THE RED MILK
Darkly and swiftly the autumn night descended upon Machecoul. In the
streets of the little feudal bourg there were few passers-by, and such
as there were clutched their cloaks tighter round them and scurried
on. Or if they raised their heads, it was only to take a hasty,
fearful glance at the vast bulk of the castle looming imminent above
them.
From a window high in the central keep a red light streamed out, and
when the clouds flew low, strange dilated shadows were wont to be cast
upon the rolling vapour. Sometimes smoke, acrid and heavy, bellied
forth, and anon wild cries of pain and agony floated down to silence
the footfalls of the home-returning rustics and chill the hearts of
burghers trembling in their beds.
But none dared to question in public the doings of the great and
puissant lord of all the country of Retz. It fared not well with him
who even looked too much at the things which were done.
The night was yet darker up aloft in the Castle of Machecoul itself.
In the sacristy good Father Blouyn, with an air of resigned
reluctance, was handing over to an emissary of his master the moulds
in which the tall altar candles for the Chapel of the Holy Innocents
were usually cast and compacted. And as Clerk Henriet went out with
the moulds he took a long look through a private spy-hole at the lads
of the choir who were sitting in the hall apportioned to their use.
They were supposed to be busy with their lessons, and, indeed, a few
were poring over their books with some show of studious absorption.
But for the most part they were playing at cards and dominos, or, in
the absence of the master, sticking intimate pins and throwing about
indiscriminate ink, according to the immemorial use of the choir-boy.
Clerk Henriet counted them twice over and in especial looked carefully
to see what did the young Scots lad, who had so mysteriously escaped
from the dread room of his master. Laurence MacKim played X's and O's
upon a board with Blaise Renouf, the precentor's son, and at some
hitch in the game he incontinently clouted the Frenchman upon the ear.
Whereupon ensued trouble and the spilling of much ink.
Henriet, perfectly satisfied, took up the heavy moulds and made his
way to his lord's chamber, where many things were used for purposes
other than those for which they had been intended.
Upon the back of his departure came in the Precentor Renouf, who laid
his baton conjointly and freely about the ears of his son and those of
Laurence MacKim.
"Get to your beds both of you, and that supperless, for uproar and
conduct ill becoming two youths who worship God all day in his
sanctuary, and are maintained at grievous expense by our most devout
and worthy lord, Messire Gilles of Laval and Retz, Seigneur and Lord!"
Laurence, who had of set purpose provoked the quarrel, was slinking
away, when the "Psalta" (as the choir-master is called in lower
Brittany) ordered them to sleep in separate rooms for the better
keeping of the peace.
"And do you, Master Laurence, perform your vigil of the night upon the
pavement of the chapel. For you are the most rebellious and
troublesome of all--indeed, past bearing. Go! Not a word, sirrah!"
So, much rejoiced in heart that matters had thus fallen out, Laurence
MacKim betook himself to the Chapel of the Holy Innocents, and was
duly locked in by the irate precentor.
For, upon various occasions, he had watched the Lord of Retz descend
into the chapel by a private staircase which opened out in an angle
behind the altar. He had also seen Poitou, his confidential
body-servant, lock it after him with a small key of a yellow colour
which he took from his fork pocket.
Now Master Laurence, as may have already been observed, was (like most
of the youthful unordained clergy) little troubled, at least in minor
matters, with scruples about such slight distinctions as those which
divide _meum_ and _tuum_. He found no difficulty therefore in
abstracting this key when Poitou was engaged in attending his master
from the chapel, in which service it was his duty to pass the stalls
with open lattice ends of carven work in which sat the elder
choir-boys. Having secured the key, Laurence hid it instantly beneath
the leaden saint on his cap, refastening the long pin which kept our
Lady of Luz in her place through the fretwork of the little brazen
key.
Presently he saw Poitou come back and look carefully here and there
upon the floor, but after a while, not finding anything, he went out
again to search elsewhere.
The idea had come to Laurence that at the head of the stairway from
the chapel was the prison chamber of Maud Lindesay and her ward, the
little Maid Margaret of Galloway.
He told himself at least that this was his main object, and doubtless
he had the matter in his mind. But a far stronger motive was his
curiosity and the magic influence of the mysterious and the unknown
upon the heart of youth.
More than to deliver Margaret of Galloway, Laurence longed to look
again upon the iron altar and to know the truth concerning the strange
sacrifices which were consummated there. And he yearned to see again
that rough-eared image graven after the fashion of a man.
And the reason was not far to seek.
For if even the worship of the High God, according to the practice of
the most enlightened nations, grounds itself upon blood and sacrifice,
what wonder if, in the worship of the lords of Hell, the blood of the
innocent is an oblation well pleasing and desirable.
Rooted and ineradicable is the desire in man's heart to know good and
evil--but particularly evil. And so now Laurence desired to see the
sacrifice laid between the horns of the altar and the image above lean
over as if to gloat upon the sweet savour of its burning.
Long and carefully Laurence listened before he ventured forth. The
Chapel of the Innocents was dark and silent. Only a reflection of the
red light which burned in the keep struck through the clerestory upon
the great cross which swung above the altar. This, being dispersed
like a halo about the sign of Christ's redemption, rendered the corner
where was placed the door into the secret stairway light enough to
enable the youth to insert therein Poitou's key. The wards were turned
with well-accustomed smoothness.
Carefully shutting the door behind him so that if any one chanced to
enter the chapel nothing would be observed, Laurence set his feet upon
the steps and began his adventure of supreme peril.
It was a narrow staircase, only wide enough indeed for one to ascend
or descend at once. And the heart of Laurence sank within him at the
thought of meeting the dread Lord of Machecoul face to face in its
strait, black spirals.
He accomplished the ascent, however, without incident, and, passing
through another low arch, found himself at the end of the passage over
against the door with the curious burned hieroglyphics imprinted upon
it. There was no light in the corridor, and Laurence eagerly set his
hand to the latch. It opened as before and admitted him at a touch.
The temple-like hall was silent and dim. Only an occasional thrill as
if of an earthquake passed across it, waving the heavy hangings and
bringing a hot breath of some strange heady perfume to the nostrils.
Laurence, with a beating heart, ensconced himself in a hidden nook
behind the door. The niche was covered by a curtain and furnished with
a grooved slab of marble placed there for some purpose he could not
fathom.
Yet it was by no means wholly dark. A light shone into the Chapel of
Evil from the opposite side, and through it he could discern shadows
cast upon the floors and striding gigantic across the roof, as unseen
personages passed the light which streamed into the dusky temple.
In the gloomiest part of the background, hinted rather than seen, he
could make out the vast dark figure dominating the iron altar.
Then Laurence remembered that the chamber of the marshal lay on the
other side--the room with the immense fireplace which he had once
entered and from which he had barely escaped with his life.
Little by little Laurence raised himself upon the grooved slab until,
standing erect, he could see some small part of the whitewashed,
red-floored chamber he remembered so well--only a strip, however,
extending from the door through which he looked to the great fireplace
whereon the heaped wood had already been kindled.
At first all was confused. Laurence saw Henriet and Poitou going
hastily here and there, as servitors do who prepare for a great
function. Then came a pause, heavy with doom. On the back of this he
heard or seemed to hear the frightened pleading of a child, the short,
sharp commands of a soldier's voice, a sound as of a blow stricken,
and then again a whimpering hush. Laurence leaned against the wall
with his face in his hands. He dared not look within. Then he lifted
his head, and lo! in the gloom it seemed as if the huge image had
turned towards him, and in a pleased, confidential way were nodding
approval of his presence.
He heard the voice of the Marshal de Retz again--this time kindly, and
even affectionate. Some one was not to be frightened. Some one was to
take a draught from the goblet and fear nothing. They would not hurt
him. They had but played with him.
Again Henriet and Poitou passed and repassed, and once Gilles de Sillé
flashed across the interspace handing a broad-edged gleaming knife
swiftly and surreptitiously to some one unseen.
Then came a short, sharp cry of agony, a gurgling moan, and black,
blank, unutterable horror shut down on Laurence's spirit.
He sank down on his face behind the door and covered his eyes and ears
with his hands. So he lay for a space without motion, almost without
sense, upon the naked grooves of the marble slab. When he came to
himself, a dusky light was diffused through the chapel. As he looked
he saw La Meffraye come to the door and set her face within, like some
bird of night, hideous and foul. Then she returned and Gilles de Sillé
and Clerk Henriet came into the chapel bearing between them a great
golden cup, filled (as it seemed by the care with which they carried
it) to the very brim with some precious liquid.
To them, all clad in a priest's robe of flame-coloured velvet,
succeeded the Lord of Retz himself. He held in his hand like a
service-book the great manuscript written in red, which he had been
transcribing at Sybilla's entrance, and as he walked he chanted, with
a strange intonation, words that thrilled the very soul of the young
man listening.
And yet, as Laurence looked forth from his hiding-place, it appeared
that the black statue nodded once more to him as one who would say,
"Take note and remember what thou seest; for one day thy testimony
shall be needful."
These were the words he heard in the chanting monotone:
"O great and mighty Barran-Sathanas--my only lord and master, whom
with all due observance I do worship, look mercifully upon this the
sacrifice of innocent blood; let it be grateful to thee--to whom all
evil is as the breath of life!
"Hear us, O Barran-Sathanas! Thou hast been deaf in past days, because
we served thee not without drawback or withholding, without sparing
and without remorse. Because we hesitated to give thee the best, the
delicatest, the most pitiful. But now take this innocentest innocence.
Behold I, Gilles de Retz, make to thee the matchless sacrifice of the
Red Milk thou lovest.
"The Red Milk I pour for thee. The Red Milk I bring thee. The Red Milk
I drink to thee--that thou mayest be pleased to restore vital energy
and new youth to my veins, to make me strong as a young man in his
strength, and wiser than the wisdom of age. Hear me, O great master of
all the evil of the universe, thou equal and coadjutor of the Master
of Good, hear and manifest thy so mighty power. Hear me and answer, O
Barran-Sathanas!"
Gilles de Retz took the cup from the hands of the servitors. He seemed
so weak with his crying that he could hardly hold it between his
trembling palms.
He lifted his head and again cried aloud:
"See, I am weak, my Satan--see how I tremble. Strength is departed
from me. Youth is dead. Help thy faithful servant, aid him to lift up
this precious oblation to thee!"
And as the great dusky image seemed to lean over him, with a hoarse
cry Gilles de Retz raised the cup and held it high above his head. As
he did so a beam, sudden as lightning, fell upon it, and with a quick,
instinctive horror, Laurence saw that it was filled to the brim with
blood fresh and red.
The marshal's voice strengthened.
"It is coming! It is coming! Barran manifests himself! O great lord,
to thee I drain this draught!" cried Gilles de Retz. "The Red Milk,
the precious milk of innocence, to thee I drink it!"
And he set the cup to his lips and drank deep and long.
* * * * *
"It comes. It fills me. I am strong. O Barran, give me yet more
strength. My limbs revive. My pulse beats. I am young as when I rode
with Dunois. Barran, thou art indeed mightier than God. I will give
thee yet more and more. I swear it. I have kept the best wine till the
last--the death vintage of a great house. The wine of beauty and
brightness--I have kept it for thee. Halt not to make me stronger!
Help me--Barran, help--I fail--!"
His voice had risen higher and higher till it was well nigh a scream
of agony. Strangely too, in spite of the fictitious youth that glowed
in his veins and coloured his cheek, it sounded like a senile shriek.
But all suddenly, at the very height of his exaltation, the cup from
which he had drunk slipped from his hand and rolled upon the
tesselated pavement of the temple, staining it in gouts and vivid
blotches of crimson.
"Hasten, ere I lose the power--I feel it checked. Poitou, De Sillé,
Henriet, go bring hither from the White Tower the Scottish maids.
Run, dogs--or you die! Quick, Henriet! Good De Sillé, quick! Fail not
your master now! It ebbs, it weakens--and it was so near completion.
Stay, O Barran, till I finish the sacrifice, and here at thy feet
offer up to thee the richest, and the fairest, and the noblest! Bring
hither the maidens! I tell you, bring them quickly!"
And the terrible Lord of Retz, exhausted with his own fury, cast
himself at the feet of the gigantic image, which, bending over him,
seemed with the same grimace sardonically to mock alike his exaltation
and his downfall.
But Laurence heard no more. For sense and feeling had wholly departed
from him, and he lay as one dead behind the door of the temple of
Barran-Sathanas, Lord of Evil, in the thrice-abhorrent Castle of
Machecoul.