Thief of Souls

by Ann Benson

  Later that same night, I overheard the Marquis de Ceva telling Prelati that he had found a handsome young page for him in Dieppe. Monsieur Prelati seemed greatly delighted, and a number of days later a very beautiful young boy arrived, claiming himself to be of a very good family from the Dieppe region. He resided with Monsieur François for about a fortnight, and in that time I saw him on many occasions, always in Prelati’s company. Then suddenly he seemed to vanish—his master came and went without him. So I inquired after him. Monsieur François became very agitated and claimed that for all his supposed good breeding, the boy had cheated him royally, departing with two gold crowns. Good riddance to the young scoundrel, Prelati said.

  I was confused by this assertion; the boy had made a good impression on me and had seemed an honest sort. And I am not often wrong in my impressions of people.

  Not long afterward, Monsieur Prelati and Master Eustache Blanchet left my house and went to Machecoul to stay there. I heard it said that they forced a man named Cahu out of his house, relieving him of the keys most ignobly and with great force. I knew this house already, having been to Machecoul many times with my husband. The house was far from other houses, on a street outside of the town; it had its own well, but despite this blessing, the place was dilapidated and careworn; certainly no one would take it to be a proper lodging for honorable men.

  The Marquis de Ceva continued to lodge with me; I believe he found my accommodations more suitable for a gentleman. He demanded much of me, even during times when I was clearly distressed by my husband’s failing health, but he was always slow to pay what sums were owed, and when he did pay, the coins were not handed over until there had been long, distressing negotiations about what was actually owed, or rude comments about how he might have been cheated. François Prelati and Eustache Blanchet frequently came from their pitiful little lodgings in Machecoul to visit the Marquis and often stayed with him in my upper rooms, but they did not quit the wreck in which they themselves were lodging. Instead, they left their pages there to retain possession of it. With good reason, I have come to realize.

  It happened that I was required to be in Machecoul for a number of days while my husband consulted with a healer, just before the time of Lord Gilles’s arrest—rumors of his impending difficulties were already flying about in great number, so I was curious to see what passed around Cahu’s house. On a few occasions I hid myself in some close bushes and observed the comings and goings of these men and their servants, who all appeared quite nervous.

  One day while I was watching they removed a great barrowful of ashes from Cahu’s house. It was overflowing with gray powder, and the young man—a girlish slip of a thing—had some trouble in keeping it balanced. Some of it spilled out on the ground. Where they took what remained I cannot say, but as soon as the opportunity presented itself, I went to the spill. There was a greasiness about it when I rubbed it between my fingers, and the smell—mon Dieu, it was unlike any cooked animal that I had ever known. I separated out some gritty shards and blew the dust off them. They were white and had the feel of bone when I tested them with my teeth.

  And then I realized what I had in my hand, and then in my mouth, and I was sick to the very pit of my stomach. God save me, I thought to myself, these are human bones—perhaps those of the beautiful young page. And I spat and spat until every last bit of the taste was gone from my mouth.

  She began to spit in demonstration right in the chapel, but quite suddenly she began to shake and tremble as if in the grip of the falling sickness. Only the whites of her eyes showed as she convulsed pathetically.

  Once again Jean de Malestroit began to stand, but before he was fully erect, she had regained herself.

  “Oh, my lords, forgive me—I suffer from the fits, and when I am distressed it seems to come upon me more frequently.”

  Suspicion and concern blended on Jean de Malestroit’s face. “Can you continue, Madame?”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Not long after that I detected the approach of the returning servants, so I returned to my hiding place in the thick brush. I was frightened to be so close, but there were no other hiding places. I was perhaps only two good paces from Monsieur Prelati when he came out of the house with several items in his arms, all of which I could see quite clearly. Among them was a shirt so small it can only have come from a child. It was covered with damp blood and other detritus. He held it out as far as he could, and no wonder, for even in the brush I could smell it—a horrible and putrid smell, and I thought once again that I would be sick. But I kept down the bile that wanted to leap out of my throat and looked hard at the shirt as Prelati walked past my hiding place. I was glad that shirt could not speak for itself—I would not have wanted to know how so neat a slit came to be in its belly, surrounded by blood.

  I heard nothing more of what the witnesses said that day.

  Jean de Malestroit was alone in his study when I found him later, staring into the light of a single candle—no brilliant diplomat but a simple man of God in near darkness who looked to be aching over some deep matter of faith. He held his head in his two hands; in place of his usually regular breathing, I heard deep, pained sighs.

  I cleared my throat very lightly to get his attention. It was a few heartbeats before he unfurrowed his brow and brought his eyes to meet my gaze.

  “Guillemette,” he sighed. There was a measure of affection in it, a bit of relief as well.

  “Do I disturb you, Eminence?”

  “I am already sore disturbed.”

  “Perhaps you will wish to remain alone . . .”

  “No, please—truth be told, I was about to send for you. I am tired of my own thoughts and I crave the sound of another voice. The diversion of your company would be most pleasant right now. I am sick to death of the people with whom I am forced to spend these days, myself among them.”

  He spent his hours with wailing witnesses, all repeating the same story, and calculating lawyers, each one hoping to please Duke Jean more than the next. Stiff-backed scribes who hung on every word that was uttered in the chapel were his constant companions. Advocates and prosecutors and dignitaries surrounded him, all with a stake in the outcome of this trial. He was charged with the daunting mission of bringing it all to conclusion on God’s behalf. His disturbance was more than understandable.

  But we both knew that it might have been far worse. “Imagine how much more distressing these last two days would have been had Milord graced us with his presence,” I said.

  Small consolation. “One cannot,” he said quietly. “And in time he will have to appear again. I do not know how I shall keep order then.”

  More witnesses were due to be heard on the morrow, and it was a comfortable wager that Milord would not show himself then either. In some ways, it made the entire mess easier to weather, because Gilles de Rais, sodomite, murderer, conjurer of demons, was still Gilles de Rais, Marshal of France, hero, baron, and knight. It was far easier to think him a hideous monster in his pale absence than his splendid presence.

  “More charges will grow out of these testimonies,” Jean de Malestroit said. “If he refuses to appear, then I suppose we shall have to drag him into the court by force. But I suspect he will show himself before coercion becomes necessary.” He put a hand gently on top of mine. “Are you prepared for that?”

  Gilles de Rais would not just meekly appear in court, there to sit quietly while grievous accusations were hurled against him—he would be faithful to his bellicose nature and stage a majestic fight.

  I said, “I think the more germane concern might be for Milord’s preparation. But as for myself, I suppose I am as ready as I shall ever be.”

  It was not an entirely truthful statement—there was indeed some preparation needed on my part, but it had nothing to do with seeing Milord in court. And on that matter I cautiously approached Jean de Malestroit. “Perrine Rondeau’s revelations were intriguing, were they not?”

  He was still distracted. “In their
difference from what the other witnesses had to say, yes. Quite.”

  “She was bold to watch those goings on.”

  “Quite bold.”

  “I cannot imagine placing myself in such a position, no matter what I stood to gain. But I am wondering,” I said carefully, “if anyone knows what became of the things that were brought out of Cahu’s house by Prelati and the others, beyond the ashes that Perrine described.”

  He gave me an odd look. “Why should any of that interest you?”

  “I would like to examine them.”

  “God in heaven, why?”

  “Because I think something might be learned.”

  “What more can be learned from these items? They are the work of the devil, and to be disdained.”

  “The devil’s works reveal the devil,” I countered.

  His frown was accompanied by frank disapproval. “It will be gruesome stuff—bloody and malodorous, hardly suitable items for any woman to examine, especially a woman of your station. What is this sudden morbid fascination?”

  It was an elegantly phrased refusal, its content mindful of my supposed delicacy, a condition he attributed to my “station,” the nature of which I could hardly define anymore. “I simply thought—that is, I wondered if something might be learned by examining the items associated with these crimes, that is all.”

  “To what end is this learning required?”

  To an end I cannot speak of just presently. “As proof, of course,” I said. “Proof of the crimes with which Milord is charged.”

  “Proof will not be required.”

  I had not expected that response. “But . . . how shall he be convicted without proof?”

  “He will confess.”

  My first thought, undistilled, was, Never. “Gilles de Rais will not confess,” I told him. “His pride will not allow it.”

  “He will, I assure you. He will answer to God for his crimes, and he will do so of his own accord. Even if we have to torture him first. And if it is required, then it shall be done.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said, my voice almost pleading, “I would see the proof for myself. I . . . I need to see it, to settle my heart.” I placed my hands over my face and began to weep quietly, which led further to heaving of the chest and, finally, to full-blown sobbing.

  I would regret this splendid performance on the morrow and repent fervently, for my bishop is a good man, unworthy of this vile sort of deceit. Sister Claire’s prophetic words about the predictable sameness of men, even the mighty, rang in my ears. Only the hardest of the hard, such as the monstrous Jean de Craon, could escape the influence of a woman’s heartfelt tears. And truth be told, my tears were not so terribly false.

  Jean de Malestroit was already wincing when he said, “Oh, very well, if it means that much to you, I shall inquire of the whereabouts of these things. But do not hope too greatly. It is likely that they have been discarded or lost.”

  I knew that my dear bishop was probably right—there was little realistic hope that the shirt, ghastly as it was, had been retained by anyone, and certainly it would not have been kept by any of those scoundrels whose guilt it would affirm! Where could it be put, lest it despoil all that surrounded it?

  Franc¸ois Prelati would know what had become of it, but he was a cur who would try to barter that sort of information for some sort of judicial advantage. I had no chips with which to seduce him. My only recourse was to seek out Perrine Rondeau. I knew that she had traveled to Nantes for this trial along with many others, all of whom now made their temporary homes on the periphery of the city. Great encampments of such pilgrims had risen up close to the river. I had only to walk from one campfire to the next and inquire in order to find her—she had made herself known among the crowd by the heft of her character.

  When I came upon her the next morning before trial began, Perrine Rondeau’s jovial temperament spoke of complete recovery from the strain of her previous day’s testimony. But, then, she had said her piece and was done with the matter. Unlike so many others, with whom the pain of testimony would linger, she had not lost a child.

  A stout stone fireplace had years ago been erected near the river, where fishermen often cooked the fish they brought out of the silty waters. A sturdy pole of very green wood had been laid across the stones, and from it Madame Rondeau had suspended a pot by its handle. There she stood, humming as she stirred porridge over the fire, her roundish hips swaying with the circular motion of her arm. At her feet, resting on a cloth, was a large flat river rock, washed clean, on which the gruel would be poured when cooked. When it had cooled, it would be broken into glutinous hunks to be eaten in hand. It was bland and unpalatable, but it would fill the bellies of the hungry people who waited nearby, none of whom were likely to possess the bowls and utensils to eat it properly. How accustomed I had become to such blessings—a bowl, a board, a spoon, abundant food that could be eaten hot and with dignity. Mere habits to me, but great treasures to a pauper. God’s arbitrary bestowal of fortune was always so puzzling.

  But He had blessed Perrine Rondeau with a wonderful heartiness, which she now used to the benefit of those who lacked such substance. The steam that rose up from the pot caused little ringlets to form on the side of her hair, which was pulled back and tied with a cloth. She wore a great apron over her frock, the sleeves of which had been rolled up slightly.

  She regarded my habit and reacted with a respectful nod. “Good morning, Mother,” she said.

  “Good morning. You are Madame Rondeau?”

  “I am.”

  “God’s blessings on you, Madame. You were in my prayers last night after your testimony; I hope you have recovered from the sudden malady that overtook you.”

  “I have, indeed. And I thank you for your words to God. They come and go, the shaking fits. I always regain my senses in time.”

  “You are a brave woman; tenacious in your inquiries as well.”

  “Ah,” she said, “some would say that I am just too curious.”

  “I shall not judge your behavior, Madame, but your curiosity, as it turns out, was quite beneficial.”

  “ ’Tis not always the case.” She smiled rather mischievously. “But if the prosecutor’s cause was advanced by what I said, then I am glad for that. And I am none the worse for having spoken,” she said. “I pity those who have lost children. Especially the woman who spoke the day before, when court was suspended.”

  She lifted the wooden stirrer out of the pot and tapped the clinging clumps of porridge back into the slurry, then laid the stirrer across the top of the pot. Once her hands were free, she folded them together and muttered a prayer. She crossed herself, then recommenced stirring, her previous rhythm barely broken.

  “And what happened to her in the chapel . . . and yourself . . .”

  I hid my bandaged hand inside my sleeve. “I will be none the worse for wear. And Madame le Barbier is a resilient woman. I am sure she will fully recover from what the crow—”

  She quickly cut me off. “Mother, forgive my impertinence, for I mean no disrespect,” Perrine Rondeau said, “but that was not a crow. It was the demon himself, disguised and sent by Gilles de Rais, to punish her for speaking harsh words against him.”

  How powerful this witchcraft was to all God’s children. “If so, Madame, then we are all surely doomed, for there are few kind words being said of late.”

  She went through another round of tapping, praying, and crossing. “God will take care of us,” she said, lifting the stirrer to accentuate her point. A glob of porridge slipped off and fell back into the pot. “Well, ’tis not royal fare, but it will fill many bellies. Will you eat with us, Mother? There is plenty.”

  “You are too kind, Madame; I have already broken my fast. But if you can spare me the time, I would ask you about something specific, something you mentioned yesterday—the shirt. You said you saw Prelati taking it out of Cahu’s house around the time of Milord’s arrest.”

  She looked down into her porridg
e and frowned. “It was unspeakable to see, unbearable to smell. Stained all along the front with blood and ordure. Why, the odor reached me through the leaves and branches—only my fear of discovery kept me from gagging.”

  She gestured with a nod of her head in the direction of a man asleep on the ground nearby. “The distance was no more than that which is between him and me. Probably less.”

  Two to three paces at most. “So you must have been able to see the shirt very clearly, then.”

  “Oh, quite. Monsieur Prelati had it out at arm’s length, two-handed, to keep it away from himself. It was practically beneath my very nose.”

  “You spoke of a tear in the middle of it . . .”

  “It was not a tear but a straight cut—it had to have been knife-slit,” she said, answering a question I had not yet spoken.

  The morbid fascination of which Jean de Malestroit had spoken was beginning to overtake me and I began to feel very unholy. “If you recall, Madame—where on the shirt was this cut?”

  “From the hem almost to the neck. On either side of the slit, the cloth was soaked with dark blood, so heavily that the edges of the fabric did not ravel. But I did notice that the lower part of the cut was jagged.”

  I saw in my head what she described. I imagined the knife entering the soft flesh of the child’s belly, and I swooned momentarily. I put a hand on Madame Rondeau to steady myself, which brought a look of concern. “It is only a bit of dizziness,” I reassured her. “It will pass.”

  Before it did, several other grisly images had paraded naked before my mind’s eye. I restored myself with a deep breath. “It seems impossible to conclude anything but that the knife slit both the shirt and the child at the same time.”

  “Oui, Mère. Whatever child wore this shirt was slaughtered like a lamb.”

  A jagged but unraveled cut near the hem; I tried to envision it. “Madame,” I said, “in which direction did the bloodstain appear to spread?”

  For the next few moments she stared into the porridge, stirring it rhythmically as her eyes darted back and forth without focus. She rested the spoon on the side of the pot again before she spoke. “There was a great deal of blood collected around the neck hole. So it must have spread upward.” She gave me a troubled look. “But how can that be?”