by Ann Benson
He cut short my stream of logic. “It was not a natural rift, Mère.”
“Then tell me why.” My heart was beating faster, too fast. “And then tell me why you have not found a way to speak of it before, so I might have been better advised.”
“It would not have served you to know of these things. Before now.”
“But now they will serve me?”
“There is a need now for you to know these things. I know you have loved Milord well, though he has ruined that affection of his own accord. Still it grieves me to say these things. He was not the innocent child you recall him to be. I know you think he was at best an average pupil despite the excellence of his tutors, who benefited Michel and me far more than they did Milord Gilles. That was a matter of self-application; he chose to apply himself otherwise. There was a keenness in him to learn that perhaps you never saw, because he devoted himself to things that he would not allow anyone but a very few close acquaintances to see, myself and Michel among them, his cousins de Sille and de Briqueville as well. I never cared for either of those scoundrels, but I had little choice about associating with them; they were his kin, and he included them among those he allowed to see his secret side. He knew that none of us would speak of what we knew. Michel and I would remain silent because we were not his equals in birth, and he had great influence with you, our beloved mother; there is no greater power than that. De Sille and de Briqueville remained silent because they were jealous of him and afraid of what he could do to their standing in the family, particularly with Jean de Craon, who was so fixed on seeing his grandson Gilles advanced that he barely gave notice to his other grandchildren. And in truth, over time I think they began to enjoy the activities that took place.”
I started to raise a hand to make him stop. But I withdrew it. Already it was too late; I had heard just enough that my own imagination might try to fill in the rest, and there was no denying that the truth would serve me better.
So I sat quietly as Jean spoke. His expression was pained, and I wondered how a cogent man could suffer so in revealing an event from his time of innocence.
Too soon, I understood.
“He was . . . quick about many things that I and Michel were slower to comprehend. In particular regarding physical matters. There were many times, Mère, when he would pull his . . . his . . . male member out from behind his codpiece and show it to us. He would make it stand first and then ask us to admire it.”
I tried very hard not to show too much emotion. “At what age did he do this?”
“Ten, perhaps eleven; it began not long before Milord Guy was gored by the boar. Then he began to engage in acts of self-satisfaction before us. He would apply grease to his hand—I remember once he made me steal a pot of some crème from your bedchamber—”
This revelation stunned me. It was a favorite possession of mine, not that the crème meant much to me; such luxuries had not the import to me that they had to fine ladies, whose complexions were always under scrutiny. But the pot itself was ivory with a rim of gold, wonderfully carved, and I doted on it because it had been a gift from my husband. Who has taken my pot de crème? I can hear myself saying it now, though not with the anger that I perhaps ought to have had. I assumed that one of my sons or my husband had been intent on playing a small joke on me. Come forward now, and it will go easier on you. Somehow, the pot magically reappeared, and our little drama came to an end. I never imagined at the time that it had been stolen for that terrible purpose. It rested now in the wood cupboard beside my bed, almost within reach.
“—and used it all up in doing these things to himself. De Sille and de Briqueville did likewise. Michel and I tried to excuse ourselves, but he would not let us leave. He would never let us leave.”
“This happened more than once?”
“A thousand times. But I could not speak of it; I was afraid of what Milord might do to me, afraid that you would be disappointed in me.”
“Your father could have—”
His words were swift and bitter. “I threatened Milord with such an exposure. Milord simply told me that he would make sure that Père lost his position in Milord Guy’s retinue if I did so.”
That a child of twelve should have to bear such a burden in silence was horrifying to me. That this child was my own son was beyond understanding. I regarded him with the sympathetic eyes of a mother, yet still, his expression was all guilt and regret, his words forced out painfully.
“I could not risk having my family put out in such hard times. So I remained silent. Michel did as well.”
He paused. Droplets of sweat had formed on his forehead. “Then Milord began to ask me to touch his member with my hands.”
I gasped and crossed myself.
“De Sille and de Briqueville were already doing so, but there came a time when Milord no longer found their attentions adequate—he seemed to tire of them rather quickly. At first I resisted, but eventually I was forced to do as he asked. In time, he asked more of me.”
I clutched my sides and moaned, “Oh, most unholy wickedness, what grief—”
“I only did what I had to do, but I swear, I did not do it willingly. Such things as he asked of me and I did for him are against nature, against all that is decent and good. . . .”
He was trembling and his face was distorted in the agony of his remembrances. I could see in his eyes that there was more to say, but the weight of what he had already poured out was such that he had lost his will to complete it. He simply said, “And thereafter I found reasons to avoid his presence whenever I could.”
The image of my son Jean as a boy of twelve appeared in my mind. A change had come over him then. There was a time when he seemed to darken before our very eyes, but when I expressed my concern over it, Etienne assured me that it was only the normal course of events for a boy of his age, that he should become moody and want to avoid us. I did so myself, as I recall. My own mother was none too pleased.
But he avoids his playmates, I said to my husband. Do not be concerned, he told me, and mon Dieu, Guillemette, do not try to keep him attached to your apron strings. He must grow into a man sometime.
Had a switch been handy, I would have used it upon myself in that moment, so shamed was I by my ancient failing. I was supposed to be my son’s protector, and I had failed to protect him from the theft of his innocence.
And then I would have turned that switch on Gilles de Rais, Jean de Craon be damned.
Weariness, shock, and horror ruled me, all deepened by loathing for myself, who had allowed all this to happen. But as the meaning of what my son told me began to take hold in my mind as it had in my heart, a different emotion surfaced; my loathing began to shift to a more fitting target. I was enraged beyond anything I had ever felt in my life, and most of that anger was directed precisely where it ought to have been, toward Gilles de Rais.
I did not bother to don the blue dress that Madame le Barbier had loaned me; there was no longer any need to show myself as someone more approachable than the abbess I had become and doubtless would forever be. I climbed the stairs to the room in which Gilles de Rais now waited for the death that was surely his fate, no longer caring if he was frightened and alone in his last days, wishing only that he would feel those things very keenly in what time remained to him.
It was not enough that he had told his judges of the evils he had done as a man. I would have from him the details of the things he had done as a child. Not since I set out to “market” that morning when I visited Madame le Barbier for the first time had I felt such calm in my heart, such fortitude in my steps, such certainty about what ought to happen. Now was a time for confessions, a time for unburdening the soul. Gilles de Rais had done so more under the threat of torture than of his own free will, as had been recorded in the transcript; the world would never know the true depth of his cowardice. Jean had given his deepest secrets to me in an act of great filial love, similar to the love that had compelled him to protect his father’s position at his
own expense while still a child of tender years. He understood that it would not serve me to meet my Creator, when the time came, with such a cloud of deception hovering over me.
I was dimly aware of the guards’ acknowledgment; I was not a threat to their captive, as far as they knew. The gatekeeper had no reason to suspect that I bore hidden weapons, as he might have of a different visitor. He simply pounded his spear on the tile floor three times and then left.
Gilles de Rais came out of the inner room of his suite immediately on hearing this summons.
I forced myself, through sheer power of will, to maintain a normal visage. “Milord,” I said.
“Ah, Mère,” he said. “Your voice is like God’s very own grace. I cherish each sound now as if it would be the last one to touch my ears.”
“This is wise.”
“Yours was the first I heard; I would not complain if it were to be my last.”
He would have that wish. It was all I could do to keep from pulling the pearl-handled dagger from my sleeve and killing him right then. But the knowledge I sought would die with him, and my chance of finding some small measure of peace would be lost forever.
“My lord,” I began, “I have read your confession. It gladdens my heart that you have given up these burdens.”
“It was not an easy task to do so,” he said. “To look these men in the face and speak of what I have done, why, it nearly tore my heart out.”
My heart was hard; I felt no sympathy at all. “You spoke of commencing your deeds around the time of your grandfather’s death. It surprised me, Milord, to read this.”
“I am sorry that you should have to know these things, Mère Guillemette.”
“Indeed, it is difficult for me. I cannot help but think that my influence upon you might have been stronger to the good than it seems to have been.”
“I was but a young man, and willful. You must not blame yourself—”
“Throughout this trial I have looked to my own failings as the cause for your misguided behavior. But I have ceased all such self-incriminations.” I reached into my sleeve and pulled out the pot.
He looked down at the accusing item in my hand, and his face transformed from that of the lying child to the thief whose hand was yanked out of the drawer. His discomfort was sublime to me. But it was not enough.
“I will now give you the opportunity to unburden yourself further,” I said, quite serenely.
His eyes went to the pot, then rose back up to meet my own. His expression hardened. “There is nothing further to tell,” he said.
“Liar,” I hissed. There was the devil himself in my voice, and Gilles de Rais heard it. “Tell me all now, or I shall make it go very badly for you.”
He stiffened in defiance, in spite of my threatening manner. There would be no shaking this warrior off his high horse. “By what authority?” he sneered. “Only my judges can shape my fate now.”
“You would not have judges at all were it not for me.”
He stared blankly.
“It may surprise you, my son, to learn that it was I who began this whole query. Of course, I did not know where it would lead. But your judges owe me a great debt, for without my curiosity, they would not have had the opportunity to put you through this hell. I was the one who went to see Madame le Barbier when she complained of her loss, and I went to Bourgneuf . . .”
He remained speechless while I ranted on. I could not suppress a smile of triumph when I finished. I was under no obligation to tell him that only Jean de Malestroit knew of my involvement and that he would not change one hair of a decision for my sake. Let him imagine that I held some power over his fate.
His eyes darted about as if he thought he might somehow flee my presence. But there was no place to hide; guards were only a few feet away, and he would be contained no matter what he did.
I held the pot out closer to him, and when he looked away I brought it up to his face until it was directly under his nose.
“Speak,” I commanded him. “Tell me exactly what happened with Michel. Leave nothing out.”
The stiffness went out of him.
“You know, Mère, how I loved Michel. I adored the ground he walked on; he was everything I wanted to be myself. His fair coloring, his beautiful smile, and those sparkling eyes of his—he was a living angel! How could I help but want him?
“But he was good and pure, and he resisted my advances with great vigor. With Jean, it was easier; he gave me what I wanted in part, though I would have had him more completely if he had not resisted. But Michel, sweet Michel, he was the one I wanted to be and to possess, and he would not give himself to me no matter how I threatened him. I told him the same thing as I told Jean, that I would see his father ruined if he did not acquiesce. He would not give in; he told me that his father would accept ruination before allowing his son to be sodomized, and that I should do as I wished, for he would not be a party to my desires under any circumstances.
“I hated him and loved him at the same time; I detested his stubbornness and admired his strength of character, and I envied him a father who would love him thus, as mine did not seem to do. I became more determined to have him with each new bit of resistance.
“I took Michel out of this world, Madame, because he would not be mine in it. It is my sincerest hope that I will meet him in the next world, if God will only permit it. I know that he will have wings and a crown of light, as is his due. By then I had stopped pressing him for favors; he was not afraid of me and there was little hope of achieving my desires with his cooperation. There was a delicate balance between us, one that made it possible for us to remain companions, at least on the surface of things. If I were to have him as I wanted him, it would have to be by force or not at all. I decided that it would be by force, for I could not contain myself. One day I told him that I wanted to hunt with him. At first Michel did not want to go; he had lessons to do before our tutor came, he said. But that excuse was specious, for our tutor had gone to his own home in the wake of my father’s death. He made me promise that I would leave him alone, that I would not press him to let me touch him, and I gave my word. He seemed satisfied. We went out that morning with knives and slingshots to bring home a turkey. We were never allowed out without escorts because of the danger of the boar. My usual keepers were occupied in other matters at the moment, and so I was able to escape without them, and Michel with me. The sense of freedom was so very thrilling to me, for rarely could I go anywhere or do anything without someone standing nearby, either to correct me or take care of my needs. Not so much at the behest of my mother and father, or you, sweet nurse, but because my grandfather wished it to be so.”
He reached out and stroked my cheek, with the cold fingertips of a demon. I did not move.
“We traveled out as far as the grove of oaks; the stream was high and running fast, for there had been a good deal of rain. The ground was wet still, but our travel was not hindered by it. We were alone, as we rarely were, and though I had given my word that I would not approach him, I could not seem to help myself. In truth, Madame, I did not want to help myself. God save me, I wanted to do to your son the same things that had been done to me, for I had begun to savor them as pleasure.”
“But . . . who?”
“Why, Madame, did you not know? Grandpère, naturellement. In any case, Michel walked before me, thrashing the brush for birds, and I watched him from behind. By the time we reached the oaks, I was so enraptured by his movements, the suppleness of his limbs, the graceful swing of his arms, that I came up behind him and grabbed hold of him. Oh, he was strong for one so slim and compact; he struggled mightily against my grip and tried to run away from me. I feared that if he got free of me and returned to Champtocé, he would speak of this occurrence and there would be grave consequences. I could not afford to have Grandpère know what I had been up to. I could not imagine how he would react.
“So I stilled Michel; I had no choice. I closed my hands around his throat, not long enough
to kill him, but certainly long enough to subdue him. I had not planned well; there was nothing with which I could secure him while I had my fill of him. But I remembered the loops of intestines that I had seen protruding from my father’s belly when they brought him in, and I knew that Michel would not go far were he secured by his own innards, and so I took out my knife and, while he was still struggling to regain his breath, I slit him up the belly, right through the shirt, so the blood would not spurt all over me. I carefully pulled out a handful of his guts. I needed only a meter or so to secure him to a nearby stump, but more than that came; I could not waste time trying to push them back in again. I turned him over onto his stomach—he tried to raise himself up a bit, I assume to keep his innards off the ground, but it served only to stir me more.
“It did not take long; I was young and excited. I expected that he would scream, but he did not give me the satisfaction. I am not sure just how conscious he was while I was thrusting myself into him, but when I was done and I turned him back over again, his eyes were open, and so full of hate that it broke my heart. He despised me, Madame, and I could not bear it—I loved him so well, and I only wanted him to love me in return.
“But he would not smile; I pushed the corners of his mouth up, but as soon as I took my fingers away, he would grimace at me again. He did not die right then, as I thought he might, though I should have known better in view of what had happened with my father. I tried again to push his intestines back inside him; the blood was warm and wet, and I wanted to smear it all over myself, to wear the essence of him. But I would be found out; it would be trouble enough to remove the blood from my hands alone.
“An hour passed, and still he did not die. I talked quietly to him, but he said little in reply, only that I should tell his mother and father and brother that he loved them well and would wait for them in heaven. And many times he whispered to me that he would see me in hell.
