The Devil's Concubine Read online

  THE DEVIL’S CONCUBINE

  By

  Ángeles Goyanes

  The Devil’s Concubine

  Copyright © 2011 by Ángeles Goyanes

  Translated by Kasia Johnson

  Original title: La Concubina del Diablo

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.

  “And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born onto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose”

  “...when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown”

  Genesis VI

  PART ONE

  –I–

  “So you’ve come to save my soul.” Whispered the impassive voice of the woman who lay in the cot; she remained pensive, her cold, blue eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  Apprehensive and indecisive, Father DiCaprio walked the distance between the door of the cell and the pallet where the woman rested, pale and detached like a wax statue. As he heard the loud noise of the door closing violently behind him, he jumped and briefly turned his head with the frightened expression of a trapped animal. The woman was undisturbed; her hardened expression seemed incapable of showing emotion.

  “Surely you want to make peace with God,” he managed to say.

  A strange, ironic laugh escaped the woman.

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Father,” she said without looking at him.

  The priest’s hands fell lax and crossed over a small Bible. His dark hair and eyes stood out against his white, youthful skin. His distinguished and handsome features were clenched into a constant alert expression.

  “Well then, would you like me to hear your confession?” he asked.

  The woman slowly directed her callous and empty gaze toward him.

  “Why?” she asked angered. “Doesn’t God see everything? Why would I have to confess what he has already seen?”

  She rose slowly and without, even for an instant, taking her enticing blue eyes off him, positioned herself as closely as possible to him. She was tall, so tall they stood eye to eye. Her voice was just a whisper. He could feel her breath on his face when she spoke to him again.

  “Couldn’t it be that your morbid curiosity just wants to enjoy the horrendous vision of those youthful bodies stabbed to pieces? Do you want me to describe how I killed them in detail? Would that be enough for you to absolve me!”

  Suddenly enraged, the priest felt a chill run through his body.

  “Enough!” he exclaimed. “You’re...!”

  “What?” she asked leaning in closer, causing him to back away. “Tell me Father. What am I? A demon, perhaps?”

  The priest, clinging onto the Bible, which was now clutched against his chest, looked at the floor avoiding her gaze at all cost.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” he whispered awkwardly.

  “Liar!” she yelled and violently flung him onto the hard old cot.

  For a moment, he was terrified by the furious expression of the murderess whom he had asked to interview alone. He tried to scream. He felt his mouth open and felt the rigid movement of his tongue. ‘Help’ said his lips but not even a choked sound escaped them.

  She remained standing and watched him lie there with an expression so indifferent and calm as if nothing had upset her. Then, turning around slowly, she walked toward the small narrow window from which the prison’s courtyard could be seen. Just like any other day, the apathetic sun flooded the window as if it weren’t disturbing the dwelling of someone condemned to death. A pool of light illuminated the simple circular table and the two chairs, which along with the cot and a sink, constituted all the furnishings.

  Father DiCaprio stood up unsteadily, put his hand over his accelerated heart, and observed the woman’s slender silhouette. Her blond, wavy hair fell down her back, beautifully illuminated by the sun. Absorbed in her own thoughts, her gaze roamed the courtyard.

  “Do you want to know when I last confessed?” she asked while contemplating the few, cottony clouds that adorned the bright, clear blue sky.

  Cautiously, the priest walked a few silent steps and was now close to the door. Just as he was about to open his mouth to answer, the woman continued talking.

  “I was 15 years-old,” she calmly explained. “I had just committed a terrible sin: I had kissed Geniez.”

  She turned to face the priest. Her gaze, filled with irony, met his and they remained silent for some moments unable to take their eyes off each other.

  “That surprises you, doesn’t it?” she continued. “It’s not what you would call a sin, but back then it was. A sin that would have sent me to hell. I was young, naive, and ignorant. It was easy to fill my head with false promises and eternal damnation. I had to confess; I needed it.”

  Father DiCaprio listened to her attentively. However, he was astounded by and suspicious of her words, and shortened the distance that separated him from the door. Her eyes, which were now a sea of soft and beautiful velvet, albeit cold and piercing blue velvet, scrutinized him.

  “Do you have a strong stomach, Father?” she asked. “You must if you truly want to hear my confession. And I would like for you to hear it. I would really like for you to hear it.”

  “I want to hear it,” the priest answered. He hastily took a few steps toward her until suddenly, as if warned by his carelessness, he stopped.

  “It will take us a long time. I’ll have to start from the beginning, almost at the beginning of my life, so that you understand everything and, therefore, will be able to absolve all of my sins.”

  Once again, her smile became sinister and wry. “Do you think you’ll be able to, Father? Will I deserve forgiveness of my sins?”

  The priest appeared to put himself on guard.

  “You will be,” he answered, “if you are truly repentant of committing them.”

  The woman drifted around the room and caressed the small circular table with her delicate fingers. Although he couldn’t see her face, the priest watched her.

  “Oh! If it were only that simple!” she exclaimed. “If only my crimes could be measured on a human scale! Here’s the irony Father. You have come to save my soul from a small crime I didn’t commit. You don’t know about the real atrocities I’ve committed, atrocities which have no possible pardon, those which will make you despise my company.”

  Suddenly, she turned to face the priest, a pained expression on her face.

  “I deserve death,” she murmured. “That is certain.”

  He remained still, overwhelmed by her forceful words.

  “You still insist on hearing my sins?” she asked him.

  The priest nodded but felt lightheaded as if he were immersed in an asphyxiating atmosphere.

  “You promise me no matter what you hear, you’ll pray for me? I don’t believe a mortal’s prayers have much importance. However, at the very least, I’ll give you this task. After all, many would pay to hear what I’m going to tell you.”

  “I’ll do it,” he agreed. “I promise you.”

  “Well then, please…” She elegantly extended her hand toward one of the two chairs beside the table, urging him to take a seat.

  While he did as she asked, she moved toward the window again, fixed her gaze on some point, and became immersed in her thoughts. Soon he heard her soft and reserved voice.

  “Everything began in
the year 1212. We lived in Languedoc, France, a place between Narbonne and Beziers.”

  “I beg your pardon.” The priest timidly interrupted but used a voice loud enough to get her attention. “What date did you say?”

  She turned to look at him inquisitively, bothered by the interruption.

  “I thought I understood 1212.” He said with a little smile on his face, as though making fun of his own foolishness.

  “That is exactly what I said,” she responded bluntly. “Take me for someone crazy or a liar, but please, don’t interrupt me again.” She stared at him until she saw him slowly nod.

  Then she turned her face toward the window and continued her story.

  “Although no one would have called us anything but peasants, my father, to our advantage, had known how to profit from the introduction of money into the country. Others in our position, including great men, hadn’t been able to adapt to this. We depended on the help of Monsieur de Saint-Ange, a great vassal and distant relative of Philip II. He was my father’s childhood friend who had not only provided my father with ownership of the lands he worked, but also had guided him with his knowledge and instinctive business wisdom during the recent changing years. At his insistence, my father became a moneylender to peasants with few resources. He gave them the money necessary for the purchase of seeds, animals, and farming tools. They, in return, gave him their land as a loan guaranty, which they would never be able to repay. This was, in actuality, a very frequent practice.

  “In this way, in a short time we became proprietors of extensive plots of land. We were spurred on by the inability of others to adapt to new times, as well as the kindness of Monsieur de Saint-Ange, who, on numerous occasions, loaned us money to do business at no charge.

  “That year, Geniez, Monsieur de Saint-Ange’s son, had just finished his studies in the Reims Cathedral School. He was fifteen years-old, the same age as I, and was my best friend. His father intended to send him to Montpellier the following academic year. He said Geniez, from the time he was a young boy, had shown aptitude in science and that the best medicine schools in the Western world were centered there.

  “When he returned from Reims, I barely recognized him. His world seemed to be limited to a mystical obsessive fervor, which had been instilled in him at the Cathedral School, and also to a sick admiration of his brother Paul, who had become a famous hero in the crusade against Constantinople.

  “He would often lecture me for hours, showing off the wonderful dialectic which he had had the opportunity to learn and now dominated. He tried to convince me we must continue fighting heresy before we were all smothered to death under its weight.

  “Although many different reform movements existed in the heart of the church, it was Catharism which had created heresy par excellence in Albi, a town close to us. Thanks to its promises of equality and tolerance regarding the fulfillment of precepts, it became deeply rooted among the lower classes in Languedoc.

  “In spite of the little enthusiasm I showed for religion, the vision of a world in which there was eternal conflict between two equally powerful principles, good and evil, mystified and attracted me. Geniez constantly spoke to me about it. His father was not only tolerant of religious invocation, but also, and more than once, turned the Saint-Ange castle into a place where the Cathars could preach.

  “My father feared for him. Rome had already taken up arms, alarmed by the expansion of heresy. An international army of crusaders fell upon Languedoc. After burning Beziers, the situation turned into an actual war. We all knew it wouldn’t be long before they took Provence.

  “However, Monsieur de Saint-Ange was obstinate. Not because he actually gave a damn about defending the Albigensian doctrine, but rather because he wasn’t ready to give in to any attack against his own freedom, nor against his right to express ideas and share them with peasants. The peasants with whom you would frequently see him exchanging opinions as equals, after having listened to a prefect or some professor who had come from Paris to teach us about new scientific advances or new philosophical trends. Maybe he thought that since he was related to Philip II, he would be given protection, a certain immunity against the catholic hordes. In a way, it’s possible he had been given protection since three years had passed since Bezier was burned. That is, a certain amount of protection until that tragic night.

  “I remember it perfectly. Geniez had begged me to attend an anti-heresy sermon. These sermons had become a celebrated weekly custom and took place in the cemetery or in the atrium of the church. Although it didn’t interest me at all and since I had already attended the obligatory Mass that morning, I went for the pleasure of being in his company.

  “That night the sermon was in the cemetery. I can still see the skinny preacher forcefully trying to corral his straying sheep with his passionate and terrifying sermon: the dragon falling upon us, the brimstone lake of fire opening to devour us, demons tearing us into pieces of flesh with their enormous claws... all this just for reading the Sacred Scriptures or for not venerating the Saints!

  “It was cold as we returned to the castle. My family and I had been invited to eat dinner with Monsieur de Saint-Ange and we were already running late. I walked quickly and in silence, still shocked by the horrible images implied by the sermon. Geniez, on the other hand, didn’t stop talking excitedly about how much he admired the preacher and about his own desire to one day climb the pulpit and harangue the believers.

  “Once we left the cemetery, it took us more than twenty minutes until the faint lights of the castle became visible. In the distance, we heard strange noises and voices coming from the castle. The closer we got, the louder the noises became and the lights within the castle began to flicker as if shaking nervously. Geniez followed me, lost in his own world, absorbed in his cumbersome lecture, which at that moment deafened and disgusted me. I tried to tell him I was afraid but he didn’t listen. When we were close enough, the sounds became recognizable, objects were being thrown violently and were crashing against the floor or walls; men were screaming in a fit of frenzied anger. We stopped short, trying to make out any movements inside the castle.

  “Neither the guards nor the sentries were at their posts. A group of ten or twelve unfamiliar horses waited at the door. Without stopping to think about our own safety, we ran inside frightened, certain that something terrible was happening.

  “We arrived just in time to see Monsieur de Saint-Ange being thrown onto the dining room floor by a man with a red beard and enormous stomach. Geniez screamed and ran to help his father.

  “ ‘Father! Who are these men? What do they want?’ he yelled while helping him stand.

  “There were at least five men in the room. They carried weapons and were clad in uniforms and insignia of the Roman crusaders. There were noises and voices coming from upper levels indicating the presence of more men. Their swords were drawn and they wore enraged expressions on their faces. One of them held my mother with her back against his chest, clutching her by the neck and waist as my father looked on desperately while seated in a chair and feeling the sharp point of a sword against his throat, which was sinking deeper with every breath he took.

  “I was shaking, petrified, standing on the other side of the threshold looking at the bloody and stiff bodies of the castle’s two servants at the foot of the stairs. No one realized I was there. I wanted to hide behind one of the enormous columns a few steps away but my muscles refused to obey. I remained standing, horrified, listening to my mother’s anguished moans and to Geniez’s protests until they were suddenly silenced by a blow to the back of his neck. I felt my heart beating and the blood racing through my head, which was now dulled with terror. I held back a scream as I heard the other men come down the stairs. If I stayed where I was, they would see me. I managed to throw myself toward the column and leaned against it with all of my strength. I wanted to melt into that column and disappear from the horrible agony.

  “The men came down the stairs carrying some large sacks t
hat made metallic sounds as they bounded off the stairs. The man with the red beard, the one that had fought with Monsieur de Saint-Ange, was impatiently waiting for them in the dining room. ‘What have you found?’ he asked them, his voice rough and unpleasant. ‘Only silver,’ one of them responded in anger, allowing everyone to see the two black teeth in his mouth. ‘Candelabras, small bottles of perfume, combs, brushes... but not a sign of jewelry.’

  “ ‘I see,’ said the man with the paunch as he stroked his beard. Nonchalantly, he looked at the enormous oak table that had been prepared for us. Food still remained on three of the plates. My parents and Monsieur de Saint-Ange had undoubtedly started to eat without us. He took a silver goblet and slowly poured until the wine spilled over the edges. He then calmly sat down in one of the massive oak chairs and reached for the platter of lamb. Tearing it with his bare hands, he served himself a giant portion and began chewing noisily knowing no one could take their eyes off him. His men laughed when they heard him belch as loud as he could. He drank and the wine dribbled from his lips and fell into the crevices of his red beard, which seemed to absorb it like a sponge.

  “I can’t say how long the misery and terror of that menacing silence lasted. The seconds dragged on like caliginous snow whose thickness increases as night advances.

  “ ‘Excellent food, chevalier.’ He joked while he used his sleeve to wipe the space where his lips were hidden beneath his beard. ‘Worthy of a king.’ His men roared with laughter.

  “Then he picked up the enormous carving knife and looked at my mother who was still restrained and motionless. He stood up and approached her, brandishing the knife as if he were about to partake in some sinister game. My mother, terrified, began to twist and scream. At the same time a stream of blood began to gush from my father’s throat.

  “ ‘Shut that damned dog up!’ the leader suddenly bellowed. As he turned around, the pale light of the candles made the lamb grease shine on his beard. It was then that I realized Deacon, my dog, was barking from one of the rooms behind me. ‘I’ll go,’ said one of the crude looking men while drawing his sword.