Love Under Siege: A Huguenot Romance

By Sonja S. Key

Love under Siege shares the tale of a young womans struggles after she overhears a shocking secret and risks everything in a valiant search for her parents, true love, and a new faith.

It has been twenty-four years since Violette de la Marne was told her parents were dead. Now as she stands beside her Grand-Pere Philippes death bed, she clutches the only thing she has left from her parents a golden locket and waits for him to take his last breath. But before he does, she overhears him reveal a shocking secret during a confession to a bishop: he has lied to Violette for years, fearing he would lose her to the Huguenots. Her parents are alive.

Betrayed by her Grand-Pere and betrothed to a man she does not love, Violette derives strength from the locket, rejects the arranged marriage, and embarks on a determined quest through sixteenth century France to find her parents who may be imprisoned in Paris. Drawn to the Huguenots who promise intimacy with God and assurance of salvation, Violette continues to hope for a marriage built on love, trust, and faith. With the help of God and the handsome rogue, Thomas Montmorency, her search eventually propels her into the immoral and promiscuous court of Henry II and Catherine de Medici where she must hide the truth to avoid persecution and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490870816

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Copyright © 2015 Sonja S. Key.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Love Under Siege is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidence

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-7080-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7082-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7081-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902828

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/06/2015

Contents

Scripture

Dedication

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Prologue

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part II

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Part III

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Part IV

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Epilogue

Bibliography

Scripture

B lessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of sympathy (pity and mercy) and the God [Who is the Source] of every comfort (consolation and encouragement). Who comforts (consoles and encourages) us in every trouble (calamity and affliction), so that we may also be able to comfort ( console and encourage) those who are in any kind of trouble or distress, with the comfort (consolation and encouragement) with which we ourselves are comforted (consoled and encouraged) by God. (2 Cor. 1:2-3, AB).

Dedication

L ove Under Siege is dedicated to my loving husband Jim, who has supported and encouraged me throughout the process of writing this book.

Preface

I t all started with a phone call. My cousin Stanley Chastain called to invite me to a Chastain Family Reunion. My grandmother was Susan Elmira Chastain Smith. I wasn’t interested in the reunion, but my interest was sparked when he told me his sister Ruth had done a family tree of the Chastain family. She discovered that all the Chastains in America were descended from a certain Pierre Chastain, a Huguenot, who had fled to America in 1700 to escape the persecution of the Huguenots in France.

What is a Huguenot? I didn’t know, but I knew I had to write about it.

The Protestants in France were called Huguenots. The origin of the name was derived from the German Eldgenosen which meant (confederates bound together by oath). They followed the teaching of John Calvin.

Une foi, un loi, un roi, (one faith, one law, one king). This traditional French saying explains how the state, society, and religion were tied together in the people’s minds and their experience. Religion had ruled the society of Europe for over a millennium. And the French monarchy was tied to the Catholic Church.

Things changed with the invention of the printing press in 1455, and the publication of the Gutenberg Bible was made available to the people. It provided unrestricted circulation of information to the masses, and threatened the power of political and religious authorities, and shattered the monopoly on education and learning.

The French noblemen began to read the Bible and compare what it said to what the Papacy taught. They learned that salvation was by grace alone, not by works, but by faith, and not by the paying of indulgences.

If you are of the Protestant faith, no matter the denomination, the existence of that faith is because of the Huguenot Revolution.

If you are a Chastain, or descended from a Chastain, you too share in the Huguenot legacy that brought the Holy Bible to the people and reunited them with God.

Acknowledgments

The clinical course of King Henry’s injury and the translation of Nostradamus are cited courtesy of medical historian Dr. Miguel A. Faria and his article, The Death of Henry II of France" Available from http://www.haciendapub.com/articles/death-henry-ii-france

Introduction

"Love Under Siege" covers the sixteenth century time period of 1558 to 1572 during the reign of King Henry II and Catherine de Medici of France. It extends through the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of August 24, 1572 that destroyed an entire generation of Huguenot leadership.

It was in France that the Renaissance flourished and was embraced by King Francis I and his son Henry II of France. The Kings coveted everything Italian from current fashion trends, set by Isabella d’Este, to art and architecture.

They showcased the artistry of Leonardo da Vinci, the work of Francesco Primaticcio’s stucco reliefs, the paintings of Italian Mannerist Rosso Fiorentino in the Palace of Fontainebleau, and the grand Châteaux of the Loire Valley.

Both King’s patronage of the arts was intended to heighten the splendor of the French court, which drew noblemen and aristocrats from the known world to the glittering court life of France.

In Love Under Siege, I have attempted to show, through the eyes of my fictional characters, what it was like living in such a society where all the citizens were tied to the Catholic Church, yet the society, especially at court, was immoral and promiscuous. Few were devout Christians. And the paying of indulgences only increased the sinfulness of its subjects.

A cry for change echoed throughout the European countries, and that change came in the form of the Huguenot Reformation.

Prologue

France 1534 - Palace of Fontainebleau

The just shall live by faith.

P hilippe de Bavare stood in the King’s library grasping Jeanne’s golden locket. His heart pounded, as his mind probed for a rational explanation of how the golden locket came to be in the King’s possession, but none came. He hoped he was wrong about the reason the King had summoned him to Fontainebleau.

Philippe stared at the inscription nestled in the golden locket. Opposite the inscription, a portrait of his daughter Jeanne smiled back at him, her emerald green eyes aglow with mischief. Now that mischievous nature had gotten her into real trouble.

Philippe paced the room wondering why on earth Jeanne had declared she was a Huguenot. She knew her denying the Catholic faith was considered treason, and she’d be labeled a heretic.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. His chest tightened, and he ran one hand across the back of his neck to relieve the sudden stiffness. It must be his fault that Jeanne had turned out this way. He and Ramona had tried to raise her with good Catholic values and a strong sense of responsibility. Their efforts had failed, or else he wouldn’t be in this position.

Philippe glanced around the royal library. Tall windows punctuated the walls between rows of bookcases filled with the latest books on literature and art. Mahogany panels lined the walls. Soft Italian carpets covered the coldness of the slate tile floors. To the right, a warm fire crackled and popped in the massive stone fireplace, breaking the chill of the cool spring morning. The scent of juniper flowed from burning wall sconces situated throughout the room.

Philippe’s portrait of King Francis’s beloved Queen Claude, now dead, claimed the honored position over the fireplace. On either side hung his portraits of the King’s son, Henry and Catherine de Medici, Henry’s new Italian bride.

The clatter of footsteps and wild laughter broke Philippe’s reverie. The door opened and King Francis I entered the library surrounded by his entourage of female courtiers. Seeing Philippe, the King dismissed the ladies amid sighs of disappointment.

Philippe bowed as King Francis I took a seat behind the ornate walnut desk.

To Philippe, the King looked tired even though he was dressed in a royal gold and white striped doublet with white sleeves, and a black capotain felt hat. His thick black beard appeared rough and unruly. The dark bushy brows and long narrow nose protruded from a thin face. His chin formed a slight dimple, which caused his thin bottom lip to roll out into a boyish pout. But the King was no boy. He was now in his fortieth year.

Philippe considered King Francis I to be the most ingenious and most loved King France had ever had. He had seen the King use his financial acumen to reduce the crown’s war debt, and create income for his massive building projects by adopting the concept of Venality of office.

This concept allowed the King to sell offices at court to the noblemen, merchants, and bourgeoisie, and made them part of the royal council. Being part of the government made loyal subjects, and their diverse advice helped the King make wise decisions.

These positions were hereditary, and after three generations of service to the King, the fourth generation was ennobled with title, lands, and money.

Philippe squirmed and took a seat across the desk from the King.

The King held up a sheaf of parchment paper in one hand, and in the other, a broken arrow. I found this paper nailed to my bedchamber door with this arrow, and the golden locket wound around the shaft. His face flushed with anger.

He laid the arrow on the desk and settled back into his chair. A group of radicals crept into the palace last night and nailed a list of protests to my bedchamber door. Listen to these absurd demands. The King read aloud: Sola Scriptura (Scripture alone): The Bible alone is our highest authority. Sola Fide (faith alone): We are saved through faith alone in Jesus Christ. Sola Gratia (grace alone): We are saved by the grace of God alone. Solus Christus (Christ alone): Jesus Christ alone is our Lord, Savior, and King. Soli Deo Gloria (to the glory of God alone): We live for the glory of God alone.

The King slammed one fist on the desk. These words are blasphemous. Who are these Huguenots to speak for God? Only the Pope can speak for God. As if stunned by the meaning of his words, the King pushed the chair back and walked to the window which overlooked the manicured gardens of Fontainebleau.

Philippe admired the King’s restrained anger. He had never seen King Francis in such a state. He was usually mild-tempered and detached, but the incident had struck a raw chord in him. Philippe treaded on dangerous ground.

The King continued. These Huguenot rebels haunt me. They deny the authority of the Pope and their King. They claim the Bible as the highest authority, and they interpret it as they will. They disobey me in matters of religion.

The King looked at Philippe.

Philippe lowered his eyes. How could this be happening? He thought.

The King continued his rant. At first, I was lenient with these Huguenots, thinking they would repent and listen to reason. Because the majority of them are noblemen, I included them in the royal court. I sold them high positions in the government. I have tried to restrain them from preaching their vile doctrine to others, but without success.

King Francis continued. This time they have taken matters too far. These Huguenots have embarrassed me, my court, and my kingdom. And it seems that your daughter has joined them. He pointed to the golden locket. You hold the evidence in your hand. He paused again. Can you deny that the golden locket belongs to your daughter?

No, Your Highness, I cannot. Philippe gulped. But Jeanne is an innocent girl. There must be some mistake. She loves her position at court and would never do anything to jeopardize it.

King Francis held up one hand. Have you read the inscription?

Philippe read the inscription. The just shall live by faith.

The King pounded the desk with his fist. It is a defiant proclamation of Jeanne’s guilt. She is a Huguenot, and therefore a traitor of France, the Pope, and her King.

Philippe winced. He softened his voice. It is possible, Your Highness, but only because of her husband Pierre. He brought a few Huguenots with him from Geneva. The group is small, maybe one hundred or more. Pierre and Jeanne work with them to arrange the worship services in Meaux where the new religion is tolerated and legal. Pierre influenced Jeanne to join the radical sect. You know how unpredictable a young girl in love can be.

The King offered no response. Philippe’s heart pounded. No one can defy the King and go unpunished. What was he going to do? Jeanne, Jeanne, what have you done? He thought.

Philippe, you are one of my best portrait painters. I had hoped you would oversee the decoration of the new Palace of Chambord, but how can I promote you to chief court painter when your daughter is making me look like a fool before the whole country?

The King’s face paled. I cannot, and will not, succumb to these protests. I must protect the crown. I must protect France.

Philippe waited for the King’s verdict, but a knock at the door interrupted the dreaded judgment.

At the King’s consent a page entered and handed the King some official papers. Would you wait outside Philippe, I must tend to some urgent business. We will continue our discussion momentarily.

Of course, Your Highness. Philippe bowed and exited the library.

As he closed the door, he heard the page say, lettres de cachet.

His stomach hardened.

These arrest orders were irrevocable. The people arrested could be imprisoned without a trial or opportunity to offer a defense. The arrest orders were often purchased by wealthy men in order to rid themselves of undesirable individuals. The prisoners were tossed into the Bastille, forgotten, and left to rot.

Philippe shook his head. The King planned to arrest Pierre and Jeanne. He had no intention of letting them go, no matter what Philippe might say, or how much he begged. What could he do?

Like a whirlwind, thoughts raced through his mind. He had spent his entire life as an artist at court. This is where he had met his wife, Ramona, who had served as companion to the late Queen Claude. Jeanne served as companion to Queen Eleanor. Ramona’s father had purchased her position through King Francis I’s new financial plan.

An appointment as chief court painter would be the pinnacle of success for Philippe if… if he betrayed Jeanne.

He stared at the defiant inscription again, The just shall live by faith. Such words promised freedom, but instead they condemned Jeanne and Pierre of this insidious act against the King.

If he helped Jeanne, he would have to relinquish his dream of being chief court painter, but if he betrayed her, could he live with himself?

Philippe thought of his granddaughter, Violette. She was only four. What would become of her if her parents were arrested? Could he forsake her as well? He hung his head. How could a single incident destroy a lifetime of honest work and faithfulness to God, the King, and the Church? Philippe loved working at Fontainebleau.

Swallowing hard, he decided. He loved Jeanne and Violette more.

Philippe snapped the golden locket shut and raced down the hallway as fast as he could without arousing suspicion. The King would send for the guards to make the arrest.

Jeanne’s apartments were one floor below the library. If he hurried, they might evade the guards and escape.

He heard the rhythmic stomping of heavy feet approaching. He slowed to avoid suspicion as he stepped aside to let a group of ten guards pass. After they had turned the corner toward the library, Philippe broke into a run.

He grabbed a young page. Boy, the King needs three horses, saddled and brought to the front entrance, one for a lady. Hurry.

The page flew into action at the urgency of Philippe’s voice.

Philippe rushed down the long paneled hallway, stopping only for a moment to lean against the wall. His knees hurt because of the sudden exertion.

Mon Dieu, I’m too old to play the hero. Lord help me. Philippe whisked a long gray strand of hair from his face. Strengthened by a fresh influx of faith, he continued along the hallway. He must warn Jeanne. He forced himself to run, rather stiff-legged, but he couldn’t afford to stop again.

He finally reached the King’s staircase in the center of the library wing, and using the handrail as a brace, shifted his left leg from tread to tread, making the descent slow and agonizing. As he limped down the steps, his portraits, which decorated the stairwell, seemingly mocked him. You foolish man, you will live to regret helping Jeanne out of this dilemma.

Philippe clapped his hands over his ears, shutting out the illusive voices. He arrived at the bottom landing. Jeanne’s apartment was just ahead.

The fragrance of roses drifted past as he limped through the rose petals strewn along the hallway to stifle the dank smell of the old palace. Arriving at Jeanne’s door, he pounded and opened the door at the same time, leaving the door ajar.

Jeanne, you must leave now. The King’s guards are coming to arrest you and Pierre.

Violette, upon seeing him, dropped her fashion doll and yelled in delight, Grand-Père, Grand-Père. Her little arms outstretched. He lifted her into his arms and kissed her on the cheek. Her arms entwined his neck.

Pierre jumped up from his writing. Jeanne pushed back the embroidery frame, and they joined Philippe and Violette.

What do you mean Father? Why would the King want to arrest us?

Philippe opened his hand revealing the golden locket.

Oh, you’ve found my golden locket. Jeanne took the golden locket and held it up, eyes glowing. Look, Pierre, Father found my golden locket. Pierre took the golden locket as Jeanne continued. I lost it in Meaux last week at the Huguenot synod. I thought it was lost forever.

You must hurry Jeanne. Your life is in danger. Philippe shifted Violette in his arms. The King found your golden locket nailed to his bedchamber door this morning, along with a list of Huguenot protests against the Pope. He believes you and Pierre are responsible for the incident. He is angry and embarrassed. He intends to arrest you and Pierre. The lettres de cachet have already been signed. Please hurry. I have horses waiting at the front entrance.

Pierre raised his voice in protest. We would never do anything to embarrass the King. He knows that.

Philippe grabbed Pierre’s arm. No, he doesn’t. He believes you are guilty of treason. There is no time. We must go now.

Somehow the words registered with Pierre, and he grabbed Jeanne by the hand and ran out the door into the hallway. Philippe followed, carrying Violette in his arms.

Philippe heard the guards approaching, their steady gait resounding throughout the corridor. He ran, ignoring the pain in his legs, and he burst through the exterior door like a bird freed from a golden cage.

Outside, Pierre helped Jeanne onto a black gelding. He waved at Philippe to hurry. Pierre took Violette and held the horse steady while Philippe mounted.

Before Pierre lifted Violette up to Philippe, he placed the golden locket into her hand and squeezed it shut. Remember Violette, the just shall live by faith. He kissed her cheek and lifted her up to Philippe. Take good care of her, Philippe.

Philippe nodded and pulled the horse around, Hurry Pierre. We must ride. He hesitated only until Pierre mounted his horse. The three charged down the road toward the forest. Philippe heard shouting behind him and turned his head. He spotted the guards gathered at the front entrance, mounting their horses.

Philippe, Pierre, and Jeanne sped around the gardens toward the forest. Once out of sight of the guards, they stopped.

Philippe leaned close. We need to split up. It will give us a better chance to escape.

Jeanne and Pierre agreed. They leaned over to hug Violette and Philippe, and then they disappeared into the forest.

Philippe sighed. He looked back, his heart heavy. He would never see Fontainebleau again. He nudged his horse. Tears poured as Philippe and Violette raced south toward Avignon.

After a few minutes, Philippe looked back and saw the guards split ranks. The majority of them patrolled the forest edge, using the shadows as cover, hunting for Jeanne and Pierre.

Violette screamed.

Don’t worry little one. They won’t get us. Philippe turned her face forward. Don’t look back.

Philippe knew the second rank was close behind him. He kicked the stallion in the side, but one of the guards had raced ahead of the others. He was just a horse length behind. Philippe’s stallion stumbled, flinging Philippe and Violette onto the ground.

Before Philippe could react, the young guard jumped from his horse, dagger in hand, and slashed Philippe in the leg. The guard raised the dagger to strike again, but Philippe blocked the blow with his left arm, forcing the guard backward. The guard fell and hit his head on a rock. He lay still.

Philippe struggled to his feet, trying to catch his breath. Blood poured from his left leg. He ripped off his shirt sleeve and formed a makeshift bandage. He wrapped the wound before he limped back to Violette.

Violette sat on the ground clutching the golden locket. Philippe tried prying the golden locket from her hand, but Violette refused to let it go.

He picked her up and cuddled her in his arms. Don’t cry. We’ll be home soon. When her crying ceased, he positioned her on the saddle and mounted the stallion. He settled in behind her.

Looking down, he saw Violette gripping the golden locket in her fist.

Philippe kicked the stallion in the side and never looked back.

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Pierre and Jeanne rested inside the shadows at the edge of the forest. Jeanne saw the guards split and pursue Philippe and Violette. When she saw Philippe’s white stallion stumble, she panicked.

Violette! Jeanne shouted, and pointed toward her location. She kicked her horse in the side and rushed out of the forest.

Jeanne, no! She heard Pierre scream behind her, but she couldn’t stop. She had to get to Violette.

As Jeanne drew closer to Philippe, she stopped, trying to locate Violette. She looked back and saw Pierre riding towards her at a fierce pace. Then she saw Violette. Her heart grew faint.

She felt Pierre grab her. Then the guards surrounded them.

The last thing she saw was Violette’s lifeless body splayed on the ground.

Part

I

Chapter One

Avignon, France

Twenty-four years later

V iolette de la Marne stood by the bed listening to Grand-Père Philippe as he struggled for every breath. In her hand she held the precious golden locket, which she squeezed each time he missed a breath, her heart frozen until he caught another one.

She hadn’t gazed at the golden locket for weeks, but today was special. Today she needed comfort that the golden locket always gave her. Today Grand-Père was dying. It was just a matter of hours, maybe minutes.

She gazed out the open window at the countryside. Avignon was beautiful in the autumn, with its green valleys, rolling hills, and distant mountain plateaus that bordered the lush Rhone River Valley. A trio of red deer fed in the nearby cornfield, their ears pointed, listening for predators. Geese flew overhead honking and flying in a characteristic v-shaped pattern, a reminder that winter was near.

Tears streamed down Violette’s cheeks. How could Grand-Père die on such a beautiful day? Wasn’t it supposed to rain, or the clouds turn dark at the sadness of losing one so dear? No. The azure sky was sunny and bright. Bird song filled the air with a symphony of music, and tear-shaped raindrops dripped from the trees, keeping rhythm with nature’s morning song. She breathed in the freshness from last night’s gentle rain, but the beauty of nature only made her heart ache more. What would she do without Grand-Père Philippe?

Violette glanced down at the precious golden locket around her neck. She opened it. It held a sketch of her mother, Jeanne de la Marne, and the cherished scripture, The just shall live by faith. She remembered when her father, Pierre, had placed the golden locket in her hand. Love glowed from his face as he repeated the words to her. Remember Violette, the just shall live by faith.

And she had remembered, even though she was just four at the time. How could she forget that terrible day her parents were killed by the King’s guards? She and Grand-Père had escaped. The golden locket, evidence of her parents’ guilt, was all she had left of them.

Without Grand-Père, she was alone in the world. No distant relatives, just Sister Margaret, or Maggie as Violette affectionately called her. Maggie played the role of substitute mother, friend, and mentor, and Violette loved Maggie as she would her own mother.

Violette glanced at her mother’s portrait and warmed to the glow of Jeanne’s emerald green eyes. She looked happy. Violette knew it was because of the love Jeanne and Pierre had shared—a timeless love cemented by a strong faith in God. That combination made a strong marriage upon which to build a family.

When she married, she would marry for love just as her mother had and not for political, or economic convenience. She and her love will be joined in spirit, soul, and body. That was what Violette wanted.

She had experienced how religious differences divided a family, separating them from those they loved. She was Catholic and so was Grand-Père, but when Jeanne met Pierre, she had joined the Huguenots. She wished her mother had never become a Huguenot.

Once again, she looked at the inscription that had caused so much anger. The just shall live by faith. Were her parents heretics as everyone believed? Was a personal relationship with God possible?

She had always been a devout Catholic, but her heart cried out for this new religion. She desired the intimacy with God and assurance of salvation, but fear of death and persecution quelled her decision to change.

It sounded blasphemous, but her heart longed to embrace such a relationship with God. He seemed distant and beyond her reach. If only it were possible to know him better. If only she could make Grand-Père understand how her heart ached for the closeness this Huguenot religion promised. But he refused to discuss the matter with her. She stopped asking him because it made him angry. He treated her as if she were the one who had betrayed him instead of Jeanne.

Violette couldn’t understand how the Catholics could murder and persecute in the name of God. Nor could she comprehend the Huguenot’s violent response. Wasn’t murder wrong in God’s eyes? But what could the Huguenots do? They couldn’t allow the Catholics to kill their families, or subject them to cruel persecution and death.

It reminded Violette of the Christians sacrificed to the lions in Rome. It posed an ancient moral dilemma that went beyond the wisdom of her twenty-eight years.

Violette continued life as she was taught. She attended Mass each morning and vespers each evening. She showed no visible objection to being a Catholic.

Grand-Père’s incessant coughing pierced Violette’s reverie. She pulled back the curtain that divided the living area from the sick room and whispered to Sister Maggie. Grand-Père is awake.

Sister Maggie brought her a basin of cool water and a cloth with which to wipe his brow. Violette set them on the small table outside the curtain next to the fireplace.

The table held palettes spattered with paint, brushes, and an unfinished painting of Jeanne. The rich colors and bold splashes of paint revealed the genius of Philippe’s artistry. In a few strokes, Philippe had captured Jeanne’s mischievous nature and the warmth of her emerald green eyes.

Violette’s heart ached, knowing the painting would never be completed. Grand-Père had sacrificed his great talent and life’s work to save her and Jeanne from being arrested. The sacrifice had broken his heart. Somehow she felt guilty over his loss.

Violette shut out the depressing thoughts. Her heart grieved for Grand-Père Philippe. She picked up the basin and started back to the bed, when she stopped. If Grand-Père saw the golden locket, he would be angry. She removed it and laid it on the table before entering the sick room.

The old man looked pale—too pale. It wouldn’t be long until death seeped the life from his ancient, fragile face. Violette turned her back to him so he couldn’t see the tears. She forced a smile as she dipped a cloth into the washbasin and wiped his forehead.

When the cool cloth touched his forehead, Grand-Père opened his eyes. A slight smile crossed his face.

You are a beautiful child, he uttered in broken French. He stroked a strand of her raven hair. You remind me of your grand-mère.

His eyes turned dreamy.

I remember the first time I saw her. I was at the Palace of Fontainebleau painting a portrait of Queen Claude when Ramona interrupted our sitting. I loved her boldness, just as I do yours. His eyes twinkled. He stroked her hair again. I’ll never forget how her raven hair glistened in the sunlight like yours, ma petite fille. He shivered. Her death almost killed me.

Are you cold Grand-Père?

The old man nodded.

I’ll put another log on the fire. Violette tucked his wrinkled arms beneath the quilt and pulled the bedclothes up to his chin. She glanced at the fireplace. The adjacent wood bin stood empty. Grand-Père, I must get more logs from the shed. Looking outside, she noticed that dark clouds blocked the sunshine, and the wind rocked the treetops. She shut the window, slipped from the room, and grabbed a cape from a hook by the door.

Is he…? Sister Maggie asked.

No, not yet, but he is getting weaker. Will you watch him while I get more logs for the fire?

Of course, my dear. Sister Maggie said and hurried to the bedside.

Outside the cold, dry mistral created havoc as its winds tossed debris into Violette’s path. Chickens fluttered and scurried along the yard as she pressed into the force of the wind. The storm could be devastating when it funneled down the Rhone Valley on its way to the Mediterranean Sea. During the remainder of the year, Avignon, the town known for its violent winds, was mostly calm with mild winters, cool summers, and gentle breezes that blew across serene pasture lands. Those were the times Violette liked the most, the peaceful, quiet days of summer.

She reached the woodshed, which was only a lean-to made from rough timber. One by one she stacked the logs in her arms, the wind ripping at her skirt. When she could carry no more, she headed back across the yard, the wind pushing her forward.

As she entered the cottage, the spicy smell of vegetable soup greeted her. Sister Maggie had managed to heat it on the remaining embers. Violette placed two logs on the dying flames.

Violette, Grand-Père called. Come sit by me.

She took the old man’s hand and sat on the bed beside him.

My time is short…

Grand-Père—

Ssh. I know I’m dying. He coughed. Sister Maggie said you’ve been gazing at that golden locket again.

Violette tensed. The displeasure in his voice was unmistakable. Grand-Père, couldn’t you tell me where my parents are buried so I can visit their graves? It would be a great comfort to me.

Nonsense. Forget your parents. Live your life, Violette. Don’t waste it digging up the past.

Grand-Père, I need to know—

Listen to me, child. His voice weakened. When Jeanne and Pierre were killed, I raised you as my own. I sent you to the Avignon Convent to be trained and educated so you would be prepared to face life. My hopes were you would marry well and raise a family here in Avignon. That is why I had you betrothed to M’sieur Gresham; he will take care of you.

A faraway look filled his eyes. Jeanne could have had a grand life at court if she had only listened to me and not run off with that scoundrel…

My father? Violette straightened.

Anger flashed in the old man’s eyes. Yes, your father, Pierre. If not for him, Jeanne would have never shamed us as she did. The coughing set in again, shaking his feeble frame. When the attack subsided, he appeared calmer.

Send for the bishop. The old man released her hand and waved her away.

Violette entered the living area, drawing the curtain behind her.

Sister Maggie stood nearby, biting at her lips.

He asked for the bishop. Will you go? Violette asked.

Maggie nodded and stepped closer. Will you be all right Miss Violette?

Violette grasped Maggie’s hand. I will be fine Maggie. Just hurry. Violette trembled. The end was near.

When Sister Maggie returned with Bishop Bernard, Violette directed the Bishop to Philippe’s bedside. She gently woke him. Grand-Père, the Bishop is here as you requested. Philippe opened his eyes. He caught the Bishop’s hand like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. Violette eased quietly away from the bed leaving them alone.

A soft mumble of words fell on Violette’s ears as Grand-Père began his confession. Violette motioned to Sister Maggie to go outside. Violette started towards the door when she thought of the golden locket. She stopped and reached into her pocket.

It was gone.

The golden locket was gone. Her heart pounded. Think, Violette. Where had she left it? She turned to survey the room. It wasn’t on the floor or the mantel. Could it have fallen into the wood bin?

She couldn’t interrupt Grand-Père’s confession to search the wood bin, could she? No. She would wait until later, but then she saw the golden locket laying on the table near the paint brushes. Bishop Bernard would be angry if he caught her, but he would understand how much comfort it brought her.

Violette tiptoed to the table. She retrieved the golden locket, turned and slowly started towards the door.

She put one foot in front of the other making sure each step was noiseless. She heard Grand-Père’s words. She stuck her fingers in both ears. You were not supposed to hear another’s confession. It was a private matter between one and God. The confession was meant only for the ears of the bishop, but she couldn’t block out the words. Philippe’s cracked voice spewed out his confession amid bursts of racking coughs.

Father, forgive me… for I have sinned… against Violette.

What is it that troubles you my son? Bishop Bernard asked.

"I’m a proud man Father… I didn’t want to lose Violette… like