The dear little cottages that were the gatekeepers to Nantes were receding rapidly as I slipped into the tunnel of trees -- the worst part of the journey to Machecoul. Out of the light, and into the darkness. One cannot help but feel very small among these barked giants, whose gnarly underbranches could reach out at any moment like the devil's fingers to draw me into the dark rictus of some knothole, where I would melt in the eternal agony of my own sins.

As always, I pray, for there is little else to do. Dear God, do not let them take my thumbs, for without my thumbs I shall not be able to grasp the needle, and a life without embroidery is unthinkable.

With each step, I shove my hands deeper into the folds of my pocketed sleeves. My precious fingers disappear completely, safe again.

They find the letter. My fingertips discern small wear spots along the folds in the parchment, despite the relative recency of its arrival here from Avignon. It came among other important papers sent from his Holiness to my own maître, Jean de Malestroit, who as Bishop of Nantes is privy to so many of God's deepest secrets. Though I am his closest companion, I cannot begin to understand the weighty matters that his Eminence is bidden to consider by His Holiness, nor in truth do I wish to. I am driven by some desperate maternal urge to bypass the cares of the world in favor of the precious thoughts of my firstborn. The date, written in my son's sweet strong hand in one corner, was March 10, 1440, seven days previous. I skip his long-winded blessing -- he is a priest, after all -- and recite the rest in my head as I walk.

There is most excellent news, abrupt and unexpected. I am now fully a scribe to his Grace; no longer must I work under another brother, but instead answer directly to the Cardinal himself. Increasingly I am called to his chambers to record important business. He seems through some miracle to have taken me under his wing, though I fail to understand why he finds me fit for such an honor. It gives me hope that I will be anointed with official advancement sooner rather than later....

How wonderful, how precious, how... how abysmally insufficient; I would rather have had the man himself by my side. But his Eminence Jean de Malestroit abhors complaint, so I shall not indulge therein, may God forbid that he should abhor me for that weakness. I continue my recitation, which is perhaps not appreciated by the squirrels and foxes, who are my only listeners. It gives my steps a reassuring firmness, however false it might be.

I think of you every day and rejoice in knowing that you will be here in Avignon in not too many months, to see firsthand how rich my life has become. I am forever grateful to Milord Gilles for his influence in securing this position for me when I was but a young brother with limited prospects....

My own gratitude is tinged with bitterness. Lord Gilles de Rais's beneficence was such that I, once his own nurse, must remain here in Brittany, and my son, practically his own brother, is many days' ride away in Avignon. It seems almost as if he had some purpose in separating us.

But how could that be?

You must report more of the goings-on in Nantes in your next letter, Maman; we have had a pilgrim here recently who spoke of events in the north, of this nobleman's tribulations and that lord's triumphs and that lady's romance; we are eager to have these bits of news. But I find myself especially intrigued to know the meaning of a ditty he recited -- the entirety of the lyrics escapes me, but in part it was "Sur ce, l'on lui avait dit, en se merveillant, qu'on y mangeout les petits enfants."

...as for that, someone had told him, marveling, that they eat small children there...

I did not know what it meant, nor, in truth, did I wish to. Certainly not in this moment, when I was in sure danger of being eaten myself, by God alone knows what vile and monstrous beast. I know better than most that such beasts are here, often unseen, their evil jaws patiently agape.

A blessed sliver of light snuck through the trees and flickered -- had a bird settled on a branch, or was it merely my own long-held breath, expelled too rapidly? I am always desperate for light; all the world speaks with hope of the time after the wars end, if they ever do, when illumination will not be such a luxury as it is now. We seldom waste unnatural light in looking upon each other when there is the thinnest thread of daylight left, for there are wiser uses -- indeed, there always are for the little graces of life than what we foolishly choose to spend them on.

Once light was supplied in abundance at the pleasure of Lord de Rais in his residence at Champtocé, and I -- in those days, Madame Guillemette la Drappiere, wife to Milord's loyal retainer Etienne -- could bathe in it almost at will. Now I depend on God to supply radiance, though I do not like God these days as much as I did before I became la Mère Supérieure, or, as the stern Jean de Malestroit is fond of calling me, ma soeur en Dieu. A better woman than I might appreciate the sanctuary of an adequate -- nay, even abundant -- existence. With so many women spitting out their teeth for lack of nourishment, I ought to be overjoyed at my good fortune. But it is not the life I long for, not the life I had and loved. Nevertheless, when my beloved husband died, practically all but myself agreed it was the best thing for me.

My sweet Etienne fought bravely with Lord de Rais under the banner of the Maid in the great battle of Orléans on a day when many valiant men were lost. He was pierced through the thigh by an English bowman, God curse their uncanny skill. His leg festered, as it often goes with deep wounds. The midwife -- alas, we had no physician, though no one should doubt that she was near as good as one -- insisted that to save his life the limb must be removed. But he would not consent.

How can I, a soldier and woodsman, properly serve my Lord de Rais as a cripple? he said to me.

His was not the honorable battlefield demise that all warriors crave in their secret hearts, but a lingering slide into pain and degradation. When he was finally summoned to the soldier's reward, my neglected place of service in Lord de Rais's house had already been given over to a less distracted woman. Had I inherited property, I would have been assured of another husband. God got me instead.

I am careful to make myself useful now, for I could not bear to be displaced again. I am a quiet shadow to his Eminence, who as both Bishop of Nantes and Chancellor of Brittany serves two demanding masters: one unspeakably divine, the other brutally mortal. Which master rules him more completely is often determined by which one's interests are more compatible with his own at the moment, but in the thirteen years of my service here I have come to respect him greatly despite that regrettable flaw of character, which few but I can see.

Still, it is not the life I long for.