The case for the defence

Born 1404
Executed 1440
Exonerated 1992

It is now widely accepted that the trial of Gilles de Rais was a miscarriage of justice. He was a great war hero on the French side; his judges were pro-English and had an interest in blackening his name and, possibly, by association, that of Jehanne d'Arc. His confession was obtained under threat of torture and also excommunication, which he dreaded. A close examination of the testimony of his associates, in particular that of Poitou and Henriet, reveals that they are almost identical and were clearly extracted by means of torture. Even the statements of outsiders, alleging the disappearance of children, mostly boil down to hearsay; the very few cases where named children have vanished can be traced back to the testimony of just eight witnesses. There was no physical evidence to back up this testimony, not a body or even a fragment of bone. His judges also stood to gain from his death: in fact, Jean V Duke of Brittany, who enabled his prosecution, disposed of his share of the loot before de Rais was even arrested.

In France, the subject of his probable innocence is far more freely discussed than it is in the English-speaking world. In 1992 a Vendéen author named Gilbert Prouteau was hired by the Breton tourist board to write a new biography. Prouteau was not quite the tame biographer that was wanted and his book, Gilles de Rais ou la gueule du loup, argued that Gilles de Rais was not guilty. Moreover, he summoned a special court to re-try the case, which sensationally resulted in an acquittal. As of 1992, Gilles de Rais is an innocent man.

In the mid-1920s he was even put forward for beatification, by persons unknown. He was certainly not the basis for Bluebeard, this is a very old story which appears all over the world in different forms.

Le 3 janvier 1443... le roi de France dénonçait le verdict du tribunal piloté par l'Inquisition.
Charles VII adressait au duc de Bretagne les lettres patentes dénonçant la machination du procès du maréchal: "Indûment condamné", tranche le souverain. Cette démarche a été finalement étouffée par l'Inquisition et les intrigues des grands féodaux. (Gilbert Prouteau)

Two years after the execution the King granted letters of rehabilitation for that 'the said Gilles, unduly and without cause, was condemned and put to death'. (Margaret Murray)



Friday, 26 July 2024

GOD is dead


This is an old picture of David Allenby, my partner of forty-something years, who died today. He was a man of many names - William Braquemard, GOD (Good Old Dave), Dr Allingham. He collaborated with me on the book and I don't think it would have made it into print without him. I did mention him in the acknowledgements, likewise he has a name-check on the film, but I can never thank him enough. I shall miss him forever. 









This is the first poem I wrote about him -



Breakfast with Doctor Allingham

(for DJA)


He prefers it Continental-style.

The obscene dripping sausages of the Britons,

the bacon with its visible fat and cunt-taste,

the almost too-symbolical eggs -

these disgust his sensitive palate.



He sits like an emperor in his bay-window

which overlooks the fertile cemetery.

It is almost October. Fruits are in season.

Ripely they fall to his open hand.



Breakfast with him involves all of the senses.

"A woman for children," he pronounces,

"A boy for pleasure. A melon for ecstasy.

Old Turkish proverb, that." He sinks his teeth

up to the gums in moony flesh

and relishes the juices as they flow:

his fine moustaches are clipped back daily

lest they should trap one liquid drop.



His breakfast-companions, whether male or female,

listen, and watch his gourmandise,

and find that they are almost flattered

to see themselves so deliciously betrayed.



He breaks the tight skins of small, sweet apples;

probes with his tongue a fresh-split fig;

succulent oranges bleed for him

as he strips a pear to its naked core

or kisses the velvety cleft of a peach.



Clusters of grapes like Diana of Ephesus

he crushes and sucks with lascivious appetite;

strawberries that bruise at the touch of a finger

lie virgin, lapped in smoothest cream.

Melons, whether musk or honeydew,

nectarine, apricot, muscat, medlar

yield to this promiscuous epicure.



All flesh is fruit, and should be plucked

while glowing, fragrant, plump and lush,

ripe to the brink of rottenness -

not hang and shrivel untasted on the tree.



Or so says Doctor Allingham, replete,

and gazing from his breakfast-room window

at the opulent autumn cemetery.



And here is his photo blog Hull and Hereabouts. I hesitated to post this because he ended it in 2020 with several rants. But which of us reacted well to lockdown? And, with a PhD in biochemistry, he knew rather more about "the Science" than you or I. But you can skip those bits.  


He had some wonderful photos and witty commentaries. The blog is a joy, do scroll through it. You'll get more of a sense of the man than I can convey. 





Au revoir, Davey-Jo



1 comment:

  1. Poignantly beautiful. Morb, you've encapsulated Dave in such a way that I'm saddened never to have met him. Rest In Peace GOD x
    TracyBee

    ReplyDelete