by Ann Benson
No one in the crowd paid me the slightest attention as I continued, bareheaded. Once again, a good throng was gathered around a crier. Yet another vivid, embellished account was being told of the excommunication of Gilles de Rais. I slipped into the periphery of a group whose ears were all inclined toward the center of their gathering; there I stood and eavesdropped as one of them told what he had heard moments before in the midst of another such group.
Bones, the man said. And skulls. They found more skulls. Forty-nine skulls had been mentioned in the articles of indictment as read the previous day, but those had supposedly been destroyed. I had thought it too many to conceive of at the time.
But now they were saying there were more. And that they had not been destroyed.
His door was open when I entered the room; I did not try to keep my skirts from sounding, and so their drag on the carpet alerted him to my entry.
“Ah, Guillemette—”
My accounting of the convent’s expenses was overdue, so I had hastily assembled it that morning. I slammed it down on the table in front of him. He shrank back in surprise.
“Is it true?” I demanded. “Were more bones and skulls found at Champtocé?”
He did not answer immediately; instead, he looked at me with intense curiosity. “Your hair. It is uncovered.”
“The wind has arranged that,” I said. “Now, what of this rumor about bones and heads? People in the square are speaking of little else. Is there truth to it?”
At first he said nothing, but eventually he nodded. “Some were found in his private chambers at Champtocé and Machecoul. Well-hidden, probably forgotten by his accomplices in their haste. But only a few—not nearly enough to account for all who are missing. One wonders how many had previously been removed.”
“I want to see them.”
There was not the slightest hesitation in his voice. “No.”
“Eminence—”
“No,” he said again. “I forbid it.”
“Jean, please—”
“I cannot allow it. My position as judge in this trial would be compromised by such a mishandling of evidence.”
“Is that position more important to you than this undying ache in my heart?”
“In asking that question you take unfair advantage of your position with me. I am surprised, Sister; I had thought you above that sort of thing.”
I stepped back, hurt and confused. There was nothing more to be said after that last pronouncement of his. I was guilty of some sin no matter what I did. Therefore, I could see no further reason to refrain from committing one.
I returned to my small room and pulled the trunk containing the remnants of my former life out from under the bed. The frocks were sadly out of style and suffering from mildew. I could not have stood to wear any of them. I would have to find something elsewhere, but there was nothing to be had in the abbey without arousing a great deal of suspicion.
The encampments had grown even larger as word of the trial spread through the surrounding countryside. The periphery of Nantes was no longer just farms and trees with the occasional small abode, but a forest of tents and makeshift hovels in which the people of the countryside had gathered. I found Madame le Barbier in one of the cleaner sections of the camps; she was taking a bit of refreshment—cheese and a cup of pale hippocras—when I came upon her. It was a moment before she recognized me sans veil. But then her face lit up, which gladdened my heart.
She bowed slightly. “Mother Guillemette, how fine to see you again.”
“Et vous, Madame.”
“Come, join me. Please”—she extended her cheese to me—“take a bit of food.”
I was not terribly hungry, but it seemed an insult to refuse her offer. I broke off a small chunk and gave the rest back to her.
Gone were the gaunt look and sagging attire; she looked much more fresh and substantial. Though I envied her recovery, I said, “You appear to be in good health and spirits, Madame. This warms my heart.”
“I am well content that this trial is finally taking place—it was so long in coming, so long! It will not bring my son back to me—of that I am sure. But justice will be done. And in that, I will find some peace.”
Peace. Until she said that, I had not realized how deeply I craved it.
She chewed her repast thoughtfully as she regarded me. “You have lost your veil, I see.”
“Yes.” She would not require any excuses about wind. “For the moment. And that is why I have come to see you.”
She went through what trunks she had brought, tossing skirts and shifts and frocks over her shoulder like so many rags, not the precious jewels they were to one so long deprived as I had been. I had not renounced such things with true willingness, and now they seemed to arouse some aching, ill-defined thirst in me. I stood in amazement as she held first one frock and then another up to me for a quick appraisal—did it enhance or detract from my natural features? Was the style well-suited to my figure? I had quite forgotten that I had a figure which might be flattered by the shape of what was draped upon it.
I left her tent still wearing my cloak, but what lay beneath it was no longer my shapeless habit. Instead, I wore an ordinary frock of an unpatterned fabric in the color blue. I longed for a glass within which I might regard myself, for to me this plain dress was a magnificent gown.
But I made my way through the crowd virtually unnoticed. The rebellion in which I was engaged, my sin of disobedience, was all contained within the cloak.
I retrieved my veil from where I’d stowed it and replaced it on my head. The weight seemed unbearable, but I bore it in silence. I made my way silently through the palace with such purpose in my stride that no one would have dared question me. It would be assumed that I was going somewhere of importance and that I must not be interrupted.
So lovely, so different from the abbey, with its dark stone walls and hallowed air. Though a bishop lived in the palace, he was sometimes a chancellor, who ought to have been surrounded with beautiful things, items that might daily remind him of the importance of his work. Still, the accommodations were just passable in comparison to those to which Milord Gilles had become accustomed.
When I presented myself to the guard outside his private quarters, saying I carried a message from Jean de Malestroit, I was not questioned. For weeks, these guards had seen me following two quiet paces behind my bishop, and there was no reason to doubt me. My manner was prayerful and meek; I told them that Jean de Malestroit had charged me with the important task of providing Lord de Rais some comfort and solace in his hour of darkness. I grasped my rosary fervently between the flat palms of my hands and invited the guard to pray with me for Milord’s fallen soul. He let me pass, I think to be rid of the discomfort my feigned religious zeal must surely have caused him.
He spoke a sharp order to another guard, whose expression grew grave on hearing that he was to lead me through the passageway to the lavish central apartments where Milord was quartered.
The guard who went before me walked quickly. I could not fault him for his obvious dread—with every step closer to the inner chambers, my own heart beat a little faster.
Questions of what might occur began to sneak into my mind, and I wondered for a few paces why I had not considered the encounter more carefully before coming. As I was led into a large salon, I felt the strong urge to turn and run away.
But I could not. I breathed deeply to reign in the wild beasts that were scratching and clawing through my innards. The surroundings helped—this was a commodious room, handsomely draped with tapestries and weavings and lushly carpeted with several of the beautiful patterned rugs that came all the way across the Mediterranean Sea on trade boats. I longed instantly to take off my leather shoes and press my bare toes into the thick fibers before the opportunity escaped me.
As I gazed in wonder, the guard tapped three times with the base of his spear and then stood at attention. From another room, I heard Milord bark, “What?” Suddenly, all desire for s
oft carpet deserted me; my feet wanted to take me out of there.
I had seen a rendering of the heart of a man in one of young Gilles’s books of anatomy at Champtocé. Le Coeur, the inscription beneath the drawing read. It was marvelous, and so simple, but it struck me as odd that there would be two sides to a human being’s heart. Of what purpose could it be to have two distinct passageways through which our emotions must course?
In that moment I understood. One side of my heart was entirely filled with anger and the desire for vengeance, the other with immeasurable sorrow.
The guard announced nervously, “Vous avez une visiteur, mon Liege,” after which he turned and disappeared hastily back into the passageway.
As soon as he was gone, I pulled off my veil and undid my cloak. I let both fall on a nearby chair, an exquisite piece of furniture on which I would never have dared sit. There I stood, an ordinary woman, when Milord came into the salon. He approached me slowly at first, until the light of recognition crept onto his face. He rushed forward and embraced me. All of my womanly skills went into suppressing the confused revulsion I felt to have his arms around me.
“Madame,” he said, “Oh, Madame . . . forgive me for not remembering you at first. You must understand, this has been a trying ordeal—and I am no longer accustomed to seeing you in a woman’s clothes.”
Then he shrank back a bit, his eyes full of suspicion. “Has Jean de Malestroit sent you to speak to me on his behalf? That he should send a woman to do his work—”
I cut him off. “He did not send me. He will be sorely ired when he finds out I have come to you.”
“Oh,” Gilles said with slight intrigue. “He shall not hear it from me.”
The old hatred still existed, then.
His beard was no longer curled and blue, but dark and neatly trimmed. Nevertheless, he played with it as he had the more lush one. There was a madness in his eyes that even the most sublime disguise could not hide. “But if you did not come as Jean de Malestroit’s emissary, then why?”
“I am here as Guillemette la Drappiere, though that woman seems long dead to me. There are things I would know. Questions only you can answer.”
In that instant I could almost feel him shrink inward.
He knew, then, why I had come.
He forced himself to appear calm. “Surely, Madame, you know as much about me and my life as anyone.”
“I do not know whether or not you killed my son Michel.”
It was out, at long last. Just in releasing it from my breast, I felt some relief. That alone might have satisfied something within me, but now the answer itself was within my grasp. I wanted it.
I stared directly into the cold blue eyes of my fils de lait. Rarely in my life have I felt such discomfort as in that moment. But then, to my wonder, his eyes began to moisten. He shocked me by falling to his knees before me. He pressed his tearful face against my knees and grasped me around the legs. I almost lost my footing, so fervent was his clinging. He wept aloud with the abandon of a child.
Then he began to speak. “Madame, I have committed many unspeakable crimes: I have done nearly all the things of which I am accused. But I did not kill your son, and I am horrified that you could think this of me; am I such a fiend as that to you?”
He went on and on as confusion flooded into my heart. “I do not know what happened to my true brother Michel,” Gilles said, perhaps meaning to soften my heart, “though I will always believe it was that accursed boar who dragged him off, the very one who gored my father.”
There was such contrition in his voice, such sincerity in his denials. I whispered, “You truly did not kill him?”
“No.”
God save me, I believed him. My relief was immense, even though the greater mystery of how Michel had died still plagued me. Had a hunter killed him for some unfathomable reason? I wanted desperately to believe it.
“Milord,” I whispered, “God does not abhor you. God loves you, I am sure of it. He will forgive you as He forgives all of His sinners, if only you will confess your sins freely and without hesitation.”
I placed a hand upon his head and stroked his hair, as I had often done when he was a child. He clung to me desperately, as he had often done when he was a child.
“Yes, yes,” he moaned as he clutched me, “He will. I am a Christian, accepted into His arms by the sacrament of Baptism, and now I am refused His grace. I beg you to help me, Mère—I cannot be denied the sacraments.” He squeezed me tighter around the legs, until I pried him loose.
“Hear me,” I said. “You know what you must do. You must go into court tomorrow and speak freely of the things you have just told me, and all will be well.”
He looked up at me as he loosened his grasp and wiped the tears away with one hand. “Is that true?” he said, his voice childlike.
“Yes,” I said, the mother once again. “Rise up now. God will make it well.”
Jean, my treasured son,
Please forgive me; I know my laxity in writing has worried you. His Eminence told me of your inquiry via the Cardinal’s letter to him. Please put your fears to rest. I am now at least somewhat cured of the cruel affliction that overtook me and kept me from setting quill to parchment.
Today I went to see Milord Gilles in the suite of rooms in which he is imprisoned here at the castle. I confronted him with the question that you know has been haunting me—that of the circumstances of Michel’s death. To my eternal relief he denied any complicity and spoke of Duke Jean’s hunters, which he has never done before. I believe that he is telling me the truth, for in the same breath he confessed to me that he had committed all the other murders with which he has been charged.
I ought to have been more shocked by this admission on his part, but somehow that upset must have been overwhelmed by the blessed relief of knowing that he had not killed my son and your brother. But his own soul knows no respite; it is desolate and afflicted with confusion and pain the likes of which I have never seen before and hope never to see again. I urged him to confess the rest of his crimes in court tomorrow, when he will appear again before his judges. It is my most fervent prayer that he will do so, for it is only through absolution that he will find comfort.
No doubt you understand that our journey will now be delayed; I am hoping that we can begin it before the weather turns too cold for decent traveling. But perhaps if we leave when the weather threatens, we shall be forced to stay in the warm south! I cannot imagine a more pleasant way to pass the cold Brittany winter than to spend it in Avignon.
Dearest son, remember me in your prayers, as I do you in mine. I am beginning to believe once again that God actually hears me. I did not realize until today how much I missed my faith.
As I miss you, beloved son. I am so glad that we will see each other so very soon.
My last vision before falling asleep was the blue dress that hung on the back of my door. It was not unlike those that I wore as a wife and mother in Champtocé. I dreamed that night of lying next to my husband, of having his gentle hands upon me. When they brought him back from Orléans, his injuries had already begun to fester and he was in too much pain to chance my brushing against his leg, so I made a separate bed next to his instead. How I had ached to slip under the coverlet with him just one more time before he died. His delirium toward the end was such that he would not have known I was there at his side. But I would have.
I slept beyond dawn. When I came to court that morning, Jean de Malestroit and Friar Blouyn were already seated at the judges’ table, poring over parchments. His Eminence regarded me quizzically as I padded quietly to my seat next to Frère Demien.
He cast me a glance that I dared not interpret. “I came to fetch you this morning,” he said, “but I was told that you were still asleep. Are you ill?”
“No. I was merely fatigued.” I glanced toward the front of the court. “I see that Chapeillon is already here.”
“He was here when I arrived, which was before his Eminence and Fria
r Blouyn came in. He has been at his papers all this time.”
A buzz of excitement arose, for Milord, once again a peacock, had arrived to take his place among the sparrows. My guilt rose up unbidden and caused me to blush when I saw him, remembering our exchange and the things I now knew unequivocally to be true. I could not speak to anyone of these matters. I followed him with my eyes, hoping he would look toward me, but he did not.
When the whispers died down, Chapeillon rose. “Honored judges,” he began, “I ask you in the name of Duke Jean to inquire of the accused if he intends to speak. Further, I ask that you advise him forthwith that even though he has chosen not to speak before now, he may do so at this time, which may take the form either of accession to or objection to the articles of the indictment previously read.”
Jean de Malestroit nodded and turned to face Gilles de Rais. “Milord, by request of the prosecutor, I ask if it is your intent to speak.”
After a long sigh of resignation, he said, “I shall not speak. But neither shall I object.”
This change of demeanor was completely unexpected, by everyone but me.
It took a moment for Chapeillon to regather his composure. “May it please the court,” he said, “I would ask our esteemed judges to inquire of Milord Gilles, the said accused, if he will recognize the authority of this court over him.”
Again, his Eminence faced Milord. “You have heard the question, Milord. What say you on the matter?”
Gilles de Rais looked as if he had been offered a cup of hemlock. He faced his two judges and said, “I concede that these judges are competent to judge me, and I confirm their jurisdiction over me.”
I could not see his face, but I could hear the tears in his voice. His chin dropped as he said, “I will accept any judge you choose to place before me.”