The Book of Shadows (17 page)

More witnesses, one after another.

Old Madame Épouse, widow of the cooper, attributed her infestation with lice “big as your fist” to Father Louis, whom she'd never met. A young wife brought her dim-witted husband before the court, complaining that he had been “unhusbandly” since their wedding night. Father Louis was accused of ligature, and was ordered to tell the court where he'd hidden the leather strip that he'd tied into knots to thus afflict the oaf. Louis, stupefied, could not speak. And so his Second rose to say that he'd seen such a knotted cord in the sacristy. (The next day it was introduced as evidence; at day's end it was untied and returned to the boot of the priest's younger brother.) The wife, hell-bent on satisfaction, led her mate from the courtroom by the ear, much to the amusement of all assembled—

“He'd best come up with another excuse…”

“He'd best
come up
with something!”

“And quickly too, as that bitch of his looks ready to ride!” Et cetera.

There were days and days of such testimony, till it seemed that every petty grievance of Q——had been aired in open court.

The Prosecutor had, upon his daughter's “return” to Q——, thrown himself even deeper into the trial. He neither saw nor mentioned Madeleine. He'd consigned her to the care of the Canon, the Apothecary, and the Surgeon. But it was he who finally decided on the cabal's course of action: they would hurry both girls to trial.

“W
HO
HAS
done this to you?”

Sabine and Madeleine sat side by side on a bench in the witness box. The question was posed by Father Tranquille, the ancient exorcist sent by the bishop, and each girl answered in turn, in Latin as was the custom, and pointed at the accused.

“Dic qualitatem,”
commanded the Exorcist.
Tell his rank.

“Sacerdos.” Priest.

“Cujus ecclesiae?” Of what church?

The Church of St. Pierre, they said.

These were the first questions asked of Sabine and Madeleine at the trial of Father Louis. Sabine responded well, and the cabal was relieved. As for Madeleine, when first she'd been ushered into court to see her Louis, her lover…
Mon Dieu,
what they'd done to her beloved Louis.

As a matter of law, Father Louis had been searched for signs of dark commerce; for all fiends, it is said, betray the touch of their Prince. The Dark Touch leaves either a visible mark, or invisible spots on the flesh that are impervious to pain.

The Prosecutor and Mannoury, the Surgeon, went to the prisoner's attic cell one afternoon early in the trial. The curé was stripped and restrained by three convicts freed for this mission by the Prosecutor. His rich black curls were shorn, and it was with little care that the curled hairs on his sex and scrotum were scissored away. The Surgeon passed a razor carelessly over the curé's soaped skin, and in no time the priest was hairless and bleeding.

“The eyebrows as well,” directed the Prosecutor, and the Surgeon complied. Both men, in shirtsleeves, stood over the accused as he, naked, struggled vainly against the three men who held him—a murderer and two cattle thieves.

Father Louis was bound to a large board held by the convicts. The ropes that restrained him must have come from Marseilles: they were thick and rough, stained with seawater and oil, and looked as though they'd been gnawed by rats; the ropes tore the priest's flesh each time he moved, so he kept as still as possible, praying, feeling his blood pulse, feeling the sting of his sweat as it slid between the fresh red lips of the razor cuts.

As no Devil's Mark was found, it stood to reason that the priest had been favored with spots insensible to pain, fleshy portals for the passage of his demons. The Canon had asked Sabine where they should search for the priest's devil-spots. The curé bore one such spot on his shoulder, said she; prodded by the Canon, she added that there were two spots on his buttocks, very near the fundament, and yes, one on either testicle.

“This may take some time,” said the Surgeon.

“Good,” replied the Prosecutor, taking to a three-legged milking stool in the attic's corner. He rolled his sleeves higher and cooled himself with a fan sewn of sea grape leaves.

The Surgeon spread his tools on a low bench. A worn leather kit contained all the needles he'd need. On the dark wood of the bench, each silver needle shone in its place; they glinted in the sunlight shafting into the attic through the same openings in the warped boards used by the bats, rats, and swarming insects that plagued the curé night and day. “Yes, this may take some time,” mused the Surgeon, arranging the needles—short and thick to his left, longer ones to his right. Some were as short as his thumb, others were as long as his arm from elbow to wrist.

The Prosecutor sent one of the cattle thieves down to a tavern off the square for two tankards of ale. “And if you so much as sip from the bucket,” cautioned the Prosecutor, “I will see you swing.”

In the still, stifling air of the attic, stinking of waste, hay, and sweat, the Surgeon began.

The shortest and sharpest needles were used on the scalp, the back of the hands, the top of the feet, and around the joints of the arms and legs. Mid-length needles were used on the chest, the upper- and forearms, and the back. The fleshier parts of the priest—the legs, buttocks, et cetera—called for the longest needles. The very longest pierced the tough muscle of the priest's left leg; the Surgeon, with some difficulty, shoved it through.

It was not until the fourth needle that Louis screamed: of medium length and width, the Surgeon shoved it up into the arch of his left foot. Pain shot like a spark up his spine, seemed to set the back of his neck ablaze. Yes, only then did the first scream tear itself from his throat, despite his prayers and all his summoned will. As the shortest needles were slipped sideways into his scalp—
blinding pain!
—Louis let loose scream after scream till finally the littered square was loud with applause.

On and on it went. Twice the cattle thief descended for more ale; he also briefed the crowd in exchange for coin. He returned to the attic the final time bearing a tray of cheeses sent up courtesy of Monsieur Colombel, owner of the aforementioned tavern.

The Surgeon worked himself to near exhaustion. The criminals lazed in the shadows, for Father Louis no longer struggled. And the Prosecutor came to the side of the accused, directing the Surgeon. Here. There. Deeper.

Each time Father Louis fainted he was subjected to salts, or had slaps dealt him by the Prosecutor. He couldn't speak. Couldn't think. There was only pain; and the blood that seeped from a hundred holes in his flesh.

Finally the Surgeon stopped. Those in the square who'd bet that the session would last one and one-quarter hours gathered in their winnings. The Surgeon was drenched with sweat, too tired to continue. He passed the salts under his own nose, once, quickly.

The Surgeon reported to the court that he'd only found two insensible spots, and they'd been two of the five described by Sabine Capeau—on the left testicle and lower right buttock, the rim of the anus. He had tried ninety-one spots in all, from scalp to sole, and all but these two had brought pain. (The priest was, of course, unconscious when the two spots in question were tried.) “Such a clever devil,” opined the Prosecutor in open court. “Able to hide his spots so well.”

Upon quitting the attic, the Prosecutor and Surgeon were hailed in the square. Moments earlier, the Prosecutor had handed a small bag of sea salt to the murderer—along with a fistful of coin—directing the man to work the coarse salt into the priest's wounds. He said too that he'd send up some ale for the three men.

The Prosecutor waited half an hour before sending seven jailers into the attic with shackles and orders to seize the criminals and recover his coin. He'd never intended to set the men free, as agreed. He'd only needed their services for a short while; now he signed warrants for their execution. He prided himself on the plan: he could clear Q——of three renowned criminals, do away with three witnesses to the surgeon's work, and slake the crowd's bloodthirst all at once. Brilliant.

And so by sunset, the three men swung above the city gates. That night they were the talk of every tavern; for days after they were the sport of birds.

Three days after the search for the Devil's Mark—it was the thirteenth of September, though Father Louis had grown uncertain of the date—two men came to the attic at dawn to ready the curé for trial.

Father Louis was fevered. He still bled from a puncture in his side: the Surgeon had pierced an organ. Infections sprouted and began to spread. Other wounds had begun to heal. The salt, despite the sizzling pain it had caused, stanched the bleeding.

Dressed in a long soiled nightshirt and worn slippers, the curé was led down from the attic. He was placed in a trundle cart, thrown over with a tarp to keep him from the mob, and led through the crowded square to the courthouse.

Only the rich or otherwise favored had been able to secure a seat in court. The first benches were filled with officials of the Church and state, men of rank, various nobles, and well-connected cardinalists. Silks rustled in the gallery. There was a rich glow of velvet. The ladies wore summery pastels of every shade. In the heat, beads of sweat vied with gems for position on every bosom. Fans of bamboo and lace were in constant motion. The air was thick with civet and ambergris, as well as the very human odors those scents could not conceal. The finest families had their servants in tow.

The magistrates had been the first to file into court, sitting shoulder to shoulder in two tiers near the witness stand, their full red robes spreading one into another like seeping blood. Next came the exorcist: Father Tranquille, nearly three times the age of the accused, thickly spectacled and nearly deaf, dressed in black robes of worsted wool, took up his consecrated whisk and scattered holy water over the court and the crowd. There followed the Prosecutor and the Canon, and (for no official reason) Messieurs Adam and Mannoury. Various and sundry officials came quite socially into court, taking their seats with great show. Finally, Father Louis was escorted to the high and backless stool by two clerks of the court.

The curé, a skullcap on his shaven, scabbed head, was made to kneel before the magistrates as the exorcist sprinkled the stool. With his hands tied, Father Louis could not bare his head as directed. At a sign from the Prosecutor, a clerk snatched the skullcap off. Some in the gallery giggled, others sneered or fell silent at the sight of the abused priest on his knees. A few women betrayed themselves with tears. Ushers in the gallery called for silence.

Charges were read. Prayers said.

It was on the fifth day of the second week of the trial that the Prosecutor presented the possessed: Sabine Capeau and Madeleine de la Mettrie. It was shortly thereafter that the exorcist's voice rang out, rhythmic and brittle, clogged with the cadence of the Church: “Who has done this to you?” And the girls began to testify. One desperate with hate, the other with love.

Madeleine, overwhelmed with grief, futility, anger, and remorse, and still plotting to save her Louis, found herself party to his certain condemnation. No one would listen to her, not to her
truths
—they wanted only to hear the lies she continued to tell in court, biding her time, waiting for a way to open before her.

But that never happened.

With the exorcist at the ready, the Prosecutor and Canon Mignon began to offer proof that Sabine and Madeleine were riddled with demons, each and every one introduced to them by the accused, the Curé of St. Pierre. The bishop sent word that he awaited proof of possession, and that the inquisitors were to apply, in open court, tests in the four areas long ago set forth by the Church: tests of language—or the ability of the possessed to speak and understand tongues unknown to them; tests of preternatural strength; tests of levitation; and tests of clairvoyance, or prevision.

Levitation would be difficult. So it was determined during the cabal's daily meeting in the apothecary to begin with the easiest proofs: those of language. As for levitation and the rest? Well, all in due time.

And so the Canon set to work, as best he could, teaching Greek to Sabine and Hebrew to Madeleine. He read aloud from ancient texts, the words rattling off his rusted tongue. He understood little of the Greek he recited, none of the Hebrew. The Canon had the girls read aloud, hours each day; they approximated what appeared on the page or they simply parroted the Canon. Birch rod in hand, he ensured that the two languages did not sound alike, for that was all that mattered.

Sabine was tested first, with Madeleine directed to follow her lead. The cabal did not expect a show from Madeleine; obedience was all they asked for,
demanded;
and obedience they received, for it was during these sessions that the Canon said, “Perhaps, Madeleine, you will be let to keep that child of yours, if our end is achieved.” As for the crazed Capeau girl, well who knew what she might do?

A table had been brought into the court and on it was spread an odd collection of objects from the church, the market, and Monsieur Adam's shop. A small iron crucifix, identical bottles—one filled with oil, the other holy water; an ear of corn; spices; a sow's ear; metal bracelets; several hard cheeses, et cetera. Speaking in Greek, the Canon told Sabine to approach the table, say an Ave Maria, and pick up the star anise. They'd rehearsed this; nevertheless, Sabine chose a pin and a clod of dirt, and did not even essay the prayer.

Madeleine, truly deviled by thoughts of Louis and her child, did as she was told. In Hebrew, or a perversion thereof.

It was the Canon who excused Sabine's error by stating, simply, that the girl was host to uneducated devils. Devils who had not traveled, and thus had never heard the tongue of Greece. Of course they'd misunderstood the Canon's command. The magistrates nodded solemnly at the Canon's logic, though giggles rose like breaking bubbles from the gallery.

That very night, Mannoury and Adam came to the girls' room. Madeleine woke to rattling chains and whispers. She feigned sleep, hoping that the men had not come for her. She listened with horror as the Surgeon held Sabine down and Monsieur Adam daubed her lips with sulfur. Maybe now, said he, she would speak as instructed.

Sabine said not a word through burning lips that night, shed not a tear. As soon as the men had left, she got out of bed, walked to her bureau, smashed a bottle of perfume on the floor and knelt cross-vigil on the shards of glass. She was like that still when Madeleine woke, four hours later.

Madeleine worried that she too might lose her mind. Her only hope was escape. But how? Every door was locked behind her. Her Keeper and Sabine's nurse were ever near. Even if she were to somehow open the bedroom window, it was a three-story fall to the courtyard below, too far to jump certainly, and too far for a rope tied of the two girls' bedclothes. And if she freed herself, how would she free Louis? No. She'd have to wait. Testify, and somehow effect her plan.

When Sabine was seen in court with deep orange sores on her lips and chin, she testified that such sores had recurred since first she'd given the Devil his Kiss. The gray and blood-black bruises blossoming on her hands and forearms she attributed to the Devil's grasp. This said, she redoubled her efforts to please: