Queen of Swords
Page 7

And then, finally, this morning Jennet found herself in front of a priest in a small Catholic church. He was an ancient Frenchman with a wobbling voice and kind eyes and he had married them and blessed them and wished them a speedy journey and quick recovery of their son.
In the few moments before they left to board the Patience, Giselle raised the subject of the boy. “Luke was taken from me at birth, remember,” she said. “It was many years before I saw him again. You will be more fortunate.” In a conspiratorial tone she added, “When you find the boy, bring him back here so I can see to his education.”
But the truth was, Giselle didn’t believe her grandson was alive; none of them did. It was so clearly written on their faces. Poor Jennet has been through a great deal, that look said. Humor her, for the time being.
It was uncharitable of her, but she could not help thinking such things, not even of Luke. He would do everything in his power, but in his heart, Jennet was sure, he had already given up on the boy. She held it against him, and didn’t know how to stop.
Now they were married, and that was a good thing. The very best thing, something she had wanted for as long as she could remember, to have Luke as her husband. She had left Scotland not yet thirty years old, a widow of only a few months, to come looking for him.
Jennet pressed her trembling hands together, and wondered how long she could keep herself from weeping.
“Luke sent me down to see after you,” Hannah said in the open hatchway, and just that simply the battle was lost. Jennet turned to her cousin with tears streaming down her face, and then collapsed into her outstretched arms.
They sat together on the edge of the bed for a long time while Jennet wept and Hannah waited, quiet and patient. Hannah was wearing the only gown she had allowed Giselle to order for her, figured Indian muslin over rose-colored silk. She had put it on for the wedding ceremony and left it on while she ran all her last-minute errands; there was a smudge of soot on her hem and a pulled thread in the lace at the neckline. She smelled of spices and something bittersweet, of sunlight and clean sweat, and under all that was another smell, salty and sharp; she smelled of Kit Wyndham. It was none of Jennet’s business, not really, and it made her weep all the more, her tears wetting the bodice of celery green silk drugget with its elaborate embroidery. Her wedding gown.
Men’s feet drummed on the deck in response to whistles and shouts, sails creaked and caught the wind so that the ship shivered and danced like an eager dog on a line. Jennet let herself be rocked.
Hannah had lost a son. She would never see him again in this life, and that thought brought Jennet up short. She pressed the back of her hands to her streaming eyes and tried to regain control of her voice.
“Not now,” Hannah said. “Not unless you’re ready.”
“I am,” Jennet said. “I think I am.”
“Then tell me.”
She couldn’t tell, not everything. Not yet. But Jennet would start, and hope that half the story would be enough.
The words came slowly at first, forced up out of her throat and mouth like bloody clots. She talked of the day Dégre had taken her from Île aux Noix, the ship that had been waiting, the men on the ship. How they circled around her, delighted with the promise of diversion over the course of a dull voyage south. The dissatisfaction when Dégre made it clear that she was not to be marked. Lady Jennet was an asset first and foremost, and her value was not to be compromised.
Eventually prudence gave way to the sea and the monotony of the wind and the rum, and the bolder of the men began to approach her. There were many things they could do to amuse themselves that would leave no mark, at least none that others could see. They talked about this in her hearing, as they might talk of slaughtering one of the pigs that lived in a pen on deck while they rubbed knuckles over its bristled skull.
It was too easy to imagine. She would be passed from man to man, and each of them would use her in his own way, casually or angrily or with a whispering kind of thankfulness.
Dégre, who never showed any interest in taking her, watched and said nothing. Jennet understood that he was leaving it up to her: She must find a way to save herself.
“Have you ever stabbed a man in the throat?” Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled.
Hannah shook her head.
“It’s like standing under a waterfall,” Jennet said. “I was covered with blood.” And then: “I don’t regret it. The others left me alone after that.”
Because I stank of blood, she might have said. And it amused Dégre to refuse me water to wash. As long as I live, I will dream of the flies.
Instead, Jennet told the story of the day she had given birth, the long hours in a hot room where lizards clung to the walls and birds screamed in the trees.
“But he was perfect,” Jennet said. “Perfect in form, and healthy, and so much like Luke, the shape of his eyes and his fingers and toes and the way his hair grows here.” She touched the crown of her own head. “He was perfect. He is perfect, and he must be alive, or what was it all for?”
There it was, the question like a thorn struck through the heart. The question she had never dared put to Luke.
Hannah smoothed Jennet’s hair away from her hot face. Her black eyes were without any expression that Jennet could read. She might say, The boy is dead and you know it or The boy must be alive because we wish it so.
She said, “Jennet, listen to me well. You and Luke must hold each other up. Don’t turn away from him, not now, especially not now. You must trust that he can bear what you have to say. The things you cannot say to me, that you think you cannot say to anyone. Do you hear me?”