The Virgin Blue

3 – THE FLIGHT

Isabelle sat up straight and glanced across to the children's bed. Jacob was already awake, arms around his legs, chin on his knees. He had the best ears of all of them.

– One horse, he said quietly.

Isabelle nudged Etienne.

– A horse, she whispered.

Her husband jumped up, half-asleep, his hair dark with sweat. Pulling on his breeches, he reached over and shook Bertrand awake. Together they slipped down the ladder as someone began pounding on the door. Isabelle peered over the edge of the loft and watched the men gather, clutching axes and knives. Hannah appeared from the back room with a candle. After whispering through the crack in the door, Jean set down the axe and drew back the bolt.

The Duc de l'Aigle's steward was no stranger. He appeared periodically to confer with Jean Tournier and used the house to collect tithes from the surrounding farms, carefully recording them in a calfskin-bound book. Short, fat, completely bald, he made up for his lack of height with a booming voice that Jean tried in vain now to stifle. There could be no secrets with such a voice.

– The Duc has been murdered in Paris!

Hannah gasped and dropped the candle. Isabelle unthinkingly crossed herself, then clutched her neck and looked around. All four children were now sitting up in a row, Susanne perched next to them on the edge, balancing precariously, her belly huge and distended. She'll be ready soon, Isabelle thought, automatically assessing her. Though never used now, the old knowledge was still with her.

Petit Jean had begun whittling with the knife that he kept with him even in bed. Jacob was silent, eyes large and brown like his mother's. Marie and Deborah leaned against each other, Deborah looking sleepy, Marie's eyes bright.

– Maman, what is murder? she called out in a voice that rang like a copper pan being beaten.

– Hush, Isabelle whispered. She moved to the end of the bed to hear what the steward was saying. Susanne came to sit beside her and the two leaned forward, resting their arms on the railing.

– … ten days ago, at the wedding of Henri de Navarre. The gates were locked and thousands of followers of the Truth slaughtered. Coligny as well as our Duc. And it is spreading to the countryside. Everywhere they are killing honest people.

– But we are far from Paris and we are all followers of the Truth here, Jean replied. We are safe from Catholics here.

– They say a garrison is coming from Mende, the steward boomed. To take advantage of the Duc's death. They will come for you, a syndic for the Duc. The Duchesse is fleeing to Alès and passes this way in a few hours. You should come with us, to save your family. She is not offering to take others. Just the Tourniers.

– No.

It was Hannah who replied. She had relit the candle and stood solidly in the middle of the room, back slightly humped, silver braid running down her spine.

– We do not need to leave this house, she continued. We are protected here.

– And we have crops to harvest, Jean added.

– May you change your mind. Your family – any of your family – is welcome to join the Duchesse.

Isabelle thought she caught the flash of the steward's eyes directed toward Bertrand. Watching her husband, Susanne shifted uneasily. Isabelle reached for her hand: it was as cold as the river. She glanced at the children. The girls, too young to understand, had fallen back to sleep; Jacob was still sitting with his chin on his knees; Petit Jean had dressed and was leaning against the railing, watching the men.

The steward left to warn other families. Jean bolted the door and set the axe beside it while Etienne and Bertrand disappeared into the barn to secure it from within. Hannah moved to the hearth, set the candle on the mantel and knelt beside the fire, banked for the night under ashes. Isabelle thought at first that she was going to build it up, but the old woman did not touch the fire.

She squeezed Susanne's hand and nodded towards the hearth.

– What is she doing?

Susanne watched her mother, wiping her cheek where a tear had strayed.

– The magic is in the hearth, she whispered finally. The magic that protects this house. Maman is praying to it.

The magic. It had been referred to obliquely over the years, but Etienne and Susanne would never explain, and she had never dared ask Jean or Hannah.

She tried once more.

– But what is it? What is there?

Susanne shook her head.

– I don't know. Anyway, to speak of it is to ruin its power. I have already said too much.

– But why is she praying? Monsieur Marcel says there is no magic in praying.

– This is older than praying, older than Monsieur Marcel and his teachings.

– But not older than God. Not older than – the Virgin, she finished silently.

Susanne had no answer.

– If we go, she said instead, if we go with the Duchesse, we will no longer be protected.

– Protected by the Duchesse's men, by swords, yes, Isabelle responded.

– Will you come?

Isabelle did not answer. What would it take to draw Etienne away? The steward had not looked at him when urging them to go. He knew Etienne would not leave.

Etienne and Bertrand returned from the barn, Etienne joining his parents at the table. Jean glanced up at Isabelle and Susanne.

– Go to sleep, he said. We will keep watch.

But their eyes were on Bertrand, standing uncertainly in the middle of the room. He looked up at Susanne as if searching for a sign. Isabelle leaned toward her.

– God will protect you, she whispered in Susanne's ear. God and the Duchesse's men.

She sat back, caught Hannah's glare, met it. All these years you have taunted me because of my hair, she thought, yet you pray to your own magic. She and Hannah stared at each other. Hannah looked away first.

Isabelle missed Susanne's nod but not its result. Bertrand turned resolutely towards Jean.

– Susanne, Deborah and I, we will go to Alès with the Duchesse de l'Aigle, he stated.

Jean gazed at Bertrand.

– You understand that you will lose everything if you go, he said quietly.

– We will lose everything if we stay. Susanne is near her time, she cannot walk far. She cannot run. There will be no chance for her when the Catholics come.

– You do not believe in this house? Where no babies have died? Where Tourniers have thrived for 100 years?

– I believe in the Truth, he replied. That is what I believe in. With his words he seemed to grow, his defiance giving him height and girth. Isabelle realized for the first time that he was actually taller than his father-in-law.

– With our marriage you gave no dowry because we live here with you. All I ask for now is one horse. That will be dowry enough.

Jean looked incredulous.

– You want me to give you a horse so you can take away my daughter and grandchildren?

– I want to save your daughter and grandchildren.

– I am the master of this family, yes?

– God is my master. I must follow the Truth, not this magic you are so convinced by.

Isabelle would never have guessed Bertrand could be so rebellious. After Jean and Hannah chose him for Susanne, he had worked hard and never crossed Jean. He had brought an ease to the house, arm-wrestling with Etienne every day, teaching Petit Jean to whittle, making them laugh by the fire at night with his stories of the wolf and the fox. He treated Susanne with a gentleness that Isabelle envied. Once or twice she had seen him swallow his defiance; it appeared to have grown in his stomach, waiting for a moment such as this.

Then Jean surprised everyone.

– Go, he said gruffly. But take the ass, not the horse. He turned and strode to the barn door, yanked it open and disappeared inside.

Etienne glanced up at Isabelle before looking down at his hands; she was certain then that they would not follow Bertrand. Etienne's marriage to her had been his one act of defiance. He had no will left for another.

Isabelle turned to her sister-in-law.

– When you ride the ass, she whispered, you must ride sideways to support the baby with your legs. That will keep it from coming too soon. Ride sideways, she repeated, for Susanne was staring into space as if in shock. She turned to look at Isabelle.

– You mean like the Virgin riding into Egypt?

– Yes. Yes, just like the Virgin.

They had not mentioned Her for a long time.

Deborah and Marie were sleeping with a sheet twined round them when Susanne and Isabelle went to wake Deborah just before dawn. They tried not to disturb the others but Marie woke up and began to say loudly: – Why is Deborah leaving? Why is she leaving? Jacob opened his eyes, his features pinched. Then Petit Jean, still dressed, sat up.

– Maman, where are they going? he whispered hoarsely. Will they see soldiers? And horses and flags? Will they see Uncle Jacques?

– Uncle Jacques is not a Catholic soldier; he fights with Coligny's army in the north.

– But the steward said Coligny was killed.

– Yes.

– So Uncle Jacques may come back.

Isabelle did not answer. Jacques Tournier had gone to the army ten years before, at the same time as other young men from Mont Lozère. He had returned once, scarred, raucous, full of tales, one of them about Isabelle's brothers, run through with the same pike.

– As twins should be, Jacques had added brutally, laughing when Isabelle turned away. Petit Jean worshipped Jacques. Isabelle hated him, whose eyes had followed her everywhere, never resting on her face. He encouraged a hard boisterousness in Etienne that disturbed her. But Jacques had not stayed long: the call of blood and excitement had been too strong, stronger even than the claims of family.

The children followed the women down the ladder and out into the yard, where the men had loaded the ass with a few possessions and food: goat's cheese and hard dark loaves of chestnut bread that Isabelle had quickly made during the few hours before dawn.

– Come, Susanne, Bertrand gestured.

Susanne looked for her mother, but Hannah had not come outside. She turned to Isabelle, kissed her three times and put her arms around her neck.

– Ride sideways, Isabelle whispered in her ear. And make them stop if you begin to have pains. And may the Virgin and Saint Margaret keep you and bring you safe to Alès.

They lifted Susanne onto the ass, where she sat among the packs, legs to one side.

– Adieu, Papa, petits, she said, nodding to Jean and the children. Deborah climbed onto Bertrand's back. He gathered the rope attached to the ass's halter, clucked and kicked, and started down the mountain path at a quick pace. Etienne and Petit Jean followed, to accompany them as far as the road to Alès, where they would meet the Duchesse. Susanne looked back at Isabelle, her face small and white, until she was out of sight.

– Grandpapa, why are they leaving? Why is Deborah leaving? Marie asked. Born only a week apart, the cousins had been inseparable until now. Jean turned away. Marie followed Isabelle inside and stood by Hannah, busy at the fire.

– Why, Mémé, why is Deborah leaving? she kept saying until Hannah reached out and slapped her.

Soldiers or not, the crops were waiting. The men went to the fields as usual, but Jean chose a field near the house to scythe, and Isabelle did not follow with the rake as she normally would – she and Marie remained at the house with Hannah and helped with preserving. Petit Jean and Jacob worked behind their father and grandfather, raking the rye into bundles, Jacob barely tall enough to handle the rake.

In the house Isabelle and Hannah said little, the hole left behind by Susanne shutting their mouths. Twice Isabelle stopped stirring, staring into space, and cursed when hot plum spattered her arms. Finally Hannah pushed her away.

– Honey is too precious to be wasted by idle hands, she muttered.

Isabelle, boiling crockery instead, often went to the door in search of a cooling breeze and to listen to the silence of the valley. Once Marie followed and stood next to her in the doorway, her tiny hands stained purple from picking through the plums to find the unripe or rotten.

– Maman, she said quietly, knowing now to keep her voice down. Maman, why did they leave?

– They left because they were afraid, Isabelle replied after a moment, wiping sweat from her temples.

– Afraid of what?

– Of bad men who want to hurt them.

– Bad men are coming here?

Isabelle tucked her hands under her smock so Marie would not see they were shaking.

– No, chérie, I think not. But they were worried about Susanne with the baby.

– Will I see Deborah soon?

– Yes.

Marie had her father's pale blue eyes and, to Isabelle's relief, his blond hair as well. If it had been red, Isabelle would have dyed it with the juice of black walnuts. Marie's bright eyes gazed up at her now, perturbed, uncertain. Isabelle had never been able to lie to her.

Pierre La Forêt visited the field at midday just as Isabelle was bringing the men their dinner. He told them who had fled – not so many, only those with wealth to be looted, daughters to be raped, connections with the Duc.

He saved the most surprising news for last.

– Monsieur Marcel has left, he announced with poorly disguised glee. He has gone north, over Mont Lozère.

There was silence. Jean picked up his scythe.

– He will return, he said shortly, turning back to the rye. Pierre La Forêt watched him begin his rhythmic swinging, then glanced fearfully around, as if just remembering that soldiers might descend at any moment. He left quickly, whistling for his dog.

Their progress in the field that morning had been slow. Besides the absence of Bertrand and Susanne, the workers Jean had hired for the harvest never appeared, fearful of the farm's connection with the Duc. The boys had not been able to keep up with the men, so that now and then Jean or Etienne had been forced to drop a scythe and to rake for a time to catch up.

– Let me rake, Isabelle suggested now, eager to escape Hannah and the stifling house. Your mother – Maman can handle the preserves alone. Jacob and Marie will help her. Please. She rarely called Hannah Maman, only when wheedling was necessary.

To her relief the men agreed, sending Jacob back to the house. She and Petit Jean followed in the wake of the scythes, raking as fast as they could, bundling the rye, leaning the bundles upright against one another to dry. They worked quickly, sweat soaking their clothes. Occasionally Isabelle stopped to look around and listen. The sky was yellow with haze, wide and empty. It seemed the world itself had paused and was waiting with her.

It was Jacob who heard them. Late in the afternoon he appeared at the edge of the field, running fast. They all stopped and watched him, Isabelle's heart beginning to race. When he reached them he leaned over, hands on his thighs, gasping for breath.

– Ecoute, Papa, was all he said when he could speak, gesturing towards the valley. They listened. At first Isabelle could hear nothing except birds and her own breathing. Then a dull rumble emerged from the countryside.

– Ten. Ten horses, Jacob announced. Isabelle dropped her rake, took Jacob's hand and ran.

Petit Jean was the fastest; only nine, even after a day's work he outran his father easily. He reached the barn and raced to draw the bolts. Etienne and Jean brought water from the nearby stream while Isabelle and Jacob began closing shutters.

Marie stood in the middle of the room, pressing an armful of lavender to her chest. Hannah continued to work at the fire, as if oblivious of the activity around her. Once they had all gathered around the table, the old woman turned and said simply: – We are safe.

They were the last words Isabelle ever heard her speak.

They took their time appearing.

The family sat silently around the table in their usual places but with no meal before them. It was dark inside: the fire was low, no candles had been lit and the only light came through cracks in the shutters. Isabelle perched on a bench, Marie close at her side holding her hand, the lavender in her lap. Jean sat very straight at the head of the table. Etienne was staring down at his clasped hands. His cheek twitched; otherwise he was as impassive as his father. Hannah rubbed her face, pressed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger, eyes closed. Petit Jean had taken out his knife and laid it on the table in front of him. He kept picking it up, flashing it, testing its blade, setting it down again. Jacob, slumped alone on the bench where Susanne, Bertrand and Deborah usually sat, held a round stone in his hand. The rest were in his pocket. He had always loved the brightly coloured stones in the Tarn, preferring deep reds and yellows. He kept them even when they dried into dull browns and greys. When he wanted to see their true colours he licked them.

The gaps along the bench seemed to Isabelle to be filled with the ghosts of her family – her mother, her sister, her brothers. She shook her head and closed her eyes, trying to imagine where Susanne was now, safe with the Duchesse. When that failed she thought of the blue of the Virgin, a colour she had not seen in years but could picture at this moment as if the walls of the house were painted with it. She took a deep breath and her heartbeat slowed. She opened her eyes. The empty spaces at the table were shimmering with blue light.

When the horses arrived there were shouts and whistles, then a loud banging at the door that made everyone jump.

– Let us sing, Jean said firmly and began in a deep, confident bass: J'ai mis en toi mon espérance: Garde-moi donc, Seigneur, D'éternel déshonneur: Octroye-moi ma délivrance, Par ta grande bonté haute, Qui jamais ne fit faute. Everyone joined in but Hannah, who had always said singing was frivolous and preferred to mumble the words under her breath. The children sang in high-pitched voices, Marie hiccuping with fear.

They finished the psalm to the accompaniment of rattling shutters and a rhythmic pounding on the door. They had begun another psalm when the pounding stopped. After a moment they heard a scraping thud against the bottom of the door, then crackling and the smell of smoke. Etienne and Jean stood up and strode to the door. Etienne picked up a bucket of water and nodded. Jean quietly drew the bolt and swung open the door a crack. Etienne dashed the water out just as the door was kicked violently open and a wave of flames leapt inside. Two hands grabbed Jean by his throat and shirt and pulled him violently outside, the door slamming shut after him.

Etienne scrambled for the door, flung it open again and was engulfed in smoke and fire.

– Papa! he shouted and disappeared into the yard.

Inside there was a strange, frozen silence. Then Isabelle stood up calmly, feeling the blue light surround and protect her. She picked up Marie.

– Hold on to me, she whispered, and Marie wound her arms around her mother's neck, her legs around her waist, the lavender crushed between them. Isabelle took Jacob's hand, gesturing to Petit Jean to take his other hand. As if in a dream she led the children across the room, drew back the bolt and entered the barn. They skirted around the horse, now stepping sideways and whinnying at the smell of smoke and the sounds of other horses in the yard. At the far end of the barn, Isabelle unbolted a small door that led into the kitchen garden. Together they picked their way through cabbages and tomatoes, carrots, onions, herbs. Isa-belle's skirt brushed against the sage plant, releasing into the air the familiar tangy odour.

They reached the mushroom rock at the bottom of the garden and stopped. Jacob pressed his hands briefly against the stone. Beyond it was a fallow field the goats had cropped short, dry and brown now from a full summer of sun. The four began to run across it, the boys ahead, Isabelle behind with Marie still clinging to her.

Halfway across she realized Hannah had not followed them. She cursed aloud.

They reached the chestnut trees safely. At the cleda Isabelle put Marie down and turned to Petit Jean.

– I have to go back, to get Mémé. You are good at hiding. Wait here until I return. But don't hide in the cleda; they might set fire to it. And if they come and you have to run, go towards my father's house, through the fields, not on the path. D'accord?

Petit Jean nodded and pulled his knife from his pocket, his blue eyes sparkling.

Isabelle turned and looked back. The farm was alight now. The pigs were screaming, the dogs howling, howls taken up by the dogs all around the valley. The village knows what is happening, she thought. Will they come and help? Will they hide? She glanced at the children, Marie and Jacob wide-eyed and still, Petit Jean scanning the woods.

– Allez, she said. Without a word Petit Jean led the other two into the undergrowth.

Isabelle left the trees and skirted the edge of the field. In the distance she could see the field they had worked in that day: all the bundles she and Petit Jean and Jacob had raked together were smoking. She heard distant shouts, and laughter, a sound that made the hair on her arms stand on end. As she got closer she smelled burning flesh, a scent both familiar and strange. The pigs, she thought. The pigs and – she realized what the soldiers had done.

– Sainte Vierge, aide-nous, she breathed and crossed herself.

So much smoke filled the bottom of the garden that it seemed night had fallen. She crept through the vegetables and halfway up the row found Hannah on her knees, clutching a cabbage to her breast, tears cutting grooves down her blackened face.

– Viens, Mémé, Isabelle whispered, putting her arms around Hannah's shoulders and lifting her. Viens.

The old woman made no sound as she wept, letting Isabelle lead her back through the garden to the field. Behind them they heard the soldiers galloping into the garden, but the wall of smoke kept the women hidden. They stayed at the edge of the field, following the low granite wall Jean had built many years before. Hannah kept stopping and looking behind her, and Isabelle had to urge her on, putting an arm around her, pulling her forwards.

The soldier appeared so suddenly he seemed to have been dropped by God from the sky. They would have expected him behind them; instead he emerged from the very woods they were heading toward. He crossed the field at a full gallop, sword raised and, as Isabelle saw when he got closer, a smile on his face. She moaned and began stumbling backwards, pulling Hannah with her.

When the horseman was so close she could smell his sweat, a grey mass detached itself from the ground and rose, casually shaking a back leg. Immediately the horse reared up, screaming. The soldier lost his seat and fell heavily to the ground. His horse wheeled round and headed wildly back across the field to the chestnut grove.

Hannah looked from the wolf to Isabelle and back to the wolf. It stood watching them calmly, its yellow eyes alert. It did not even glance at the soldier, who lay without moving.

– Merci, Isabelle said quietly, nodding at the wolf. Merci, Maman.

Hannah's eyes widened.

They waited until the wolf turned and trotted away, leaping over the low wall, disappearing into the next field. Then Hannah moved forward again. Isabelle began to follow, then stopped and looked round, staring at the soldier and shivering. Finally she turned and approached him warily. She barely looked at him; instead she crouched next to his sword and studied it intently. Hannah waited for her, arms crossed, head bowed.

Isabelle rose abruptly.

– No blood, she said.

When they reached the woods Isabelle began calling quietly for the children. In the distance she could hear the riderless horse tearing through the trees. Presumably it reached the edge of the forest, for the sound stopped.

The children did not appear.

– They must have gone ahead, Isabelle murmured. There was no blood on the sword. Please let them have gone ahead. They have gone ahead, she repeated more loudly for Hannah's benefit.

When there was no reply she added: – Eh, Mémé? You think they have gone ahead?

Hannah only shrugged.

They began the trek across the fields to Isabelle's father's farm, listening for the soldiers, the children, the horse, anyone. They met nothing.

It was dark by the time they stumbled into the farmyard. The house was black and bolted shut, but when Isabelle knocked softly on the door and whispered, Papa, c'est moi, they were let in. The children were sitting in the dark with their grandfather. Marie jumped up and ran to her mother, pressing her face into Isabelle's side.

Henri du Moulin nodded briefly to Hannah, who looked away. He turned to Isabelle.

– Where are they?

Isabelle shook her head.

– I don't know. I think – She looked at the children and stopped.

– We will wait, her father said grimly.

– Yes.

They waited for hours, the children falling asleep one by one, the adults seated stiffly round the table in the dark. Hannah closed her eyes but sat very straight, hands clasped on the table before her. At every sound she opened her eyes and jerked her head towards the door.

Isabelle and her father were silent. She gazed around her sadly. Even in the dark it was clear the house was falling apart. When Henri du Moulin learned his twin sons were dead, he stopped keeping up the farm: fields lay fallow, roofs leaked, goats wandered away, mice nested in the grain. It was dirty and dank inside, damp even in the heat and dryness of the harvest season.

Isabelle listened to the mice rustling in the dark.

– You need a cat, she whispered.

– I had one, her father replied. It left. Nothing remains here.

Just before dawn they heard a movement in the yard, the muffled sound of a horse. Jacob sat up quickly.

– It's our horse, he said.

At first they didn't recognize Etienne. The figure swaying in the doorway had no hair left except for a few patches of singed black stubble on his scalp. His fair eyebrows and lashes were gone, making his eyes seem to float anchorless in his face. His clothes were burnt and he was dusted all over with soot.

They stood frozen except for Petit Jean, who took the figure's hand with both of his.

– Come, Papa, he said, and led Etienne to a bench at the table.

Etienne gestured behind him.

– The horse, he whispered as he sat. The horse stood patiently in the yard, hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle them. Mane and tail had been burnt off; otherwise it appeared unharmed.

When Etienne's hair grew back, a few months later and many miles away, it was grey. His eyebrows and lashes never reappeared.

Etienne and his mother sat at Henri du Moulin's table in a daze, unable to think or act. All day Isabelle and her father tried to talk to them, without success. Hannah would say nothing, and Etienne simply stated, I'm thirsty, or I'm tired, and closed his eyes.

Finally Isabelle roused them by crying in desperation: -We must leave here soon. The soldiers will be looking for us still, and eventually someone will tell them to look here.

She knew the villagers: they were loyal. Offered enough, though, or threatened enough, they would give away a secret, even to a Catholic.

– Where do we go? Etienne asked.

– You could hide in the woods until it's safe to return, Henri du Moulin suggested.

– We cannot return there, Isabelle replied. The crops are ruined, the house is gone. Without the Duc we have no protection from the Catholics. They will continue to search for us. And – she hesitated, careful to convince them with their own words – without the house, it is no longer safe.

And I do not want to return to that misery, she added silently. Etienne and his mother looked at each other.

– We could go to Alès, Isabelle continued. To join Susanne and Bertrand.

– No, Etienne said firmly. They made their choice. They left this family.

– But they – Isabelle stopped, not wanting to ruin with argument what little influence she now had. She had a sudden vision of Susanne's belly sliced open by the soldier in the field and knew they had made the right decision.

– The road to Alès will be dangerous, her father said. It could happen there, what has happened here.

The children had been listening silently. Now Marie spoke.

– Maman, where can we be safe? she demanded. Tell God we want to be safe.

Isabelle nodded.

– Calvin, she announced. We could go to Calvin. To Geneva, where it is safe. Where the Truth is free.

They waited till nightfall, hot and restless. Isabelle had the children clean the house while she baked as much bread as she could in the chimney shelf. She and her sister and mother had used that shelf daily; now she had to brush off mouse droppings and cobwebs. The hearth looked unused and she wondered what her father ate.

Henri du Moulin refused to go with them, though his connection to the Tourniers made him a target.

– This is my farm, he said roughly. No Catholic will drive me from it.

He insisted they take his cart, the only valuable possession he had left besides his plough. He brushed it out, repaired one of the wheels, set the plank in its place across the box to sit on. When darkness came he pulled it into the yard and loaded it with an axe, three blankets, two sacks.

– Chestnuts and potatoes, he explained to Isabelle.

– Potatoes?

– For the horse and for you.

Hannah overheard him and stiffened. Petit Jean, leading the horse from the barn, laughed.

– People don't eat potatoes, Grandpapa! Only poor beggars.

Isabelle's father tightened his hands into fists.

– You will be thankful enough to have them to eat, monpetit. All men are poor in the eyes of God.

When they were ready, Isabelle looked at her father closely, trying to take in every part of his face to keep in her mind always.

– Be careful, Papa, she whispered. The soldiers may come.

– I will fight for the Truth, he replied. I am not afraid. He looked at her and with a brief upward flick of his chin added: – Courage, Isabelle.

She tightened the corners of her mouth into a smile that kept back the tears, then put her hands on his shoulders and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him three times.

– Bah, you have picked up the Tournier kiss, he muttered.

– Hush, Papa. I am a Tournier now.

– But your name is still du Moulin. Don't forget that.

– No. She paused. Remember me.

Marie, who never cried, cried for an hour after they left him standing in the road.

The horse could not pull all of them. Hannah and Marie sat in the cart while the rest walked behind, with Etienne or Petit Jean leading the horse. Occasionally one of them got in to rest and the horse went on more slowly.

They took the road over Mont Lozère, the moon bright, lighting their way but making them conspicuous. Whenever they heard a strange noise they pulled off the road. They reached the Col de Finiels at the summit and hid the cart while Etienne took the horse and went in search of the shepherds. They would know the route towards Geneva.

Isabelle waited by the cart, the others sleeping. She listened for every sound. Close by she knew the source of the Tarn welled up and began its long descent down the mountain. She would never see the river again, never feel its touch. Silently she began to weep for the first time since the Duc's steward woke them in the night.

Then she felt eyes upon her, but not a stranger's eyes. A familiar feel, the feel of the river on her skin. Glancing around, she saw him leaning against a rock not a stone's throw away. He didn't move when she looked at him.

Isabelle wiped her wet face and walked over to the shepherd. They held each other's eyes. Isabelle reached up and touched the scar on his cheek.

– How did you get this?

– From life.

– What is your name?

– Paul.

– We're leaving. To Switzerland.

He nodded, his dark eyes calming her.

– Remember me.

He nodded again.

– Come, Isabelle, she heard Etienne whisper behind her. What are you doing there?

– Isabelle, Paul repeated softly. He smiled, his teeth bright with moonlight. Then he was gone.

– The house. The barn. Our bed. The big pig and her four babies. The bucket in the well. Mémé's brown shawl. My doll that Bertrand made for me. The Bible.

Marie was listing all the things they had lost. At first Isabelle couldn't hear her over the sound of the wheels. Then she understood.

– Hush! she cried.

Marie stopped. Or at least stopped saying them aloud: Isabelle could see her lips move.

She never referred to Jean.

Isabelle's stomach tightened when she thought of the Bible.

– Could it still be there? she asked Etienne softly. They had reached the River Lot at the bottom of the other side of Mont Lozère; Isabelle was helping Etienne guide the horse through the water.

– Hidden in that niche in the chimney, she added, it might have been protected from the fire. They would never have found it.

He glanced at her wearily.

– We have nothing left and Papa is dead, he replied. The Bible is no help now. It is not worth anything to us now.

But its words are worth everything, she thought. Isn't that why we are leaving, for those very words?

Sometimes when Isabelle rested in the cart, facing backwards out over the land they had covered, she thought she saw her father running along the road after them. She would squeeze her eyes shut for a moment; when she opened them he had disappeared. Occasionally a real person took his place, a woman standing by the road, men scything or raking or digging in the fields, a man riding an ass. All stood still and watched them pass.

Sometimes boys Jacob's age threw stones at them and Etienne had to keep Petit Jean from fighting back. Marie would stand at the very end of the cart, looking back at the strange boys. She was never hit by the rocks. Once Hannah was: it was only when Etienne turned to speak to her long after the boys were gone that he saw blood trickling down the side of her face from the top of her head. She continued to stare straight ahead as Isabelle leaned over to dab gently at the blood with a piece of dampened cloth.

Marie began listing everything she could see.

– There's a barn. And there's a crow. And there's a plough. And there's a dog. And there's a church needle. And there's a pile of hay on fire. And there's a fence. And there's a log. And there's an axe. And there's a tree. And there's a man in the tree.

Isabelle looked up when Marie stopped.

The man had been hanged from the branch of a small olive tree that could barely hold his weight. They stopped and stared at the body, naked but for a black hat rammed over his brow. His penis stood out stiffly like a branch. Then Isabelle saw the red hands, looked more closely at the face and drew in her breath sharply.

– It's Monsieur Marcel! she cried before she could stop herself.

Etienne clucked and began to run, pulling the horse with him, and they quickly left the vision behind, the boys glancing back several times until the body was out of sight.

For a few hours afterwards Marie was silent. When she began to list things once more, she avoided mentioning anything made by men. They reached a village and she simply repeated: – And there's the ground. And there's the ground – over and over until they had passed through.

They had halted at a stream to let the horse drink when an old man appeared on the opposite bank.

– Don't stop here, he said abruptly. Don't stop at all until you reach Vienne. It is very bad here. And don't go near St Etienne or Lyons. He disappeared into the woods.

They did not stop that night. The horse plodded on exhausted while Hannah and the children slept in the cart and Etienne and Isabelle took turns leading. They hid during the day in a pine forest. When it was dark Etienne hitched up the horse and led it back onto the road. A moment later a group of men emerged from the trees on either side and surrounded them.

Etienne halted the horse. One of the men lit a torch; Isabelle could see the axes and pitchforks among them. Etienne handed the horse's rope to Isabelle, reached into the cart and pulled out the axe. He set the head carefully on the ground and gripped the end of the handle.

Everyone stood motionless. Only Hannah's lips moved in a silent prayer.

The men seemed unsure how to begin. Isabelle stared at the one who held the torch, watching his Adam's apple dart up and down. Then she felt a tickling at her ear: Marie had moved to the side of the cart and was whispering something.

– What is it? Isabelle murmured, still looking at the man and trying not to move her lips.

– That man with the fire. Tell him about God. Tell him what God wants him to do.

– What does God want him to do?

– To be good and not to sin, she replied firmly. And tell him we are not staying here.

Isabelle licked her lips. Her mouth was dry.

– Monsieur, she began, addressing the man with the torch. Etienne and Hannah jerked their heads at the sound of her voice.

– Monsieur, we are on our way to Geneva. We are not stopping here. Please let us pass.

The men stamped their feet. A few chuckled. The man with the torch stopped swallowing.

– Why should we? he demanded.

– Because God does not want you to sin. Because murder is a sin.

She was shaking and could say nothing more. The man with the torch took a step forward and Isabelle saw the long hunting knife in his belt.

Then Marie spoke, the metal in her voice ringing out through the woods.

– Notre Père qui es aux cieux, ton nom soit sanctifié, she called out.

The man stopped.

– Ton règne vienne, ta volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel.

A pause, then two voices continued.

Donne-nous aujourd'hui notre pain quotidien. Jacob's voice rattled like pebbles underfoot. Pardonne-nous nos péchés, comme aussi nous pardonnons ceux qui nous ont offencés.

Isabelle, taking a deep breath, added her voice to theirs.

– Et ne nous induis point dans la tentation, mais délivre-nous du malin; car à toi appartient le règne, la puissance, et la gloire à jamais. Amen.

The man with the torch stood between them and the group of men. He stared at Marie, the silence stronger than ever.

– If you hurt us, she said, God will hurt you. He will hurt you very very badly.

– And what will he do to us, ma petite? the man asked, amused.

– Hush, Marie! Isabelle whispered.

– He will throw you in the fire! And you won't die, not right away. You will lie in it and then your guts will begin to ooze and boil. And your eyes will get bigger and bigger until pop! They explode!

This was no lesson from Monsieur Marcel. Isabelle recognized the details: Petit Jean had thrown a frog into the fire once and the children had gathered around to watch its demise.

The man did something Isabelle never would have expected from such a man in such a place: he laughed.

– You are very brave, ma pauvre, he said to Marie, but a little foolish. I would like you to be my daughter.

Isabelle clutched Marie's hand and the man laughed again.

– But why would I want a girl? he chuckled. What use are they?

He jerked his head at the others and extinguished the torch. All of them disappeared into the woods.

They waited for a long time; no one returned. Finally Etienne clicked his tongue and the horse continued, more slowly than before.

In the morning Isabelle found the first strand of red in Marie's hair. She pulled it out and burned it.