by Dan Davis
“Yes, yes, but this base self-gratification is against Nature itself. It is wholly avoidable and so it is especially malicious. You see, a man’s soul and his body are provided by God and so both are inherently good, as God is. But of course because of original sin, our bodies are also corrupted to one extent or another, and it is these lower, base parts that drag the goodness of our souls down to Hell. And it is our soul that restrains our base urges and leads us to salvation. And so the act is a sin against Nature and also a sin against the grace of God. There is no act which is so sinful, so against God, than sodomy.”
“Not even murder?”
“Well,” Stephen said, shifting in his seat. “It would be a bad Christian who considers a crime against the soul as lesser than a crime against the body, would it not?”
Exasperated, I sighed. “I do not know, Stephen. It seems to me that you can apply too much reason by far to such things. Of course murder is worse than arse thumping, man. What are you talking about? You have spent too much time at the college of the Sorbonne, that is what I think. You need to get back to the depravity of London, where you belong.” I shook my head in wonder at his holy nonsense.
It was not that I necessarily disagreed with him but one does not need reason to know whether something is right or wrong. We feel the truth of it in our guts and then afterwards apply reason to one degree or another in order to justify our feelings. And for all their clever words and arguments, all moral philosophy is no more than this. Whether they be noble and courageous as Socrates and Nietzsche, or depraved and deluded as Sartre and Marx, their life’s work is simply the elucidation of and justification for feelings that emerged unbidden and uncontrolled from their guts, heart, and balls.
Stephen frowned. “If only you would consider continuing your formal education, Richard. It might serve to help our greater cause if you were able to understand the nuances of—”
I was about to explain the nuances of my fist to his face when the crowd’s hubbub grew suddenly in volume and emotion and I turned to see the Marshal’s servants being led into the iron cage by the witness stand.
The priest Blanchet, the alchemist Prelati, and the two revenants, Poitou and Henriet. Both of these last two looked very ill indeed. Green and pale in complexion, and weak and gaunt. The lack of blood was turning them into beasts. I wondered if they would turn on the mortal priests inside the cage and savage them in full view of everyone, bishops and butchers both.
What a noise the people made. First one man shouted a curse, and then more began jeering and calling down the fury and the hand of God, until the place was in an uproar. The Bishop ordered them to be quiet and had the court bailiffs march into the public galleries and threaten and shove the people down.
“I will have silence or I will have every one of you removed for the duration of the trial!” the Bishop said, in a surprisingly powerful voice that echoed down from the ceiling, as if the Lord Himself had spoken.
The fear of missing the tribunal drove them to control themselves.
I wondered how they would react when the Marshal was brought in.
“Call the accused to appear before us,” the Bishop said to the Clerk of the Court.
“Call Messire Gilles de Rais to appear before the court!” cried out the Clerk.
And the public, rising in a great wave, muttered and cried out and then roared, as the Marshal himself marched in from the side of the hall with four soldiers escorting him. He was dressed in red and black velvet, with red velvet boots and a red silk sash across his body. Though the crowd were baying for his blood, he did not so much as glance their way and instead wore a small smirk on his face as he stopped in front of his ornate chair and turned to the array of bishops, thus showing his back to the audience.
The Clerk was shouting down the public and the bailiffs were shoving the crowd back. The Bishop raised his hand and the thunderous look on his face was enough to remind them of his earlier threat to expel the lot of them and they managed to calm down.
When it was quieter, the Bishop of Nantes nodded to Stephen who got to his feet and cleared his throat. A hush descended and it seemed as though everyone stopped breathing, or perhaps that was me alone.
“Thank you, Milord Bishop. If it pleases the court, I shall now read the charges against the accused and enter them into record. Messire Gilles de Rais is indicted for witchcraft, sodomy, and heresy.” He crossed the hall and handed a sheath of parchment to the Bishop and moved back to his place.
“Messire de Rais,” the Bishop said. “Have you anything to say in response to the grave charges levelled against you in this court?”
The Marshal bowed low before standing upright and thrusting forward his chin. “I have full confidence that I shall unequivocally prove my perfect innocence to the court in no time at all.”
Behind me, the public growled at the preposterousness of his statement and no doubt many were shocked at the brazenness of the lie that he was innocent.
The Bishop sighed, for his life would have been much the easier if the Marshal had crumbled and admitted his guilt but of course that was hardly expected. “No doubt, Messire de Rais, you will therefore require the services of a counsel for your defence of these charges?”
Gilles grinned. “Oh, no, my lord. Why would an innocent man need to rely on a lawyer’s tricks when the simple truth will do perfectly well?” This drew hisses and noises of revulsion. The smirk on his face only grew. It dawned on me that the Marshal knew he was doomed and was simply enjoying tormenting and outraging the public behind him. “You see, my lord, I am a perfect Christian in every regard. A perfect Christian, I say, and nothing will give me greater joy than to prove this to the court.”
The crowd surged forward and someone threw a fist-sized hunk of cheese at the Marshal, which missed, and then from another angle came a walking stick, hurled with considerable force. It clanged off the back of the Marshal’s ornate chair and clattered along the floor.
The public were soon cleared from the court by the bailiffs and though they were mad with anger, they were still rightly afraid of the Bishop, who was only a couple of steps removed from God Himself.
“Because the charges include heresy,” the Bishop said when they were gone, “I must seek assistance from a representative of the Holy Office in determining the truth of this case. Therefore, I will formally request the services of the Inquisition.”
The Chief Inquisitor nodded. “Yes, Milord Bishop. Messire de Rais will be brought before the Inquisition.”
I watched the Marshal as his sardonic grin fell from his face. He swallowed, as if a great stone had appeared at the back of his throat.
“Let it be thus recorded,” intoned the Bishop, “that Messire de Rais will appear before the Inquisitor of Nantes of the Dominican Order. Oh, I should say that the accused has the right to object to this, if you do so wish, my lord?”
The Marshal forced the grin back onto his face. “Object? Why should I object, my lord? As I am entirely innocent of the charges, why, I welcome the questions of the good brothers of the Inquisition.” He swallowed again.
“Very well,” the Bishop said. “Now, you have the opportunity to name your enemies. For we shall summon witnesses to testify and so you may register with the court those who would have cause to do you harm with their words.”
At this, the Marshal faltered. No doubt, he sensed that he was in some sort of legal danger in that moment but he did not have the understanding of the procedure to head it off. If he had but taken counsel, they would have told him to name each and every one of his servants that he could, and also to name every one of his subjects. For then their testimonies would be formally doubted by the court. But Gilles merely grinned and attempted to bluff his way through with the mad assertion that he was innocent.
“But, Milord Bishop, I have no enemies to name.” The Marshal frowned and cleared his throat. “Except, there is one who has betrayed me. A knight in my service, and a friend, who I fear has quite gone mad and f
led from me some days ago. I know not to what ends his actions were taken but I fear he means me no good. His name is Roger de Briqueville.”
I swore under my breath. By so naming the man, the Marshal had ruled out the secret testimony already sworn. The testimony that had spoken of murder, sorcery and demon-summoning, or heresy and sodomy. The testimony that the charges themselves were based on.
The Bishop’s face fell. “Very well. The name shall be entered into the record that the testimony of Roger de Briqueville will be understood to be recusationes divinatrices, and any such testimony will be treated with the gravest suspicion of prejudice. We shall now adjourn this meeting to allow other witnesses to be heard.”
At this, the Marshal turned and looked directly at me with a glint in his eye for a long moment before he was escorted out.
“I suppose this means I will have to find a way into his chamber after all,” I said to Stephen as the bishops filed out. “I should have done so when first we came to Brittany and saved us from all this legal bloody nonsense. What was I thinking?”
“No, no. Do not be overly concerned,” Stephen said. “Now, we let the Inquisition do their work. They shall find the truth by drawing it from the flesh of the monster’s servants.”
14. The Question Extraordinary
October 1440
Being in the presence of the deceitful, child-sacrificing sorcerer turned my stomach. Watching Prelati as he was brought into the chamber for Questioning by the Inquisition, it seemed clearer than ever that I should have sought simply to execute all of them instead of allowing any to live a moment longer than necessary. As well as the monks of the Inquisition, and their clerks, two guards watched proceedings. Stephen and I stood at the rear, behind the prisoner, and observed in silence.
They strapped him, hands and feet stretched out and bound to the rack in the centre of the room. Within his sight was the array of all the other equipment that would be employed, should he prove unwilling to cooperate. His bonds were tightened and the mechanism employed only until it was taut. Prelati was not suffering any pain. Not yet. They would, however, use whatever torsion proved necessary to elicit answers.
The Inquisitors need not have worried, for he was a man willing to say anything if it meant surviving.
“Francois Prelati, cleric, examined and interrogated for deposition,” the Inquisitor said. “He has previously stated that he originally came from the diocese of Lucca in Italy and received his clerical tonsure from the Bishop of Arezzo. He has studied poetry, geomancy, and other sciences and arts, in particular alchemy. He is aged twenty-three or thereabouts, to the best of his belief.” The inquisitor looked down at Prelati. “This is correct?”
“It is,” Prelati said. He appeared composed and radiated openness, as if he was willing to tell all and tell it gladly.
The Inquisitor read from a list of prepared questions in a manner that suggested he was almost entirely uninterested in the answers. “Tell me how you came into the household of the Baron de Rais.”
“I was staying in Florence, about two years ago, with the Bishop of Mondovi when a certain Milord Eustache Blanchet, a priest, came to me, who made my acquaintance through the mediation of a certain master from Montepulciano. Blanchet and I, as well as Nicolas de Medici, saw each other frequently for a time, eating and drinking together, and doing other things. And one day Blanchet asked me if I knew how to practice the art of alchemy and of the invocation of demons. And I said yes.”
“You said yes,” the Inquisitor repeated. “But were your words the truth? Did you know of these things?”
“Oh, yes,” Prelati said, licking his lips. “Most assuredly. I had studied these things both extensively.”
The pen scratched away, taking it all down. “What then?”
“Blanchet asked if I wanted to come to France. He said there lived a great man named Lord de Rais, who much desired to have about him a man learned and skilled in the said arts and that if I went there, I would receive generous accommodations. And so I came, bringing my books on alchemy and invocations. First, we went to the Marshal’s grand house in Orléans but he was not there. When we got to the border of Brittany, there came four men to meet us. Henriet Griart, Poitou, Sillé and Roger de Briqueville.” That last name would be changed in the official record to say simply and another. “They all together brought me back to Tiffauges to meet Milord de Rais.”
“What happened at this meeting?”
“The Baron presented me with a book, bound in black leather. Part paper, part parchment, having letters, titles and rubrics all in red ink.”
“You are certain it was ink?” the Inquisitor looked up. “And not blood?”
“I am certain of nothing. The writing was in the colour of red. This is all I can attest to.”
“Continue.”
“After asking my opinions on various elements of the content, Gilles asked me to try out and test them, particularly the invocations. And I agreed. So one night soon after, in the large lower hall of the castle at Tiffauges, the lord and the others that I have spoken of, took candles and other things along with the black book with red ink. Using the tip of a sword, I drew several circles comprising characters and signs in the manner of the armoires, in the composition and drawing of which I was helped by Sillé, Henriet Griart, and Poitou, as well as Blanchet.”
“The priest Blanchet participated in the invocations?”
“Actively,” Prelati said, his eyes shining. “Until my lord sent them all out so that it was just Gilles and myself in the hall. We placed ourselves in the middle of the circles. I drew more characters on the floor with a burning coal from an earthen pot, upon which coals I poured some magnetic dust, commonly called magnetite, and incense, myrrh, aloes, whence a sweet smoke arose. And we remained in the same place for two hours, variously standing, sitting, and on our knees, in order to worship the demons when they appeared, and to make sacrifices to them, invoking the demons and working hard to conjure them effectively. We took turns reading from the book, waiting for the invoked demon to appear. But nothing appeared that time.”
“This book with the red ink gives instructions on raising demons?”
“Not that alone. But yes. The book says that demons have the power to reveal hidden treasures, teach philosophy, and guide those who act.”
“Tell us,” the Inquisitor said, “by what words do you summon these demons, precisely?”
“One invocation goes thusly.” Prelati’s voice took on a commanding, powerful timbre. “I conjure you, Barron, which is the name of the demon, I summon you, Barron, Satan, Belial, Beelzebub, by the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, by the Virgin Mary and all the saints, to appear here in person to speak with us and do our will.”
At this, everyone present crossed himself and most looked all around the chamber as if expecting a demon to jump out.
I was half hoping that it would. We collectively let out a breath and the questioning continued.
“What other methods did you and the lord of Rais employ in order to summon a demon?”
“Many things. We used a stone named diadochite, and we used a certain variety of crested bird. We did attempt to summon the demon in many places, inside and outside of the castle.”
“Did you use murdered children for these rituals?”
This was the question I had been waiting for. Would he confess to the crimes that he had committed and so condemn his master with his words? Or would he attempt to deny it and so face the Question Extraordinary.
Prelati swallowed and cleared his throat a number of times. The Inquisitor waited patiently. “The servant named Poitou told me that the room given to me in the tower for the invocations and for my alchemical work was the same room in which our master Lord de Rais had killed young boys, or caused them to be killed. And also that Gilles had slaughtered boys in my personal chamber before it was given to me, and he killed boys in all the places where I worked.”
“Why did he do this?”
“Poitou tol
d me that the children’s blood and members were offered to demons.”
“You claim you did not take part in these crimes yourself, and were not witness to any of them?”
“That is correct.”
I scoffed, loudly. “Ha!”
The Inquisitor and everyone else turned to me.
“Say nothing,” Stephen whispered. “Or you endanger the evidence.”
I cared little for proper legal procedure but as I was in attendance only by courtesy, and as I wanted to hear it all spoken, I held my tongue. I even bowed my head to the Inquisitor for a moment.
He returned to the questioning. “You heard only rumours of murders done in places of your work, before and after your work was done, while you were elsewhere?”
“That is correct.”
It was absurd. I had witnessed his murderous crimes myself. Only through my intervention had a boy’s life been saved. Prelati was not only aware, had not only witnessed, but had been a willing participant in child murder for the purposes of raising demons.
“In fact,” the Inquisitor said. “The other accused have given sworn initial statements that claim you were witness to the victims of murder, at the very least. They claim that you saw physical remains with your own eyes. Now, we will of course put you to the Question to discover the truth. Unless you would care to correct your statement first?”
Prelati glanced at the mechanism of the rack and winced. “Yes. Yes. Once, I entered Sillé’s chambers and he had the body of a very small child laid out on his floor. It had been opened down the front.”
“What of the Lord de Rais?”
“Yes. Once, he brought to me the hand, heart, eyes, and blood of a young boy, all kept in a glass. And he gave this glass to me so that I could offer the remains to the demon when he was summoned.”
“And who murdered that child?”
“I do not know. I did not ask and was not told. I assumed the Baron had caused it by his own hand or had caused one of his men to do so.”
