by Dan Davis
“After she signed the paper of abjuration, she lay in her cell for two days, wearing ordinary women’s dress. But someone meant to do her in, I must suppose. Someone wanted her to fall. To burn. So they took away her dress and in its place brought the clothing of a boy and laid it before her. It was the very same clothing that she had been forced to give up before. For a time, she refused to don that clothing, knowing what it would mean. But she was naked. Naked before her guards, the English guards, who leered at her and told her what they meant to do to her body. She was yet in chains and confined to that cell and had no one to turn to for protection. And so she put them on.”
“That was enough to convict her?”
“It was theatre, of a sort. A pantomime. The next morning, after she dressed in the forbidden clothing, a procession of judges burst in on her while she lay in bed. They crowded around her and demanded to know why she had sinned once more. Why she had relapsed into heresy. She did her best to explain that she had worn the clothes only to protect her modesty, they railed at her and named her a witch and a prostitute and a heretic and they were overjoyed to condemn her. Joan would be burnt after all.”
“She would have known that they would have killed her. Why did she choose to wear the clothes? Surely, better to be shamed and abused than burned on the pyre?”
“Is it? Would you allow your body to be so violated? Think of it. Think how she guarded her maidenhead. Her virginity was in part the source of her holy power. Perhaps she knew they meant to destroy her by any means necessary and so she decided to embrace it. Would you live life as a slave, Richard?”
“Not if there was no hope of escape.”
“Why did you not attend the execution?”
“Why would I wish to witness such a thing?”
“She has been your enemy. She was the instrument of your losses in the war.”
“Our losses, Stephen. England’s losses. But was she the cause of it all? Or was she a victim? There must have been a man telling her what to say and how to act. More than one, perhaps. How could a mere girl do such things as she did? How old was she at the end? She had not yet twenty years. Perhaps it was this man who inveigled to have her so executed, in order to stay her tongue for eternity lest it might reveal his hand.”
“What man?”
“What man indeed? The new King of France or one of his courtiers?”
“Do you not think she may have been one of William’s? That business with her wounds, and the leap from the tower.”
“Yes, it is of course possible, but it is not enough in itself. These things are perhaps within the limits of mortal endurance, just about, if that mortal is filled with passion.”
“Or perhaps God truly did send angels to speak with her.”
“I refuse to believe that God favours the French,” I said but I did wonder whether it was true. “Anyhow, it matters not at all. Not any longer. The heretic has burned and that is the end of it.”
“It is,” Stephen said, his face grey and drawn as he looked up at me. “You know, Richard. I do believe I may take up your suggestion. To become a lawyer. It would be a good thing for the Order to have me educated in such matters and perhaps… perhaps one day I might even see some justice done thanks to my hand. Justice done for the common people against the exploitations of the powerful lords.”
I thumped him on the shoulder. “A noble intention, sir. I wish you well in it.”
Whether she had been an immortal, or the victim of a clever lord’s manipulations, or inspired genius or even, heaven forfend, a genuine messenger from God, she had not deserved her suffering and her awful death. And I felt guilty for my part in all of it, as small as it was.
At least, that is what I thought and felt for many years, until shortly after the execution of Gilles de Rais when I would finally discover the terrible truth.
19. The Execution of Gilles de Rais
October 1440
In the ecclesiastical court in Nantes on Saturday October 22nd 1440, I watched the prisoner Gilles de Rais admit before the assembled bishops, vicars of the Inquisition, and members of the public, that he was guilty of every crime that he was accused of.
He wept as he spoke, though he spoke at length and detailed his actions, drawing gasps and exclamations from his audience.
At one point, as Gilles described his processes of dismembering, the Bishop of Nantes stood and covered the golden crucifix behind him with a white cloth, lest it be tainted with the evil before it.
He also named his accomplices, pointing them out in their iron cage, and condemning them utterly, though not all would suffer the same fate. During his confession, he also reaffirmed with passion his assertion that he never promised his soul to the demon he wished to summon with Prelati.
Finally, it came to the long-awaited pronouncement of guilt and the sentencing from the ecclesiastical court.
“We decree and declare that you, the aforesaid Gilles de Rais, present before us in trial, are found guilty of perfidious apostasy as well as of the dreadful invocation of demons, which you maliciously perpetrated, and that for this you have incurred the sentence of excommunication and other lawful punishments, in order to punish and salutarily correct you and in order that you are punished and corrected as the law demands and canonical sanctions decree.”
“My soul remains mine and my soul remains God’s!” Gilles cried, shaking with passion, with tears streaming down his cheeks. “I am a sinner, I confess it, I am the worst sinner who ever was and I beg God for His forgiveness before I die. I humbly implore the mercy and pardon of My Creator and most blessed Redeemer, as well as that of the parents and friends of the children so cruelly massacred, as well as that of everyone whom I could have injured in regard to which I am guilty, whether they are here present or elsewhere. And I ask all of Christ’s faithful and worshippers for the assistance of your devout prayers.”
At this theatrical confession, the Bishop was almost weeping himself, for such great sin allowed for equally great forgiveness and so was delightful to a true Christian.
It was a convincing spectacle, though Stephen and I exchanged a look. I admit that even I was halfway convinced of his contrition.
“You will have opportunity to undo the sentence of excommunication,” the Bishop said. “It is clear that, despite your crimes, you remain a true Christian in your heart and I confirm that you will be allowed to make your final, secret confession. And you will have the opportunity to be absolved of your sins, and you will have imposed on you for all your sins a salutary penance in proportion to your faults, as much for those you have judicially confessed as for those you will confess at the tribunal of your conscience.”
“Oh, God bless you,” Gilles cried, falling to his knees. “Praise God!”
Afterwards, the accused was brought to the civil court, where his previous confession was read aloud and he confirmed it was true and then he was condemned for the murders and rebellion that he had admitted to. And then he was sentenced.
“We declare that you are to be immediately taken from this place to be hanged and then burned,” the President of the court said. “But, in conjunction with a request from the ecclesiastical court, you will be given time to make holy confession and then to beg God’s mercy and prepare to die soundly with numerous regrets for having committed the said crimes. The clerical servants Prelati and Blanchet are sentenced to spend the remainder of their natural lives in prison, on account that neither are found guilty of committing murder by their own hands and were found to be orthodox in their faith. The servants Henriet Griart and Poitou are sentenced to be hanged and then to be burned.”
“Thank you, my lord!” Gilles cried. “May I beg that my servants, Henriet and Poitou, be executed immediately after I am so killed? And might it be that I, who am the principal cause of the misdeeds of my servants, might be able to comfort them, speak to them of their salvation at the hour of execution, and exhort them by example to die fittingly. I fear, if it were otherwise, and my servant
s not see me die first, that they shall fall into despair, imagining that they were dying while I, who am the cause of their misdeeds, go unpunished. I hope, on the contrary, with the grace of Our Lord, that I who made them commit the misdeeds for which they are dying would be the cause of their salvation.”
The President of the court was clearly deeply moved by Gilles’ profound contrition and accorded him this favour.
“Praise God,” Gilles said, crossing himself and gazing adoringly at the President.
“What do you make of it?” I asked Stephen, when the court was adjourned.
“Do you mean is he mad or is he truly seeking salvation?” Stephen asked.
“I mean, what the Hell is the sneaky bastard up to, Stephen?”
“Up to?” Stephen asked. “What can he be up to? He is about to be hanged and burned to ashes. What can he do?”
“I do not know,” I admitted. “But I know that I do not like it. He has obviously been drinking blood in his captivity. And so have the servants, who are revenants and require it every day.”
“So you say,” Stephen said. “And yet you have been unable to discover who has been paid off.”
“It could be the whole bloody episcopal staff, for all I know.”
“You are allowing your apprehensions to get the best of you. He is in irons. He will make his last confession and then he will burn, along with the revenants. So what does it matter?”
“Yes, yes,” I snapped, irritated by his damned reasoning. “Let us go and watch them burn.”
“The crowds already gather,” Stephen said. “But we can witness it from the balcony in the palace. Come. I am going to enjoy this greatly.”
“As shall I.”
By the time we reached the chamber on the fourth floor of the Bishop’s palace, the square was packed with people standing shoulder to shoulder and nose to neck. None of them had ever seen anything like it in all their lives and every road approaching the square was likewise filled, as were the bridges across the river. The entire city had come to a standstill and the Bishop and the Duke’s soldiers struggled to keep them back from the scaffold and the stakes with their mounds of logs and kindling already prepared. A noise welled up as the condemned were led out from a doorway into the hall on the far side, and the soldiers fought to push back at the surge of the crowd.
As Gilles stood before the dangling noose, he raised his hands and called for silence. We were very far distant and far above him but his voice was loud and it echoed from the four sides of the square.
“Pray to God for me, good people,” he said. They fell quiet, perhaps astonished at his brazenness or his piety. “I confess once more, this time before you, to all the crimes to which I was charged and found guilty. Before you, I beg my two servants to in their hearts seek the salvation of their souls and I urge them to be strong and virtuous in the face of diabolical temptations, and to have profound regret and contrition of their misdeeds, as do I. And also to have confidence in the grace of God and to believe that there is no sin a man might commit so great that God in His goodness and kindness would not forgive, so long as the sinner felt profound regret and great contrition of heart and I ask Him for mercy. Dear God, have mercy.”
Poitou and Henriet appeared distraught but hopeful and they thanked their master for his words.
Gilles then fell to his knees, folded his hands together and begged God’s mercy again. “My friends, who have come here to see a sinner, you should know that as a Christian, I am your brother. Those amongst you whose children I have killed, for the love of Our Lord’s suffering, please be willing to pray to God for me and to forgive me freely, in the same way that you yourselves intend God to forgive and have mercy on yourselves.”
“What a disgusting display,” I said.
“Nothing he says is inconsistent with orthodoxy,” Stephen said.
“I know that I am uneducated in these things but surely you see that it is monstrous, Stephen. He compares himself with them.”
Gilles raised his voice. “Let me be killed first,” he cried. “And my men to follow. Please, good fellows of Nantes, build the fires and prepare the noose.”
“Finally,” I muttered.
The fires were started in the base of the three bundles and the flames grew. I wished that the living, conscious Gilles would be placed in the fire so that his agony would be prolonged and terrible but he would hang first.
“Now we will see,” Rob said.
“Prepare your coin, sir,” Walt replied.
“Coin?” I asked, turning to them. “What coin?”
“Ah,” Rob said. “It is nothing, Richard.”
Walt suddenly studied the clouds above, pretending not to hear me.
“What are you up to?”
Rob sighed. “Walt does not believe that the noose will kill him. But I say that it will throttle the life from an immortal and the revenants, just as it would a mortal man. How can it not?”
I stared at them both. “And you are betting coin on the outcome?”
Walt looked at me, then. “Do you wish to place a bet, Richard?”
“I wish that the noose does nothing and that the man dies in the fire in the full possession of his wits. I wish that his immortal strength prolongs his suffering in the flames. I would cook him slowly, if I was down there. I would feed him my own blood to keep him in agony for hours or days so that he begs me to end his life.”
“So,” Walt said, “how many ecus do you want to put in?”
“There he goes,” Stephen said.
A heavy silence filled the air. Down in the square, Gilles stepped up to the noose and up onto a short stool. The noose was placed over his head and tightened around his neck. A shouted order was given and the stool pulled away.
Gilles dropped and his feet kicked and his body thrashed. It did not take long until he was motionless and he was lifted by the executioners, the noose removed and he was carried to the fire. His body was placed upon the burning logs at the base of the fire and his hair was singed and his clothes caught fire. His skin reddened and shone.
Then they pulled him out.
I grasped Stephen’s arm. “What are they doing?”
The executioners patted the fire from his clothes and lifted him onto a handcart and pushed him through the lines of soldiers back toward the hall on the other side of the square to us.
“What in the name of God is going on?” I asked again.
Stephen turned to me, his eyes wide. “I do not know.”
“Where is the Bishop?” I asked the men behind me. “Where is the bloody Bishop?” I grabbed a priest by his robes and glared at him.
“He is viewing it from his chambers, sir,” one of the other priests said.
We raced through the corridor and threw open the Bishop’s door with his guards trailing after us, shouting warnings even as Walt and Rob held them back.
“What is going on?” I shouted at the Bishop, who turned from his window with fear and outrage in his eyes. “Why was he not burned?”
“Who are you to speak to me in such a way?”
I grasped him by the neck and lifted him from his feet, pushing him against the wall. “Where are they bloody-well taking him, you God damned fat fool?”
The Bishop’s eyes flicked over my shoulder, searching for rescue. I slapped his face and shook him.
“He… he… he begged to avoid being turned to ashes. He begged for his body to be allowed to be buried. His request was granted. What does it matter if he is dead all the same? He died in a state of—”
“You fools!” I said, and threw him down to my feet. “He is escaping. All he needs is human blood and he will be returned to full health. Where did they take him? Who took him?”
The Bishop shook his head. “He was to be taken by certain ladies of high rank and prepared for burial. I know not where.”
I turned to Stephen. Behind him, Walt and Rob held five of the palace guards prisoner with their own weapons.
“We must cross th
e square to the hall,” I said. “But we cannot go through that crowd.”
“I know a route,” Stephen said. “Through the palace, crossing by the cathedral and then on to the hall.”
“Lead the way!”
We raced through the palace after Stephen, clattering down stairways and pushing priests and servants aside. We were faster than mortals and left the trailing guards behind but once we left the palace, the crowds were so great that we had to force our way through men and woman and children. As we crossed a street, I saw over the heads of the crowd into the square. Two great plumes of raging red fire and filthy smoke lit up the blackened corpses of Poitou and Henriet Griart.
By the time we made it to the hall, the body of Gilles de Rais had disappeared.
“He was taken for burial by high-born women,” many told us.
“What does that mean?” I cried. “Where did they take him? Where?”
No one knew.
We raced from the city and watched the roads south and north and chased down every possible wagon and company that it might be but none were Gilles, nor these supposed high-born women.
“It is my fault,” I said to Stephen as we looked down yet another empty road as night approached. “The entire time, he has been getting help from people in Nantes. Someone was bringing him blood, even to the servants, but I did not care about that. I thought it mattered not and yet he somehow retained servants, guards, these damned women. I thought we had him. I am a fool. Such a fool.”
I had lost him.
He was gone.
20. A Bloody Messenger
October 1440
We slipped back into the city before nightfall, hoping to avoid the Bishop’s palace and any guards who we knew would certainly still be looking to arrest us.
“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.”