with some twine for Nicole's hair.

"What do you ask?" Pere Antoine asked.

"Mon Pere, I beg you for the love of G.o.d to admit me to the Second Seraphic Order, that I may do penance, amend my life, and serve G.o.d feithfully unto death."

Nicole wore the simple gray Poor Clare robe with the wide sleeves and the knotted white cord at the waist. As a postulant she had been given black felt slippers, now she was barefoot That first day with Quent, when he threw her into the stream to stop her hysterics, she'd told him she wanted to be barefoot. Instead, later, when they were at Shadowbrook, he had given her moccasins of soft white leather, and put them on her feet with his own hands. His fingers had traveled up the calves of her legs and touched her knees and then ... Madame Hale will open the door of the house and I will step onto the great front verandah, then walk past the chestnut tree with the wooden bench circling the trunk Quent will be waiting for me in the Frolic Ground. He will smile and put out his hand. I will take it."

Soeur Marie Joseph stepped from her choir stall and bowed deeply toward the altar and the tabernacle that contained the Sacred Host, then took her position at the cantor's lectern. "O quam pulchra est ... "she sang in her dear and lovely voice. How beautiful it is to choose to be forever virgin, a sacrifice of praise.

Thank G.o.d she did not have to chant with her sisters. Nicole's throat was closed and her mouth was dry. Because I am so happy, she told herself. I am filled with joy because today I give myself entirely to le bon Dieu. From now on she was no longer a postulant whose vocation was being tested, but a novice, a nun in training. In the Frolic Ground everyone will cheer when the wedding ceremony ends. Then my great red bear of a husband-called Uko Nyakwai by the Indians and my dearest darling by me-will kiss his bride. How insistent are the lips of my beloved, how sure when he takes what is rightly his.

Mere Marie Rose left her choir stall. Nicole bent her head. The abbess removed the crown of flowers and little Soeur Marie Angelique brought the scissors. They were long and very sharp, with oversize handles that had once been painted bright blue but were now chipped and faded. Mere Marie Rose took them in her right hand, with her left lifted a hank of Nicole's black hair, and cut it as close to the scalp as possible. Angelique held open a small drawstring bag to receive Nicole's curls. Two days before, when it was certain Nicole would remain in the monastery, the gray Quaker dress she'd worn when she entered had been cut up to be used for cleaning rags. A small piece had been kept aside and given to Nicole to st.i.tch a suaire a cheveux, as the nuns called it, a shroud for her hair. Later, at the festive recreation period that would celebrate her new status, Nicole would throw the suaire a cheveux and its contents onto the fire.

The abbess snipped from forehead to nape of the neck and crosswise from ear to ear. Her scissors missed nothing. Nicole thought she must look like a lamb after shearing. Or perhaps the funny little hairless dog Grandmere always carried around in a bag. Soeur Celeste came forward and offered the abbess two folded squares of white linen. Mere Rose took the one on top and gathered the fabric in her hands and fitted it to the new nun. The wimple covered Nicole's head and neck and most of her forehead, allowing only her face to show. The abbess laced it tightly in the back "Quia concupivit Rex speciem tuam," Soeur Joseph sang. Thy beauty now is all for the King's delight.

Marie Rose's hand trembled slightly when she added the white veil and pinned it in place over the wimple. I am a foolish old woman, she thought, not worthy to be an abbess of the Poor Clares. But you have chosen me, mon Dieu, and you have chosen this child as well. And you have given to me the task of making her a saint so that many souls may be saved. I swear to you I will not fail.

"Vent sponsa Christi," the nuns chanted. Come bride of Christ, accept the crown that has been prepared for you. The abbess put both her hands on the shoulders of the new novice. "From this day forward, you will be known as Soeur Marie Stephane," the abbess said. Nicole had been named for the Church's first martyr, the man who soon after the Crucifixion had been stoned to death for proclaiming Jesus Christ the Messiah, the Promised One, the Son of G.o.d. St. Stephane had a very high place in heaven, the Church taught, because he had suffered so intensely for the glory of the Faith.

Mere Rose helped the new nun to her feet and led her to the door to the public chapel. She unlocked it and opened it wide. "Vous pouvez aller si vous voulez," the abbess said. "Vous etes libre." You can go if you wish. You are free.

Nicole turned to face the congregation. In the ordinary way of things she would have had family and friends come to see her make this most solemn commitment. If she were in France, perhaps, and if Maman had lived and poor Papa-There was a man in the back of the public chapel. A black robe. She had never seen him before, but Nicole addressed her words to him simply because he was there. "I, Nicole Marie Francine Winifred Anne Crane, make this decision freely, with no coercion and for no reason other than the love of Almighty G.o.d." It was so long since she had spoken all the names that had been given to her at baptism and Confirmation she had almost forgotten them. No matter. She did not have to remember them any longer. "From this day forward I am Soeur Marie Stephane."

Philippe could tell the girl was beautiful even though much of her face was covered by the wimple and the veil. And she looked ... what? Not radiant exactly. Determined. Alors, it would take a strong will indeed to voluntarily lock yourself up in this barren place.

Nicole turned back to Mere Marie Rose, who had lowered her black veil over her face. The new nun knelt and the abbess put out both hands. Nicole lay hers on them. "I swear by Almighty G.o.d that henceforth you will be my mother and I will be your child. I will obey you in all things, unhesitatingly and with all my heart and soul. I swear this au nom du Pere, et du Fils, et du Sant-Esprit," she added. A solemn promise made in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

The abbess made a large sign of the cross in the air over Nicole's head. "Come inside, my daughter," she said softly. "Your beauty now is all for the King's delight."

An hour later the rain had stopped. There was a thin sliver of blue in the gray sky, even a few sunbeams, when Philippe made his way aboard the small boat that had at last arrived. The man who owned it sailed regularly between Quebec and Pointe-Levis. "Sorry to keep you waiting, monsieur. But we have had much to contend with today."

Philippe had never had good sea legs. The crossing to Canada from France had been h.e.l.l, nine weeks of extraordinary penance. This journey would take less than an hour, but already he felt the nausea beginning in his belly and a bitter taste rising in his mouth. "The weather, you mean?"

"Not the storm alone. Word is that the English are sending a fleet to intercept our shipping. We must be careful not to sail anywhere near where they may be."

"But surely Britain and France are not at war." The letter behind the angel with the folded wings had promised some six thousand troops in the late spring when the river was entirely navigable. If there were English ships in these waters, they were here for the purpose of intercepting those troops. But no one was supposed to know about the soldiers being sent to Quebec.

The sailor was busy casting off the lines that tethered the boat to the dock. "We are not at war with the English yet, but the way they're all talking we may as well be."

"Then this is to be a dangerous journey?"