by Ann Benson
Once, perhaps a year earlier, Jean de Malestroit had asked, “Tell me, Guillemette, you would know—does he beat her?”
That question should not have surprised me as much as it did, occasioned as it had been by a discussion on the nature of marriage, that discourse itself having been prompted by a scandalous murder. A certain noblewoman had been subjected to one too many beatings and had answered her husband with the point of a dagger, well-placed and quite capably thrust. The vicious rogue died naked and writhing in his own bed with his wife standing equally naked over him, dripping with his hated blood. We had all seen the bruises on her from time to time and noted her shamed looks, though none of us would dare to interfere—such matters were between a husband and wife alone, unless the wife happened to have powerful kin. Hers were not powerful enough to save her from the gallows, but there was much discourse in the aftermath of the affair on what husbands and wives owe to each other and how they ought to conduct themselves. There was little agreement among the participants, but I could not help but think of the Wife of Bath, who cast her judgment on marriage of high estate with such precision: As in a noble household, we are told, not every dish and vessel’s made of gold . . .
“One must wonder what occurs between them,” I replied diplomatically—I am certain now that he wanted verification from me and was disappointed with my response. “With a temper such as Milord possesses, there is surely a danger of him striking Lady Catherine from time to time.”
“But you do not know for sure . . .”
“No, Eminence,” I said. I remember feeling slightly miffed at this pointed inquiry—I had been Milord’s wet nurse, not his wife’s chambermaid, which position might have afforded me a closer view but less dignity. “Such knowledge would have required me to be present in Lady Catherine’s bedchamber. Milord himself was rarely there. And when he did make an appearance, I assure you, I was not invited.”
But the man was a dogged inquisitor and would not let the matter lay. “None of her own ladies spoke of it, not even in passing?”
I smiled very thinly but with great satisfaction. “Eminence, I am shocked,” I told him. “Would you have me listening to such gossip?”
Thereafter he asked no more questions. But it set me to wondering on the matter myself, not that it was my business. Milord had, after all, abducted Lady Catherine into marriage against her own will and that of her family in an affair that very nearly prompted a war, then falsely wooed her with such fervor that she actually began to believe his avowals of love. By the time they stood before a priest (who was convinced by the tip of a sword to perform the ceremony against her family’s orders), Lady Catherine de Thouars was willing to swear her loving devotion to Baron Gilles de Rais. Imagine her disappointment as the true nature of her marriage unfolded.
But if Milord had subjected her to ill treatment in this particular matter of property, it did not have the desired effect, for Pouzages and Tiffauges remained firmly in her control. Still, he must have done something to her in the wake of the Saint-Etienne affair. Or perhaps her shame was so great that she could no longer remain in Brittany. She fled to a cousin’s hotel at Pouzages in France and took ten-year-old Marie with her, leaving Gilles de Rais alone and furious.
I could not help but wonder what Jean would think of these developments in the protected little kingdom of the Pope in Avignon. I fear for Milord, I wrote, I fear for his soul. Has more news of this reached you from other sources, I asked him, and if so, what are they saying of it? We have tried to be discreet, but rumors do have wings. . . .
When I went to Jean de Malestroit after Matins to give him this letter for conveyance to Avignon, I found him in a state of deep concentration of the sort usually reserved for important affairs of state or matters of deep faith. The page on the table before him was lumpy in quality and odd-shaped, as if it had been made by the writer himself. I would not have given it much attention except for the notice his Eminence paid it.
I waited in silence, as was required of me; when he finished reading, he set the page down and rubbed his eyes for a few moments. Then he covered his face with his hands and sighed through his fingers.
“Eminence?” I said quietly.
He did not lift his face. It remained buried in his hands. “Yes,” came the muffled acknowledgment.
“You are troubled. . . .”
He looked up at me. “You cannot find this a surprising condition in me right now.”
He patted the parchment and indicated with a nod that I ought to look at it myself. He rose up from his chair and gestured for me to sit and read.
The writing was crude and there was no signature. But the descriptions were vivid and could not have been made up except by the most talented tale-spinner. Three accounts of witchcraft during which Milord was alleged to have tried to invoke the demon for his own purposes were revealed.
My hands trembled as I read the page.
They took candles and a few other things, as well as books of instruction, and, using the tomes to guide them, drew several large circles with the tip of Milord’s sword. After the drawing was done and a torch lit, all but the conjurer and Milord left the room. They placed themselves in the middle of the circles, at a certain angle close to the wall, at which time the conjurer traced another character in the soil with burning coal that they had brought and poured upon it some magnetite and aromatics, whereafter a sweet intoxicating smoke arose . . .
The conjurer. I stood up when I finished and handed the rough parchment back to him. “Do you believe this?”
He hesitated slightly. “The incidents are so clearly described that one has reason to think it all possible.”
The answer to the question I posed next was well known to me, but I asked anyway, hoping for better. “What is to be done now?”
He paced around the chamber, but his steps made no noise. “These allegations are grave enough that I am required, even if it were against my own will, to put them under official investigation. With the matter of heresy so credibly raised . . . Duke Jean will require it of me to proceed against him.”
“A charge of heresy must be prosecuted by a judge of the Inquisition,” I said, as wetness welled up in my eyes. “Whether to proceed or not is yours to decide, and yours alone.”
He would require it of himself, I had no doubt.
Uncontainable tears dripped down my cheeks. The deep anguish that flowed through my veins was bitter and hot and threatened to collapse me at any moment.
Jean de Malestroit put his arm around my shoulder and placed a small, brotherly kiss on my forehead.
“It is not mine to decide, Sister,” he maintained, “but God’s.”
I whispered in a trembling voice, “I know only too well how that will go. God always decides in ways that do not favor me and mine.”
“You must have more faith. God favors all His creatures, but we often do not recognize His favor when it comes our way. But none of us can hide—we must acquiesce with grace and acceptance.”
There would be no grace or acceptance from Gilles de Rais for this act of God. Faced with the certainty of his own imminent ruin, Milord made the boldest move—if not bold, then surely lunatic. He went to see Duke Jean.
He was no stranger to boldness, certainly not to bravery; they say that when Jean d’arc required it of him, he fought like Ariel, God’s own lion. On the fourth day of May in the year 1429, young Lord de Rais arrived with Lord Dunois in Orléans with the reinforcements and supplies that the Maid’s armies required, if there was to be any hope of victory at all. In a field outside the town, the maid Jean went forth to meet them in the company of many notable lords, among them Sainct Severe and the Baron de Coulonces, highly ransomable men whose capture would be a coup for any Englishman. Together with the Bastard Charles, these lords rode into the town of Orléans, passing directly in front of the English. It must be considered the greatest of her miracles that no sword was raised, no lance or arrow sent flying against them.
But that
same day, Lord Dunois received an intelligence that the English captain John Fastolf was on his way to Orléans with fresh troops and supplies, and so the English failure to attack was explained—they had wisely held off in anticipation of greater numbers.
Dunois went straightaway to the Maid’s lodgings to advise her of this disturbing turn of events, Etienne recounted to me. He was fairly frothing with distress. She bade Dunois to let her know when Fastolf arrived and then, being completely exhausted, went to the bed she shared with her hostess. How can a warrior go to sleep with such an event impending? Soldiers do not behave so!
That soldier was a young girl, I told my husband. She required rest.
We all thought it preposterous—foolish beyond imagining! That a warrior should not make ready when a battle looms. . . .
She would not rest long. No sooner had her pages and hostess retired after settling her in than she came awake holding her head—fresh voices were screaming within her. She had seen and heard a vicious battle under way but swore on the Virgin that it was a vision, not a dream, so she sprang up from her bed and went outside with the purpose of ascertaining where that battle might be taking place. There again she was gripped by a new vision; she fell to the ground with her head clutched between her hands, crying, Les voix, les voix! The voices were commanding her, but she did not know what God wanted her to do. Should she intercept Fastolf, who had not made his presence known yet, or should she look for a different battle? Her clamorous wails of indecision woke everyone in her lodging and all those in the near surrounds.
But then Jean d’arc rose above her own confusion; she threw on her white armor and rode out to the Burgoyne gate, where flames could be seen leaping into the sky. Faint sounds of battle came from that direction, and before anyone could stop her, she was riding toward it all. Her page sounded the alarm to the lords whose armies had been gathered in her support, among them Lord Gilles, who, according to Etienne . . .
. . . let loose a string of profanity sufficient to wilt the very leaves. Had the Maid heard him just then, she would have banished him from her side, for she had strictly forbidden such language among her troops. All would have been lost.
I could only imagine the florid words that flowed off his tongue that day; Etienne would not repeat them verbatim, for he would not have them heard by any lady, least of all his own wife. But I knew—Milord had a distinct way with words. At a very early age he liked to shock me with profanity as vulgar as that which regularly poured out of his beastly grandfather.
I shudder to think that but for Jean d’arc being out of earshot just then, France might have been lost, for it was Milord Gilles de Rais who rescued her from sure death that day. Had she sent him away, who knows what the outcome might have been!
At the gate she found citizens of the town engaged in a pitched and bloody battle—the fools had already begun an action against the despised English on their own. They didn’t know how to fight and had no weapons beyond clubs and scythes, so when the Maid arrived, she found dead and wounded all about her in mud so saturated with blood that it fairly glowed red. She sat paralyzed on her horse for a time and wept as she regarded the legions of those who had fallen, according to the few who lived to speak of seeing her there. It is said that in that moment she was desperate to confess her sins, even before this day of grievous sinfulness had come to an end. But God interceded in her reverie—a miracle in and of itself—and prompted her to take command of those citizens who had survived.
But here God nearly deserted her. The English commander Talbot saw the opportunity and sent out troops to attack her from the rear. She was trapped between two enemy forces with no route available for retreat. When Milord learned of this terrible situation, he and the rogue warrior La Hire rode directly to Saint-Loup. They came up from the rear and began to attack the English forces with as much viciousness as they themselves had used in slaying the villagers over whom Jean had wept only an hour before. Jean then turned her own ragged troops against the English as well, and now the enemy was itself caught in the sort of trap they had set for her earlier.
Had Milord not come to her aid that day, the Bastard Charles would never have been crowned. We prevailed in battle despite great odds against us, largely on the shoulders of Gilles de Rais.
The trays of our supper lay before us on the table. After a small, polite belch, Jean de Malestroit surprised me with a revelation. “Milord told his servants that he went to Josselin to collect monies owed to him by the Duke. But no one will be fooled. Many of his servants have gone unpaid, and they are grumbling mightily.”
“You must have spies among them.”
Jean de Malestroit did not deny but instead deflected my charge. He wiped his mouth with a serviette and pushed the tray away. “The hour of Vespers approaches,” he said. “We ought to be about our preparations.”
I could do little more than lower my gaze and nod. We rose up together in a rustle of fabric. I followed him out of his chamber as dutifully as ever.
But when we were outside, I feigned exasperation and said, “Goodness, I almost forgot. Sister Élène asked me to find her before now; I think it may be about a housekeeping matter.”
“Well, hurry, then. God does not like to be kept waiting.”
I nodded. Then, after a quick bow, I turned away from him, just in time—skirts in hand, I flew down the dark hallway until I was far enough away so he could not hear my sobs.
The courtyard was dark and quiet; a small breeze brought relief from the heat of the day, which lingered oppressively. The mystery of the Mass remained with me still.
“I have just heard a tempting bit of news,” Frère Demien said as we progressed slowly toward the abbey. “I have learned that Eustache Blanchet fled Machecoul some time ago.”
“No,” I said, “he would never.”
“Yes. To Mortagne—they say he was attempting to leave Milord’s service.”
They say.
That would explain Blanchet’s absence at Pax. “But why? He coveted his position as Milord’s priest, and I cannot imagine him giving it up.”
Frère Demien seemed equally confused, and shrugged. “One cannot say, Sister. It is indeed uncanny. Perhaps he did so under duress. Blanchet is back at Machecoul now, but there is apparently no peace between them.”
The bold or desperate doings of an ordinary man are not always worthy of a crier’s voice, but those of a priest draw particular attention, especially among his higher-ups. I wondered why Jean de Malestroit had kept it from me.
When I later heard Blanchet’s private testimony, I understood.
Poitou and Henriet escorted François Prelati and myself from our lodging at Saint-Florent-le-Vieil in Tours to Milord’s castle at Tiffauges. Now, in that period Lord Gilles sought the company of Prelati frequently—yes, I will confirm that he was intrigued by the Italian conjurer in many and diverse ways, and I have come to curse myself for bringing him into Milord’s service. When Milord came to the room where I and some others were lodged, we all departed to another room in order that Prelati and Milord might be alone. The following night I saw them leave the lodging room and enter a low hall located directly behind us; they remained there for some time. I heard cries and pleadings to the effect of, “Come, Satan,” or simply “Come!” I heard Prelati say also, “to our aid . . .” or a similar utterance of supplication. There were more words, none of which I could understand, and then Milord and Prelati stayed in the room for another half hour, with candles burning all about.
God have mercy, within a short time a cold wind rose up and blew wildly through the castle, making loud and unholy shrieks as it whirled around me, and I thought for sure that this gale must be the voice of the devil himself. I went to seek counsel with Robin Romulart, who was also at Tiffauges then. We were in accord that Milord and Prelati were invoking demons and that neither one of us wanted anything to do with it.
On the morrow at first light I took it upon myself to escape Tiffauges and that unholiness and wen
t straightaway to Mortagne to the hotel of Bouchard-Menard. Seven weeks I remained there, during which time I received many letters from Milord asking me to come to him, saying that I would find myself in good standing with him and Prelati. I refused him time and again and eventually failed even to answer; I had no desire to be in his presence nor that of Prelati and his demons.
In the time I was lodged with Bouchard-Menard, there came another lodger, one Jean Mercier who was the castellan of La-Roche-sur-Yon in Luçon. Mercier told me that there was much public rumor in Nantes and elsewhere that Milord Gilles was writing a book in blood by his own hand and that he intended to use that book’s power to tempt the devil into giving him as many fortresses as he desired. Thus he would restore himself to his proper state of Lordship and, when he did so, no one would ever be able to harm him again. I did not ask whence the blood for these writings came.
The very next day the goldsmith Petit came to l’hôtel Bouchard-Menard to see me on Milord’s behalf. He told me that both Milord and Prelati were anxious about my welfare and conveyed their urgent request that I come to them. To which I said, in no event would I go to see him, because of the rumors I had heard. And I told Petit to say to Milord that if such whisperings were true, he had best cease his activities altogether and forthwith, for it is wrong to engage in such vile practices.
Petit must have conveyed this message from me to Milord and Prelati, for Milord immediately imprisoned the messenger in the castle at Saint-Etienne, which castle he later gave over to the Duke’s Treasurer Le Ferron and then harshly took back. He sent Poitou, Henriet, Gilles de Sille, and another manservant named Lebreton to seize me at Mortagne, against which I was powerless. I suppose news of Petit’s imprisonment ought to have made me more wary—it would have been wise for me to flee Mortagne at that time.