Father of Lies: 2

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2. Gaufridi – the confession of the priest

She bound me to her with her hair. Wrapping it round me, black and lustrous-strong.  And, my God, how I was content to be bound. 

The lessons in the convent with Madeleine came to define each day for me.  She knew so many things, but she knew so little.  We would sit as close as propriety would allow, but the necessity of sharing the texts we studied meant the air I breathed was brazenly intimate because she breathed it too.

I was summoned to teach her by the Mother Superior of the convent and it was agreed by Madeleine’s family that my steady, calm ways could tame her, this wildcat.  My untutored girl.  I was twenty years older than her and I wondered, even at the beginning how ancient I must have seemed to her.

After I left her each day to walk back through the woods, her face was on my mind. I would walk on the dried clay paths of summer and close my eyes while I moved, so the blue lavender sunshine would not compete with the image I had of her sealed on the inside of my lids.

When I discovered what she accused me of, it was a watery day, full of mist and squalls.  An emissary from the convent came to visit me early in the morning and I laughed at what he said.  I put on my most sincere of expressions and said, “If I were a witch, I would certainly give my soul to a thousand devils!”  But he was a humourless man and read no nuance or archness in my assertion.

As he took notes, I remember I stood up, looking out at the rain and watching a lizard darting for cover under the leaves of a mimosa bush.  I was thinking of Madeleine, words repeating in my head like a song to teach recalcitrant children. You silly, little girl.  You silly, little girl.

Michaelis, the inquisitor had no time for me.  He was a politician and a practical man and the deep truth of something mattered little to him.  When I was jailed and awaiting trial, he looked for my devil’s marks briskly.  He found (as of course he would) what he was looking for.  Three marks – one under my armpit, the next on the inside of my left thigh and the third on the heel of my left foot.

In the end, I confessed to what they accused me of. Why?  Because I was tired, because my innocence was not believed.  Because I am a weak man and a priest without faith. 

I said I had made a pact with the devil and signed the paperwork in my own blood. I told of the sabbats and of dancing with Madeleine in the hot, red light of a midsummer morning.  It became a game almost as I told stories of fucking goats and eating roast babies. As my stories became wilder, the inquisitor simply sat in his chair, taking notes and nodding occasionally. 

One night, I shrieked and howled for hours at a time and still he took notes and I wondered, with a feeling almost of awe, what he could possibly be writing.

Rectitude is a certain and dull disposition, and when the trial was over and my punishment was decided, Michaelis, the inquisitor ensured he told me of it in meticulous particular.  I was to be burnt with a fire made of bushes, not faggots, as it was slower that way.  I would face the drop and pull up of the strappado, then the weights of squassation.  I would be dragged through the streets on a wooden sled and be beaten by whoever felt like beating me.  Because of the good work I had done for the church, they would at least do me the favour of strangling me before I was burnt – if the Bishop of Marseille allowed it.

So before my sleigh ride begins, I will confess while I can.  But my disclosure is not the falsehoods of witchcraft, the forced claims of devilment.  My confession is more simple.  It is love.

I blush to think of her physical form and though it enticed me, it was not that I loved.  Rather, it was who Madeleine was at her core.  Her natural rebellion, her curiosity to learn and even now, as I am tied to the sled, I can forgive her lies.

After I gave in to the thing I never should have done, I did not want her to look at me again.  How could we speak of angelica and burdock and mayweed when I had been inside her? Shame engenders misanthropy and I could not see her again.

The sled begins to move and I can hear the baying of the people.  We stop by the church at the top of the hill and for a moment, I think I see her in the crowd, her eyes gleaming flatly like a cat’s at dusk. In the distance, I know the lavender fields are flowering with their purple sunlight and I hope above all, she can forgive me.

*

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