Chapter 1

1

They should not have come down to the water’s edge. The sea snarled and rushed for their feet with its white teeth, the north wind howling at its back. Élisabeth stumbled backwards, squeezing her rosary in her palm to steady herself.

The captain had said all the brides must stay on the quayside until they were ready to board the ship. But Marthe had insisted she was not going to come all the way to the coast without touching the ocean with her fingertips, and so the two sisters had slipped away from the crowd and down onto the pebble beach. Élisabeth wondered if a sea serpent writhed and coiled within the rough water, while her younger sister bent down to dip her hands into its foam. Marthe touched her wet fingers to her lips.

“It’s salty. Like tears.”

Élisabeth knelt, slipping the rosary into her pocket. She did not need to taste the sea to know it was made of tears. Every part of this journey was cloaked in sorrow. Still, it is said that a touch of sea-foam on a cloudy day can ease a sea voyage, and so she stretched out her hand.

She felt a thrust in her gut—sharp, urgent—and slowed her reach. Then again, she thought, I would not want to rile a sea serpent, or work a charm I could not control.

She plunged her hand into her pocket for her wooden beads and stood up. “We should go back.”

Marthe gave her a dark look, her usually sunny dimples eclipsed by her scowl. Without waiting for Élisabeth, she marched to the river-stairs that led back towards the harbour. She took them two at a time, forcing Élisabeth to scramble behind her to keep pace.

They passed a row of half-timbered houses that had seen a thousand vessels come and go along the sleeve-shaped channel that separated France from England. The buildings sagged together, windows glinting after the sisters as they rushed towards the quayside.

Ahead of them an old priest in a cassock spoke to a sailor on the main deck of the ship, his finger punctuating the air in short, angry jabs. A blackbird flew past, as sure a sign that the Devil had come to tempt them as if Lucifer himself were setting foot on the ship, with a red apple in his open palm. Élisabeth bowed her head, as if that alone could help her evade Satan’s notice, and kept moving towards the ship.

Scattered around the wharf were dozens of small groups of nervous brides.

“Parisians?” Marthe craned to hear the unfamiliar dialects and bumped into a girl with an elaborate coif tied in a bow under her chin.

“Mind yourself.” Élisabeth pulled Marthe close, lacing her sister’s fingers through her own. She lowered her voice. “At least we can understand them well enough. Father Paul said there could be women from as far as Poitiers on board.”

“Poitiers!” Marthe scoffed, shaking her hand free from Élisabeth’s grasp. “Why spend the better part of a week in a coach to get here from Poitiers? Surely girls from Poitiers would find passage on the west coast. Honestly, Lili, that priest was as simple as a sock. I’ll be glad never to set eyes on him again.”

Marthe turned and strode towards a group of young women gathering near the gangplank. Élisabeth bit her lip. Moods came on like summer storms for girls Marthe’s age; her sister’s ill humour usually passed after a short, violent squall. But this time was different. Marthe had been threatening thunder from the moment they had locked the door to their home in Saint-Philbert and handed over the key.

“Stay close,” Élisabeth said as she caught up. Marthe glowered back; the frown did her face no favours. Élisabeth felt the colour rise on her cheeks and looked away.

She studied the women around her, wondering if she could tell which ones came from Poitiers just by their headdresses. On her left was a girl with plump cheeks trying to block a taller one’s path. She wore a white linen hood like Élisabeth’s own, gathered at the back of her neck.

“Hang back, we don’t want to be first,” the girl told her friend. Her sharp Parisian accent contrasted with her soft features.

The taller girl put her hand on her companion’s shoulder and grimaced, revealing a front tooth so crooked it looked as though it were trying to hide behind its neighbour. “If we’re last, we’ll get the worst bunk.”

“But remember: First aboard, soon meet the Lord.”

“We can’t put it off anymore,” the tall one said, steering her friend by the shoulders towards the Saint-Jean-Baptiste.

The women on the wharf started to grow restless. Some, like the first two Parisians, pushed towards the ship, anxious to finally be getting going, done with fretting about where they would sleep and what they might eat and if their meagre belongings would be orphaned on the quayside, just as they themselves were. These girls had no strength left to wonder if they had said the correct prayers to protect against fever, or if it were too much to add a plea to Saint Anne not to be packed into the hold like salted cod in a barrel with the lid nailed shut, but be allowed to see the sky and breathe the sea air. They were done with worries and wishes; like Marthe, they were resigned to their fate.

“Please,” Élisabeth begged her sister, who plowed ahead. “I don’t want to lose you.”

The firm tilt of Marthe’s jaw wavered and she stopped. She looked at the throng of girls around them and slowly exhaled. Then she took Élisabeth’s hand, and together they bobbed up the gangplank and onto the three-masted ship.

“Keep going down. Then along the lowest deck. Fill the aft bunks first,” a gruff voice barked as they were swept down a small staircase into the darkness.

Élisabeth blinked. A stocky sailor stood in the passageway with an oil lamp, the shadows thrown by its light twisted and grotesque. He was arguing with the two Parisians.

“There ain’t time for chatter, keep movin’.”

“But we want to stay here, close to the hatch.”

“Get along, you daft whores!”

There was a rush of movement and the two Parisians scattered. The sailor turned towards Élisabeth and Marthe. “Down the passageway to the stern. Two to a bunk.”

“Who will bring our trunks on board?” Élisabeth asked, but Marthe pulled her forward, and if there was a reply, she didn’t hear it.

She had to stoop not to hit her head on the low beams spanning the width of the ship. A grating in the ceiling gave the lower deck just enough light for Élisabeth to see the rough wooden bunks lining the walls, providing two layers of sleeping quarters along the sides of the ship. A few coarse blankets were laid in each bunk. The air was already thick with the smell of goats and sheep; nearby Élisabeth could hear the animals’ terrified bleating.

She closed her eyes and clutched her rosary. What in God’s name have you done?

Marthe let go of her hand. “We’ll sleep here,” she declared, placing her foot on a bottom bunk. She ducked her head and stepped into the coarse wooden box.

Élisabeth had a sudden premonition of her sister climbing into her own grave: wrapped in a death shroud, her feet pointing to the east, a beaded rosary looped around her fingers, the crucifix pressed into her palm. She could not tell how she’d died. Had she bellowed with pain, like Maman? Or had the life slowly drained from her eyes like Papa? Élisabeth shuddered, then crossed herself. Her parents’ ghosts melted into the dark corners of the ship.

Marthe pulled her knees to her chest. “Come sit. You’re in the way.”

“The man said to find bunks at the back.” Élisabeth peered towards the end of the deck.

“Don’t be a goose,” Marthe said.

Élisabeth pressed her lips together. She knew her sister would not budge, so she joined her in the bunk under the light well. She wished she had her holy water vessel with her. The little clay pot would help ease the strange feeling in her stomach, but it was packed deep in her trunk, and so Élisabeth clasped her hands instead, squeezing her palms together as if she were the most contrite sinner on earth. After a moment she released her grasp, letting her fingers glide until they touched in prayer, before her right hand fell into a reverse grip and she squeezed again. She repeated the movement over and over, squeezing tighter and tighter until the friction from her calloused palms worked a spell that allowed her mind to drift.

Take more care, or the Devil will come for you, wayward girl.

She opened her eyes and rubbed her palms back and forth. The floating coffin was stifling. When she tried to draw breath, brambles twisted around her heart. She stopped the squeeze and prayer motion long enough to grab the ribbon in her stays and jerk the knot loose. She closed her eyes as her corset eased its grip, and all of a sudden, she was in the apple orchard where Rémy first touched her hand. When the scent of blossom on the wind—white lilac for innocence, honeysuckle for binding love—foretold a happy marriage.

A clash of voices near the stairwell interrupted her thoughts. Murky light filled the deck as a lady carrying a lamp appeared, a silver cross glinting at her throat; on her heels a pair of sailors followed with more lamps. For the first time since they’d boarded, the full deck was visible. Every bunk, top and bottom on both sides of the cabin, was filled with young women, and in each bed two or three pairs of blinking eyes were fixed on the lady with the lamp. The chaperone they were promised, possibly.

She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment, then her words tumbled out all at once. “We face an obstacle, girls. But there is no reason for fear to overtake us.”

“I was not fearful until she spoke,” Marthe whispered and nudged herself closer. Élisabeth nodded.

The priest Élisabeth had seen on the main deck strode into the cavern. He was old, and his belly so large it looked as though he were hiding a cauldron under his cassock. By his side was a man with a weather-beaten face and greying hair that curled in waves above his head. The chaperone took a step back as they approached.

“Our very survival depends on it, captain,” the priest said slowly, his face pinched, and his head cocked to one side, as if it were painful for him to listen to the other man’s concerns.

“Your quest would delay our departure by hours,” the captain explained. “The winds can easily shift, and we must take advantage of favourable conditions. If we get stuck in port, we risk eating into provisions that will be needed on the voyage.”

A smile crossed the priest’s lips, relief perhaps, at this being the sum of the old sailor’s argument.

“Captain, your passengers can survive days without food. My concern is for the survival of our souls. I must be certain that none of the Norman witches have made their way onto this ship. I must ask every girl to produce her certificate of good conduct.”

“Father de Sancy, this is your first journey across the Atlantic. You do not understand how fickle the sea can be. She is not to be trusted. We must leave now, no matter if a stowaway has crept aboard.”

“Captain, you do not understand.” The priest leaned forward, his eyes keen. “The witches I seek were convicted, set to burn. When the king chose to banish them instead, there was outrage across Normandy that they were allowed to scurry away like rats, rather than paying for their crimes.”

The captain opened his mouth to speak but the priest held up a finger to indicate he had not finished.

“The Parlement of Rouen took quite a risk in engaging me to track them down, against the wishes of King Louis himself. Does that not indicate to you how dangerous these witches are? You fear the fickle sea. Imagine one of these witches on your ship? The storms she might conjure? Or how she might steal the wind, leaving us drifting for weeks or months on end? There would be no hope of survival.”

Élisabeth gripped her hands so tightly that her fingers ached. She wished the men would take their debate elsewhere, but they did not appear to be concerned with frightening the passengers, as if debating within earshot of the brides was like conversing in front of livestock.

The captain rubbed his chin. “What makes you so certain any of these witches are aboard the Saint-Jean-Baptiste?”

“According to the courthouse clerk, the most powerful among the Norman witches—their queen, if you will—took a coach to the coast after she was set free. It stands to reason, does it not? Where else would a banished witch hide but on a ship of brides bound for the New World?”

The captain looked around the deck at the girls-for-marrying, huddled and cramped in their cots. Finally, he turned back to the priest. “Very well. Do your search.”

The captain retreated and the priest turned to the lady in the shadows. “Madame Étienne, please arrange for your girls to stand before me with their letters of good conduct in hand. And be quick about it.”

Madame Étienne fluttered and frowned. “Father de Sancy… I can’t… it’s just… not all the parishes sent them with certificates…”

“Any girl without a letter vouching for her good conduct must rightly be suspected of witchcraft,” the priest insisted.

Élisabeth fumbled in the folds of her skirt for her own letter. She pulled it out and stared at the document. It was short: the black scrawl on the paper stretched not longer than the length of her hand. At the very top was an ink spot the size of a coin: the blot that betrayed the lie. The words were a mystery to her; she could not read and did not know what Father Paul had written. Would this inquisitor, this Father de Sancy, be able to see that the words on the page were a deception?

“Father, there are more than a hundred girls on this ship,” the chaperone said. “More than a quarter will not have certificates. I can vouch for all of the Parisians… I recruited them for the colony myself. They are impeccable… irreproachable.”

The priest frowned. “Then we shall leave aside your Parisians and interrogate only the Normans. It is among that duchy’s women that we will find whom we seek.”

“I don’t know where they…” The chaperone’s hands churned helplessly. “The girls from Normandy could be anywhere amongst us…”

“Over there!” A voice piped up from the other side of the deck. “I heard a Norman over there, under the light well.”

“You girls, there. Come out with your letters ready for inspection.”

“Come on, Lili.” Marthe swung herself out of the bunk and stood up. “They’ve heard us speak. They’ve worked out where we’re from.”

Slowly, with shoulders hunched, Élisabeth followed Marthe, praying, “Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” She kept one hand on her letter while slipping the other into her pocket to grip her rosary. She could feel the girls around them perk up and watch eagerly for what might happen next. The chaperone swung an oil lamp in their direction.

“Good, good.” She sighed, as if all the unpleasantness would come to an end now that she had lined them up in a neat row for the priest to inspect. “I know there are at least a dozen more of you from Normandy. Do stand up so we can proceed.”

More girls clutching folded letters rose and shuffled over to where Élisabeth and Marthe stood in the light well. The chaperone moved from bunk to bunk, murmuring to herself, “Paris, Amiens, Paris,” ticking off the girls she knew. Occasionally she paused to question a shrinking figure. “Remind me where…?” When the timid reply came back negative—“Reims, Madame Étienne, if you please” or “Orléans, thanks be to Our Lady”—she moved on, leaving the rattled girl to collapse back on her bunk. Others were not so lucky, and despite their protests were gripped by the arm and made to stand up.

Some fifteen girls were eventually herded into the middle of the deck. Carefully, Élisabeth opened Father Paul’s letter, ready for inspection, and motioned for Marthe to do the same.

Father de Sancy called for a sailor to hold up a lamp and moved towards Élisabeth. “Your letter, please.”

She was instantly struck dumb. She had not expected to be first. Her arms were frozen to her sides, her certificate of good conduct shaking in her hands. She bowed her head to mask her trembling lips.

“Now, I know you cannot be deaf,” the priest said. “Because the king has instructed that only good female specimens be sent to the colony.”

Élisabeth wasn’t certain if he was trying to put her at her ease or get a laugh out of the sailors, some of whom sniggered at her. She glanced at the paper in her hand and almost expected the words to slither across the page, the lies snaking away from the priest’s trained eye.

“I-I can hear,” she stammered, passing him the letter and ducking into a quick curtsey. The witch hunter peered at the village priest’s words. When Father de Sancy looked up at her, she saw his eyes were watery and his nose was mottled red with lumps and veins.

“What is your name?”

“Élisabeth Jossard.”

“Have you ever been in attendance at a witches’ sabbath, Élisabeth Jossard?” His eyes searched hers.

“No, Father.” She shook her head, almost not believing the question. Who would ever admit to such an atrocity?

“Have you been rebaptised in the name of Satan?”

“No, Father,” she said more emphatically.

“Has anyone you know died an unnatural death?”

Élisabeth hesitated. Her younger brother had died a fool’s death, drinking too much and trying to cross the Orne at night. It was his drowning that had started their string of bad luck. Her older brother had lost a fight with fever and died within the year, and it was the grief over losing both his sons that had caused Papa to fall ill. The whole of Saint-Philbert knew of their exceptional misfortune, but had it been more? Had it been unnatural?

“No, Father,” Marthe interrupted. “I am her sister, and I can vouch that no one in our family has suffered an unnatural death. Our mother died in childbirth many years ago and our father left us just three months past for the Kingdom of Heaven. We are orphans with no home of our own. We are ready to start a new life in Canada, with the help of God and the king.”

Father de Sancy frowned at the interruption and looked from one sister to the other. “I see the resemblance,” he murmured, handing Élisabeth back her letter. He turned to Marthe. “Your sister is more comely but appears to be simple. How old are you, child?”

“Almost sixteen,” Marthe replied.

“Then you are fifteen. An exaggeration is a lie. Are you a liar?”

“No, Father. I beg your pardon. I am fifteen.” If Marthe felt stung by the rebuke, she did not show it. Not for the first time, Élisabeth envied her courage.

“Have you ever attended a witches’ sabbath?”

“No, Father,” said Marthe, her voice calm.

“What do you know of Chamberlen’s Secret?” The priest leaned so close to them that Élisabeth could smell the onions on his breath.

Marthe shrugged. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Yet, we already know that you are a liar. Perhaps you are lying again? How do we know that you have not hidden the Secret about your person? Perhaps deep in the recesses of your skirts?” Father de Sancy’s tone had turned severe.

“You can have a look in my pocket, Father. It’s got my rosary and nothing else. I have no secrets.”

Élisabeth wanted to reach out and pinch Marthe to remind her of her place but instead stood stock-still as the priest studied them. Without another word he moved on to the next bride. Élisabeth’s shoulders sagged with relief and her heart thumped so loudly she could not hear their exchange.

She had passed the inquisition. The lie had been believed. Élisabeth raised the letter that had delivered her from suspicion to her lips to kiss it.

Except it was no longer there.

Her hands were empty. Her certificate of good conduct had disappeared.

She looked to her feet, and then all around her. Nothing. The letter had vanished. Then she saw a rustle of movement and caught the eye of a woman jostling back into line a few places down from Marthe. As the light from the oil lamp grew closer to the woman, Élisabeth could see that she did not wear a mended chemise or rough woolen skirt like the Jossard sisters. She had on a rich-coloured dress with a falling collar and long-waisted bodice that sloped into a deep point. Élisabeth peered at the fabric. It was velvet. Velvet for wealth and a promise made to be broken. Velvet for an unbiddable bride. The dress opened at the front to reveal a stain on her petticoats. Maybe mud? Élisabeth was gazing at the frilled sleeves peeking out at the woman’s elbow when she froze.

In the woman’s hand was Élisabeth’s letter of good conduct, instantly recognizable by the inkblot at the top of the page.

She opened her mouth to protest, to alert the old priest to the theft, to clamour for the return of the life-saving letter but halted when she saw the woman’s face. It was as dark as the depths of a well, her eyes fixed in a pointed glare. Slowly, the woman raised her finger to her lips.

As if under a spell, Élisabeth fell silent.

Father de Sancy moved towards the woman with the velvet dress. She handed him Élisabeth’s certificate of good conduct and waited. The priest squinted at the letter for a second time in as many minutes.

“Recite the Apostles’ Creed.”

“As you wish,” the woman bowed her head and began to say the prayer out loud. Her vowels were crisp and her cadence smooth. Élisabeth ogled to get a better view of her.

“Have you a mole on any part of your body?” the priest continued.

“No.” There was a hint of defiance in her voice, but she kept her eyes lowered.

“That’s what all the witches say, but when we strip them naked, we can see with our own eyes the mark the Evil One has left upon them.”

Élisabeth followed the thief’s gaze and saw that her hands were balled into fists.

“Father de Sancy, will removing their clothing be necessary?” The chaperone fluttered at the fringes of the priest’s vision.

He waved her away. “Tell me. What purpose does Chamberlen’s Secret serve?”

The woman in velvet said nothing.

“Have you ever heard of Chamberlen’s Secret?” Marthe asked, elbowing Élisabeth in the ribs.

The priest swivelled around, searching for the interruption. “Hold your tongue! The Devil is about, and I must not be distracted.” He turned back to the woman in the velvet dress. “I repeat. For what evil purpose do witches employ Chamberlen’s Secret?”

Élisabeth thought the woman with the velvet dress would not answer, so long did she take to speak.

“I cannot fathom any evil purpose this secret might serve.”

The priest stood back and squinted, as if trying to read the woman’s face. After a moment he handed Élisabeth’s letter back to her and moved on down the line.

“What in Heaven’s name is Chamberlen’s Secret?” Marthe asked when the priest was far enough away not to hear. Élisabeth did not trust her voice to answer. She shook her head, willing her sister to be silent.

Marthe bent down, picking up a sheet of paper. “Honestly, Lili, how can you be so careless? You’ve dropped your letter.”

Élisabeth looked at the certificate of good conduct in Marthe’s hand. “How…?” Her mind raced. The woman in velvet was in possession of her letter, was she not? Or had Élisabeth imagined it? She whipped round.

The woman with the stained velvet dress was nowhere to be seen.

She had simply faded into the darkness.