by Ann Benson
“Have you been in Arizona that whole time?”
“No, I went out there five years ago. It was a tough decision to move away from Nathan, but the offer was too good.”
“Do you stay in regular touch with Ellen?”
“Fairly regular. She keeps me informed of all his activities; he’s not so good at doing that, just because of who he is, I think. He’s a scatterbrained kind of kid.”
The mother had said dreamy. “I’ve been getting that impression. So your communications with Ellen are generally pleasant?”
“Cordial would be a better word. She wants me to have a good relationship with Nathan. I’ve always been grateful to her for that. She’s a decent woman.”
“And how has she seemed lately to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Has she seemed nervous or unusually upset at all?”
“Well, her son is gone, for crying—”
“I meant before now.”
“Oh. No, not at all.”
“I understand that you lost a child previously to SIDS.”
“Yes. We did, before Nathan was born.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you. It was an awful experience, let me tell you.”
“I understand. When you were going through that experience together, how was Ellen?”
He shifted in his seat again. His expression grew dark as he began to understand where I was going; the tone of his voice sharpened. “What do you mean, how was she?”
“Was she upset, angry, resigned, what?”
“Detective, she lost a baby. How was she supposed to be?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Leeds. It’s not something I’ve experienced myself, so I’m trying to understand. I’m also wondering how that experience might affect her reaction to this situation.”
“How is that going to help you find Nathan?”
“Well—”
He struggled out of the chair and stood. “Look, if you think Ellen had anything to do with this, you’re mistaken. She loves that boy and she’s been a terrific mother. Just wipe out any notion of her being involved. Don’t waste your time, or my son’s. If he has any left.”
When he reached Ellen’s apartment, he would tell her that I had questioned him about her and that it sounded like I suspected her. Why, oh why, could I not be more like Spence Frazee, smooth as silk, with all the right questions?
seven
There was no point in another day of inquiry in the parish of Bourgneuf, nor did I think it necessary to seek additional stories of children being devoured by unknown demons in other parishes. Between Bourgneuf and the other villages I had passed through, I had all the fuel I needed to start a hearty fire, so after another night of less-than-blissful repose, I set out early on the return journey to Nantes. The undercurrent of adventure that had rendered the journey out sufferable—though barely—was now gone. It had been replaced by urgency.
I encountered no brigands on the road, not that even the most audacious marauder would have dared to take me on—I carried a dark cloud above me that was sure to dissuade all but the most determined ravager. Still, deny it though I might, I knew the danger to me was real. Chaos reigns everywhere, my son had written in one of his darker letters. We never know from one day to the next which duke or baron will arrive to demand that his claim on usurped territory be legitimized with a blessing.
Conditions had improved in the south over the last year or so but remained unsettled in the north; we are an easy mark for the English, who naturally prefer to lay siege to convenient Normandy and Brittany before wasting supplies and arms on a long foray into Provence, despite the marked improvement in the weather one always experiences by going farther south. How much more pleasant it is to ravage the countryside when the air caresses one’s skin like the fingertips of a lover than when the rain stings it like arrows and needles. Duke Jean, in either wisdom or callousness, I could not say which, had managed to keep the English at bay in Brittany with a tenuous alliance, the terms of which seemed to change nearly every month, much to his Eminence’s chagrin when he wore a statesman’s hat.
It was perhaps owing to that constant readjustment of accord that we knew better circumstances here in Brittany than they did in France herself. But even relative peace can bring difficulties one would not expect—to wit, the problem of the free companies: With the wars somewhat at bay for the moment, knights and squires who once had purpose in serving their lords now roamed aimlessly through the countryside in search of victims to plunder, the spoils of which might bring in enough income to support the continuation of the company. It was the irony of peace.
One could hardly distinguish between soldier and criminal, so faded had the distinctions become. My own countrymen were no more successful in eliminating the blood lust from their souls than the despised English—they made menace on children, the aged and infirm, anyone who did not carry a weapon—perpetrating acts of viciousness that would make God Himself weep. In his final delirium, my husband, Etienne, had spoken of things he would never have told me while he was still of sound mind. He had seen men chained and roasted while their women and children were forced to watch, teeth pulled out one by one until every last sou had been given o’er, tortures and maimings of the innocents—such atrocities as defy belief.
Now, as if that torture were not enough, what innocents remained were starting to disappear. It was beginning to seem that they had been disappearing for some time, directly under our watch yet unnoticed.
I arrived at the abbey in late afternoon and returned my donkey to her own little abode. I bade her a fond good-bye; she had been a worthy companion, always willing to listen but never to contradict. I thanked her for not swaying too much on the ride home and fed her a handful of straw.
In the fields behind the stable, I could see young monks with their sleeves turned up and novices with veils tied back, all bent to the spring’s planting. Frère Demien would be there overseeing these labors, moving from person to person with careful instruction on the best methods for each specific crop. Later in the growing season, when the plants were well up and unveiling the first of their abundance, I would often find him hovering over a favorite, whispering encouragement like some wizard or conjurer or, better even, a mother. Sometimes I wondered how he could later eat these plants, these small children of his, that he had so carefully shepherded to fruitfulness, and with such relish.
As for that, they eat small children there . . .
As always when he was in the garden, his mood was serene and content, unlike my own, which in the aftermath of my journey was troubled. The warm smile with which he greeted me felt like honey on a bad throat, and I found great comfort in it.
He brushed small bits of dark earth off his hands and rolled down his sleeves. “Mother—we did not expect you for another day or more,” he said. “But I am glad you have returned. His Eminence has been quite testy in your absence.”
There was a sinful bit of satisfaction in having been missed, though I did not like knowing that Jean de Malestroit suffered any form of discomfort. “I am glad to be back,” I said wearily.
“Did you encounter difficulties that forced your early return?”
“Only one,” I said, “that of achieving too much success in much too little time. I saw no reason not to return immediately, especially with Pax so near.”
He made no comment but took the small satchel in which I had carried my travel necessities from my hand and gestured toward the abbey. We began a slow walk in that direction, arm in arm.
“Naturally you will give your news to his Eminence forthwith.”
“Naturally.”
“Affairs of state are complex at the moment, judging by our bishop’s mood of late.”
“I fear I shall only add to his woes, then.”
Eleven, I told Jean de Malestroit. And Bernard le Camus—so, in all, twelve.
“Over two years, in the area around Bourgneuf alone. Not to mention the stories I h
eard on my way there. I went no farther; there seemed no need with so much to report in that one visit.”
I waited anxiously for a response, but he remained quiet.
“It cannot be ignored,” I insisted.
After a long moment of what I imagined to be reflection on the matter, he spoke. “Well, once again you have given me something to consider. Not that I lacked worries. Tell me, Guillemette, you have met these people—do you find their complaints sincere?”
I was nearly speechless. “Well, yes, Eminence, I do, and I cannot fathom why a group of disparate people would conspire to invent such stories as I have heard. It would require a good amount of cooperation and far more imagination than such people have perhaps been blessed with.”
“And what do you consider an appropriate response to their complaints?”
By all the saints, what could he be thinking? Such a decision could not be made by someone like me. My purpose in going forth had been to acquire enough information to force him to act. I bore in mind that he had given only grudging approval of my foray in the first place, but now Jean de Malestroit’s disinterest seemed so complete that I began to feel rather vexed. I held my tongue; perhaps there was something here that I was missing. He was not by nature a callous or uncaring man.
“Clearly, Eminence,” I said quietly, “someone should investigate each one of those disappearances to determine if there is a common thread to them. You would do well to choose a person of keen mind, one who could be trusted to have enthusiasm for the work.”
“Yes, well, there does not seem to be an excess of keen, enthusiastic people available to me for such a task at the moment.”
“Only one is required.” I paused briefly, then plunged. “And as I am the one who brought this inquiry about in the first place, it seems only fitting that it ought to be me who sees it to completion.”
“Guillemette, you are a woman. Beyond that, you are an abbess. It would be a most unseemly activity in view of your station.”
“Perhaps, but no one else could have the passion for it that I have.”
“Your passion may cloud your thinking. Someone more impartial, perhaps . . .”
How exasperating! His Eminence giveth, his Eminence taketh away. “I believe that my deep concern will give me unusual clarity on the matter—I have an ability to understand this sort of situation that will far outweigh the benefits of ignorant impartiality.”
Having failed to dissuade me with reason, he next reminded me of my responsibilities. “You cannot be spared from your duties for such work.”
“Oh, bother,” I said. “There are idle hands all around this place, aching for tasks.”
“Very well, then,” he said. “I cannot spare you.”
“Then I shall arrange my inquiries so that you will not have to spare me.”
One corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “All right,” he said, “if you wish to pursue your inquiries on a deeper level, then you have my consent.”
I wanted his blessing, but consent would suffice.
“We shall give your regular duties to Sister Élène,” he said. “She is very competent and is quite eager for advancement. She will take your place nicely.”
He always had to have the last thrust of the sword. Jean de Malestroit saw the look of distress that clouded my face and hastened to clarify. “Of course, she cannot ever truly take your place, and we shall all suffer in your absence. Rest assured, the change will persist only until you are finished with the work before you. When you return from this quest of yours, we will be very glad to have you back again.”
“Then, with your leave, I shall begin immediately,” I said.
“Ah, Guillemette, do not be so hasty. It would be better if you waited until after Pax,” he said. “After all, I shall be needing you, as I always do.”
For my duty of standing against the wall during preparations, one for which I could not be replaced. “Of course, Eminence. That would be very sensible.”
I thought it anything but sensible.
Thus the most sacred week of our year began to seem to me the longest. I was eager to move forward, but I could not do so—there was holiness to be inspired, a daunting task in such a large parish as ours, where many of the communicants would benefit more from a good meal than yet another plateful of spiritual nourishment. Despite its wealth and prosperity, Nantes had many poor, all of whom had been beaten down by the constant wars and resultant levies on their meager treasuries.
Good Friday came and went; its terrible sorrow washed over us like a wave and then, under the glorious influence of the Resurrection, quickly abated. Easter was early that year, before the end of Mars, so the air was spring-chilled as we headed in procession to the church. Along the way long queues of worshipers lined the muddy streets, some with nothing more than rags tied about their feet, in the hopes of seeing the Bishop and his entourage in the glorious pomp and dignity of holy procession. What shoes were worn by the gawkers could not help but be wet and would stiffen later as they dried. There would be great clumps of dried mud cast off onto the stone floor of the sanctuary after the service, for which Sister Élène would now be responsible.
The sanctuary itself was already overflowing with worshipers attired in their finest raiment, brought out only on such worthy occasions. But a great deal of what was presented as finery could hardly be called so by any standard; Madame le Barbier could have been very useful among these worshipers. I craned my neck and looked around to see if she had made the journey from Machecoul, but I did not find her in the congregation.
For all the despair and poverty that most of these people could rightfully claim, they worshiped with great hope; it was a day of renewal, rebirth, of the promise of spring. The air had a freshness to it that does not seem to happen at any other time. The sunlight was thin but bright and teased of the sweet warmth to come. Birds sang as if they had been tapped on the wing by God Himself.
We had our own God-tapped birds in the loft at the rear of the church, though they were all human—boys and men, to be more specific. But some among them possessed voices that might have been stolen from the angels. I closed my eyes and let their holy chant wash through me.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.
O Domine, Jesu Christe, rex gloriae, libera animas omnium fidelium de functorum, de poenis inferni, et de profundo lacu.
I lost myself in the sweet smoothness of the chant. But I opened my eyes in surprise when one voice sounded alone. I had heard it many times before.
Hostias, te preces tibi Domine, laudi suferium, tu suscipe, animas iras . . .
From my place near the front of the church I turned back to look at the singers.
“By all the saints . . .” I said under my breath.
Quarum hodie, memoriam, et jus . . .
Frère Demien was seated directly in front of me; I reached out and tugged on one of his sleeves. Apparently I had disturbed a moment of true prayer, for he turned around and gave me a rare look of consternation.
I pointed upward. “Look—in the choir,” I said.
He put a hand up to shade his eyes against the sun coming in through the rear window. “God be praised,” he whispered. “Buchet! But . . . why is he not at Machecoul? Mon Dieu!” He gave me a shocked look. “The Duke must have enticed him away from Milord Gilles.”
It was an unlikely development. “One wonders by what means—Milord and Buchet might have shared a skin.”
“No longer, by the looks of it.”
André Buchet was famed throughout the land, and deservedly—he was young and handsome and possessed a voice that might have been an affront to God in its perfection, had it not been created by God Himself and had Buchet not used it primarily to his Creator’s glory. Gilles de Rais heard him singing one day in the parish of Saint-Etienne, which parish was his own property, and had whisked him off immediately to join the choir of his own Chapel of the Holy Innocents. The ceremony with which the installation had been made was remarkable
and oft recounted, though never could it be reproduced exactly, even by the same musicians and singers—the air of it was what made it so special. Buchet was but a boy at the time and still unspoiled. Now, after having been pampered with all manner of advantages, he had come to expect such treatment and was known for his impetuous temper when things were not exactly to his liking.
For a long while there was a quiet scandal among us about the way Milord doted on the boy. René de la Suze had protested his brother’s expenditure of money to support the boy so lavishly.
Good trebles are rare and to be cherished, Milord had said in his own defense.
Harder still to keep and therefore a waste, Milord’s brother had countered; They grow up, and their voices deepen.
But not Buchet. “What is his age now, would you guess?” I asked Frère Demien.
“Twenty and two, perhaps.”
“He still sings as he did at twelve.”
It was not much of an exaggeration. I wondered to myself if he had been made a castrato; if so, it might even have been his own choice. He would have had to decide at a tender age, before the man effects took hold of him.
We must not have been the only ones who speculated on the presence of André Buchet, for murmurs began to rise up all around us. But when he began to sing again, the congregation went completely silent. The chant flowed silken from between his lips; the melody was sweet and holy, mysterious—we were all thoroughly entranced.
Libera me Domine, de morte eternal. In die ila tremenda, quando celli movendisunt et terra, dum veneris, judicare seculum, per ignem.
Then another voice joined in, and another, then more, until finally the whole choir was singing in such exquisite unison that they seemed sola voce, except for the bit of Buchet’s voice that could be heard floating above it all. They pleaded with God on our behalf to free us all from eternal death, to keep us from the judgment of fire. There was not a cough, not a whisper, not the whine of a child in the sanctuary, so enthralled were we all by the beauty of what graced the air.