Love under Siege

Chapter One

Avignon, France 1558 Twenty-four years later Violette 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 that 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 parent’s guilt, was all she had left of them. Without Grand-Père, she was totally 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 like 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 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 like 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 which 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.