Bound in Moonlight

by Louisa Burton

  “I say, Elic.” Shifting his lantern jaw uneasily, Archer said, “I would, er, hardly call our guest a gardener, given the scope of his expertise and the rather ambitious nature of his work.” Bartholomew Archer had just the year before succeeded his father as administrateur to Théophile Morel, Seigneur des Ombres, the elderly lord of Grotte Cachée. Nearly as tall as Elic, and thin as lath, the timorous Brit had yet to grow comfortable in his role as steward of Grotte Cachée; Elic wondered if he ever would. “I should think Mr. Beckett would be more correctly termed, er . . . a horticulturist.”

  Beckett said, “I infer no shame in the title of gardener. Humphrey Repton, who gave me my initial instruction in this field, styled himself a ‘landscape gardener.’ I am content to be called the same.”

  “Humphrey Repton trained you?” Archer said. “I'm impressed.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Inigo, who, having a remarkable facility with languages, spoke English with no trace at all of an accent. Of Greek extraction, he traveled all over the known world before being recruited in 14 a.d. to pose for the salacious bathhouse statues at Grotte Cachée; he'd made his home there ever since.

  Archer said, “Repton was famous for designing, or redesigning, the grounds of some of the finest estates in Britain. How came you to apprentice with him, Beckett?”

  “I would hardly call it an apprenticeship,” Beckett replied.“I was twelve years old at the time. My father had engaged him to devise a plan for improving the park and gardens at the country house he'd just purchased, which had been neglected for decades. This was in the late summer of 1816, two years before Mr. Repton went to his maker. He'd been injured in a carriage accident, so he needed a wheelchair to get around, and I used to push it for him while he sketched panoramic vistas. His aim was to create a natural but picturesque landscape, and he had impeccable instincts. He turned twelve-hundred dreary, overgrown acres into a veritable paradise. Whole areas were excavated and transformed, hundreds of trees were cut and planted, terraces were built, flower gardens installed.”

  Archer said, “I've seen Repton's work at Blaise Castle—extraordinary.”

  “How did he manage such rigorous work, being in a wheelchair?” Inigo asked.

  “Oh, he didn't actually execute his designs,” Beckett replied.“He was more of an advisor, coming up with the plans and leaving it to his clients to arrange for the actual work.”

  “Mr. Beckett works in much the same manner,” Archer told the assembled company. “During his stay with us, he will inspect the grounds surrounding the castle, devise a scheme for improving them, and leave us a book of notes, plans, and pictures.”

  “It is a method I've borrowed from Mr. Repton,” Beckett said. “For each client, he created what he called a ‘Red Book,’ because it was bound in red leather. The book would contain descriptions of what should be done, including detailed illustrations in watercolor depicting the grounds as they then existed, with vellum overlays showing how that particular area would look if his suggestions were implemented. When he discovered my aptitude for drawing and painting, he allowed me to help him with that end of things, and I found it fascinating. For years after that, I read everything I could get my hands on that had to do with botany, floriculture, architecture. . . . And I painted landscapes, as Mr. Repton had advised, to help develop my sense of natural aesthetics.”

  “You studied these things at university, I suppose?” Lili asked him.

  He averted his gaze from her and took his time rolling the ash off the tip of his cigar. “I confess I did not. It had always been assumed that I would read theology.”

  Elic hated the way Lili gazed at Beckett, her eyes glinting darkly, her color high. He didn't blame her for her hungers; she could no more ignore them than he could ignore his own. But when the object of that hunger held her in such utter thrall, when there was little doubt just how desperately she ached to possess him, it incited in Elic a primal, almost human covetousness. There was no restraining her when her lust for an exceptionally desirable male—a gabru in her extinct Akkadian tongue—ran this hot, no way to keep her from stealing into his bedchamber during the night and ravishing him as he lay immobilized by one of her ancient Babylonian spells. Were Elic capable of making love to Lili—really making love, not just bringing her off by hand, or with his mouth—he might have some chance of keeping her for himself. As it was, the most he could hope for was to be there on occasion when she took her human prey, to caress her and kiss her and whisper his love into her ear as she writhed for hours atop her groaning, shuddering, lust-maddened gabru.

  “Theology, eh?” she said.“You would be the second or third son, then, Mr. Beckett? Destined for the ministry?”

  “The, er, priesthood, actually.”

  “Ah—my apologies,” she said. “One tends to think of all Englishmen as Anglican. A thoughtless presumption.”

  “Not at all.”He still wouldn't look directly at her.

  “You seem to have managed to forge your own way despite parental expectations,” Inigo observed. “Are they miffed that you didn't join the Church?”

  Choosing his words with seeming care, Beckett said, “They are content with the path I've chosen.”

  “So, Beckett,” Elic said. “I can't help but wonder what your connection to the archbishop might be.”

  The young man stilled in the act of lifting his snifter to his mouth, his gaze darting toward Elic and then away. Frowning into his brandy, he took so long to compose his thoughts that Archer answered for him.

  “As I understand it,” the administrateur began, “Archbishop Bélanger retained Mr. Beckett's services on the advice of friends in England, so the connection would be professional rather than . . . shall we say, convivial.” It was at a formal dinner recently hosted by Monseigneur Bélanger for the local personages of note that Archer, who'd attended in Seigneur des Ombres's stead, had made the acquaintance of David Beckett. Intrigued by the young Englishman's proposal for enhancing the archbishop's property, and nostalgic for the lush and artless gardens of his homeland, Archer had convinced le seigneur to invite Beckett to Grotte Cachée.

  “When I spoke of a connection to the archbishop,” Elic said, “I meant the Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry the Second. It occurred to me that there might be a relation between Thomas Becket and our Catholic gardener of the same name.”

  “I'm afraid I can claim no such illustrious association,” Beckett said.

  “How long will we have the pleasure of your company, Mr. Beckett?” Lili asked with a smile that made Elic's teeth throb.

  “I . . . well, I suppose that remains to be seen,” he replied. “Tomorrow afternoon, I shall conduct a thorough tour of the grounds, and that will give me a rough idea of the areas that might benefit from a more picturesque approach. It could take a week or a month to prepare a book of plans for le seigneur. It all depends on the extent of the renovations.”

  “I can't imagine there's very much at Grotte Cachée that wants improvement,” Elic said. “You'll find little to keep you here, I think.”

  Lili, clearly vexed by his tone, moved away from him in a subtle but stingingly eloquent gesture. She and Inigo shared a look. Such petty sniping was out of character for Elic.

  Archer said, “It might help to have a bit of guidance on your tour, Mr. Beckett. I've other obligations tomorrow afternoon, but I could show you 'round in the morning.”

  Shaking his head, Beckett said, “I must go to Clermont-Ferrand in the morning in order to mail a letter.”

  “Give it to me now, and I'll have someone mail it tomorrow,” Archer said.

  “It . . . it isn't written yet,” Beckett said. “I'll write it tonight, and . . . I've other business in town, in any event, things I must buy—more vellum, another sketchbook . . .”

  “Very well,” Archer said. “I must caution you, though, should you care to explore our cave, as many guests do, not to venture in too far—no more than a quarter mile or so, where the lamps are. Past that, it becom
es . . . rather forbidding, I'm afraid.”

  “I shall bear that in mind, Mr. Archer. And now, if you will all forgive me,” Beckett said as he rose to his feet and bowed in Lili's direction, “I regret that the hour has come when I must retire to my chamber. The letter of which I spoke will be a lengthy one, and all I really want is a good night's sleep.”

  “May you get your wish, Mr. Beckett,” said Lili, her gaze following him as he crossed to the door. “Pleasant dreams.”

  12 October, 1829

  Grotte Cachée, Auvergne, France

  My Lord Archbishop,

  This dispatch will serve, I trust, as an account of the progress thus far of my clandestine inquiries on behalf of your Grace and of our superiors in Rome and here in France. You will be gratified, I think, to know that I am presently ensconced in a guest chamber of Château de la Grotte Cachée, having successfully drawn upon the horticultural expertise I acquired before entering seminary to adopt the guise of a landscape gardener.

  My preliminary investigation into claims of demoniacal activity in and around this château transpired much as we had planned. This fortnight past I enjoyed the hospitality of Archbishop Bélanger at his own remarkably beautiful château in the region of Auvergne, where his secretary made me privy to allegations dating back nearly four centuries of strange happenings in and around Grotte Cachée. Notable among these were reputed acts of extraordinary wickedness and lechery committed there by certain individuals identified on occasion as demons or possibly those possessed by demons. Such accusations have generally been regarded as heated imaginings, and therefore rarely committed to writing save for the most cursory of notations. As a consequence, there exist but three pieces of written evidence detailed enough to be of use for our purposes, which in the interest of discretion I was enjoined from copying. These I shall summarize for you frankly and without expurgation, as you have directed, with the caveat that such writings, by their very nature, must needs describe carnal encounters of the most impure stripe.

  The earliest of the written accounts, dated 6 May 1461, is a description by a parish priest of events related to him—not, I hasten to add, under the seal of confession—by a young woman who served briefly as a chambermaid at Château de la Grotte Cachée. She gave distraught testimony of having witnessed a libidinous interlude involving “actes déplorables de sodomie” between a man and two women, one of the latter having afterward uttered words of enchantment that turned her into a male. Thus transformed, this “abberration de nature” proceeded to climb the exterior wall of a tower with naught but his bare hands and feet, whereupon he stole into the bedchamber of a female visitor to the château. The priest sent this report to the Bishop of Clermont (under the Ancien Régime), who transferred it to the Archbishop of Bourges, who dismissed the matter, having judged the young woman, sight unseen, to have been bereft of reason. It is worth noting that it had been the longstanding practice of the seigneurs of Grotte Cachée to make frequent and generous donations of land and monies to the Church.

  The archbishop's secretary also showed me an age-worn velvet-bound book titled Una Durata di Piacere, an erotic memoir by a Venetian nobleman named Domenico Vitturi, which was privately published under a nom de plume for the author's intimate friends in 1609. Several chapters thereof concern visits to Grotte Cachée by Vitturi and favored courtesans for the express purpose of training them to pleasure men in exotic and unorthodox ways. This instruction was carried out with considerable zeal by two men fictitiously named Éric and Isaac, who schooled the courtesans in extraordinarily obscene forms of sexual congress. They were taught to employ various objects, devices, furnishings, and even implements of torture, for the purpose of exciting lust in themselves and their bedpartners. They became adept at such debaucheries as sapphotism, coitus oralis, coitus analis, le vice anglais, such punishments as spanking and slapping, ménage à trois, the use of bindings, blindfolds, and gags, and other practices of an even more debased nature. A notable aspect of these depictions of fornication was the prowess of the two trainers, which strikes one as exceeding the natural abilities of the mortal male. By Vitturi's account, Éric could perform the act of copulation a dozen or more times in brisk succession. Isaac, while possessed of a more conventional, though still remarkable, sexual vigor, boasted a generative organ described as “come il penis dello stallion.” Furthermore, one of the courtesans claimed that Isaac possessed both a tail and a pair of stumpy, hornlike protrusions on his head, which his thick, curly hair effectively concealed. This book was brought to the attention of high personages at the Vatican, who handed the matter over to the Archbishop of Bourges, who declared that Vitturi's reminiscences were simply too fantastical to warrant investigation.

  The third document in Archbishop Bélanger's possession was the letter that prompted this investigation, which was sent this past June from a lady in New York City to an old friend summering at her family's château in Lyon. It was this letter, retrieved by a laundress from the hidden pocket of a skirt belonging to the recipient, which made its way to the archbishop, who being of a more inquisitive humor than his predecessors, resolved to prove or disprove with finality the existence of diabolical forces at Grotte Cachée. You have asked me to relay the contents of this letter, and this I shall do to the best of my recollection. Upon greeting her friend with the curious salutation, “From one little red fox to another,” the correspondent proceeded to reminisce about a “slave auction” they had attended at Château de la Grotte Cachée twelve years earlier. Having been “sold” to dissolute libertines for one week's sexual servitude, they subsequently—if one is to credit this shameless account—engaged in activities of the most appalling degradation. Reference is made to collars, cuffs, and leashes, as well as to casual nudity and public acts of sodomy too perverse for me to detail here. What caught the archbishop's eye was the mention of “that curly-haired devil with the lovely smile and colossal cock.” It is in relation to this man that the lady writes (her actual words may have differed slightly), “I do not, as you accuse, credit the existence of satyrs, but I tell you I did briefly espy, in the course of bathhouse disportments, what looked to be a tail—and I was only very slightly tipsy from the opium. Perhaps his mother, while in a delicate condition, received a fright from a beast with such a tail. Is it not through such maternal impression that some babes are cursed with birthmarks resembling animals, or even more monstrous disfigurements?”

  As I say, these three documents represent the only meaningful written accounts of unnatural doings at Grotte Cachée. There was, however, one additional source of information. It seems that in August of 1771, a young carpenter by the name of Serges Bourgoin was hired by Lord Henry Archer, the English administrateur to the lady who was then mistress of Grotte Cachée, to replace a door and a pair of window shutters. About a week later, as Bourgoin and another carpenter were doing some work at the home of a local physician, the physician's wife overheard him whispering to the other man of the bizarre and ungodly things he'd experienced at Grotte Cachée. She urged him to report these things to their parish priest. When he refused, she did so herself. Given the nature of her allegations, the fact that they were hearsay, Serges Bourgoin's reputation for overindulgence in wine, and the lady's own reputation as a gossip and intermeddler, the priest penned a brief memorandum about the conversation and pursued it no further.

  When I was informed that Bourgoin was still alive, I made arrangements to visit him. At eighty-five, he lives with his daughter in a nearby village, and still enjoys his wine—having been told this, I brought him two bottles of an excellent local vintage. At first, he denied having ever been to Grotte Cachée, but after I explained that I was attempting to confirm or refute the presence of evil spirits there so as to determine the necessity for exorcism, and that I would share his tale only with trusted ecclesiastical personages, he saw fit to confide in me. I confess, it was helpful to my purposes that he was already somewhat inebriated when I arrived that afternoon.

  The subst
ance of what Bourgoin related to me is this: He arrived at Grotte Cachée to replace the door and shutters, only to be led up a heavily wooded mountainside to a cave entrance in a rocky outcropping. The opening, although irregular in shape, was fitted out with a door that was old and weathered, its green paint peeling. Next to it was a gap in the dark volcanic rock to which had been attached a pair of window shutters in the same condition. The cave chamber within, he describes as “une petite salle confortable,” furnished with a bed, a rug, and bookshelves. There were more bookshelves, many more, he tells me, in a larger chamber adjoining the smaller one. He claims that when he removed a book from its shelf to look at it, it was wrested from his hands and shoved back in place by an unseen force. Unnerved, he installed the door and shutters as dark clouds filled the sky. By the time he was finished, a violent thunderstorm was lashing the valley, forcing him to delay his return home. He spent that night in a room in the servants' quarters, and when he awakened the next morning, he recalled having been visited in the wee hours by a black-haired female, a “démon feminine,” who ravished him in exceptionally sinful ways while a very tall man with long, golden hair sat and watched. Sometimes this man would propose things that she should do to him, unimaginably depraved things. Other times, he would pleasure her, but although he was clearly aroused, she never touched him intimately and he did not attempt to have carnal relations with her. Many times over the intervening years, Bourgoin told me, he had tried to convince himself that it had been a dream, but in his heart, he felt it had really happened. When I asked whether he had been drinking that night before he retired, he admitted that he had, but he insisted that he wasn't so drunk as to have invented such an experience out of whole cloth.

  During my stay with the archbishop, he issued an invitation to the local gentry to dine with him, as a pretext to throw me together with the present Seigneur des Ombres, Théophile Morel. Le seigneur, being of advanced years and ill health, sent in his stead his administrator, Bartholomew Archer, who is the grandson of the previously mentioned Lord Henry Archer. Since Mr. Archer is known to make inquiries regarding those whom he intends to invite to Grotte Cachée, I introduced myself to him as “David Beckett,” Beckett being my middle name—it was, in fact, my mother's maiden name. This, I felt to be an acceptable alternative to an entirely fabricated name. You are well aware, my lord, of how deeply I take to heart the Wisdom of Solomon on the subject of lying—truly, the mouth that belieth killeth the soul. I shall endeavor, during the course of this investigation, to avoid outright untruths, although I concede that lies of omission have been unavoidable, and will continue to be so, from time to time.