by Dan Davis
“Where would he go?” I asked Stephen in the darkness, riding toward the centre of Nantes. “Surely, not to Tiffauges. He knows that we would look for him there.”
“He has a dozen castles to choose from and surely it must be at least one of them. Where else can he go?”
As a mounted group, we seemed too conspicuous and so we dismounted, pulled our hoods up or hats down, and moved on through the crowds hurrying home. Many who had attended the executions were steaming drunk and rowdy, while others stumbled away from the city or to their rooms as if they were yet stunned by what they had witnessed. The hum and hiss of voices echoed through the streets. I felt for them because in their ignorance they believed that their tormentor was dead and that justice had been done.
“It would take days to travel to each of his castles,” I said to Stephen. “Weeks to search them. Months, perhaps. He escapes, Stephen. Now, as we speak, he escapes and if we do not catch him now, he will be in the wind. Who knows what evil he will do in the years to come?”
“Do not despair,” Stephen said. “We will find him.”
I turned on him. “How?”
He looked away, for he had no answer. We stopped and looked at the crowds filing by us. A woman wept, her husband’s arm about her shoulders. A group of young men argued and jostled each other as they passed us, agitated and spoiling for a fight.
“What do you reckon they would do if we told them?” Rob asked.
“They would not believe it,” Stephen said. “Even if they could be made to understand it.”
“Shame them two servants got burned up, ain’t it,” Walt said. “Might be they knew where their master might have gone.”
Stephen and I exchanged a look.
“The others yet live, do they not?” I said. “The priest and the sorcerer.”
“They are yet held at the gaol in the castle. If we go there and are reported, we are likely to be seized by the Bishop’s soldiers.”
“Then we must move swiftly and if they do attempt to take us, we will cut our way free. Are we agreed?” Walt and Rob were quick to do so and Stephen hesitated only for a moment. “How much silver do you have on you, Stephen?”
We made our way to the prison as quickly and quietly as we could. With the help of fistfuls of coins, Stephen quickly talked the gaolers into granting us access to the guilty servants who had somehow avoided the sentence of death.
While my men watched the exits, the gaolers escorted Stephen and I through to the cell of Dominus Eustache Blanchet, who was horrified to see me step into his cell.
“Where is he?” I said, unable to keep the snarl from my face. “Where?”
“Who, my lord?”
I stepped over him and resisted the urge to thrash him senseless. “Gilles de Rais has fled. Following his execution, he has fled. And you know, by God, you know where he has gone, and you will tell me.”
“Surely, sir, he cannot have survived the noose and fire,” Blanchet cried. “Do you think he is coming for me, my lord? Because I turned on him and confessed and so condemned him?”
I slapped him and shoved him over and slapped him again. “Can you truly be so stupid? Is it a part that you play so well or are you a simpleton? You may have convinced the court but you do not fool me. You know what your master is. You know what the others were. And you must have known his plan to survive his execution. Tell me where he went!”
He sobbed and fouled himself and trembled, begging forgiveness for not knowing anything, tears running down his face. He swore that he would say whatever I wanted him to say, if only I would tell him what it was.
Stephen pulled me back. “I believe him, Richard. He is ignorant, of this at least.”
“I am going to kill him,” I said.
Blanchet whimpered and closed his eyes, his lips moving silently.
“He is not an immortal,” Stephen said. “For the sake of your own soul, Richard, do not murder him.”
“Damn you, Stephen,” I said and pushed by him to where the gaoler stood waiting. “Where is Prelati?” I cried.
We were shown to his cell where, having heard my brutal interrogation through the walls, he already crouched in the corner.
“Sorcerer,” I said from the doorway.
“I know nothing!” he shouted as I advanced on him and dragged him from the corner by the hair.
“Blanchet is a simpleton,” I snarled in his face. “But nothing gets by you, does it, Francis.” I wrapped my hand tight about his throat and squeezed. “You know what Gilles was. You know that he has avoided death for decades and you know that he has cheated it once again with this trickery. If you wish to avoid your own demise in the next few moments, you will tell me where he has gone.”
He did his best to nod and I loosened my grip enough for him to speak. “I believed when he gave himself up that he had some way to escape. When the murders could no longer be denied, he sacrificed himself and us also, so that he could get away and carry on elsewhere, with the man Gilles de Rais considered to be dead. That was why he contrived to give himself up, it was obvious and he even admitted as much, in his way. But he would tell me nothing more and whenever I pushed him he would strike me and rage at me. I was certain he would kill me in one of his black moods even before we were finally arrested and so—”
I slapped his face to shut him up.
“There were men supplying him with blood,” I said. “After his arrest, here in this castle. Who was helping him? What are their names?”
He gasped for breath. “I never knew any of that. He would never have told me. I was not one of them and he would not make me so. He used me and discarded me.”
I let go of his throat but stood over him, ready to throttle the life from him at a moment’s notice.
“And so get your revenge on him and tell me where he went.”
“If I knew, I would tell it gladly.”
I almost killed him from the frustration. It was maddening. But I pulled myself back from the brink and instead asked him a question.
“Where do you think your lord would go? Which one of his own castles? And if not one of his own, who were his allies? Surely, there were other lords or knights nearby who would shelter him in their home and you, who spent so much time at his side, you would know of them. So, who would put him up in his hour of need?”
He frowned, casting his red-rimmed eyes up and down me momentarily before answering. “Do you have any conception of his riches? Of how many men served him and serve him still? He owns a score of fortresses, a hundred villages, thousands of people. When we served him in his crimes and in his other deeds we used half a hundred peasant homes, spread across his lands. So many places, bought and paid for, or taken from men that we killed for him. It is conceivable he is at any one of them. But for how long? And I doubt he has gone to any place associated with the names Gilles de Rais, sir. Even in his arrogance, he would not be so witless as that. But in truth, my lord may end up hidden a dozen miles from here in some foul, dilapidated peasant house or in a grand palace in the East, feted by the Turks.”
“You are a talker,” I said, squeezed his throat once more. “A man with weasel words who thinks himself so very clever. Well, let me see you talk your way out of strangulation.” His eyes grew wild and round and he thrashed and clawed at my throat and I revelled in his fear and suffering, which he had himself certainly inflicted on children before they were murdered.
“You can’t do that!” the gaoler said, grabbing me to no effect before appealing to Stephen. “He can’t do that, sir, or I’ll get strung up myself for allowing it.”
I did not care and would have committed another murder but Rob banged into the open door, breathing heavily. “Some bastard,” he said, “tipped off the Bishop’s men. They’re on their way.”
Growling, I pushed Prelati down and stalked out of his cell, hearing him gasping for breath as I did so. Following Rob, I hurried toward the way out of the gaol.
“When they come, we will subdue the Bishop
’s men and then question them,” I said to Stephen. “One by one, to find who has helped him escape.”
“You assaulted the Bishop of Nantes,” Stephen said, lowering his voice. “Once we are cornered they will send more and more until you can kill no more. If we do not leave Nantes almost immediately, they will throw us in here with Prelati and Blanchet.”
“He ain’t wrong, sir,” Rob said.
“We got to leg it now,” Walt cried as we reached him.
“God save me from my temper,” I muttered, recalling what I had said and done to the Bishop of Nantes in his own palace. “Come, then. Let us be gone from here. All we can do is go south and search those places that we can find. Someone will have seen something.”
We made our escape from Nantes, with all of our horses, our belongings, and our valets. The enormous crowds were well on their way to drunkenness and the soldiers had their hands full keeping order so we slipped out without any trouble. Still, I looked behind me repeatedly as we rode to our inn at Mortagne which we reached as night fell.
***
“Can it be true?” the innkeeper Bouchard-Menard asked when we arrived. “Is the demon finally dead?” He stood in the middle of the communal room downstairs with a big, dumb smile on his face and two cups of wine in his hands.
“Yes,” I said, lying. “Gilles de Rais is dead.”
“Praise God,” he said, weeping. “God bless you, good fellows, for all what you have done.”
“We shall need food and wine for travelling. Five days’ worth for seven men, if you have it and we are leaving well before sunrise,” I said to him. “Now, what do we owe you?”
While the valets packed the remainder of our belongings, we sat inside by an open window facing the courtyard, eating in silence. I chafed to be gone, to be chasing after our quarry before he got too far, but also knew we had to wait until morning. It was obvious that the men needed sleep and I found my own eyes closing and my head nodding close to my stew. The poultry was soft and nourishing, and the broth was savoury indeed, laden with salt and fresh herbs and I knew it would likely be the last hot meal I would have for some time.
“Bleed the valets,” I said to Rob. “You three all must have blood. We will ride hard in the morning and for every day after until we find him. Wherever he has gone.”
“Going to be hard on the lads,” Rob observed. “Keeping up with us.”
“We will run them ragged and send them back to Normandy and London, if they cannot keep pace. There is plenty more mortal blood for the taking in France.”
My men did not like it. Not treating loyal men so poorly, nor risking their regular blood supply. But what were such things compared to Gilles de Rais escaping justice?
“Horses, too,” Walt said. “Already looking ropey. Noticed that mare favouring a leg on the way here and the grey’s breathing ain’t improving, none.”
I nodded. “How are our finances?” I asked Stephen.
“Well enough to keep us in food and horses for a month or two,” he replied. “After that, we shall have to travel to Rouen to collect additional coin.”
The thought of chasing around blindly through the country for more than a month turned my stomach and I put down my spoon.
“Can’t we just take what we need?” Walt asked. “We done it before.”
“That was war,” I said.
“What,” Walt replied. “Ain’t we at war still now? Ain’t we Englishmen and ain’t this France?”
“Keep your voice down,” Stephen hissed, looking around to see if anyone had heard while Rob laughed.
Outside, the hooves of a single horse sounded on the cobbles of the courtyard. I thought nothing of it because so many came and went at such times but then a voice, filled with anguish, cried out.
“Richard! Where be Richard?”
Looking out of the window, I saw a man attempt to dismount a skittish horse before falling to the ground. His horse danced away from him and I saw in the lamplight that the man’s belly and loins were shining with fresh blood.
“Dear God,” I said, rushing to the doorway. “Is that Paillart? Stephen, that is Ameline Moussillon’s servant.”
With Bouchard-Menard clearing the way, we carried him into the ale room and laid him on a cleared table. Stephen opened his clothes while the innkeeper generously poured wine into Paillart’s mouth and over the wounds on his belly.
The wounds stank of shit and bile, and I knew his guts had been hewn by a blade. Such a wound would certainly go bad and rot a man inside out, sooner or later.
“I am killed,” Paillart said as he smelled it also, his voice rasping and his face pale. “She has killed me.”
For a moment, I thought he meant Ameline had been the one who stabbed him but then I shook myself, for that could not possibly be true. “Who has killed you?”
“The damned girl. The girl.”
“Tell me what has happened, quickly. Who is the girl who did this to you?”
“No true girl. A demon,” he said, gasping. “A demon in human flesh. She broke through my master’s door with her bare hands. My master attempted to seize her but she threw him. Across the room, into the wall. I stabbed her in the back, ran her through right and proper.” He laughed in disbelief as he recalled it, eyes wild. “She withdrew my blade from her body and used it on me. As you may see, sirs. She held my master down and sucked blood from his throat until he struggled no more. Dear Ameline attempted to save her father but the girl dragged Ameline away. The demon girl looked at me, with her demon eyes. Tell Richard of Ashbury what has befallen his beloved, she said. Tell it to Richard. That’s you sir, is it not? It must be. And then they was gone. She took Ameline, out the door to where others waited, men with horses, and they trussed her up and...” He gasped. “You must save her, sir. Save her from the demon.”
“Who was the demon?” I asked. “A child?”
“La Meffraye’s girl. Her familiar. Evil creature. Pure evil.”
I staggered away, clutching my head at the implications.
“The girl,” Stephen said, coming up behind me. “The young woman that we heard about who accompanied the Terror in her business taking the children. She was a revenant all along.”
“Perhaps he made more revenants before his end,” I said. “In order to carry out this task.”
“Strong, eh?” Walt said, holding up Paillart’s head so that Rob could pour some brandy wine into his mouth. “Could you break through a door with your bare hands, Rob?”
He had been in possession of an archer’s strength in his mortal life and his immortality had increased it beyond measure. “The physician’s house, in Tilleuls? Solid oak door with iron fixings, weren’t it? Not bloody likely.”
Stephen scoffed. “He exaggerates,” he said, indicating Paillart, whose eyes were rolling. “There were others there who no doubt threw down the door prior to the girl’s assault.”
“Maybe,” Walt allowed, and lowered Paillart’s head back to the table where the man closed his eyes. He was not far from his death.
“Why would he make some young woman into one at all?” I asked, speaking half to myself. “But not Prelati or the priest or Roger de Briqueville or even La Meffraye herself?”
Walt scratched his nose. “Wouldn’t want to stare at some dried-up old bird for a hundred years, would you? Get yourself a nice, round young woman instead, right? Lovely.”
“But he does not like young women, does he,” I said.
“Well,” Rob said, a small smile on his face. “Only one.”
I looked at him, not getting the joke.
“Joan of Lorraine,” he said, sheepishly.
We looked at each other, arriving at the same enormous thought like a thunderclap.
“But it cannot be,” Stephen said. “She burned.”
I nodded. “People think that Gilles de Rais burned. We know differently.”
“But Joan was burned to ashes.” Walt said.
“Someone was burned,” I replied. “Some poor
girl. Who’s to say that burned girl was the same Joan?”
“Well,” Stephen said, “it should be easy enough to resolve. Did La Meffraye’s granddaughter look like Joan?”
“I never saw her. She was not present when the old woman was arrested. Did you see the girl, Walt? Rob?” They all shook their heads. “Surely, though it cannot be that Joan not only avoided her execution, and that she truly was an immortal, as we expected, but that she has been under our noses for months.”
“And abducting children,” Walt said.
“And feeding on them, perhaps every day,” Rob said. “And so growing strong enough to break down a solid oak door with her bare hands.”
“Do you really think it can be true?” Stephen said.
I walked to the door and looked out at the night, recalling the fierceness of the young woman at her trial. Her impossible leap from that tower in an effort to escape captivity. A leap that only an immortal could hope to survive. My heart raced, filled with fear and guilt for Ameline, and the death of her poor father. I pushed the feelings away, for I needed my wits about me.
“He’s gone,” Walt said, his hand on Paillart’s chest. “Poor old bastard’s had it.”
“Remember this man in your prayers,” I said. “For with the last of his strength, he did his duty.”
The innkeeper’s servants carried his body into a storeroom and began scrubbing at the blood and so we filed into the courtyard to continue our discussion.
“The demon girl must be Joan, the Maiden of Orléans,” I said. “But even if she is not, she told Paillart that she wants me to follow her. Which means that such a thing is possible. But to follow her, we need a destination. A place that we know. So, tell me, where has she gone?”
“Tiffauges?” Walt asked. “Machecoul?”
“Any truly likely suggestions?” I asked the others.
“Where was Joan from?” Rob said. “Lorraine, no? People go home when they get afraid.”
Rob was a family man at heart and wanted nothing more than to go home, so that was where his mind would run.