Spreading news from one end of the village of Tamberleau to the other, and then on into the cottages and hovels dotting the surrounding farmland, was a favorite pastime of the old woman with the broom. She took particular delight in reporting on the misdeeds of men, being convinced that most men were slaves of the devil. When the Chevalier Gilot de Fournier rode into the village to claim his inheritance as the new Baron, on a bitterly cold winter morning in early December of 1356, the old woman cursed as he passed.

“The day of frozen death,” was how the old woman described it later. She would lean against her broom, her ragged clothing fluttering in the wind, and spit on the ground for emphasis. “Death, brought by the devil into Tamberleau.” Her listeners would nod slightly, nervous in their agreement. The old woman had a reputation for candor in the tiny hamlet, a trait not entirely praised by the villagers. Their eagerness for honesty had gone into hiding, shuttered behind helplessness and fear.

During the months following the Chevalier’s arrival, the mood of the inhabitants of the tiny French village had soured. The had begun to shutter their windows after nightfall, blocking all hints of candlelight within. They did all they could to avoid any interaction with their new master.

Far less fortunate was the Chevalier’s new ward, Violette, the only daughter of the late Baron of Tamberleau. Having been warned by the castle steward, Perrot, and the cook, Henriot, about de Fournier’s depraved reputation, she greeted him on his arrival with a remote politeness.

Violette nineteenth’s birthday had come and gone in sorrow over her father’s death at the battle of Poitiers, followed by the passing of her mother, Juliote, from grief and fever. Forced to submit to de Fournier’s guardianship, as her last remaining relative, she found his blandishments repulsive. She considered running away, but had nowhere to go, and no money of her own. She felt utterly helpless.

Having experienced the depth of her father’s love, Violette began to regard de Fournier as a monster. She moved through her days with a fierce determination to survive, surrounding herself with an air of hardness whenever she entered the Chevalier’s presence. Her resolve might have broken in those first few months if she had known what de Fournier had in store for her. As it was, her girlish optimism prevented her from sensing the danger that she was in.

How could she know, after all? Before de Fournier’s arrival, Tamberleau had been an exceptionally good place to live, even though the serfs and freemen and their families had experienced suffering on a massive scale. The Black Death had ravaged France, crushing lives without regard to poverty or wealth. Endless skirmishes with the English had drained villages of the strongest young men, driving the old into a grey exhaustion of overwork.

Unable to escape the evils of war and disease, the people of Tamberleau gave thanks instead for a blessing equally beyond their control. Their gift from God, as they referred to him privately, was Anthoine, Baron de Tamberleau. Ruling the lands surrounding the village from a castle on a small hill jutting above the north side of Tamberleau, the Baron was a man driven by a passionate faith in kindness.

Anthoine had wanted to be a priest, but at the last moment, just months before taking his vows, his commitment was shattered by the immediacy of romantic love. To the relief of his parents, he married Juliote, the daughter of a noble family from the south. In his love for Juliote, Anthoine found his soul stirred by the immediacy of her compassionate nature. Her love for those around her convinced him that God was the God of the here and now, the God who looked at peasants the way that an artist looked at flowers. He declared to Juliote that the Savior Himself was a man who loved everyone, and that he would do his best to follow the Lord’s example. Juliote smiled and murmured that Anthoine was the best of men, far better than the neighboring barons.

The villagers mourned the passing of Anthoine’s parents, but rejoiced at the kindness that the new Baron showed to the people under his care. He kept rents low, and frequently walked through the fields, talking with the serfs as if they were his old friends. Juliote supported his “strange ways,” as his noble friends described his habits, and encouraged him when he hosted celebrations in the castle courtyard.

When Juliote gave birth to a daughter in the autumn of 1337, Anthoine hosted a celebration that lasted for days. The Baron and Juliote christened her “Violette”, and chatted endlessly with visiting nobles about their new daughter. Anthoine’s friends would shrug in bewilderment, for such enthusiasm about a child was incomprehensible to them. Anthoine ignored them, and increasingly spent time in his chapel, in contemplative prayer, seeking to reconcile the harshness of social customs with his awakening conscience.

As Violette grew into an exceptionally beautiful young girl, the Baron and his daughter developed a bond of friendship that was marveled at by the villagers. Many barons ignored their daughters, and Anthoine’s dedication to his daughter was deemed strange indeed.

When Anthoine was periodically summoned to the court of King Philippe VI, Violette would accompany him as he rode down the hill to the edge of the village. With the town of Saint-Germain-en-Laye visible in the far distance, and the spires of Paris just beyond, he would stop at their favorite tree and hug her tightly, promising to bring her sweets from the town. Although he was often gone for many weeks, he always kept his promise. On his return, he would pinch her nose, look at her gravely and inquire about the state of her stomach. “Quite empty,” she would giggle, as she plunged her hand into his coat pocket in search of his newest goodies. Her mother would smile and busy herself admiring the yards of cloth that the Baron had purchased.

Violette spent most of her early childhood climbing trees and playing with the children who ran through the courtyard of the Baron’s castle. Even the Black Death, which had taken many of the villagers, was unable to quell her natural exuberance. Her best friend was Martine, the daughter of a flower grower. Martine was a scamp and would often pull Violette into adventures beyond the castle walls. One day, when both girls were twelve, Martine challenged her to a foot race from the castle to the river. They ran and ran, until quite exhausted, they arrived at the river’s edge and flopped down on the moss under a tree. The river wasn’t very big; more like a stream than a river, but to the two girls it was very grand indeed.

Violette sighed as she leaned against the trunk of the tree, gazing admiringly at the dragonflies buzzing across the water.

“Isn’t life glorious, Martine?”

Martine nodded in agreement, her carrot-colored hair tumbling over her face. “It is, Vi, it is.”

They became bemused and drowsy as they stared at the hypnotic water, imagining the different lands the river saw on its way to the sea. Suddenly, Violette sat up, and in the excited way that young girls often have, she turned to Martine and grasped her hands tightly.

“Martine! We should pledge our undying friendship to each other. To always be there for each other, no matter what.”

Martine agreed, and they cried and hugged each other as they swore a dramatic pledge of sisterhood. Walking back to the castle, Violette held Martine’s arm tightly, her heart full and deeply happy. Violette was a romantic; impetuous in her generosity to the point of excess. Her mother sometimes reproved her for caring too much and giving without thought beforehand. Secretly, however, Juliote admired her daughter and frequently told the Baron that God had given them more grace than they deserved.

The next few years passed very quickly for Violette and Martine. Their increasing loveliness brought them attention from boys of all kinds. They would giggle, and exchange notes on the various attributes -- or lack thereof, of their latest suitors. Violette felt flattered by all the attention, but never responded to any of it. She told Martine that she knew her prince would come, from where she knew not. Until then, she would wait. Her parents had received many offers from nobles interested in her hand, but refused them all. Having married for love themselves, they yielded to Violette’s wishes.

Martine met her prince at her nineteenth birthday party, in September of 1356. Berthelmi was the son of a tenant-farmer and spent most of his time in the fields, plowing and grubbing in the dirt. The Baron, at Violette’s insistence, had thrown a small birthday party and dance in the courtyard, and had invited the local freemen and serfs to attend with their families. When Berthelmi arrived, Martine took one look at him, and whispered to Violette, “That’s him.” By the end of the dance, Martine and Berthelmi were oblivious to the winks and knowing glances of the farmers and their wives. At the end of the dance, Violette ran to her father and hugged him tightly.

“Thank you, Papa! Martine is so happy now”.

Anthoine, who at that moment was reading a dispatch from the court, smiled in a distracted sort of way. “You’re welcome, Vi. I’m glad she liked it.” Violette waved gaily as she skipped out of the room on her way to her mother’s bedroom. The Baron watched her go, his smile disappearing as soon as she left the room.

The dispatch brought serious news. Edward the Black Prince had crossed the Channel from England, and the new French King, Jean le Bon, was marching his troops toward Poitiers. The Baron had grown weary of war, but saw no way to avoid leaving his family once again. Most of his relatives had died, either from the plague, or during the long war with England. The Baron had been in many battles, and didn’t need his wife to tell him that his chances of survival were becoming thin. Juliote cried bitterly when he told her that he had to leave once again. She clutched him desperately, pleading with him not to go.

Anthoine tried to comfort her, saying, “It is my duty to the King, my dear, and to our people. If the English conquer us, what will happen to our village?”

Violette was aware of her parents’ sadness, but felt powerless to intervene. She accompanied her father and his small group of men-at-arms as they rode out of the castle. Holding the reins of his horse, she looked up at him with tears running down her cheeks. “Papa, you must keep safe, and be home in time for my birthday.”

The Baron stroked her hair and smiled. “Almost nineteen, like Martine, eh, Vi?”

She twisted her hands in the folds of his surcoat. “But will you keep safe, Papa? You must!”

He looked at her gravely. “With God’s help, Vi. With God’s help.”

Arriving at the edge of their land, he took her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Take care of your Mama, Vi.”

“Yes, Papa.” She stood silently as he cantered down the path. At the bottom of the hill, just before he rounded the corner out of sight, he stopped and waved. Violette waved as he and the men turned the corner. Walking back to the castle, her feeling of dread was overpowering.

•  •  •

Violette’s birthday arrived, but the Baron had not returned. Juliote tried to mask her worry, but barely succeeded. Violette had heard her mother crying in the night, and tried to comfort her as bravely as she could. A gloom had descended over the castle, with the servants exchanging glances and looking at Juliote with sympathetic eyes. The Baron was a good master, and everyone feared the worst.

More days passed, and then two of the men-at-arms returned. They were filthy and stank of smoke and blood and fear. When Juliote saw them, she shrieked and ran to them, shaking them wildly.

“Where is the Baron? Where is he? Tell me!”

They staggered back from her, and shook their heads, muttering their news. The battle of Poitiers had gone badly indeed. Two thousand men had been captured by the English, among them the King himself. Many men had died. The Baron had been valiant, leading a large force of men in the early stages of the battle. Victory seemed certain until Prince Edward’s troops rallied for a counterattack and broke the French lines. The Baron was felled by English arrows, pierced through the neck and stomach. He lay bleeding on the field as the French army was routed and fled past him in panic. When his men-at-arms reached him, he was dead. They buried him hastily, with some of the best of King Jean’s nobles.

Juliote by this time had collapsed on the road, weeping hysterically. Violette fought back her tears and motioned to the servants to help her as she tried to lift her mother. They carried Juliote back to the castle, placing her gently in her bed. Her face had grown pale with shock and her tears had stopped. Her eyes were dark and wild and Violette grew frightened at the sight of them.

Over the next month, Juliote grew sicker. The servants brought in apothecaries and herbalists from Saint-Germain-en-Laye and even the Mother Superior from the Convent. None of them succeeded in breaking what seemed to be an inevitable slide toward death for Juliote. She had simply lost the will to live. The Mother Superior, who was a stern but kind woman, inquired with the servants about the Baron’s next of kin. Perrot, the castle steward, shook his head grimly.

“I’m afraid, Madame, that it’s very bad news indeed.”

She raised her eyebrow and stared at him. “And why is that?”

His expression grew more dismal and he quite literally wrung his hands.

“The Baron’s relatives all died during the Black Death, Madame. Only one heir is left.”

“Yes, and ... ?”

Henriot, the chief cook, who was standing next to the steward, interrupted. “He’s a terrible, terrible man, Madame. An evil man, I’m sure of it. A devil of a man.”

Perrot nodded in agreement. “His name is Gilot de Fournier. He lives in Paris. He’s a Chevalier.”

“You mean in the brothels of Paris,” the cook said. “The brothels and gaming houses. And don’t forget the taverns.”

The Mother Superior clucked in disapproval. “A devil indeed!”

“Yes, Madame,” Perrot said. He glanced at Henriot disapprovingly, for in Perrot’s view of the world, one should not talk with women about such things.

Henriot, relishing any chance to make Perrot uncomfortable, continued without hesitation. “We’ve heard he’s exceedingly cruel to women, and to men, for that matter. He’s killed many men in duels. Especially husbands. He prides himself on deflowering maids by force on their wedding night.”

“But that is rape,” said the Mother Superior. “Why is he not in prison?”

“Because he is the devil, Madame,” stated Perrot. “No one can catch the devil.”

The Mother Superior thanked them and went to Juliote’s bedside to pray. The local priest, Father Nouel, was administering the last rights. Finishing, he nodded at her as he left the chamber. Violette was sitting by her mother, sleeping in her chair, worn out from long days and nights of tending to her mother. The Mother Superior smoothed the covers of Juliote’s bed, gazing sadly at her. She had been fond of the Baron and his wife and had often listened to the Baron speak of his daughter with pride. Her heart was heavy as she woke Violette and helped her to her bedroom. Knowing the law of inheritance as she did, she saw little hope for the girl. Returning to Juliote’s bedchamber, she sat down heavily in the chair, unable to shake her depression as she watched far into the night.

As dawn filtered through the narrow windows of the castle, the Mother Superior woke with a start in time to hear Juliote moaning incoherently, a flush of pain across her forehead. Then, with a long sigh, Juliote died. Offering a prayer to the Virgin, the Mother Superior crossed herself and gathered her strength to comfort Violette.

The Mother Superior’s fears for Violette were soon to be confirmed. Having informed her good friend, the Mayor of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, about the Chevalier de Fournier, she felt helpless and depressed as a courier was sent to Paris to find him. In December, as the first of the heavy snows blanketed the countryside, she was informed that de Fournier had arrived at the Baron’s castle. The Mayor, Mssr. Dubois, shrugged and spread his hands expressively.

“Madame, there is nothing we can do. He is now the new Baron, and thus the guardian of your young friend. We can only pray for her.”

The Mother Superior’s dismay was severe. She considered herself a woman of faith, but it seemed to her that God should not allow such a devil of a man to rise in the world. She spent many hours in the convent chapel, praying for a solution. None came, and soon, caught up in the duties of convent life, she focused her attention elsewhere.

•  •  •

The new Baron was in a position, as he reminded himself daily, of an alley cat who had fallen into a cage filled with canaries. He had spent much of his adult life running from the punishment of the law, but now, with the civil unrest caused by King Jean’s defeat rippling across the countryside, he felt bold and flushed with the arrogance that often comes with undeserved power. Surveying his new lands, and the numerous serfs and freemen that supported the castle, he experienced a thrill of expectation. To de Fournier, people were placed on the earth by God, or more accurately from his point of view the Devil, to serve his needs.

Standing by a south window in the castle, he stared out at the snow swirling through the village streets. He had arrived at the castle that morning unannounced, delighting in the consternation on the faces of the staff. Now, with a large tankard of ale in his hand, he could hardly contain his glee at his elevated circumstances. De Fournier belched, scratching his thin beard absentmindedly. Picking up a large bell on the table next to him, he rang it vigorously.

A serving girl entered the room and curtsied.

“Yes, my Lord?”

De Fournier stared at her, mentally noting that he would have to inquire about her further. “Get the steward, right away.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

A moment later, Perrot entered, bowing. “May I be of service, Baron?”

De Fournier grinned. “Baron. Yes. That’s me. I like that.”

“Yes, Monsieur.” Perrot nodded and waited.

“Bring me the ledgers of the castle, Perrot. I need to know how much I’m worth.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Perrot left and returned a few moments later, carrying a large ledger under his arm. Placing it on a table, he opened it and invited de Fournier to examine it.

•  •  •

During the next few months, the castle staff and the villagers became grimly aware of the sharp change in their status. The new Baron never bothered to visit the villagers in their homes unless he was prowling for young women to invite to one of his many revels in the castle. At first, many of the women of the village were attracted by de Fournier’s practiced compliments. His tales of the splendor of Paris enticed them and made the village men seem crude by comparison. Feasting and drinking at the grand table in the castle’s dining hall was a lure that caught them by surprise.

The young women and their parents soon discovered that de Fournier’s veneer of civility covered a monumental disregard for human feelings. Leaving a string of discarded and weeping girls behind him was, for de Fournier, a matter of no significance at all. He grew bored with each woman within days or even hours. His primary desire was to bed them and move on.

The serfs and freemen of the village appealed to Perrot, the castle steward, pleading with him to do something, but Perrot, though sympathetic, was unwilling to risk the Baron’s anger. Positions as castle stewards were few. The temper of the villagers grew worse when de Fournier brought in a score of men-at-arms from Paris; brutes who had no loyalty to the village or its residents. In the unrest following the King’s defeat at Poitiers, the villagers felt isolated, with no one to hear their pleas.

•  •  •

It was in this atmosphere of pervading discontent that the old woman declared that Tamberleau was cursed. Merriment, frozen solid on the fateful morning of de Fournier’s arrival, stayed behind locked doors as the surrounding countryside responded to the first winds of spring. As the villagers turned over the rich earth of their fields for the first planting, their mood prevented them from appreciating the glory of the flowers springing up around them. Glancing balefully at the castle, they were as unaware of the beauty of nature as they were of the outrage soon to be visited upon them by de Fournier.

The betrothal of Berthelmi and Martine had been announced before Anthoine had left for the battle of Poitiers. With the death of Anthoine and Juliote, and the arrival of de Fournier, the young couple had decided to wait until the spring to marry. Martine had come under the eye of de Fournier almost immediately, on one of her many visits to see Violette. He had attempted more than once to seduce Martine with invitations to dine at his table, but Martine, encouraged by the boldness of Violette and fueled by her own love of Berthelmi, had managed to resist him. Now, as spring arrived, Violette warned Martine to stop visiting her at the castle until her wedding was over. Taking her friend’s advice, Martine stayed away.

When asked by de Fournier of Martine’s whereabouts, Violette responded vaguely, doing her best to distract the Baron with comments about castle supplies and the schedule of his many dinner parties. With the death of Juliote, Violette had become the keeper of the keys to the castle, fulfilling the position of hostess and coordinating the castle’s affairs with Perrot and the cook, Henriot. Her position was tenuous, for although she was the highest ranking woman in the castle, she was also now the legal ward of de Fournier. With no rights of her own, and no husband to protect her, she was at the mercy of the Baron’s perverse whims. Her only defense was her strength of character. When the Baron tried to involve her in his more debauched parties with some of his friends from Paris, she flatly refused and told him that unless he wanted a dead ward and a scandal, he should stop asking. Perplexed by her spirit, he simply cursed and told her to get out of his sight. Gratefully, she did.

Unexpectedly, her parents’ death had strengthened Violette. At first, grieving for her father after his death, Violette had considered ending her life. Her love for her father had been extraordinary. She had dreamed of her father after his death, and one night, had seen him. Sobbing until she was hoarse, she had fallen asleep fully dressed. Waking with a start, she saw her father sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at her with what she later confided to Martine was the most loving expression she had ever seen. She reached for him, desperate to embrace him, but was unable to touch him. He simply smiled, and blew her a kiss before he disappeared.

She had tried to tell her mother of her father’s visitation, but had found her mother irritable with fever, unable to believe her. When her mother died, Violette started to sink into despair, until her father appeared once more. She had slumped into a chair in his study, disconsolate, when she looked up to see her father standing by the window. His face was sad, but firm, as he looked at her. Then he was gone. Praying by the riverbank later that day, Violette determined that she would never give in to hopelessness again.  

The river had become Violette’s sanctuary. She loved sitting under the magnificent trees at its edge, and often found solace there in the company of Martine. One afternoon, as the wind scudded across the water, Violette wailed in desperation as she looked into Martine’s sympathetic eyes.

“Martine, what will happen to me? How can I escape from the monster?”

Martine hugged her tightly, stroking Violette’s forehead. “We must find a knight to love you and save you, Vi.”

“A knight!” Violette’s tone was bitter. “They are all dead or captured by the English.”

“Not all, Vi. God gave me my lovely Berthelmi. He’s only a farmer, but there must be a knight for you somewhere.”

Violette’s tears streaked through the dust on her cheeks as she stared at the swirling water of the river. Her father had planned to take her to court when he returned from Poitiers, to introduce her to a number of promising young men. With the French defeat at Poitiers, many of those same young knights were dead. Now, under de Fournier’s guardianship, her chances of finding the love of a good man seemed nonexistent. Yet, to close the door on the prospect of romantic love was an impossible act for Violette. Her nature would not permit it. She smiled bravely at Martine, as she squeezed her fondly.

“I’ll be fine, Martine. Don’t worry. Let’s talk about you. And your wedding!”

Martine blushed, and proceeded to tell Violette every detail of the upcoming event.

•  •  •

When Violette returned to the castle, she found de Fournier waiting for her in his study. He looked particularly pleased with himself, pacing gleefully like a leopard on the prowl. When he saw her, he motioned to a man standing next to him.

“Violette, I have a great surprise for you. This is Etienne, the Vicomte de Moncherat. I have arranged for you to marry him in three month’s time.”

Violette clutched the back of a chair as she stared at the two men in horror. The Vicomte de Moncherat was of an indeterminate middle age and would have been reasonably attractive if his face had not been covered by smallpox scars. His eyes looked like round stones as he stepped forward and bowed slightly, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Enchanté.”

Violette curtsied out of habit, trying to formulate an answer. Glaring at de Fournier, she finally managed to open her mouth.

“No, my Lord, I will not.”

De Fournier just laughed, glancing at de Moncherat. “I told you she was feisty, Vicomte. You’ll have your hands full in bed, I can assure you.”

De Moncherat looked bored, as he gazed at Violette, undressing her with his eyes. “You bedded her? I will only marry a virgin.”

De Fournier shook his head. “Of course not, Vicomte. She’s my ward. Even I wouldn’t do that.”

“Knowing you, I cannot be sure, de Fournier,” de Moncherat replied. “You told me she is a distant relation. By law you could marry her. I must know if she’s untouched.”

“Certainly, Vicomte.” De Fournier turned toward the door and bellowed. “Lucien! Come at once!”

A moment later, Lucien, one of de Fournier’s men-at-arms, entered with a nervous looking woman. Lucien and the woman came up to Violette, who shrank back, looking at de Fournier.

“What is this, my Lord? Who is this woman?”

De Fournier waved his hand casually, winking at de Moncherat. “Nothing to be concerned about my dear. She’s simply going to check if you’ve been naughty.”

Violette began to tremble violently, her face ashen. “I will not allow it, Baron. You must not do this.” She tried to thrust the woman away, blinking back angry tears.

The Baron motioned to Lucien. “Lucien, place her on that table. Nurse, you must check her thoroughly.”

Lucien was a very large man and a very rough man, but he found it difficult to restrain Violette. Finally, with the help of the other two men, he managed to force her onto a long oak table, where she continued to fight against their grip. The nurse was quick and efficient, and soon straightened up, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“She never had a man, my Lord.”

De Fournier looked triumphantly at de Moncherat, as Violette fled into a corner of the room, clutching her clothes about her and shaking uncontrollably. “Well, Vicomte? Will she do?”

De Moncherat examined his fingernails studiously. “How much did we say, de Fournier?”

“One thousand livres, Vicomte, for the most spirited girl you’ll ever see, to bear you many sons.”

De Moncherat coughed politely. “One thousand is too much for such a wild female. Perhaps you will consider a lower price.”

Violette screamed at de Fournier. “You’re going to sell me? Like a pig in the market?”

De Fournier shrugged at Violette. “I need the money, my dear. My parties are expensive, and the Vicomte de Moncherat has had no luck in finding a wife. It may perhaps be because his venereal leprosy is so well known in Paris.” De Fournier smirked. “Considering that, Vicomte, one thousand for a wife is not too much.”

De Moncherat glowered at the Baron. “You are indiscreet, Baron. You are also running out of money. You need my help more than I need her.”

De Fournier shrugged and thought for a moment, and then sighed. “Eight hundred and fifty, de Moncherat. That’s as low as I can go.”

The Vicomte de Moncherat nodded in agreement. “Acceptable.” He barely looked at Violette as he walked to the door. “Am I invited for dinner?”

“But of course, Vicomte!” de Fournier said. “Of course. You are my most honored guest.” As they left the study, de Fournier looked triumphantly at Violette. “Straighten your clothes, girl, and tell Perrot we have a guest.”

•  •  •

When the old woman heard the news of Violette’s betrothal, and the details of her brutal examination, she turned to the kitchen girl who brought the news from the castle and demanded angrily if it was true.

“But, yes, Madame.” The kitchen girl was adamant. “I heard it from one of the cooks, who heard it from a man-at-arms. It is true, indeed. Mademoiselle Violette will be married in three months.”

The old woman spat, and shrieked, “Cursed. Cursed!” Clutching her broom, she hurried down the street, muttering violently to herself.

•  •  •

Of all the villagers, Martine and Berthelmi were the most upset by the misery of Violette’s situation. Deeply in love, they were due to be married in two days time. Violette had obtained permission from de Fournier to allow them to be married in the castle chapel. De Fournier had sneered, but consented. Now, knowing how much Violette was suffering, Martine went to her friend and offered to move the ceremony to another location.

“Impossible!” said Violette. She and Martine were sitting in Violette’s bedroom. “Absolutely impossible. You must keep your plans. I will not let that ogre ruin your life too.”

Martine examined Violette’s face carefully. Violette’s demeanor was cold, and hard, but Martine knew that it was a facade, covering up hours of secret prayers and weeping in the middle of the night. “What can I do, Vi?”

Violette’s face suddenly grew tender as she looked at her friend. “Nothing, my dear. God will show me the way. You mustn’t worry. This is the time for you to love Berthelmi and be happy.” Her tone changed, and she said briskly, “Now, let’s go to the new cottage that Berthelmi has built for you.”

Martine looked worried, but agreed, and the two girls went arm-in-arm to view what was indeed a splendid cottage at the edge of the village. Berthelmi had labored hard, with the help of some of his friends, and had built a small cottage at the end of a tree-lined path, that he and Martine would occupy on the night of their wedding.

Berthelmi was outside the cottage when the girls arrived, placing flower pots on the windowsills. He turned and smiled at Violette, bowing awkwardly and touching his forelock. He had never quite gotten used to the idea that Martine was on such friendly terms with Violette, and felt in constant awe of her. Now, even more embarrassed that he knew of Violette’s circumstances, his face flushed red, and he mumbled an inarticulate hello.

Martine took his hand and looked at him proudly. “See, Vi! He’s done a perfect job on such a lovely cottage! Isn’t it beautiful!”

Violette looked at the cottage admiringly. “Yes, indeed. Berthelmi, it’s very lovely.”

The three of them walked around the cottage, admiring it from every angle, and gradually Berthelmi relaxed a little, holding Martine’s hand tightly. As they walked back to the front of the dwelling, they heard the sound of horses clattering down the dirt path to the cottage. The Baron rode up, with two of his men-at-arms, and jerked his horse to a halt as they looked up at him. He was smiling in a peculiar fashion as he looked at Martine. Sitting arrogantly in his saddle, he sneered at Berthelmi.

“I’m here to claim first night. Jus primae noctis. Droit du seigneur. The lord’s right. The right to be the progenitor instead of this simpleton.”

Berthelmi flushed, looking at Martine and Violette questioningly. They were equally puzzled, never having heard the phrases de Fournier had said. Violette had been educated by Anthoine in Latin, but the meaning still escaped her.

“The law of the first night?” Violette said. “What do you mean, my Lord?”

De Fournier grinned at his men, who leered back, winking at each other. “Do you people know nothing? As the Baron, it is my right to lie with the bride on her wedding night.” He looked at Violette. “You should know that much, girl. Your father must have done so.”

Violette was too busy supporting a stricken Martine to say more than a bitter, “Never!” Martine was swaying, her face drained of color. Violette and Berthelmi supported her as they guided her to a bench in the front garden.

De Fournier laughed as he swung his horse around and cantered back up the path, shouting over his shoulder, “I expect her to be ready! I will come back the day after tomorrow, after your wedding feast.”

Berthelmi’s face was distorted with rage, and Violette had to pull desperately on his arm to prevent him from running after the Baron. “No, Berthelmi. No! That’s not the way. He will kill you before you even strike him once.”

“Then what, Mademoiselle Violette? Then what shall we do?” He slumped onto the bench, next to Martine, pulling her to him. Martine’s eyes were wide as she stared at Violette. Her breathing was labored, her voice thin as she spoke.

“Vi, I will die first.” She placed her hand on Berthelmi’s cheek. “I love you, Berthelmi, but I cannot do that. I will not do that.”

Violette hugged her and took Martine’s face in her hands, staring into her eyes. “Do you remember my oath to you, Martine? When we were twelve? I will not let this happen. On my own life, I swear to you, this will never happen.”

They sat together on the bench, with the sunlight filtering through the green and gold leaves, not speaking. Gradually, Martine’s breathing quieted until finally they stood up and made their way up the path to the village.

•  •  •

Violette’s hatred for de Fournier had now reached the point where she couldn’t bear to be in his presence. To her, the Baron had become synonymous with all that was evil in the world. For Martine’s sake, however, she gathered her strength to plead with the Baron to change his mind. Confronting him at dinner, in front of his friends, she begged him to honor the love between Berthelmi and Martine. He simply laughed, refusing to call Berthelmi by his name, but instead using the common name given to serfs.

“That Jacques! What do I care for him! The wench is mine and I will hear no more of it.”

Violette stormed from the room, her hands clenched tightly together. That night, in her room, she knelt by her altar and prayed, tears streaming down her cheeks, pleading with God for an answer. She beseeched her father to appear before her, and give her an answer, but there was no response.

Around three in the morning, as she whispered in her prayer, her face lit up, and then darkened, with an answer. It was a terrible answer, a fearful solution, and she rejected it outright at first. Continuing to pray, as she rose and paced the room, shaking her head at the enormity of the thought, she began to feel that there was no other way. Finally, as the dawn light filtered through her bedroom window, she sighed and lay down. Within seconds, she was asleep.

After rising late, groggy from her night of prayer, she quickly splashed water on her face and went in search of the Baron. She found him in the castle courtyard, examining the shoe of his horse. Jehan, one of his sycophants from Paris, was sitting on a barrel, lazily watching the Baron. Violette tried her best to smile as she spoke.

“My Lord, Martine has agreed to make herself ready, but on one condition.”

De Fournier looked up at her, placing the horse’s foot back on the ground. “Agreed? She has no choice.”

Violette nodded. “Yes, my Lord, she knows that. But it would be more enjoyable for you if she complied with sweetness and humility, would it not? Also, she has said that unless you agree with her condition, she will end her life. Then you will have nothing.”

Jehan plucked a straw from his mouth and waved it at the Baron. “She has a point, my Lord Baron. Bedding a woman is far more enjoyable if she’s eager to please you.”

De Fournier scowled at him, and then glared at Violette. “Well, what’s the condition?”

Violette smiled at Jehan. “Thank you, Monsieur. You are very clever.” Turning to the Baron, she said, “It is very simple, my Lord. Martine insists that she wear a veil and she insists that you pledge your most sacred oath to not look at her face for any reason.”

Jehan looked interested. “A veil. Very enchanting. It reminds me of a Moorish woman I knew.”

The Baron was puzzled. “But why a veil? I know what she looks like.”

Violette suddenly looked demure, and shyly looked at the ground as she replied. “Because, my Lord, she said that if she wears a veil she will not be able to see you clearly, and then she will be able to imagine that you are Berthelmi. She will be able to please you better if she does so. But if you lift the veil, the spell will be broken. Your pleasure will be decreased.”

“More and more enchanting!” Jehan exclaimed. “Who is this woman? May I take her after you, Baron?”

De Fournier licked his lips as he stared at Violette. “She said that?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He caressed the horse’s neck as he thought about her words. He looked at his friend and asked, “What say you? Should I accept? I can take her any way I want, but perhaps this will make it more interesting.”

Jehan clapped his hands. “Oh yes, indeed. It’s very exciting. I will compose a poem about it afterwards. You must accept.”

The Baron nodded. “Then I accept her terms.”

Violette hid her feelings as she answered. “She said you must swear an oath; an oath on all that you hold sacred.”

De Fournier laughed. “I hold nothing sacred except my manhood.”

“Then swear that if you look at her face, your manhood will shrivel and die.”

At this, Jehan and the Baron both stared at Violette, startled at her words. Jehan broke the silence first. “Mademoiselle, such a thing to say!”

The Baron was gaping at Violette. He had heard far worse from many ladies of his acquaintance, but he didn’t expect it from Violette. He was at a loss for words.

Violette held her ground, and repeated her request. “Unless you are afraid, you must swear it.”

At this, the Baron flushed. He hated being accused of cowardice, especially since he had done everything in his power to avoid fighting the English. “I am afraid of nothing, girl. Watch yourself!” He paused for a moment. “I accept then. I swear that I will not look at her face, and if I do, my manhood will shrivel.”

“And die,” she said.

“Yes, yes, and die! Are you satisfied?”

Violette curtsied and smiled. “It is you my Lord, who will be satisfied. She has pledged that you will be most satisfied if you comply with her condition.”

Violette curtsied again and left the courtyard. Jehan and the Baron watched her go, shaking their heads in wonderment.

•  •  •

The next morning was a beautiful spring day. The flowers planted by Father Nouel were in magnificent bloom around the entrance to the chapel. The priest stood by the door as he watched the families and friends of Martine and Berthelmi enter the castle courtyard and file into the chapel. Most of them had never been in the chapel before, and shuffled awkwardly to the pews, unsure of what to do. The priest, a sharp-faced man in his forties, knew most of them by name, having visited them many times in their homes. As he studied their faces, he felt a twinge of worry, mixed with sympathy. Their expressions were glum and resentful, with barely contained rage glinting from their eyes. Martine’s father, Didier, the local flower grower, clenched his fists over and over, as he sat stiffly in his pew. Father Nouel had heard the news of de Fournier’s intention to claim Martine on her wedding night, and had responded with outrage. He was a compassionate man, and felt deeply frustrated that he couldn’t do anything to help.

The priest was jerked out of his reverie by the sight of Martine entering the courtyard, walking arm in arm with Berthelmi and Violette. Martine was pale but composed, and was dressed in a beautiful gown that Violette had given to her. As they entered the chapel, the priest nodded at them, unable to speak for a moment.

Guiding them to the front of the chapel, he motioned to the congregation to stand. The ceremony was brief and simple. Berthelmi and Martine exchanged vows, and Berthelmi placed a pewter wedding ring on Martine’s finger. When he kissed Martine, at the end of the ceremony, Martine’s mother began sobbing loudly, and collapsed in her pew. Martine’s father comforted her briefly, and then announced to the congregation that they were all invited to an afternoon of games and feasting at his home.

•  •  •

The celebration was a mixed affair. The villagers tried to drown their anger toward de Fournier in as much ale as they could imbibe. Martine and Berthelmi put on a brave face, while Violette seemed remote and withdrawn. In the late afternoon, it began to rain heavily, and the villagers dispersed to their own cottages. The bride and groom and Violette joined Martine’s parents for a quiet meal in the family’s cottage. The atmosphere was crackling with tension, but no one said anything. Martine’s father kept fingering a large knife he had at his belt, until Martine saw him. Coming over to him, she twined her arms around his neck and gazed up at him.

“Papa, you must not worry. I will manage. I love Berthelmi and he loves me. This night will pass.” She placed her hand on his knife, with her eyes entreating him. “Please don’t use your knife. Please stay home tonight. You must promise me.”

Her father stared at her, wordless, his face contorted in pain. “How can I let him do this to you? How can I?”

Martine stroked his cheek. “You must not worry, Papa.” She paused, glancing at Violette, who imperceptibly shook her head. Martine went to her mother, who was wringing her hands, standing by the fire, and gently took her arm. Guiding her over to her father, she hugged them both very tightly. “Mama, papa, promise me you’ll stay home tonight. I will come back in the morning, and everything will be fine. That is my pledge to you both.”

Her father turned to Berthelmi, who was quietly adjusting his cloak by the door. “And you, Berthelmi? Have you nothing to say? If your parents were still alive, they would have many things to say about this.”

Berthelmi nodded in agreement. “That is true, Monsieur. If the Black Death had not taken them, and if Baron Anthoine had not died, tonight would be a happy night. But Violette is our friend, and she has assured us that our love for each other will help us endure until the morning. I trust Mademoiselle Violette.”

Violette stood up hastily as Berthelmi finished, and donned her cloak. “Come, Martine, it is time. I will walk with you and Berthelmi to your cottage.”

Martine shuddered slightly, and hugged her parents tightly, whispering, “I love you both.” Then, throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she grasped Berthelmi’s hand and opened the door to the night rain. Her father and mother stood without speaking as the three left.

•  •  •

Baron de Fournier had spent the evening deep in his cups, exchanging bawdy comments with Jehan, who kept pleading with the Baron to let him watch Martine’s deflowering. “I have never seen a Lord’s first night, Mssr. le Baron. It is very exciting, very special. I must come with you,” he said.

De Fournier brushed him off, for unknown to Jehan, it was also the Baron’s first experience with jus primae noctis. He had never had the power before to publicly demand a bride on her wedding night. He had always acted surreptitiously, crawling in and out of bedroom windows, one loose shoe ahead of angry bridegrooms and fathers. Now, with virtually unlimited power over the village, he wanted to enjoy himself undisturbed. So, with unperturbed malice in his heart, he rudely told Jehan to catch his own fish, and sauntered out of the dining room, yelling for his horse.

The moon was casting a dim light over the village as he rode toward Berthelmi’s cottage. There were few people about, and the ones he did meet avoided his gaze. Reaching the cottage, he dismounted, throwing the reins of his horse over a rail. His pulse sounded loud to him as he knocked on the door of the cottage, which was in darkness except for a faint light from a window. He heard a woman’s voice call out, “Come in.” Stepping through the doorway, he could barely see. The front room was in complete darkness, but he could see a single candle and the embers of a fire burning in the bedroom beyond. Breathing heavily in his expectation, he started removing his clothes as he strode toward the bedroom. By the time he reached the bedroom, he was clad only in his long shirt.

The bedroom was small and filled almost entirely by a rough mattress made of straw. He saw the shape of a woman under a blanket, with her head propped up by a pillow. Her face was completely masked by a thick black veil. Tripping over himself, de Fournier threw himself on the woman, and without so much as a word, he took her.

Sighing and grunting in relief, the Baron rolled off the woman and looked at her. For a moment, he felt the strongest desire to rip the veil from her face and taunt her, but hesitating, he changed his mind. His manhood was his raison d’être. Not being religious, and hardly at all superstitious, he still was reluctant to risk breaking his own oath. He confined himself to a curse and a taunt. “Now you are ready for your oaf of a husband. Your gate is open.”

Impatient when the woman said nothing, the Baron rose and gathered his clothes. Hauling himself up on his horse, he belched, entirely satisfied with himself. Droit du seigneur was a wonderful thing indeed.

•  •  •

The sound of hooves was fading in the distance before the woman in the cottage stirred. Rising stiffly, she took a large bowl of water from a table, and washed every inch of her body. Mechanically, she rolled up the cloth that she had been lying on and together with the rags that she had used to clean herself, threw them into the fire. They flared briefly, highlighting the veil that the woman still wore. Wrapping herself in a blanket, she stepped to a door leading to the yard behind the cottage. Opening it slightly, she called softly, “You may come in now.” She then returned to the front room of the cottage and lit a candle and sat, waiting.

She didn’t look up as Martine and Berthelmi entered from the rear of the cottage. Martine rushed to her side and took her in her arms, while Berthelmi stood awkwardly by the table. Martine tried to lift the veil, but stopped when the woman turned away. Martine’s voice was thick with anger as she spoke.

“Oh, Vi, did he hurt you?”

Violette didn’t answer, but instead began sobbing uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking so much that the blanket started to slip off. Martin covered her again as Berthelmi politely looked away. Martine’s touch was tender as she lifted the veil away from Violette’s face and kissed her friend on the cheek. Violette stared back at her, her lips trembling. “He was monstrous, Martine.”

Martine stroked her hair, speaking softly. “There, there, Vi. He’s gone. We are here.”

Berthelmi strode forward, unable to contain himself any longer. “Mademoiselle Violette, shall I kill him for you?”

“No, Berthelmi. You must not.” Violette was firm. “I did this so that you and Martine could be happy. If you kill him, you will die also, and then what about Martine?”

Berthelmi swore and banged his fist against his forehead. “But why you, Mademoiselle? When you told us of your plan, I knew it shouldn’t be you. You could have paid a loose woman from Saint-Germain-en-Laye to come and take Martine’s place. Then you would have been saved.”

Violette shook her head. “How could I know that she would keep her veil in place? If she had lifted it, then the Baron would have known it wasn’t Martine, and it would be all for nought. I couldn’t take that risk. I could only trust myself to keep it secret. Even afterwards, the woman might have talked, and the Baron would come back, even one year from now. No, there was only one way.”

Berthelmi sat down next to Martine, and took her hand and then Violette’s hand in his. His face was grave as he addressed Martine. “What will happen to Violette? How can we repay her for the gift that she has given us?”

Martine’s eyes were wet with tears as she clutched Berthelmi’s and Violette’s hands. “I don’t know, Berthelmi! I don’t know. And now she must marry that awful Vicomte de Moncherat. Oh, Vi, what shall we do?”

Violette’s mouth twisted wryly. “You forget, dear Martine. The ogre insists upon a virgin. I will go to Saint-Germain-en-Laye and upon my return I will tell the Baron that I was raped by a bandit.” She stood, stiffly, holding the blanket about her. “Dear friends, can you walk me home? It is, after all, your wedding night.”

Berthelmi and Martine showered her with protestations, insisting that she stay the night, but she refused, so finally they gave in. After she dressed, they proceeded to walk her back to the castle, wending their way slowly along the village streets under a waning moon.

•  •  •

The town of Saint-Germain-en-Laye was a bustling hub of commerce and political activity. Many merchants came to the town, bringing goods from all corners of France. De Fournier thought nothing of it when Violette announced that she was going to the town to purchase cloth. She had gone many times before, so he simply growled at her to not spend too much. He failed to notice until she was gone that she rode to the town with only one lady-in-waiting at her side, leaving behind her usual escort of a man-at-arms.

When the sun started to set over the castle walls, and she hadn’t returned, he bellowed irritably for a man-at-arms. The man came running, clutching the hilt of his sword. “Go down the path to meet the Mademoiselle,” de Fournier said.

The soldier bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”

As the man was calling to a companion, there was a commotion at the castle gate. A man-at-arms came running, shouting, “It is the Mademoiselle and her maid! They have been attacked!”

The Baron strode to the window overlooking the courtyard, and stared as Violette and her maid came limping into the yard. Glaring down at them, he shouted, “What is wrong? Where are your horses?”

Violette glanced up at the Baron, and called out loudly, “My Lord, we were attacked by robbers on the path home. The horses ran into the forest.”

“Come up here, girl, and we will talk about it,” de Fournier said. He waited impatiently until Violette entered the study. She had sent her maid to her room to wait for her, and entered alone. The Baron glared at her angrily. “Why would you go with no man-at-arms? You’re a very foolish girl! You might have been killed! How then would I receive my marriage fee from the Vicomte?”

Violette looked suitably contrite. “Yes, my Lord, it was very foolish. I am very sorry.”

“At least you are alive. There’s no harm done, then, beyond the horses. And de Moncherat’s money will pay for those. Stupid girl!”

Violette bit her lip, and forced herself to cry. Sobbing and hiccuping, she said, “There’s something more, my Lord.”

“What is it?”

“I am sorry, my Lord, but one of the robbers forced himself upon me. I have been violated. My maid screamed and screamed, so they ran off before they touched her, but for me it was too late.”

De Fournier’s jaw opened wide at her words. He reeled slightly and then recovered himself. Furious, he ran forward and struck her across the face. “Foolish, stupid woman!” Violette fell to the floor, shielding her face as he continued to beat her and kick her. Her screams summoned Perrot, who rushed to her side, and fended off the Baron with some difficulty. De Fournier’s face was black with rage, and his speech was incoherent and foul. Somehow, Perrot managed to help her from the room as the Baron yelled after them, cursing, “Stupid, stupid hussy!”

Perrot assisted Violette to her bedroom, where her maid opened the door, shocked at the sight of the blood on Violette’s face. The maid, Ysabel, had been with Violette for many years. Clucking in distress, she motioned for Perrot to place Violette on the bed, and then firmly ushered him from the room.

“Ma chérie, the evil one shall be punished by God for this, wait and see,” she exclaimed.

Violette was too shocked to answer, and winced in pain as Ysabel ministered to her.  She was simply grateful as Ysabel helped her into bed and sang to her until she fell asleep.

•  •  •

Although Violette had told Ysabel that her false report of the attack and rape was meant to dissuade de Moncherat from marrying her, she hadn’t confided to Ysabel that she was no longer a virgin. Ysabel had willingly helped her in the plan, smacking their horses rumps to make them run into the forest, and laughing as they ripped their clothes and smeared dirt on their faces. Violette couldn’t risk telling Ysabel about her encounter with the Baron in Martine’s cottage, even though she trusted her maid. It was a secret with too many consequences attached. Thus, Violette’s chief concern was that the Baron would want a new examination. If Ysabel discovered Violette’s true condition, she would insist that Violette tell her how it happened.

Fortunately for Violette, de Fournier’s imagination of what had transpired was so vivid that it never occurred to him that she might be lying. His only thought as the days went by was how to salvage her marriage to de Moncherat, in order to replenish his empty coffers.

De Moncherat, as the Baron knew well, was not a man to be trifled with. His reputation for brutality surpassed de Fournier’s. His fortune had made him a powerful man, although he was scorned by members of the French nobility who adhered to a higher standard of morality. Their contempt enraged him, and pushed him further onto the fringes of polite society, where he confined his circle of acquaintances to men and women of the lowest character. His one overriding frustration was that he had so far been unable to obtain a respectable woman as a wife. He was a man caught squarely on the fence; addicted to sexual pleasure and gaming on one hand, and on the other convinced that a good woman of noble birth would restore his standing at court.

In de Moncherat’s mind, eight hundred and fifty livres was a very small price to pay for Violette’s hand in marriage. Because his advanced case of venereal leprosy was widely known, and because of his soiled reputation, his attempts at marriage had been blocked at every turn. Despairing of success, he had casually mentioned to de Fournier, while playing cards one day, that he would pay a thousand livres parisis for a wife of good standing. Much to de Moncherat’s surprise, de Fournier had smiled engagingly and said, “My good Vicomte, you are fortunate indeed. You may marry my ward.”

When de Moncherat saw Violette, it had taken all his will power to feign disinterest. He felt intensely attracted to her beauty and to her virginal body. He had wanted to persuade de Fournier to move the wedding up, instead of waiting an interminable three months. However, since public displays of enthusiasm were intolerable to him, he ground his teeth impatiently, and kept his frustration well hidden.

When de Fournier invited him back to Tamberleau after a month, his nostrils had quite literally flared in anticipation. Riding furiously, he reached the Baron’s castle late in the evening. The castle courtyard was empty as he rode through the gate and threw his reins to a servant. Bounding up the stairs, he found de Fournier snoring by the fire in his study.

De Moncherat paused by the door, suddenly aware of his disheveled appearance. Carefully smoothing his surcoat, he breathed deeply, and then, with a studied appearance of boredom, coughed politely.

De Fournier started awake, and seeing de Moncherat by the door, wiped the drool from his mouth, looking faintly embarrassed.

“Ah, de Moncherat. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

De Moncherat nodded, and replied, “May I ask the purpose of your invitation? It was profoundly inconvenient for me to come today. My affairs keep me very busy, as you know very well.”

The Baron stood up, licking his lips nervously. Having received de Moncherat’s promise of a marriage fee, de Fournier had spent quite lavishly. Now, with some very bad news to tell de Moncherat, the Baron was feeling ill. He smiled weakly and waved de Moncherat to a chair. Ringing a bell, he told a servant to fetch Mademoiselle Violette.

De Moncherat sat impatiently while they waited. When Violette entered the room, he stood up, and gazed at her in fascination. She had not known the Baron had a guest, and was wearing only a thin nightgown with a blanket thrown over her shoulders. When Violette saw de Moncherat, she gasped in dismay and started to run from the room.

“Stay!” De Fournier’s tone was fierce, and intimidated, Violette stopped, and reluctantly turned, her face cold.

“It is late, my Lord,” she said. Suddenly aware of the firelight shining through her nightgown, she moved behind a tall backed chair. “Why did you call me?” she asked.

The Baron turned to de Moncherat. “Is she not a beautiful woman, my friend?” he asked.

De Moncherat nodded. “She is not ugly, Baron,” he replied.

The Baron exclaimed, “Not ugly! She is a very great beauty indeed. And as you can see, she has a very fine figure.” The Baron leered at Violette, who stared straight ahead and ignored him.

De Moncherat was impatient. “You brought me all this way to tell me this?”

“No, no!” the Baron replied. “I simply want you to know how splendid she is.” He wet his lips again. “I’ve always felt, my dear friend, that a woman with experience is much better in bed, don’t you agree?”

De Moncherat stared at him skeptically. “I’m not your friend, Baron. What do you mean by your question?”

Violette’s eyes glinted as she watched the interchange between the two men. Neither of them seemed to notice that her breathing had suddenly quickened.

The Baron waved his hand casually, his tone deliberately light and airy. “Nothing, really, Monsieur le Vicomte, except that it has come to my attention that my ward is more experienced than I had thought.” He held out a tankard of ale. “Are you sure you would not like some ale?” he asked. “No?” He drank deeply, and then winking in his most conspiratorial fashion, he said, “Just a little thing, really. She is no longer a virgin. But as I said, she will now satisfy you even more.”

With that, the Baron sat down in his chair abruptly, wiping his brow and glancing at de Moncherat, trying to gauge his reaction.

The Vicomte stared at de Fournier, astonished, and then stared at Violette, even more aghast. She lowered her gaze, and said nothing. De Moncherat’s face was pale with anger, and his jaw muscles were jumping and twitching with tension. He had ridden fast and hard to the castle, in his hopes that the marriage date would be set sooner. To have this news thrown at him was more than he could bear.

Violette’s lack of virginity was unimportant to him from a moral point of view. In fact, he agreed with de Fournier that women with experience were better in bed. His motivation to marry, however, had nothing to do with his own sexual pleasure. Improving his poor standing at court had become an obsession. Central to that desire was his not unjustified belief that a virgin wife would repair some of the damage to his reputation. Now, with de Fournier’s pronouncement, he felt his hopes severely dashed.

“Then it is called off,” de Moncherat said bitterly. “You have wasted my time.”

De Fournier stood, not noticing the look of relief washing over Violette’s face.

“My dear Vicomte! This is not necessary!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, Baron, it is,” said de Moncherat.

The Baron glowered at Violette, and in desperation, pulled out his only remaining cards.

“Monsieur le Vicomte, no one at court need ever know her circumstance. Her father was a favorite of the King and thus you will be well approved.” He paused, mentally wringing his hands. “For you, my friend, I will decrease my fee to seven hundred livres, and I will include one hundred hectares of my best forest land for your hunting parties.”

De Moncherat, who was by this time almost to the door, stopped and reflected for a long moment. Ever the mercenary, he knew his odds of finding a better match were slim. The Baron’s lands were also a strong attraction to de Moncherat. He thought the Baron a fool for so easily selling his land, for land was power. Reluctantly coming to a decision, he said, “Five hundred livres, Baron, and three hundred hectares of land. That is all she is worth to me.”

“Done!” replied the Baron. Five hundred livres was still a considerable sum. He turned to Violette. “So, my girl, you will be married after all.”

Violette was struggling desperately to hold herself together. “Never! I will never marry him,” she replied. She turned, and left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

The Baron shrugged. “Did you notice her bruises?” he asked the Vicomte. “Beat her, and she will comply.”

The Vicomte nodded, smiling. “Leave it to me, Baron.”

•  •  •

The next day, Violette found Martine weeding her garden, singing unselfconsciously as she worked. She looked up as Violette opened the gate.

“Hello, Vi! Have you come to help me with our garden?” she asked.

Not speaking, Violette ran to Martine and threw her arms around Martine’s neck. Burying her face in her friend’s shoulder, she sobbed, “I must marry the Vicomte de Moncherat after all, Martine. The Baron has sold me like a cow.”

Martine hugged her sympathetically. “Oh, Vi, we will never let that happen,” she exclaimed. “Come into the house and I will get Berthelmi.”

Sitting Violette down at the table, Martine called to Berthelmi, who was stacking wood in the rear garden. He came at once, and sat down with Martine at the table.

“Yes, my love?” he asked.

Martine explained, and said, “We have to help her, my love.”

Berthelmi nodded. “Yes, we must. But how?” he asked.

The three of them sat and talked for hours, searching for a solution. Violette alternated between tears of dismay, and rage that the Baron had destroyed her chances of finding a husband that she could love. Her resentment and hatred toward the Baron had reached an extreme level. At one point, she voiced her feelings, shocking her friends.

“Perhaps I must kill him,” she said.

For a long moment, Martine and Berthelmi sat, unable to respond. Finally Martine broke the silence.

“No, my dear! You must not! It will destroy you more surely than it will him,” she said.

Violette looked at her angrily. “Why do you say so? You were ready to kill yourself, and damn your soul to eternal hellfire.”

Martine looked abashed and lowered her head. “Yes, that is true. May God forgive me for it.” She squeezed Violette’s hand. “But you, my dear Vi, saved me from myself and from the Baron. You saved my life, my soul and you saved my love for Berthelmi.” Hugging Berthelmi, she continued, “Because of you, our marriage was kept holy and pure,” she said.

Martine smiled at Berthelmi. “And because of that, I found out something wonderful.”

“What was that?” Violette asked.

“I found out that the love in my heart for Berthelmi left no room for hatred for the Baron,” Martine replied.

Violette shifted in her chair, impatiently, still angry. “I have no Berthelmi,” she said.

Berthelmi tentatively reached out his hand and took Violette’s hand in his. His face was sad as he spoke. “Mademoiselle Violette, there is another way.”

“What is that?” Violette asked.

Berthelmi glanced at Martine as he answered, “I deliver flowers for Martine’s father, to the Convent of Saint-Germain-en-Laye. You know the Mother Superior. She is a good woman, and takes care of many women in distress.”

“And?” asked Violette.

“I believe that you could take refuge there. The Baron and the Vicomte would be unable to harm you,” he replied.

“A nun!” Violette exclaimed. “You want me to take my vows and be a nun?”

Berthelmi shook his head. “No, you don’t have to do that,” he replied. “They will give sanctuary to anyone in need. No one can cross the threshold without their permission.”

Martine exclaimed excitedly, hugging Berthelmi, “Vi! That’s it!” She kissed Berthelmi, who blushed furiously. “You darling! You have found the solution!”

She turned to Violette and held her hands tightly. “Dear Vi, this is the answer, I know it is,” she said.

Violette was silent, thinking about Berthelmi’s words. She had longed for romantic love her entire life, and had been privately jealous of Martine’s good fortune. If she took Berthelmi’s suggestion and sought refuge in the convent, her hopes of finding love in marriage would come to naught. Yet, the alternative of marriage with the Vicomte was too horrible to contemplate. Her way was blocked.

After a long silence, Violette sighed, and said, “You are both right. I see no other way to go.” She smiled, although a bit tremulously. “Can you help me get there? I should go soon, and go secretly.”

“Oh, Vi!” Martine cried. “We will visit you all the time, won’t we Berthelmi?”

Berthelmi nodded, “Yes, Mademoiselle Violette, we will.”

•  •  •

The Mother Superior was in the laundry, inspecting the linens, when a nun came breathlessly into the laundry with the news that Violette had arrived at the convent. Surprised, the Abbess gathered her skirts about her and huffed her way up the stairs to her study.

“Show them in,” she instructed the nun.

Moments later, the door opened, and Violette entered, followed by her maid, Ysabel, and Martine and Berthelmi. The Mother Superior motioned to them to sit down and listened attentively to their story. Violette had decided to reveal everything to the Abbess, including the loss of her virginity to the Baron. When she got to that part of her story, she broke down and cried. Ysabel, who had known nothing of what Violette had done, ran to Violette, murmuring to her, interspersing her words of comfort with imprecations against the Baron. The Mother Superior clucked reprovingly at Ysabel, although she felt inclined to join the maid in her colorful descriptions of where she wanted to send the Baron.

Finally, Violette finished her story, with many expressions of gratitude from Martine and Berthelmi.

“Mother Superior, Violette has saved us from the most dreadful horror,” exclaimed Martine. “Thus, we brought her here to escape from those two monsters.”

The Mother Superior nodded. “You did well, my child.”

She was silent for a moment, studying Violette, who blushed under her gaze. She had prayed for Violette for many hours after the death of Juliote. She felt amazed at Violette’s strength of character, and yet saddened by the circumstances that had forced Violette into such extreme measures.

Rising from her chair, she walked to Violette, and stood her up. Holding her hands, the Mother Superior smiled warmly at her. “My child,” she said, “you are at home here. Your parents were my dear friends, and I will take care of you as my own child.”

“Thank you,” was all Violette could choke out.

The Mother Superior nodded to the others. “Come and dine with us,” she said. “Refresh yourselves and admire our gardens before your ride back.”

Ysabel, who had been deep in thought, said, “Mother Superior, I would like to stay here with Violette.” She looked at Berthelmi and Martine. “When the Baron discovers both of us gone, he will not suspect Berthelmi and Martine. I don’t want him to seek his vengeance against them. And I have nothing to keep me there.”

The Mother Superior agreed. “Very wise, my dear. Yes, you may stay.” Looking at Martine and Berthelmi, she said, “If the Baron questions you, express surprise that Violette is gone. That should satisfy him.” Her tone was brisk. “Now, let me show you our lovely gardens.”

They all nodded, relieved beyond measure that she had accepted them.

•  •  •

The Baron’s wrath was indeed awful to behold when, upon returning from a week long hunt, he found Violette and Ysabel gone. The castle staff stuttered in terror as he ran cursing from room to room, looking for Violette. None of them had seen her go, and they knew nothing of her whereabouts. Violette had been careful to confide in no one except Ysabel.

Interrogating the steward, Perrot, the Baron’s face turned a deep shade of purple.

“You donkey! How can you not know where she has gone! Did you not see her saddle the horses? Two are missing!”

Perrot shrugged in his most detached manner. “My Lord, she often comes and goes. She is the mistress of the castle. I think little of it.”

The Baron swore violently and threw an empty tankard at Perrot, who dodged it skillfully and retreated from the room. With a terrible gnawing in his belly, the Baron called for his horse and set off through the town. No one had noticed Violette leave, not even the old woman with the broom, who spat on the ground as she watched the Baron ride off.

The Baron searched farther afield, rudely entering cottage after cottage, as he rode through the fields surrounding the castle. He had no luck, and was greeted by surprised looks everywhere he visited. The villagers had developed an extreme dislike for the Baron, and would have refused to help him even if they had known anything. Knowing nothing, they were genuinely surprised by Violette’s absence, and soon the village was abuzz with rumors of her escape.

Arriving at Berthelmi’s cottage, the Baron was greeted by Martine, who shrieked when the Baron asked her where Violette was. Pummeling his horse with her fists, she shouted, “What have you done with her, you beast! Have you killed her?”

Nonplussed by her reaction, the Baron turned his horse and galloped away.

In the ensuing weeks, the Baron sent many servants on the search for Violette. Finally, one of them returned, with the news that she and Ysabel had sought sanctuary at the Convent of Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The Baron, upon hearing the news, left immediately for the convent.

When he pounded on the convent gate with the flat of his sword, he was greeted by the Mother Superior herself. Peering through a grill in the door, she smiled at him, and said, “Why Baron de Fournier! What brings you here?”

The Baron ground his teeth. “Don’t play with me woman. You have my ward and my servant. Return them to me at once.”

The Mother Superior remarked calmly, as if to herself, “Perhaps he has forgotten the law of sanctuary. Perhaps the Mayor, Mssr. Dubois, could remind him of the danger he is in.”

De Fournier swore and reared his horse back in anger. “You dare refuse me?” I shall take my case to the court!”

“Please do,” replied the Mother Superior. With that, she gently closed the cover of the grill and left the Baron seething at the gate.

•  •  •

Baron de Fournier, being a prideful man, tried desperately to salvage his declining circumstances. Having no confidence in his position before the law, he soon gave up on any attempt to get Violette back. He sent a servant to inform de Moncherat that the marriage was off, and ignored the Vicomte’s withering reply. His one remaining hope was his overweening belief in his talent at cards. He thus applied himself vigorously to the task of fleecing as many young hopefuls as he could entice to the castle with promises of lurid entertainment. Since none of the villagers would allow their daughters anywhere near the castle, he hired women from Paris to entertain his guests.

He continued in this fashion for two years, selling larger and larger tracts of woodland to pay for his failed attempts at cards, until finally he fell ill with a fever caught from a guest. He grew worse and worse until the castle staff, deciding that he might die, sent a message to the convent asking for a nurse and an apothecary.

•  •  •

Violette had spent those same two years searching for peace of mind. Martine and Berthelmi had visited her frequently, expressing their gratitude to her so often that she finally had to firmly state that enough was enough. Berthelmi, however, found another way to express his feelings of compassion and indebtedness to Violette. Having developed a great love of flowers through his association with Martine’s father, he decided to create a special garden for Violette. After a number of months of work, he and Martine told Violette to close her eyes as they guided her across the convent lawn to a secluded corner of the grounds near some oak trees.

Opening her eyes at their request, she gazed in amazement at a riotous display of the most beautiful violets that she had ever seen. They extended fifty yards in each direction, a gigantic carpet of flowers, surrounded and intersected by walkways covered with pebbles, with stone benches placed in the center and at the corners.

Clapping her hands in delight, she exclaimed, “Berthelmi! They are lovely! And you picked violets!”

Berthelmi’s smile split his face as he replied, “But of course, Mademoiselle.”

Impulsively, Violette kissed him on the cheek, and hugged him tightly. “You are a wonderful brother to me, Berthelmi. Thank you!”

He blushed, but smiled. Taking her hand and Martine’s hand, he guided them to the center of the garden, where they sat and admired his handiwork. It was a truly beautiful spot.

Violette came often to the garden after that, to think and read and sometimes pray. Her heart had been cold and bitter and filled with resentment against de Fournier for many months. The Mother Superior had counseled her, gently suggesting that de Fournier’s transgressions were far less than those visited upon their Lord and Savior. If He could bear it, why could Violette not find the strength to do the same?

At first, Violette refused to listen, nursing her anger, and wailing in prayer, when she did pray, crying out to God that it was cruel and unjust that she had sacrificed herself for her friend only to lose all hope of finding love with a decent man. She told God quite roundly that she wasn’t interested in being a nun. She was a passionate young woman and the thought of a lifetime of celibacy was abhorrent to her.

Her circumstances as a woman in a society where women had no freedom and few choices in life had cornered her. She had no means of support that a decent woman could follow, and her fear of the Baron had brought her to the conclusion that her hopes of finding a good husband who could protect her were nonexistent. Her only option seemed to be to live forever behind the cloister walls. Thus, for many months, she raged against God and the Baron, in no particular order. However, by the time Berthelmi brought her to the garden, she had grown weary of her anger. She found that Berthelmi’s garden brought her solace, but an answer still escaped her.

When she heard from the Mother Superior that de Fournier had fallen ill, she secretly rejoiced, hoping that he would die. She had no idea how his death would affect her, and when she asked the Mother Superior that question, she received little help.

The Mother Superior raised her hands helplessly and said, “My child, you have no relatives. If the Baron dies, and you leave the convent, the Vicomte might lay claim to your hand. Nothing is certain in these times.”

Noting Violette’s dismay, the Mother Superior took her hand in hers. “Violette, I have a hard task for you.”

“Yes, Mother Superior?” Violette asked.

“I have watched you for many months, my dear,” the Mother Superior said. “Your heart is filled with pain and with rage. Unless you find a way to forgive the Baron, you will never find peace.”

Violette said nothing, glancing away.

The Mother Superior’s face was compassionate as she looked at Violette. “I am sending one of our Sisters to accompany the apothecary, to nurse the Baron. Sister Alicia will stay until the Baron is better, but the apothecary will return immediately, after examining the Baron. I want you to go with him and pray for the Baron. You may return with the apothecary, so you will be in no danger. The Baron is too ill to act against you, and you will travel as a member of our order.”

Violette was unable to respond for a moment. Shocked, she asked, “How can you ask me this? I never want to see him again.”

“I understand, my dear,” said the Mother Superior. “Truly, I understand.”

She considered Violette’s face carefully. “Yet, you must go,” she said. “This is my order to you. Please trust me.”

Violette did trust the Mother Superior, and thus reluctantly agreed to accompany the convent party to the castle. Going to her garden just before the group left, she sat and stared at the violets. Their bloom was beginning to fade, but they still looked very beautiful to her. Kneeling in the center of the garden, she plunged her face into the violets, drinking deeply of their scent. She felt strengthened by their beauty as she rose, and joined the group by the convent gate.

•  •  •

When the convent party arrived at Tamberleau, they found the castle yard littered with refuse, with no one about. A stray dog slunk away as they rode in, looking back over his shoulder at their approach. Violette was shocked by the pervading atmosphere of gloom.

Perrot greeted them as they pounded on the door, astonished to see Violette and Ysabel.

“Mademoiselle! You are back!” he exclaimed. He nodded at Ysabel and the others. “I never expected to see you again.”

Violette smiled at him. “Hello, Perrot. I am as surprised as you.” She glanced toward the stairs. “How is the Baron?”

Perrot’s face was impassive. “Very ill, Mademoiselle Violette. Come quickly.”

They followed him up the stairs and into the Baron’s bedchamber. The heavy draperies were drawn, shutting out the afternoon light. There was a single candle flickering by the bed, casting a shadow over the Baron as he lay propped against the pillows.

The apothecary and Sister Alicia immediately busied themselves with the Baron, throwing open the drapes and examining the Baron carefully. Violette, suddenly feeling weak, sat down heavily in a chair next to the bed, staring at de Fournier. He was pale and wasted and he was breathing in long rasping sighs.

As the afternoon wore on, Violette sat quietly, contemplating the Baron’s face. The apothecary and Sister Alicia went about their ministrations without disturbing her meditation. At first, Violette felt intense bitterness as she gazed at de Fournier. She had been unprepared for his brutality when he arrived at Tamberleau. Now, with the shell of de Fournier in front of her, she no longer felt threatened by him. He seemed pathetic, and no longer a worthy object of anger.

She had spent many hours with the Mother Superior, arguing back and forth about de Fournier and men and the cruelty of life. The Mother Superior had counseled patience and love and forgiveness, advice that Violette had found difficult to digest. It was her long hours in Berthelmi’s garden that had finally started to change Violette. Lying on her back among the flowers, spending hours gazing up at the sky, and listening to the birds chirping busily around her, she had begun to feel a trickle of warmth entering her heart.

As the sunlight through the window faded, Violette closed her eyes and breathed a prayer, asking for forgiveness for the Baron and for the violence that she had felt toward de Fournier. Gathering her cloak around her, she stood and stared at his face. She suddenly felt very calm.

She looked at the apothecary, and said, “Shall we go back?”

The apothecary nodded, and replied, “Yes. Sister Alicia will stay and care for him.”

Kissing Sister Alicia on the cheek, Violette walked quietly through the door.

•  •  •

Many years later, a young novice walked down the path from the convent’s main building to the garden of violets that had become known as Berthelmi’s Garden. It was a beautiful April morning, and the violets that day were particularly lovely. The novice stopped for a moment to breathe in their fragrance, smiling to herself. The Mother Superior was lying on her back among the violets, as she often did. The nuns had gotten used to her rather strange habit, for the Mother Superior’s face and demeanor were always very peaceful after she spent time meditating in the garden.

The novice walked by her carefully, anxious to not disturb her. As she glanced at the Mother Superior’s prone figure, something in the older woman’s face startled her. Perhaps it was the stillness of her features -- the novice wasn’t sure. Her eyes were closed, as they often were, but something didn’t seem quite right. Coming closer, she tentatively touched the Mother Superior’s shoulder, shaking it gently.

“Mother Superior! Are you well?” she asked. She received no answer.

Kneeling, the novice placed her ear on the Mother Superior’s chest, and listened. There were no indications of breathing or of a heartbeat. Shocked, the novice sat down on the ground and stared at the woman’s body. She had known the Mother Superior for only a short time, but had been impressed with her kindness, as well as her courage.

The Mother Superior was famous in Saint-Germain-en-Laye for being a bold and forthright ally of anyone in need. The convent had grown and prospered under Violette’s care, attracting novitiates from all over France. The people of Tamberleau held her in awe, even though they had known her all her life. They were sure that she had special powers, for after her visit to the Baron, as he lay dying on his sickbed, de Fournier unexpectedly recovered. This by itself would have brought Violette little admiration from the villagers, for they had hated him ferociously.

It was the change in his character that surprised them. It could have been that the fight had gone out of him, but after his illness the Baron no longer seemed interested in debauchery. His parties stopped, and he devoted himself to hunting and agriculture. He had grown silent and introspective, giving rise to whispers that perhaps he had seen the devil when he was at the verge of death. No one knew, and even the woman with the broom shrugged in bewilderment. The good folk of Tamberleau contented themselves with offering a special prayer of thanks to God for their good fortune. After a number of years, when Violette became the new Mother Superior of the convent, the villagers felt doubly blessed.

Violette had many visitors over the years, but had always reserved extra time for her closest friends, Martine and Berthelmi. They never failed to bring their many children to the convent, to present them to Violette on special occasions and holidays. Violette had smiled, tousling their hair and caressing their cheeks. When they asked for sweets, which they often did, her peals of laughter rang through the convent. Ringing a tiny silver bell she carried with her, she would summon one of the sisters to take them to the kitchen.

Now, at the age of fifty-three, Violette lay peacefully in her favorite spot. The novice’s eyes misted as she said a short prayer and crossed herself. She rose, and then ran toward the convent buildings, calling out to the other nuns and startling a flock of birds in her haste.

As the novice reached the convent, she turned, and looked down the hill at the garden. For a moment, she thought she saw the Mother Superior sitting quietly on one of the stone benches, smiling up at her. Blinking, she rubbed her eyes and crossed herself again as she entered the building.

Only the violets were alive in the Garden of Berthelmi, waving softly under the April sun as they embraced the body of the Mother Superior lying in their midst. If the novice had listened carefully, she would have heard them singing.

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