The Immortal Knight Chronicles Box Set 2

by Dan Davis

  An old porter came out striding from a side door, still chewing something and wiping his greasy hands on his apron as he came forward.

  “The lord is away,” he said. “What business have you here?”

  “I have come to see the priest,” I said, confidently. “Please take me to him.”

  “Priest?” the porter said, scratching his nose. “What priest? Who are you, sirs?”

  “We serve the same master, you and I,” I said, lying. “And so I need not answer to you. Bring me to the priest, or our master shall be sore disappointed.”

  He squinted at me and I felt certain he was about to summon guards. From what I had heard about the strange goings on at Castle Tiffauges, the rumours of comings and goings in the darkness, I had hoped to bluff my way in with vague assurances.

  “I will have your name before I let you within,” the porter said, finally, before pointing to me. “And you shall come alone, without your men. Not a one of them. And you shall come unarmed.”

  “My name is Le Cheminant,” I said, which meant the Traveller. It was as good a false name as any and it was not an inaccurate moniker to assume. “And I agree to your terms.”

  My men grumbled at me as I dismounted.

  “You must not enter this place unarmed and alone,” Stephen muttered, rushing over and grabbing my arm before I went in.

  “Stay here and do whatever Rob and Walt tell you to do,” I replied as I removed my weapons and handed them to my valet.

  Stephen was outraged because he was far more ancient than they and had been my companion for longer, and he considered himself to be above them in every sense. However, he was naive to physical dangers in a way that my soldiers were not.

  Walt and Rob moved to take positions by the outer gateway and also by the door I was to enter by, so that they could watch for approaches and warn me and also so that they could quickly come to my aid, should I require it. All this was done without words and even without much in the way of glances.

  “Le Cheminant, is it?” the porter said, frowning. “My name is Miton. I shall escort you to the chapel. Dominus Blanchet will be there or in his quarters.”

  “Very well, Miton. Lead the way.”

  While the exterior of the castle was severe and brutal, the interior was remarkably different. In my experience, castles were poor places to live. They were always cold, the chambers small, and it was ever dark and smoky. What is more, when the lord was not in residence, a castle would be quiet and miserable. Tapestries would be taken down from walls. Rooms, towers, entire wings would be closed up. Fires would not be lit. The caretakers would keep to their own quarters most of the time and the rest of the place would be left to the spiders.

  But not Castle Tiffauges.

  It was like walking into a dreamland. Ornate decoration adorned every wall and surface in a riot of blue, red, and yellow painted patterns, and intricate carving embellished with gold and silver leaf bordered every doorframe. Open courtyards resounded with the tinkling of beautifully carved marble fountains and passing from one wing to another I found every chamber lit with wax candles in silver holders and enamelled oil lamps, even in rooms with no people within. Servants walked to and fro, going about their business. I saw a priest in his full raiment hurrying along with a young servant behind him carrying a handful of books and I expected that the porter would call out to him that he had a visitor. Instead, he said nothing and we continued on and I realised this meant there was more than one priest in residence. Four soldiers lounged in a small inner courtyard drinking wine and playing dice. They glanced at me as I passed but made no move to stop me. Manic laughter echoed from a tower window. The castle was full of life. I found it profoundly disturbing.

  I wanted to ask Miton the porter, strutting along beside me, to confirm that Gilles de Rais was not in residence but he was suspicious enough of me so I held my tongue.

  “When is our master due to return?” I said instead, thinking I was being cunning.

  “You don’t know?” he said, squinting up at me. He shrugged, flinging his arms out. “But who knows with him? He comes, he goes. No warning. One day he’s in Machecoul, the next he’s here. Then he’s off again, God alone knows where.” Miton shook his head and broke off muttering.

  “Were you a soldier, Miton?” I asked him suddenly.

  He glanced up. “Course I was.”

  “Did you serve with our lord? At Orléans?”

  He sniffed. “I was there.”

  “Did you see her?” I asked. “The Maiden?”

  Miton jerked to a stop. His face clouded in darkness, glancing around us but no one was near. “Speak not of her.” His hand was on the hilt of his sword. “Speak not of her in this place.”

  I raised my hands. “I apologise, sir. I shall not speak of it again.”

  Miton hesitated and nodded, striding past me in his jerky gait. I hurried after him, wondering at the reasons for his outburst. Was it moral outrage? Or fear? Did he have deep love for the Maiden or did he regard her as a heretic?

  Clearly, I would get no more from him on the matter.

  Distant singing echoed through the castle and it grew stronger as we entered the most distant wing, resonating from the walls of the chapel there. There must have been dozens of choristers and the sound was like Heaven had come down to Earth.

  Inside, the chapel was lit by hundreds of tall wax candles, illuminating the golden rails, golden crucifixes and candle holders and the vivid colours of the painted statues seemed to glow with inner light. The boys of the choir had fallen silent and were making their way from the chapel when I entered. It seemed as though the walls yet echoed with their beautiful song. One or two of them eyed me warily and it seemed as though those ones pushed forward through their fellows to get away from me more swiftly.

  “There.” Miton stabbed his finger at the priest. “Do not leave this chapel. I will wait until you are done.”

  The priest wore his full priestly vestment. A bright white alb showing at the wrists and the hem at his knees, long amice around his shoulders, an embroidered maniple of thick silk and golden thread draped over his left arm, a crimson stole hanging around his neck and heavy and intricately embroidered chasuble. He was a small man of about forty years with an open, kind face. When I drew closer, though, I saw his eyes were filled with a profound fear and he shook beneath his robes.

  “Is this it?” he asked me in a small voice. “Is it time?”

  “Time for what?” I asked, brightly. He simply stared at me, confusion playing in his eyes. “My name is Le Cheminant. Are you Dominus Eustace Blanchet?”

  He blinked and spoke warily. “Yes, that is who I am.”

  “How delightful to meet you, brother. I hoped to speak with you about what happened at the church during Pentecost.”

  Blanchet’s eyes flicked around all over the chapel and finding that we were alone, turned back to me. “Why? Who are you?”

  “I told you my name. Allow me to tell you something else. The Marshal went with armed men to the church at Saint-Étienne-de-Mer-Morte during the Pentecost Mass. He and his soldiers entered with their weapons drawn. The Marshal bore an axe in his hand and he seized the priest, threatening him bodily, forcing him to his knees. And then you, Gilles de Rais’ personal priest, came to the rescue of the threatened man and stayed the Marshal’s hand. You saved the priest le Ferron from a bloody death at his own altar and instead the Marshal dragged him off to the dungeons of Machecoul where he remains. Is this all true, brother?”

  He looked around again, eyes flicking about. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “Brother, there were scores of witnesses. A certain number of them were willing to give an account to agents of the episcopal and secular authorities.”

  Blanchet’s eyes bulged and he swallowed twice before he could speak. “You come from the Bishop?”

  As I was under strict orders not to reveal the Bishop’s investigation, I could not confirm it outright. “I did not say that.�
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  He shook his head in frustration. “What are you saying, sir? Are you threatening me?”

  I sighed and lowered my voice. “Brother, after I heard how you had saved that priest’s life, I asked after you. I asked about you in Nantes and in other places. What I heard was that you are somewhat newly come into the Baron’s service from elsewhere in Brittany, by way of the Order of Saint Benedict. What is more, I heard that you lived for a week or two in a village a few miles north of here, at the inn at Mortagne. You know what the innkeeper, Bouchard-Menard, told me? He told me that you were then brought back here by servants of the Marshal. Brought back against your will, so he told me, shouting at the men to leave you be while they carried you out of your room at the inn, tied up and bundled onto a cart and dragged back to Tiffauges in the dark of the night.”

  He swallowed and looked down, no doubt greatly ashamed.

  “Now, a man like that,” I continued, “a man who attempted to flee this place, and a man of God who risked his life by defying the will of his master to save the life of a priest, well, that is a man I wished to speak with, Dominus Eustache. Despite what my friends urged me, I believe you may be willing to speak to me in turn about certain things. Things that are said to happen in Tiffauges and Machecoul and other accursed places. Do not be so afraid, Dom Eustache. The Baron will never know that we spoke, you and I.”

  Blanchet coughed and whispered. “He knows everything.” Then he crossed himself and then crossed himself again. “I will deny speaking to you.”

  “Very good,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I will deny it also. And so as far as the world is concerned, we never spoke at all. All I want is to know from you, brother, is what happens here.”

  He looked down at the floor and spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “I do not know what you refer to, sir.”

  “Oh, you know. What happens to the little boys that are brought here in the night? What is done to them? And who is it that does it?”

  Blanchet shook his head. “I do not know all that happens. In truth, I know nothing at all.”

  “You know enough to be afraid.”

  “No, no. I am happy here. I am blessed.”

  “I shall tell you what I think,” I said, leaning in and lowering my voice. “I think you did not know the nature of your lord until it was too late to flee. But you are still a decent man and that is what drove you to save the priest on Pentecost. And so I think that you, as a decent man, will want to unburden yourself and help me to save others who might yet be saved.”

  He took a sharp breath and let it out slowly, glancing up at me once before replying. “He is violent. He drinks, now. Always. I was so blind, at first. Like a fool, I believed that because he was rich and powerful and devout that he was a good man. And I did not know that I was a prisoner until I fled and they brought me back. But nothing can be done. Whatever you are doing, whoever you are from, even if you are from the Bishop, nothing can be done. He is too powerful.”

  “Your lord holds his Barony from the Duke. And there is the King, who made him Marshal by royal command and can unmake him in turn. The Church is perhaps even more powerful than them both, and the noble Bishop of Nantes is the cousin of Duke Jean and what happens if they decide to work in concert, brother? No man is too powerful to escape his crimes, even on Earth, if there is a will to do something about it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And is there such a will, sir?”

  I had been commanded, on pain of terrible repercussions, to keep the investigation secret. The Bishop wanted no hint of an investigation to get back to Gilles de Rais, for what I imagined was a variety of reasons. And so I forced myself to hold my tongue.

  “Listen, brother.” I placed my hand on his shoulder and leaned in close. “Even the Marshal must know his actions will have consequences. He has abducted and imprisoned a vassal of the Duke, this priest le Ferron whose elder brother is also a powerful lord. Questions are being asked. But all the answers I want from you are about these other servants of your master. Who are these men who do his bidding? Who are the men who brought you back when you attempted to flee?”

  “Very well. But you heard nothing from me, do you understand?” Blanchet looked around again. “The worst of them is Henriet Griart. An ugly man. Strong, fat. Sour. Not yet thirty years old. Just as bad is the one they call Poitou. His true name is Etienne Corrillaut but everyone calls him Poitou, I assume because he is from there. He is younger but balding on the top of his head at the front. His body is as thin as a stick but somehow his grip is like iron, strong enough to bruise me for weeks with no more than a grasp of his hand. He laughs often, at nothing. They are commoners who serve our lord as valets but they do whatever the Marshal wills.”

  “What does he command them to do?”

  “I do not know, whatever the Marshal wills. And my lord also has two other servants who seem more like companions. Gentleman, I believe though I do not know what they are but they call the Marshal their cousin. One is named Sillé, a big man, older, and he perhaps rules over the others. He often carries a coil of rope that he uses to whip his horse but he carries it with him everywhere he goes and even hangs it on his belt when he sits down to eat. One other is Milord Roger de Briqueville, who is a knight. Tall and dark, like the Marshal. He is always drunk on brandy wine, just like the Marshal. He smiles and speaks well, like a lord, but he is frightening. There is a darkness behind his eyes. All these men go where my lord goes but they also do his bidding elsewhere. He sends them hunting but I never see them return with any prey.”

  Henriet, Poitou, Sillé, Briqueville. Hunters, are you? Soon, you shall all become the prey.

  “What of this cleric I have heard so much rumour about? The sorcerer.”

  Blanchet’s eyes almost popped out. “Prelati the Florentine. He is an alchemist but yes, they say he practices magic. He is always with de Rais now or else in his tower. Rarely seen.”

  “The rumours are that this Prelati summons demons for the Marshal.”

  “I know nothing of all that. It is probably peasant rumours, you know how the common folk like to gossip about such things. Prelati came here after me but what brought him and what he does, I do not know. Whatever it is, I believe he is a fraud.”

  “What brought you here?”

  Blanchet sagged and held a hand over his eyes. “I was in Orléans.”

  “For the siege? Truly, brother?”

  “No, no. Not for the siege, no. Sadly, I did not see the glory of the Maid. I mean after, when peace had come. I saw the Baron’s pageant play.”

  I had heard of this extraordinary event but I still barely believed it was true. And if it was true, what did that say about whether Gilles de Rais was a mortal or not?

  “Tell me about the pageant play, brother.”

  Blanchet took a deep breath and his eyes focused through me into the past. “It was years ago. Perhaps five years. It was a play but that is hardly the word to describe it. It was a festival. It began each day at dawn and ran all the way through until darkness fell. It was performed by a hundred and fifty people, each with spoken lines. And there were five hundred non-speaking parts. Twenty-thousand lines of verse. Twenty-thousand, sir! It was a re-enactment of the entire siege, you see. The expense of it cannot be calculated. No man in the history of the world has spent so much of his fortune on such a thing. For each performance, entirely new costumes were provided. Do you understand? At the end of the day, the costumes were thrown off, sold, tossed into the Loire, thrown on fires. And each morning over six hundred identical costumes were handed out to the players again. And, you must understand, these were not cheap costumes but true clothing. Robes that a lord would have been proud to wear, made from the finest cloth and embroidered and patterned and dyed with the utmost care. Even those who were dressed in the rags of the defeated English were made of fine, thick cloth and cut into jagged edges as if they were torn and dirtied. It was a wonder, a true wonder. The play began with the vile English making their
plans in London, and at the climax there was the Maiden’s victory. In between was her journey, and her battles against the enemy as she destroyed their forts one after the other. You saw her wounded and carried off. You saw her stand when others fled, and by her example, turn the tide of the battle. It was glorious. So many stages, all open to the air. Indeed, at times there would be simultaneous scenes being acted on two or three. On one, Joan would be haranguing the commanders to act while across the city the players would be acting out a raging battle. The crowd surged from one stage to another, following the action. And the wine, sir. You cannot imagine how the wine flowed. Barrels of fine vintages rolled out for every performance, all day, and every person in the crowd was filled with the wine. All free, of course. All rooms in the city were paid for by the Marshal. Enough wine and bread and meat to feed thousands, every single day. They say it cost eighty thousand gold crowns.”

  “A fortune,” I said. “Enough to buy a duchy. And this disgusting display of opulence so impressed you that you sought service with the Marshal?”

  He looked at me with surprise. “Because it was all for her. For her memory. To put right the lies they told about her. The Marshal wrote the play himself, all twenty-thousand lines of verse. To tell you the truth, as poetry goes it was not inspired. But it did not need to be when the tale itself was inspiration enough. You see, he told, and they showed, Joan tending to her work in her village when she had her vision that commanded her to go to the Dauphin. It showed her interview with the Dauphin, when she inspired him into believing in her. It even showed her return to the city after the great final victory against the vile invaders at Patay. It was for the glory of Joan. She was the heart of it. As she was in life. And at her side throughout it all was her most faithful captain, her brave and loyal bodyguard, the devoted soldier Gilles de Rais. And that is why I came to serve him. Because he served her. And she is here no longer, because the English burned her, and so I came. God forgive me, I came to this evil place. But I did it for her.”