Thief of Souls

by Ann Benson

  How could I deceive a man who had done something so wonderful for me? Guilt flooded through me, and for the briefest moment I considered telling him of what I had thought to do this morning.

  But nothing would come of it, except to foster distrust. “Thank you, Brother,” I said with a bow. “I am deeply grateful that you have done this for me.”

  He smiled almost mischievously.

  My bishop relieved me of any attendance upon him, in order that I might devote myself entirely to absorbing the presence of my own dear child before court was called, in less than two hours.

  There was so much to speak of—his position, the journey, his health and spirit—but when at last we had exhausted our embraces, all that Frère Jean la Drappiere wanted to discuss was the trial and the events that had precipitated it; I spent the better part of an hour explaining the things he wanted to know, based on the letters I had sent him.

  As my story progressed, he became steadily more contemplative. “Mother,” he said quietly when I finished, “you should have told me of these suspicions as soon as they surfaced in your heart.”

  “Why?” I said. “What could you have done?”

  “If nothing else, I could have been a comfort to you in your distress.”

  “From Avignon?”

  “I take great solace in your letters, as I hope you do in mine.”

  I had offended him. “Of course I do, my dearest; I anticipate them eagerly and devour them when they come. You need only ask his Eminence.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the last one he had sent. “Here,” I said. “See how tattered it is. From so many readings. I memorize them, to absorb all your secrets and intimacies.”

  He smiled and put an arm around my shoulder. But shortly the smile faded and was replaced by a look of distress. “Mère, I have a confession of my own to make.”

  Rarely had I seen such a look of anguish on his face.

  “I never spoke of this when Michel died,” he said, “but I must tell you now that I had unholy thoughts at the time.”

  “Unholy? I do not understand.”

  “I suspected someone of the crime, someone I should not have considered in that manner.”

  “Jean—who?”

  “Milord Gilles.”

  My own voice was barely audible, even to myself. “Is there something you know of those events that you have not revealed?”

  “Nothing of a specific nature. But there was a jarring quality in the way he comported himself afterward—I saw too much glee in him.”

  “Glee? He was glad of Michel’s death?”

  “I believed he was, yes.”

  It was precisely what I had heard from Marcel. “And now it is my turn to ask you why you never spoke of your suspicions.”

  “Maman, I was but a boy at the time.”

  “Thirteen,” I countered. “Almost a man. Already committed to studying for your vocation.”

  There was a look that resembled shame on his face, but not pure shame—some part of it was frustration. “I had not the courage to speak against him. And there was no great love between us—even less after the incident with Michel. We did not speak unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  “But there were many times when you were friendly with each other, even around the time of Michel’s disappearance.”

  “It was mostly for your benefit, Mère. A ruse, by silent agreement between us. There was no substance to our comradeship other than that which was forced upon us. There came a kind of hatred by the time our paths diverged. I have often wondered if Milord made such sweet arrangements for me in Avignon in order to purchase my silence on the matter. Or because he felt guilt.”

  I sat back, stunned. “He does not know guilt,” I said. “Or at least, he did not, until recently.”

  He squinted suspiciously. “How do you come by knowledge of what he does or does not feel these days?”

  “I spoke with him. I sent word of that to you in a letter, some days ago.”

  “Its journey must have crossed mine, then. I did not receive it.”

  The bench was too confining; I rose up and paced around. “I went to see him several nights ago in the suite where he is quartered. Right here in the palace. But you must not tell anyone, Jean,” I said in near desperation. “Especially you must not say anything to his Eminence.”

  By his expression, I could see that it did not please him to agree. But he did, with a nod. “He must have been furious over the role you played in his downfall.”

  “He does not know, nor shall he. I have given the responsibility over to the Bishop, and he has made it appear that he brought it about.”

  “It seems unlikely to me that Jean de Malestroit would allow himself to be caught up in this.”

  “It is not to my benefit that he does so, but at the bidding of Duke Jean, who would keep his hands clean of the matter.” I paced anew. “It would not shock me to know that the two have made a pact with God Himself concerning the outcome of this matter. But regarding the matter of Michel—I am confused by what you are telling me. On my first visit to Milord I confronted him about many things, especially the child killings, and after he admitted to me that he had indeed done them, I revealed my suspicions regarding his part in Michel’s death. He had no guard up, but denied any part in it, with great sincerity. He claims that he would never have harmed a hair on Michel’s head, that he loved him as a brother.”

  “There are always unspoken things between mothers and sons, Mère. Lies, even. And for that reason, I would suspect some untruth in what Milord Gilles might have told you.”

  “He is doing a very good job of lying. I watched his every move as a child, and I assure you that I know when he is being genuine and when he is not.”

  As he rose from the bench to come to my side, his brown robes rustled. The tasseled belt that held the cloth close to his body brushed the ground, leaving a clean trail in the dust. He shook the end of it briefly before speaking. “I must confess that I would like to see Milord myself. I am curious to see what has become of him since we were young men.”

  “You are a young man now.”

  “Mère, I am thirty and seven.”

  “As I said, you are young.”

  I walked beside my tall, handsome son, whose unanticipated presence was like an elixir to my blood. Madame Catherine Karle could not have given me a more potent potion to renew the spirit and refresh the soul. But I could not help but notice: His youth was indeed slipping away from him. There were more than a few white hairs at his temples, though the tonsured style did well to disguise it. There was the slightest paunch where once his belly had been taut and flat. He would, one day soon, be elevated to the position of Monsignor, and an even stiffer dignity would be forced upon him. Though he claimed his life with God was joyful, it was a subdued joy. It broke my heart to know that he would never experience some of the happiness that he ought to have had, if he had gone out into the world as most first sons do. I could not help but wonder if he had ever known a woman in bed. His assertion that boys do not reveal such matters to their mothers had set me thinking—what did I not know about this man, who sprang from my own belly and was nourished at my breast and in my heart? What manly secrets did he bear in his soul? Had he ever drunk himself into a complete stupor, thereafter to belch and fart around some campfire, roaring with laughter at every inane bit of humor offered by one of his fellows, then to pass out draped over a log and wake up aching and bearded? His father had done so, even after we were married and I was ripe with Jean himself. I would berate him when he came home in such condition, but Etienne always spoke with great affection of those times, for he loved the carefree mood and the camaraderie. Jean had companions, I believe, more like Frère Demien—a thoughtful gardener with a wry wit, but no notion of adventure. Jean’s one true brother was long gone, and his milk brother had turned into something that none of us could fathom.

  We climbed the few steps to the lower hall of la Tour Neuve together and passed among those
waiting to be admitted to court. Now and then I would lean toward an acquaintance, be it sister or brother, to whisper, My son, whereafter I received many an ahhh of approval from these good souls. Jean did not seem to mind being displayed for appreciation.

  But he stopped abruptly and stood still at the end of the corridor, and I with him, for around the corner from another direction came Milord Gilles, who by accident of his birth had tasted every pleasure that life offered, including the share that ought to have gone to Jean. He was flanked all around by guards in tight formation, who managed to look as if they were there as an honor, not as the movable prison they truly were. As the accused passed by, he cast glances at those who lined his route; we were plenty in number and diverse in station, but all of us remained equally silent and still. From face to face his eyes traveled, never lingering for more than a second or two. He looked directly into my eyes, and then into my son’s, but betrayed no emotion or recognition.

  The noisome aggrieved were there, and the fascinated nobility. Diplomats and dignitaries sat shoulder to shoulder with those who had cobbled their shoes and churned their butter, for here all were equally enthralled by the sordid revelations each day brought, may God have mercy on our weak souls. Before us stood the accused Gilles de Rais, who must have conferred with the devil in the time since I had left his presence, for he had been transformed from dishevelment to a state of renewed glory and power and now appeared ready to take on his accusers with uncanny vigor.

  Jean de Malestroit and Vice-Inquisitor Blouyn whispered intently back and forth in the midst of all this confusion. It seemed only a few moments until his Eminence commanded the attention of the gathered with his gavel. He stood and looked over Gilles into the crowd as he spoke. “Tomorrow we shall commence at the hour of Terce, in order to hear whatever objections, defenses, mitigations, or any other words that the accused might wish to speak on his own behalf. The court notes that Baron Gilles de Rais, said accused, continues to indicate his unwillingness to do so.”

  The scribes began scribbling. Confused murmurs filled the air—was this to be the total of the day’s events? It seemed impossible.

  And then Jean de Malestroit turned his attention directly to Milord Gilles. “We have decided, Milord, after profound consideration, both legal and spiritual, that even though we have fixed tomorrow as a day on which you might speak your piece to this court, we shall proceed immediately with a course of torture.”

  A collective gasp rose up from the crowd. The gavel came down again and again on the board. When the clamor was finally suppressed, Milord was left standing alone in the midst of the observers. His lips worked silently, as if he were attempting to absorb the meaning of what had just been said. He might have been saying to himself, Torture, I am to be tortured.

  He ought not to have been surprised.

  My fingers gripped Jean’s arm. “He is no longer lucid,” I said gravely. “He makes no objection.”

  The crowd had noticed the uncharacteristic response as well and began to buzz again. His Eminence was once again forced to raise his voice to be heard. “The court shall be cleared in preparation thereof.”

  The cries of objection were swift and sharp, though one could not say whether to the torture itself or the proposed decent privacy while it was enacted. As soon as the order was given, Milord’s guards surrounded him in tight formation. Another group of guards moved from the sides of the room and began to herd out the court observers, myself and my son included.

  I stood my ground, depending on the robes of my station to work their magic for me, and with my grown son in tow, maneuvered into a position where I would be among the last to leave the room. At the judges’ table, Jean de Malestroit was already busy again with parchments and scribes and Friar Blouyn. Milord Gilles had been escorted out by his guards but was now being brought in again, looking pale and shaken.

  Not a heartbeat later, two very large, stone-faced men entered through a side door, each bearing a satchel. As they set their burdens down, the unseen contents clanked with loud and definite menace; one imagined metal instruments, sharp and exact, with which exquisite pain might be inflicted, all in the name of God the Father Almighty, who required His believers to speak the entire truth to His representatives on earth, which heretofore had not been done by the accused.

  Gilles de Rais heard the clank of their falling. His eyes went directly to the two behemoths who had carried them in. He stared in plain horror but received back only cool, narrow-eyed gazes of indifference. He would not need a conjurer to explain that his days as a withholder of truth were numbered. In that moment, I saw the physical breakdown of his resolve—the anger went out of his expression, and the defiance left his stance.

  None of this was lost on Jean de Malestroit, who would wield the sword of justice with swift and exacting strokes. Accused and judge were locked in a stare, each measuring the other. It was Milord Gilles who first fell short of the required will, while Jean de Malestroit still possessed it in abundance.

  We were the last two in the court, other than the players themselves; Jean and I hid ourselves as best we could behind a tall column and tried to become invisible. We saw Milord Gilles go down on his knees, his hands clasped together in near desperation. “Milord Bishop,” he begged, “postpone this torture until tomorrow, which is the appointed time as already arranged. Please, I implore you to allow me this night to think on the matter of the crimes and accusations brought against me. I will satisfy you on the morrow to the extent that it will not be necessary to apply the intended torture to me.”

  As if Milord had not spoken at all, his Eminence said quietly, “We shall proceed.”

  “Please, honorable judges, I humbly beseech you to give this matter more thought before proceeding. And further, I implore you to allow the Bishop of Saint-Brieuc and the honorable Monsieur le President to take the place of my current judges in hearing my confession, for the sake of fairness.”

  “I assure you, Milord, your current judges are fair in excess,” the Bishop replied.

  “Then for the love of God, if you will, please allow the change to take place.”

  Jean de Malestroit sat statuelike at the table, his face locked in a stern but undecipherable expression. I wondered if he was disappointed that Gilles seemed willing to confess his crimes but not to him; he would be robbed of the pleasure, albeit a shameful one, of hearing Gilles de Rais admit to offenses against God and man that would demand his death.

  That death, no matter how cruel, would not be sufficient reparation for the monstrous things he had done. But no one would deny that it was nevertheless right and fitting.

  In every one of us, there is an uncanny will to take one more breath, to feel one more heartbeat, taste one more morsel, watch one more bird fly across the blue sky. So, too, did Gilles de Rais, murderer, sodomite, thief of souls, parlayer with dark spirits, want to see one more sunrise. He would do that, most certainly, but beyond one day there was no surety. He knew it as well as any of us.

  “Milords, please, grant this, the wish of a man who will soon give up his soul.”

  Said in those plaintive words, the request could hardly be refused. On Jean de Malestroit’s face there was a look of disappointment, of having been robbed of a forbidden pleasure. “Very well,” I heard him say. “It shall be so.”

  He turned to the scribes and said, “Make note. I appoint the Bishop of Saint-Brieuc and Monsieur le President Pierre l’Hôpital to act as judge and Vicar of the Inquisitor in the stead of myself and Friar Blouyn.”

  The gentlemen in question were present, as they had been called to witness the torture. Now they would be parties instead to the confession. They stood together to signal their readiness.

  “The court gives these honorable men its thanks for this effort,” Jean de Malestroit said, nodding in their direction. Then he turned to the scribes and said, “One and several public instruments shall be made of these proceedings, and duly posted.”

  Gilles slumped back in his
seat, trembling visibly. “Merci, merci bien,” he said, his voice shaky and weak. “I am deeply grateful.”

  As if he had not heard him, Jean de Malestroit faced the accused and said, “Gilles de Rais, knight, Baron of Brittany, you shall be escorted to your rooms in the upper part of this castle in order that your confessions might be heard on the aforesaid matters and articles, to which you have not yet fully responded. Such confessions shall commence before the hour of two; if said confessions have not commenced by then, the torture as decided shall be applied.” He cast a quick glance of disappointment at the two rough-looking experts, whose faces betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  “And now, without further delay, we shall proceed.”

  chapter 34

  It took us six screaming minutes to reach the studio. Ellen Leeds’s comments about delay echoed in my ears because each second that passed represented another spurt of blood from one of Jeff’s veins or arteries. The wave of units that had followed us from the house converged on the parking lot just as we were getting out of our vehicle. Car doors were flung open, in the shelter of which a platoon of cops positioned themselves.

  There was already a line of yellow tape around the perimeter to keep the press out of our way, and out of harm’s way. A news chopper overhead made it nearly impossible to hear anything; what might the noise be doing to the already crazed and unbalanced Wilbur Durand?

  The frustration was agonizing. “If he doesn’t get out of here, I’m going to bring him down,” I blurted.

  Escobar was at my side in a flash. “Look who it would land on,” he shouted.