The Abbot loaded Dominique’s cold, lifeless form into the bed of the wagon and made his way the short distance back up to the churchyard. The tiny baby boy nestled on his lap for the journey, warm under the Abbot’s cloak, the heat of his own body keeping the infant safe from the cold.
Dafne met the Abbot at the entrance to the sheltered area where the wagon was normally housed. “What happened?” Dafne demanded, “Is Dominique…dead?” The sight of the woman who had once been a friend seemed to visibly shake Dafne. “I never intended for her to die!” she wailed, feeling a twinge of regret. “Oh, good Lord, what about the baby?” She remembered him suddenly and panicked when she realized he may very well have died along with his mother.
“I have him here—and what precisely, my dear, did you think would happen to her once the Inquisitor got involved? Surely you have heard the stories of witch trials? Don’t be a fool, Dafne.” The Abbot lost patience with her. “Probably better this way in the long run and the important thing is the child survived. Now go get him some sustenance and prepare him for the journey.” This certainly had not gone according to plan, the Abbot thought wryly, but he would make it work.
Dafne cradled the baby to her chest and scurried to find swaddling and food for the infant. The Abbot spun around at the crunch of footfalls on the stone driveway. “Marguerite, I did not see you there. You startled me.” He realized that, unfortunately, she had been witness to the existence of the baby and that could pose a problem. He approached her gingerly as she stared, unbelieving, at the corpse in the back of the wagon.
“D...Dominique..?” She asked tearfully. “Merciful Lord, what happened to that dear girl? And what were you doing with the baby? Dominique’s baby?” This was all too much for her, she could not process the images in front of her.
“It is an unfortunate situation, to be sure.” was all he offered in the way of an explanation. Sizing Marguerite up, he waited for her next move. He was unsure how much she would figure out on her own. She looked at him and narrowed her eyes. “Has Henri been notified of his wife’s death? Or that his baby survived despite the dreadful altercation that claimed her life?” She knew that he was full of tricks and stories and she, for one, would not fall prey to his manipulations.
“Oh, Marguerite,” he sighed, “it is a very long story but if you follow me, I will show you to the child and tell you what occurred. Shall we?” With a gracious, sweeping hand, he indicated that Marguerite should make her way towards the Abbey by way of the barn’s entrance. She started walking, turning briefly to make sure that he followed. “Oh, Henri will be devastated, but at least he will find comfort in the fact that his child survived.” Marguerite continued talking about Henri and the baby.
When they got as far as the door which would take them up the stairs and into the convent, the Abbot caught her by the arm and forced her downstairs into the cellar. She looked up at him, startled. “Marguerite, why do you have to make this difficult? I don’t suppose there is anything I could say that would ensure that you never tell Henri about the child, is there?” Ignoring the incredulous look on her face, he continued, “You really leave me no other choice, you realize that don’t you, my dear? This has been planned and Dafne and I cannot risk you ruining this for us. Oh, poor Marguerite, you really don’t understand, do you?” His voice had taken on a cold menacing tone that sent chills down Marguerite’s spine. She considered screaming but not a soul would hear her down here amongst the thick stone walls.
“That baby will be delivered to the future Queen. Poor Catherine is as barren as a desert and that husband of hers will start looking for more fertile territory soon. Henri won’t be able to look after him anyway. Look at the bright side—we are about to improve that child’s pedigree and our own prospects in the process.” He spoke in the lowest of voices, his voice barely above a whisper, “You understand that you are collateral damage, no way around it, you and our poor Dominique…” As he said this, he quietly slid the knife from the shaft of the cross. With one arm holding Marguerite, the hand of which covered her mouth to prevent her from crying out, he brought the knife up with his right hand and plunged it deep into her abdomen. His eyes never left hers, his face inches away.
Her eyes already registered fear, but instantly flew open wide in terror and excruciating pain. He removed his hand. Marguerite opened her mouth to scream but all that came out was a stream of blood. She collapsed to the floor and drew her last shallow breaths. “Jesus in Heaven, Marguerite, you just never would have been able to keep your mouth closed.” Wiping her blood off the knife and onto her robes, he stood up and went to find Dafne. He needed to ensure that she hasten her pace before anyone else saw the child and figured out who he was.
The Abbot bundled Dafne and the child into the Emissary’s coach and ensured they were safely on their way to the Chateau d ’Amboise. He went back to the churchyard to address the issue of Dominique’s body. He was rather taken aback to find the Inquisitor, sitting atop his horse just staring at the corpse in the back of the wagon.
“Abbot, tell me that is not the subject of my investigation.” He began curtly, “I generally prefer to investigate and interrogate a living perpetrator. Was I not supposed to take her to Paris to await the birth before trial?” His voice was getting louder and more irritated.
“Well sir, you would have been able to do just that had it not been for one of your hotheaded soldiers running his sword through her in the forest this morning!” He said excitedly. “It was my understanding that they were told not to harm anyone when they descended on Loudun.” The Abbot was equally irritated, as this situation pulled him out of the shadows and into the line of fire. He was not comfortable.
The Inquisitor, dressed all in black, with a tri-cornered hat atop his head, struck a menacing figure. He paused to take in what the Abbot had just told him. He suspected that the errant soldier was none other than the Corporal who seemed to be a constant troubling concern – always overstepping his authority. “I will find that idiot and make sure he pays for creating this untenable situation.” The Inquisitor promised.
Dismounting, he looked to the Abbot to come up with some way to contain this fiasco. He ran through scenarios and potential outcomes till he found an explanation that would be readily accepted by Henri. The Inquisitor was, as yet, unaware of her relationship with Henri. While the Abbot was not about to reveal this fact to the Inquisitor, he was aware that whatever he came up with would have to protect them both from the wrath of Henri.
Pausing, with his hand on his chin, the Abbot began slowly, “what about suicide?” Seeing the look of incredulity on the Inquisitor’s face, he continued. “Picture this: a desolate, lonely and depressed Dominique, terrified of the prospect of a witchcraft trial, where she would, of course, be found guilty, climbs atop a horse and finds the highest, strongest branch in the Church’s yard. She selfishly decides to end her life and take the life of her child at the same time. Wrapping a noose around her neck, she dismounts and drops, the weight of her body snapping her neck. I run into the yard, trying to save her life and finding I am too late, try to save the life of the poor child through a cesarienne. But alas, the child had perished inside his mother’s womb, deprived of life-giving air.” The Abbot sniffed theatrically, wiping the non-existent tear from his eye.
“What do you think?” Musing to himself, he knew Henri would be devastated at the loss and blame himself for not being here. If only he had not spent so much time away from his wife, perhaps she would have made another choice. Hell, he may even thank me for trying to save them both. “After staging this suicide, we should get the Royal Scribe out here post haste to verify cause of death and we will have a most reliable witness to her unfortunate end. My unsuccessful attempt to save the child will be enough to explain all the blood. Helene, who runs the town apothecary, is the only one who actually witnessed what went on in the forest and, trust me, when a little money crosses her palm, she will forget all about what she saw.”
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A few hours later, the Royal Scribe arrived on Church property to find Dominique hanging from a tall fir tree at the edge of the clearing. The late afternoon sun cut through the trees and cast an eerie yellow glow on the scene. The horse, Dominique had ostensibly used, still grazed near the body swaying gently back and forth from the tree branch.
Shaking his head in disbelief and sadness, Jean-Pierre Ducharme, was shocked at the tale the scene presented—that Dominique had taken her own life. She had never struck him as someone who would commit a mortal sin as grievous as suicide. He was disturbed by the whole scene, it was horrifying the amount of blood that drenched her clothing, and it literally covered her entire body. The Abbot explained that he had tried to extricate the baby from her womb but it had been too late. In his capacity as Abbot he had been called upon to do the very same surgery on parishioners facing death in an attempt to save unborn babies many times. The cesarienne, as it was termed, always resulted in an inordinate amount of blood loss from the woman’s womb.
Ducharme had rather fond memories of Dominique. His wife, Marie, had been so very ill, on her deathbed when he had called Dominique to her side. Rumor had it that she was quite successful with the ministering of teas and remedies and he longed for his wife’s suffering to be assuaged. While Dominique had not been successful at preventing her ultimate death, whatever she had said to his dear Marie had given her more peace than she had ever known. Her last months were some of the happiest they had ever enjoyed together.
Returning to the grisly scene, Ducharme continued with his questioning of the Abbot as to the sequence of events. His discomfort was visible. His eyes kept darting away from the scene and his trembling hand hovered near his mouth as if on a vigil waiting for stomach contents to come up unbidden.
The Abbot covered his own mouth, trying to hide the smirk. This would not take long. Ducharme could not wait to get on his merry way. “Well, Ian, I think is pretty obvious what occurred here. I will write the report and you can go ahead and cut her down. You should probably proceed with the burial, we don’t know when Henri will return and we should not draw this out. Make sure there is no objection to her burial on consecrated land. I understand the severity of this transgression but you’re obviously in a position to eliminate that barrier—I would hate to see her dishonored. She was a good person—God rest her soul.”
“Absolutely, Jean-Pierre, if anyone objects, they will have to go through me, I assure you. I will take care of her interment.” As the Royal Scribe rode back into town, the Abbot breathed a sigh of relief. They were all in the clear. Perhaps this was turning into a better solution than the original plan.
Time would surely tell.