Thief of Souls

Chapter One The dear little cottages that were the gatekeepers to Nantes were receding rapidly as I slipped into the tunnel of trees--the worst part of the journey to Machecoul. Out of the light, and into the darkness. One cannot help but feel very small among these barked giants, whose gnarly underbranches could reach out at any moment like the devil's fingers to draw me into the dark rictus of some knothole, where I would melt in the eternal agony of my own sins. As always, I pray, for there is little else to do. Dear God, do not let them take my thumbs, for without my thumbs I shall not be able to grasp the needle, and a life without embroidery is unthinkable. With each step, I shove my hands deeper into the folds of my pocketed sleeves. My precious fingers disappear completely, safe again. They find the letter. My fingertips discern small wear spots along the folds in the parchment, despite the relative recency of its arrival here from Avignon. It came among other important papers sent from his Holiness to my own maitre, Jean de Malestroit, who as Bishop of Nantes is privy to so many of God's deepest secrets. Though I am his closest companion, I cannot begin to understand the weighty matters that his Eminence is bidden to consider by His Holiness, nor in truth do I wish to. I am driven by some desperate maternal urge to bypass the cares of the world in favor of the precious thoughts of my firstborn. The date, written in my son's sweet strong hand in one corner, was March 10, 1440, seven days previous. I skip his long-winded blessing--he is a priest, after all--and recite the rest in my head as I walk. There is most excellent news, abrupt and unexpected. I am now fully a scribe to his Grace; no longer must I work under another brother, but instead answer directly to the Cardinal himself. Increasingly I am called to his chambers to record important business. He seems through some miracle to have taken me under his wing, though I fail to understand why he finds me fit for such an honor. It gives me hope that I will be anointed with official advancement sooner rather than later. . . . How wonderful, how precious, how . . . how abysmally insufficient; I would rather have had the man himself by my side. But his Eminence Jean de Malestroit abhors complaint, so I shall not indulge therein, may God forbid that he should abhor me for that weakness. I continue my recitation, which is perhaps not appreciated by the squirrels and foxes, who are my only listeners. It gives my steps a reassuring firmness, however false it might be. I think of you every day and rejoice in knowing that you will be here in Avignon in not too many months, to see firsthand how rich my life has become. I am forever grateful to Milord Gilles for his influence in securing this position for me when I was but a young brother with limited prospects. . . . My own gratitude is tinged with bitterness. Lord Gilles de Rais's beneficence was such that I, once his own nurse, must remain here in Brittany, and my son, practically his own brother, is many days' ride away in Avignon. It seems almost as if he had some purpose in separating us. But how could that be? You must report more of the goings-on in Nantes in your next letter, Maman; we have had a pilgrim here recently who spoke of events in the north, of this nobleman's tribulations and that lord's triumphs and that lady's romance; we are eager to have these bits of news. But I find myself especially intrigued to know the meaning of a ditty he recited--the entirety of the lyrics escapes me, but in part it was, "Sur ce, l'on lui avait dit, en se merveillant, qu 'on y mangeout les petits enfants." . . . as for that, someone had told him, marveling, that they eat small children there . . . I did not know what it meant, nor, inBenson, Ann is the author of 'Thief of Souls' with ISBN 9780385335027 and ISBN 0385335024.