The Mark of the King Read online

  Of course, it was the dormitory holding pregnant women that interested Julianne the most. “I can help them,” she had suggested, then begged to be put to use. But though Sister Gertrude had known her before her incarceration, the nun pointed to Julianne’s shoulder and shook her head. Impossible. A branded convict was not allowed near birthing mothers, even if those in labor were but prostitutes or mendicants.

  Even if the convict was branded for a crime she didn’t commit—for such was her suspicion now. Months of lying awake at night, replaying Marguerite’s travail and death had revealed what shock and grief had kept hidden in the moment. The bowl that contained the blood Adelaide had drawn from Marguerite’s arm was far, far too full. Whether by calculation or accident, Marguerite’s fatal loss of blood had more to do with Adelaide’s actions than with the birth itself.

  Even so, if Julianne had paid closer attention to her client’s weakening pulse, if she had humbly called the surgeon in time . . . but she hadn’t. Whatever had driven Adelaide to go too far, was it pride that had held Julianne from going far enough in the care of her patient?

  Poor Marguerite. There was no undoing any of it.

  “We will never leave either, you know,” Julianne whispered between the snores of the other women.

  “Perhaps. There is talk on the outside.”

  Julianne frowned. “What kind of talk?”

  “Talk of freedom, for the small price of exile.”

  Memories sparked. Of edicts read in the streets, of rumors swirling about a Scotsman named John Law and his plan to populate the Louisiana colony with his Company of the Indies. Of wagon convoys winding through Paris full of people and returning with naught but matted hay. Of her brother Benjamin, a smooth-cheeked boy of fourteen when she saw him last. He was a man of eighteen now, the only family she had, and still in Louisiana somewhere.

  “They say Law is prowling for more colonists and taking another pass at the prisons to find them.”

  Julianne sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. “He wants convicts?”

  Wrapped in shadows, Emilie shook her head, and Julianne could not help but notice the roundness of her cheeks. With only a bowl of soup and two pounds of black bread a day, the fullness would soon melt away. “Who can say what he’s really after? They say this time he’s looking for girls of good character, a great many of them. So many, in fact, that Mother Superior has failed to supply his demand.”

  Julianne quietly considered this. Scant moonlight squeezed through the small windows near the ceiling, skimming the outlines in the room. Her life, which had once been full-bodied and multifaceted, was reduced to the repeated shapes of rectangles. The blocks of stone in the walls that hemmed her in. The wooden beds lining the walls, each one holding four to six inmates. The worktables and benches in the middle of the room, where she ate and stitched and listened to catechism readings twice every day. The slices of black bread, served day after day. This was all. Unlike stained-glass windows, which only needed the sun to transform their panes into a riot of living color, this existence was relentlessly, despairingly grey. The only variations were the weather that snuck in through the windows, new convicts who arrived by force, and the inmates who escaped by dying.

  “They say,” Emilie continued, “that a large sum would be paid to Salpêtrière for the girls, but only if enough are given. But they must be very good girls this time, not like you and me, for they are meant to be mothers, to settle the land for France.”

  “Who says this?”

  “I heard the guards talking. Surely they would know.”

  Julianne nodded while her thoughts spun. From some place unseen, another scream raked the night. If Salpêtrière was to be her home for the rest of her days, if she was never to see her brother again, or a newborn babe, or the beauty beyond these walls, she feared she would join the ranks of the insane long before her sentence expired. Adrift in meaningless monotony, her spirit was draining away with no lifeline in sight.

  Until now. A smile cracked her lips as a plan hoisted itself up from her swirling thoughts, unfurling with a single word.

  Louisiana.

  Mother Superior did not trouble herself to turn when Julianne, accompanied by Sister Gertrude, knocked on her doorframe and stood waiting for permission to enter. Against the window, the Superior’s habit seemed all the darker for the light spilling around her figure and landing in pale gold latticework across this sacred space. The polished crucifix on the wall, the rich embroidery on the kneeler below it, the food and drink on the desk—all of it made the office an oasis within Salpêtrière. Clinging to the edge of it, Julianne felt like a smudge of tarnish on a silver chalice.

  Sister Gertrude cleared her throat, and the Superior’s head dipped in an unconvincing nod. Her pale hand emerged from the folds of her habit in a gesture so fleeting it could well have been missed.

  At Sister Gertrude’s touch on the small of Julianne’s back, they entered. The smoky scent of cheese braided itself with the spicy steam lifting from the teacup on the desk and cinched a noose around Julianne’s empty stomach. But she had not come for hospitality.

  “I can help you.” The words slipped out quietly and sincerely, but for speaking out of turn, Julianne bit her lip in penance. Sister Gertrude’s eyes rounded in her softly lined face.

  The Superior looked heavenward. “This, from a supplicant,” she murmured, though whether to the saints above or simply to herself, Julianne could not guess. Slowly, the woman turned. “In what way do I need help, and how, pray, could you possibly be in a position to give it?”

  “Forgive the intrusion, Mother,” interjected Sister Gertrude, her hands swallowed up by her habit, “but we have a proposal for you to consider, which I believe is worth your time.”

  “In regard to?”

  “Your arrangement with John Law for a certain number of girls intended for Louisiana. I believe we have found a favorable solution.” Sister Gertrude smiled, and her full cheeks flushed pink.

  One eyebrow lifted on the Superior’s paper-white face. But her thin lips remained pulled tight.

  Julianne looked up, and the strings of her round bonnet tugged beneath her chin. “I volunteer. To be among them.”

  Now both eyebrows arched high on the Superior’s forehead. “My instructions are quite clear. Girls of good moral character only, no exceptions. Taken from the dormitories of the poor. From the orphanages. But you—” Her hand flitted toward Julianne’s shorn hair, a clear sign that she was from neither.

  Sister Gertrude slipped Julianne a silencing look. Turning to the Superior, the nun smiled again and gave a slight bow of respect. “If I may speak on the inmate’s behalf for but a moment. I have known Julianne Chevalier for more than three years, well before she was accused of the crime that brought her here. Before I began serving at Salpêtrière, I was attached to the church at Saint-Côme. As Saint-Côme is dedicated to the martyrs Côme and Damien, patron saints of surgery, the church has a special connection to medicine and to the poor. On the first Monday of every month, all sworn Parisian midwives attend holy services there, and afterwards, tend to the needs of poor pregnant or nursing women who have flocked there for that purpose. Surgeons also give lessons to midwives.”

  The Superior tilted her head. “I fail to see how this relates to the inmate.” Languidly, she brought her teacup to her lips, and wisps of steam curled around her veil. She set the cup back on its saucer without making a sound.

  Julianne rolled her lips between her teeth and prayed for favor.

  “Mademoiselle Chevalier was there as a midwife’s apprentice every month for three years. I watched her work with the poor. She is very good, rumored near the end to be better than the midwife she apprenticed with. I cannot believe she was guilty of the crime that has been assigned her.”

  Mother Superior looked at Julianne for a long moment, a ridge building between her eyebrows, her mouth gathering to one side. Tenting her fingers, her gaze landed on Julianne’s left sleeve as though she c
ould see the fleur-de-lys beneath her grey wool gown. “Nevertheless, the trial is over, and the mark of judgment is for life. You are not what Law had in mind for this shipment.”

  Julianne studied the lines framing the Superior’s eyes and mouth but could not measure just how much condemnation or pity they held. “Surely my character is sufficient for that of a Louisiana colonist.”

  “Your mark says otherwise.”

  “Forgive me, but if they are so intent on this large number of girls, will we each be examined upon delivery?” Surely not, if the colonizers were desperate enough for settlers that they now turned to Salpêtrière. The idea that this very desperation, which she was counting on to work in her favor, could also suggest untold hardships ahead—this she blew from her thoughts like chaff. She was resolved to her plan. It was the only avenue to freedom. To Benjamin. “Mother Superior, you are sending girls to Louisiana so that they may find husbands and begin families, yes? My skills do no good in Salpêtrière. But send me with the mothers-to-be, and I can help settle the colony by caring for the well-being of mothers and their babies.” Surely she did not need to point out that if the women died, so too would the colony.

  “If I may be so bold, Mother, a midwife’s skills are vital,” Sister Gertrude said.

  “Law was clear. He wanted only moral girls. And she is marked.”

  “He’ll never see it. Besides, the Company isn’t nearly as particular as they let on. We’ve given hundreds from our hospital, and they are combing the streets for more.”

  Mother Superior hesitated, and in that pause, Sister Gertrude grew bolder.

  “It is one million livres for Salpêtrière. Think of it! What we could do for souls here with that sum . . . but only if we deliver all the girls we agreed to.”

  “I understood that we found enough already.”

  “We lost another one.”

  “Since Tuesday?” The Superior’s tone lifted in surprise.

  “Catherine Foucault has died. I’ve just come from Hôtel-Dieu. And Julianne’s skills would be quite useful with this shipment in particular, even before they reach Louisiana. I warrant John Law has not thought of taking every precaution for the voyage.”

  Silence filled the room like water until Julianne felt as though she were drowning in it. She had to escape this place that swallowed up girls and kept madwomen in chains, that let them die and counted it normal. Louisiana was the only way out for Julianne, for the scores of Salpêtrière girls who had no hope of a future here in Paris. And the only way she would ever see her brother again. She dared to whisper, “I will go in Catherine’s place. So that you may still fulfill your contract with the Scotsman.”

  “My child.” The Superior’s voice was low and tremulous. “You do not know what you are asking.”

  “Please. Let me help. Allow me to be useful once again.”

  At length, the Superior nodded. “You leave tomorrow.” She crossed herself.

  Air seeped back into Julianne’s lungs, and with it, a quiet sense of victory. “May I ask—what is particular about this shipment that will require special precautions for the voy—”

  But Sister Gertrude ushered Julianne from the chamber before she could finish her question.

  Chapter Two

  Sunrise spangled the River Seine as the caravan of horse-drawn carts trundled over the bridge, away from Salpêtrière. Guards in white breeches and blue velvet jackets escorted the train on foot. Julianne jostled between a dozen girls in the same wooden cart, enclosed on all sides, used to haul common prostitutes to Salpêtrière. But this morning, her hope could not be caged.

  She peered from between the wooden slats of the cart, her senses quickening. While poor Catherine Foucault was being laid to rest, the city cried out with life. On both sides of the street, shutters and doors banged open as Parisians spilled outside. Above the muted tones of journeymen and apprentices working in their shops, street vendors competed for patrons.

  “Brooms for sale!”

  “Oysters in the shell. Oysters!”

  “Knife sharpening here! Get your blades sharp!”

  “Green walnuts!”

  The aromas of coffee and pastries and baked apples and cheese entwined with the sharp smells of an industrious city: leather, bread, horse manure, shoe polish, lye, freshly tanned rabbit skins. A milkmaid balanced a huge jug atop her head with one hand. Chimney sweeps, shoe shiners, rat catchers, woodcutters, bucket and bellows menders, letter writers, and water carriers called out their specialties.

  As the carts of girls from Salpêtrière rumbled by, few peddlers and pedestrians spared them a glance. Julianne thought she heard a passerby comment, laughingly, on “another likely shipment of hardy colonists for Louisiana.”

  Hardy, indeed. Every girl in her cart, and in all the others, was thin and yellowed from lack of sunshine, and many were ailing. Still, leaving Salpêtrière was the chance for a new life for all of them. Julianne could see the future no better than she could see the road ahead of the horses, but she rejoiced to leave.

  As the caravan rolled farther from the flurry near the river, leaves trampled under hoof and wheel spotted the road with crimson, marigold, and bronze. Footmen and their carriages rolled by in a blur of powdered wigs and tricorn hats.

  The carts slowed to a halt.

  “Out, and be quick about it.” Sunshine blinked on the guards’ gold buttons as they unlocked the doors and hurried the girls out into the street.

  Julianne shaded her eyes against the morning light as she gained her bearings. They had pulled up alongside a stone church only two stories high at its tallest point. “Where are we?”

  “Priory of Saint-Martin-des-Champs,” one of the men answered.

  “For a blessing?” someone guessed.

  “That’s not all you’ll be getting here.” His gruff laughter sent alarm coursing through Julianne, though his meaning remained shrouded. “Enter in silence and do not break it.”

  With the guards at their heels like sheepdogs, the girls were soon herded into the nave of the church and found it already teeming with the dregs of the city. Grease-stained rags hung on bone-thin frames. Eyes too large for their faces were made even wider with curious confusion. With the number arriving from Salpêtrière, Julianne estimated the sum at near three hundred people, maybe more. Men lined one side of the nave, women the other.

  Once all the girls from Salpêtrière had taken their positions with the women, a man in a richly embroidered silk waistcoat stepped into the open middle aisle and clapped twice for attention.

  “My name is Nicolas Picard, and I represent the Company of the Indies. It is our duty and pleasure to bring colonists to Louisiana under the authority of the illustrious John Law. You may have seen the broadsides and tracts advertising the colony—”

  Across from Julianne, many of the men shook their heads. Little wonder. If they were poor plucked from the city’s streets, as they looked to be, very likely they were also illiterate.

  Monsieur Picard recovered himself. “Forgive me. I forget I’m addressing prisoners.”

  Julianne squinted at the men’s tattered clothing. Were those prison uniforms? She’d never seen a male prisoner before, let alone scores of them. Her stomach rolled at the realization that she may share the same ship to Louisiana with them.

  “Louisiana offers much to be desired,” Picard was saying. “Gold and silver just waiting to be mined. The land abounds in game, and the soil is a miracle of fertility. Your new life there will agree with you, I assure you. As we speak, the carts outside are being loaded with new clothes and provisions for your voyage. Each couple will also receive a dowry of three hundred livres upon arrival.”

  Murmurs rippled through the nave. Strangers whispered to each other, “Does he mean for us to marry in Louisiana as soon as we land?”

  “You will settle the land for France together. Be fruitful and multiply in the name of King Louis XV. The sooner, so much the better.”

  The nave buzzed. Gasps broke f
rom young orphans who had never seen a man outside of the clergy. Some men grinned and laughed, winking brazenly across the nave at the scandalized and the willing alike. Pauper girls clutched the hands near theirs and muttered their defiance.

  Picard raised his arms. “Silence! I will have order! You will not leave this church until we accomplish one sacred act.” He lowered his arms to his sides and leveled his gaze at the women. “Girls, on my command, you will cross the room and choose for yourselves a husband. Do it silently; I must have order. You will all be wed within the hour.”

  Panic cycled up Julianne’s spine and snatched her breath away, even as she uttered a silent prayer for help. Choosing a groom at a moment’s notice, without passing a single word—how in heaven’s name could it be done?

  Picard crossed his arms as he looked out over the unmoving mass of prisoners and orphans. “What did you think? That we pay your passage for nothing? You were not rounded up for your brilliance in architecture, engineering, or botany, you know.” His laughter grated. “You were purchased. You belong to the king. Thankfully, your chief end is so simple even the beasts of the field need no instruction to manage it. Populate Louisiana and help secure our hold on the land. Now find your mate.”

  Blood rushed in Julianne’s ears so clamorously she barely noticed her sabots echoing from the floor to the vaulted ceiling. Following Picard’s instructions, the men formed two lines, three paces apart, and faced each other. The women were to walk between them, considering their selection. If a woman reached the end of the rows without having made her choice, she would be matched with the last man in the line closest to her by default.

  Heart banging against its cage, Julianne stepped forward for her turn. Bile rose, and she fought to keep it down. A rough hand reached out and grazed her sleeve as she passed. Step following step, she shuffled down the aisle as slowly as permissible while her mind whirred frantically.

  Yes, these men had all been prisoners, but she’d been branded a criminal herself. Was it not possible, then, that among this ragged assortment there may be others unjustly detained? She searched not for comeliness but for clues of character in each man’s form and posture. A jagged scar across a cheek—but was it from a drunken brawl or earned by protecting another from harm? A full set of teeth set in a roguish smile—was that the grooming of a gentleman imprisoned after a duel, or the charm of an adulterer, the deceit of a thief? Haunted, hollow eyes—but because he’d been hardened by a life of crime, or because he too could not stomach the fate handed to them here today?