AS MANY WRITERS DO with their books, I've decided to follow their example and post the first two chapters of my debut novel,
The Tattooed Witch on Suzenyms. If you want to read a bit further, Amazon has posted a larger sampling (almost four chapters) on their site. Welcome to medieval Spain in a parallel world. Welcome to magical tattoos, gypsies, witch burnings, and flamenco. Steep yourself in blood, passion, love, and survival. This is the world of Miriam Medina as
The Tattooed Witch.
Chapter One
Host
Maligno
In
the furthest corner of the gilded bed chamber belonging to Alonso de Santangél,
High Solar of Granad, Miriam Medina stood as still as a porcelain vase. Only
the occasional blink of her eyes and the even, slow rise and fall of her
breasts betrayed her presence although the priests in the room knew she was
there. She had watched the dawn come, had marked how the sun spilled through
the crenellated glass, how it had cut bright patterns across the floor. Her
assistant’s tunic clung to her like a damp tent, as heavy as the velvet drapes
on the windows. Sweat trickled between her breasts. A potted oleander bush,
heavy with blossoms, shielded her from view. To her reckoning, she had been
banished to her corner for five hours now. In this place, Miriam Medina knew it
was better to be ignored.
She
breathed through her nose and tried not to gag. Beneath the powdery scent of the
oleander, the room stank of old men. She could smell her own sweat, too. The
heat of the day was not the only cause. The priests had rounded on them when
she and Ephraim had arrived. Their open hostility startled her so much that she
had stepped on her father’s hems. A
woman! In the High Solar’s chamber? What are you thinking, Doctor Medina?
She is a drudge, nothing more, her father maintained. They both knew it for a lie. And then she had
been banished to this corner as if she were no more than a child. So demeaning,
considering Ephraim knew her true capabilities.
You’re at a loss, Papa. One touch and we’ll know what
ails the High Solar.
No. It’s too dangerous.
But you said so yourself—you don’t know what ails him!
I have my suspicions.
And they are?
They don’t matter. I will deal with it.
And if he dies, what then? They’ll blame you. And
then, what will happen to me?
It had been an
unkind thing to say, a selfish thing to say, but it had been the only way to
move him. Against his better judgment, he had agreed.
You’ll do nothing until I call you, Miriam.
Yes, Papa.
You’ll stay out of the way and not dare to move.
Yes, Papa.
And if I call you—that’s ‘if’ Miriam—you’ll determine
the trouble. Then you’ll return to the house and stay there until I come home.
It wasn’t fair, this pretense they were expected to maintain.
She considered the room full of priests. These old men—they lived one way but
preached another. Wasn’t it Sul who had said, ‘Hide not your light beneath a
bushel, but place it on a candlestick, so that it giveth light to all the
house?’ Hers was a unique gift, but if
she ever displayed it openly, they would accuse her of congress with demons.
If he would just call me. She
closed her eyes to suppress her impatience and ignore her thirst. In spite of
the sunshine, the bed chamber was littered with enough candles to light a nave.
What the High Solar needed was darkness and solitude. Ephraim had suggested it,
but the priests insisted that their patriarch needed the blazing protection of
Sul all about him. It mattered not if the heat contributed to his demise.
A small page in
white livery appeared in the doorway. He held a steaming bowl of broth in his
hands. Earlier, Ephraim had turned away Alonso de Santangél’s breakfast. The
monks had tried to feed him, but he had spit up the gruel. Clear liquids only, Ephraim
maintained.
With a nod, Ephraim
beckoned the boy forth and accepted the broth. The monks in front of her
shifted, affording her a better view of Alonso de Santangél.
She caught her
breath.
Without his robes
of office or a miter upon his head, he was a much younger man than she had assumed,
about thirty years of age. A tonsure of blonde hair ran about his head like a
crown. He had the face of an angel—beautiful in a stern sort of way, although
at the moment, the visage was marred by pain. His bare chest was well muscled
for a man of the cloth. He looked as if he spent his days scything grain.
He was handsome! The realization came as a shock. What business
did a Prince of the Church have in being so attractive? And what business did
she have in finding him so? Surely, it was a sin to think of him that way, although
there were far too many sins as it was.
A flush rose to
her face. She had seen naked men before, surreptitiously, through slatted
shutters. None of Ephraim’s patients had impressed her—all flabby bellies and
flaccid penises, but this one; he would be different, as perfect as any
sculptor’s model, his thighs well-formed and his loins…she took a deep breath,
thankful that the priests’ backs were turned to her.
She set aside
her attraction with a rigid self-control. She had studied the body’s drives in Ephraim’s
medical books. It was logical to feel this way. She was a young woman reacting
to a striking, albeit ineligible, man. She eyed the priests about her. At least
Alonso de Santangél wasn’t old and dried out, as these others were.
Ephraim set a spoon
to his lips. She held her breath—please,
Your Brilliance, keep it down!—and chided herself. She was reacting like
one of those stupid girls who pressed themselves against the bricks and swooned
whenever a conquistador who rode by. Would she be so worried about the High
Solar if he weren’t so good looking? She knew the answer to that. She would
not.
Alonso de
Santangél accepted another spoonful, and then abruptly, he choked and coughed. She
bit her lip. All around her, monks muttered in dismay. Ephraim thrust the bowl
to the page and reached for a cloth. He leaned Alonso de Santangél to his side
and helped him wretch up what little he could. Bloody spittle bubbled from his
lips. She held herself tightly, knowing she could not rush to his bedside to help.
A Luster monk approached
to help. Ephraim waved him off. “Leave it.” He glanced to where she stood at
the back of the room and beckoned her to come. “My assistant will clean it up.”
She blinked. Gods,
had she heard him right? He motioned to her a second time, so she dropped her
gaze and strode through the priests with her hands clasped. Let them think she
was no more than a servant reserved for the most odious of tasks. Alonso de
Santangél loomed into view. He is wonderful,
she thought as she drew alongside him, like
Sul after the Passion. Without a word, she dropped to her knees and thought
of the Goddess Lys in her incarnation as the Pietà, Mother of the God. With
great care, she swabbed Alonso de Santangél’s face. His flesh was a mottled
red. Her attraction fled as fear for him took its place. She wanted to cradle
him, to ease his pain. He lifted his suffering gaze to regard her. His eyes
were as blue as a summer’s sky. It took all of her strength to refrain from laying
a soft hand against his cheek, to reassure him that she would do all in her
power to help him. She caught a hint of sweetness beneath his breath. That was
wrong. Why should his breath smell sweet? Abruptly, he choked and gagged. When
he subsided, she wiped his chin and allowed the tip of her forefinger to touch
his face.
A tongue of fire
shot through her, burning her throat and turning her stomach into a molten churn.
She fought the grey that engulfed her and swallowed. Her legs buckled, but
since she was already on her knees, no one noticed. She curled her finger back
into her fist and forced herself to breathe.
Trembling, she
wiped his mouth as gently as she could, keeping her fingers clear. She couldn’t
afford to lose herself. Gods, what had he been given? She ran through the list
of possibilities. Alonso de Santangél watched her with sunken, wild eyes, his
pupils like dark beetles scuttling in a grave. One thing was certain; she and Ephraim
couldn’t leave him alone. Someone in the Solarium had done this, perhaps one of
the priests in this room. She tucked a strand of her black hair into her
kerchief. Her fingers twitched. Ephraim watched them intently.
Poison, she signed, knowing
the awful truth of it. Monkshood or oleander.
Her father’s
eyes narrowed. He glanced at the soup. He reached into his bag and withdrew an
envelope—medicinal charcoal for toxins.
“Take that
away,” he told the page, indicating the bowl of broth, “and on pain of death, don’t
touch it.” He stared hard at the lad, knowing the proclivities of young boys. “From
now on,” he told the breathless assembly, “no food or drink passes the High
Solar’s lips that I don’t prepare.”
“But what is
wrong with him?” demanded the Solarium’s Exchequer. He looked like rabbit about
to bolt for its hole.
Ephraim tipped
the charcoal into a cup of water and set it to the High Solar’s lips. “It’s a
sensitive matter, Luminance. When His Brilliance is stable, I’ll share my diagnosis
with you in private.” Her father was no fool; the last thing he would do would
be to air their suspicions publicly. He coaxed Alonso de Santangél to drink. To
Miriam’s relief, he kept it down.
“You must have some
idea,” the Exchequer pressed. “Is he contagious?”
“No. What ails
him isn’t due to any humor of the air, nor is it a god-sent punishment. He is
sick through no fault of his own.” Ephraim eased Alonso de Santangél to his
pillows. “I want this room cleared. His Brilliance needs peace and solitude if
he’s to recover.”
The Exchequer
frowned, less bothered now that he was unlikely to catch a plague. As the
priests grumbled, Alonso de Santangél captured her gaze. His eyes bore into
hers as if she were his last link to life. His fingers trembled. He lifted a
shaking hand as if to touch her.
A harsh clatter
of boots came from down the hall. The tramp grew louder. Miriam pulled her gaze
from Alonso de Santangél to see what army had arrived. A stark figure in black
and white stood framed in the chamber’s doorway. She ducked her head to hide. Gods!
Ephraim had said that the Grand Inquisitor had left for Madrone that morning,
but here he was.
Flee, her instincts told
her. Run and don’t look back.
This was the man
that all of Esbaña feared as much as they did a god-sent pestilence. In three
major cities, thousands had died smelling the stink of their burning flesh. La Puraficación de la Fé, he called it, a
purification of the faith. He had given the town one week to come forward and
confess its sins in an Edict of Grace. Most people attended. She and Ephraim had
not; Ephraim’s grandfather had been Juden until the family converted fifty
years ago. The conversions made little difference to the inquisitors; they
didn’t believe them. Now, it was too late.
“What is this?”
Tor Tomás demanded. He swept into the room, his boots striking hard against the
marble. No one said a word as he stopped before her. She lifted her head to
meet his gaze, hoping she looked as benign as a lamb. His eyes were a strange
color, so yellow as to be reptilian. He wore no tonsure as the other priests
did, but had shaved himself bald, as if to impress Sul with his greater
sanctity. His head resembled a cracked egg. A thin line cut across his face—an
old scar, she realized. His only other ornamentation, other than the official
Brand upon his chest, was a tiny hoop in his left ear. He looked more cutthroat
than priest.
Ephraim cleared
his throat. “This is my daughter. She cleans for me, nothing more.”
“Monk’s work.”
“I take the
sputum to my residence to study, Radiance. She knows how to collect it.”
Tor Tomás dismissed
the excuse with a wave. His fingers were long and thin, the nails uncut.
Something dark and ruddy rimmed their bases. “She has no business here. She
taints the very air.”
“Forgive me, but
I beg to differ.” Ephraim stood his ground. “Even the medical college in Zaragoza allows
that women have their place. I can vouch for my daughter. She’s received no
schooling, save for what little I’ve shown her. She’s no threat to anyone,
least of all, the High Solar. I would not have her here, if she were.”
“How long has
she been here?”
“Since early morning,
Radiance.”
“And why did you bring her?”
“As I explained,
she collects.…”
“You’re lying. You
brought her here because you thought she would be needed. Why is that, I
wonder?”
“I don’t know what
you mean.”
“You weren’t at the
Edict of Grace.”
“I’ve been with His
Brilliance all week.”
“That doesn’t excuse
your daughter.”
The silence was palpable.
She felt the weight of the priests’ scrutiny fall upon her. In seconds, someone
would point a gnarled finger at her and accuse her of witchcraft.
“She is
unmarried,” Ephraim said quickly. “I don’t allow her to travel or stay alone without
a chaperone.”
She walked
through Granad as she pleased, although mostly to visit the market to buy
supplies for the house or their pharmacopoeia. If the priests asked anyone who
knew them, they would uncover the lie.
Alonso de
Santangél groaned. The focus in the room shifted. Tor Tomás pursed his lips.
“How is the patient?” he asked dryly.
“Not well. I’ve
administered a tincture,” Ephraim said.
“You prepared it
yourself?”
“Of course. I
wouldn’t trust any woman to handle it.”
She closed her
eyes. Another falsehood. Fortunately, the Grand Inquisitor didn’t question it. He
studied Alonso de Santangél for a moment and then snagged his cheeks between
his thumb and forefinger. “He doesn’t look well,” he said, handling him as he
might a melon in the market.
The High Priest
sputtered to life. His arms shook as if he had no more strength in them than a
man twice his age. His hands flailed. He wheezed and choked.
“Radiance,
please.” Ephraim set a restraining hand on the Grand Inquisitor’s wrist.
The inquisitor
released his fingers as if he had touched something foul. He locked his strange
yellow eyes with Alonso de Santangél’s blue ones. The two men regarded each
other with such loathing, that anyone with a whit of understanding could not
fail to notice.
“This is
terrible, my Brothers!” Tor Tomás announced suddenly. “Your Patriarch is
dying!” He pointed at the Exchequer as if to accuse him of negligence.
“Luminance, you can’t allow him to leave this world without administering the
Holy Unction. I have with me, a shipment of wine from Madrone. Let a cup of it
be used for his last rites.”
“Radiance, there
is still hope,” Ephraim began.
Tor Tomás
dismissed him. “You’ve done quite enough, Doctor.”
“But I can save
him! Wine is the last thing he needs right now. He needs.…”
“He doesn’t need
absolution? What kind of heresy is this?” He glared at Ephraim as if he had
suggested they drain the high priest’s blood from his veins.
“I don’t mean
that! Of course, we all need absolution….”
“Step aside,
Doctor Medina. You aren’t the only one who knows impending death when he sees
it. Our brother doesn’t need a physician. He needs a priest.” He snapped his
fingers. A Luster monk rushed forward with a goblet of wine in his hand.
“Not that.”
Tomás waved him off. “The rare vintage I brought from Madrone. Ah, there it
is.” One of his retainers stepped forth with a bottle in his hand. The man was as
huge and as grim as block of granite. His black and white habit barely passed
his knees. Tomás tossed the goblet’s original contents to the floor and ignored
the gasps of shock from the clergy. He broke the bottle’s seal.
Ephraim stepped
forward. “Please! Not yet, I beg you!”
Tor Tomás
ignored him and poured fresh wine into the cup, topping it to the brim. “Great
Sul!” he cried, holding it aloft for all to see. “Your shining son, His
Brilliance Alonso de Santangél is soon to depart from this world. Let him not
descend to the perpetual darkness you reserve for all sinners! Lift him up,
Holy Sul! Grant him an eternal place at your side, ever radiant and ever
strong, free from the stagnant waters of mortality!”
Miriam watched
as the sun caught the rim of the glass. The harsh scintillation blazed like a
star. Tor Tomás brought the goblet down and passed his hand over it in
blessing. From where she sat, she saw a pale powder fall from his fingers. Before
she could speak, the inquisitor pressed the cup to the High Solar’s mouth.
Alonso de Santangél raised frantic hands to prevent it from touching his lips.
Stop! she wanted to cry,
but Ephraim had already done so. The Grand Inquisitor ignored him and pried the
High Solar’s mouth open. Alonso de Santangél had no strength to prevent it. He
swallowed—one gulp, two. Wine splashed over his face and gushed from his mouth;
there was no way he could not drink. He choked, gagged. In defeat, Miriam
folded in on herself. The sacrament went on forever. The priests and monks
looked on with distress but did nothing to prevent it.
Finally, the
goblet was done. The wine had spilled down the side of the bed and had stained
the sheets. Splotches of it spattered her face. She watched dully as Alonso de
Santangél went into convulsions. His death was violent and hard, as one might
expect for a man in his prime. She closed her eyes, couldn’t block the sounds of
his agony. She wanted to clutch him, send her apology flying after him: Your Brilliance…Alonso! Forgive me! I couldn’t stop him! I’m so sorry!
Her throat tightened into a knot, her limbs stiffened into stone. She couldn’t
afford to weep. The priests in the room watched in uneasy silence, their
expressions grim. At the last moment, she opened her eyes to capture a last shred
of Alonso de Santangél before he died. To her horror, he stared at her as a
drowning man might, as if she were the last tenuous hold he had on life. She winced,
wondering if those blue eyes registered what she was—a girl of seventeen,
smitten for the first time and at the worst possible moment in her life, a girl
devastated by his dying. With a violent shudder, his head slumped to the side
and he gave up the ghost.
She wanted to scream.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Alonso de Santangél had
been stolen from her. Now, he was inextricably lost. The clergy lifted their
hands and made the starburst of Sul. Their leader, His Brilliance, Alonso de
Santangél, and youngest patriarch to ever have served the faithful in Granad,
was dead.
Ephraim helped her
rise. She stood, feeling broken, as if some of part of her had fled. Ephraim looked
as if he had shrunk inside his robe. He set a trembling arm about her shoulders
and drew her away. They passed through the chamber like phantoms in a bone
yard.
As they reached
the doorway, a strident voice called out, “Stop them! Don’t let them escape!”
Ephraim dug his
fingers into her arm. She had been waiting for the Grand Inquisitor’s shout, as
had he. A tramp of footfalls rushed up behind them.
Her father
stepped in front of her to protect her from the guards. “Why are you stopping
us?” he demanded. “We’ve done nothing wrong!”
Tor Tomás confronted
them. “Done nothing wrong?” he repeated. “I disagree. You bring a woman into
the High Solar’s presence. You allow her to approach him on his sick bed. He
dies. You and your daughter are under arrest for the murder of Alonso de
Santangél, High Solar of Granad.”
Chapter Two
Potro
They were forced
down a long hall and pushed down a narrow set of stairs. Unlike the main floor
of the temple with its white marble facades, there was no ornamentation here.
The walls looked as if they had been hewn from bedrock. They passed thick doors
with barred windows, all monks’ cells at one time, but judging from the moans
emanating from them, not now.
“What is this
place?” Miriam demanded. They had come to a large door.
“Interrogation
Room.” The large monk shoved her into the vault. He was a barrel of a man, at
least twenty stone’s weight and over six feet tall. He slammed the door behind
her.
She grabbed the
grill. “Where are you taking my father?” she shouted. They marched Ephraim down
the hall. She strained her neck to see, but the dark swallowed him.
She spun on her
heel. The chamber was large. Numerous torches had been set into the walls. Three
chairs stood behind a table with quills, ink and vellum. On the far side, a
wooden pallet rested on thick legs at a forty-five degree angle. Lines of rope
dangled from its sides. Across its width, slats of wood lay. Each slat
terminated with a large screw.
Her heart lurched
in her chest like a bird caught in a net. Not taking her eyes from the
contraption, she forced herself to breathe.
A potro. She had never seen the damage it
could inflict, but she had heard of it. As the screws tightened, the ropes bit
into one’s flesh. Bones broke and tendons popped. People said whatever they were
told to, to relieve their pain. But why torture her if the Grand Inquisitor was
already convinced of her guilt?
The answer
flared in her mind like a spark on tinder. He might accuse her, but by law, the
Crown required confessions. Thus, the vellum and the quills.
A tramp of boots
came from down the hall. She backed away from the door as if it might attack
her. The same beefy guard who had imprisoned her earlier opened it and stood to
one side as the Exchequer and another priest filed in—a secretary to record her
confession, no doubt. Before she could run, the guard grabbed her and marched
her to stand before her judges as they took their seats. She cringed as Tor
Tomás appeared in the doorway. He paused as he beheld her, his snake’s eyes
bright.
She flinched.
The guard held her firm. His touch was anything but reassuring, but there was
something unexpected in it—he wasn’t the brutal thug she thought him to be. He
was unhappy with the proceedings. Why? As he released her, the fleeting
impression was gone. The secretary smoothed the roll of vellum, took a quill
and dipped it into an inkwell. The Exchequer stared at her, his expression sour.
As for Tor Tomás—he lounged in his chair, but his glance burned.
A hot flush rose
up the back of her neck. His regard was not that of a cold, desiccated cleric arguing
the finer points of canon law. He stared at her as the men in the square did,
their lust as obvious as the bulges in their hose. She held her head high and ignored
him, a foolish stance, but it hardly mattered what she did. From the faint
smile touching his lips, he knew it, too.
“Your name?” The smile disappeared. He was all
business now.
She met his gaze
boldly. “Miriam Medina.”
“Medina? A Juden
name, is it not?” The Exchequer glanced between the secretary and Tor Tomás as
if he had just realized it. They waited for her to confirm it.
She lifted her
chin. “My family is devout. We are Conversos.”
“As all Conversos claim to be. Still, your
father kept the family name,” Tor Tomás pointed out.
“As we are required
to do, by law.”
“Miriam is also a Juden name. If your family is so
law-abiding, why did your parents choose a Juden name for you?”
She said nothing.
“Do you and your
father attend the Solarium regularly?”
“We pay our tithes.”
“That’s not what
I asked.”
“We maintain a
shrine to Sul at home. We can’t always attend services. My father is often
called to assist the sick.”
“Your mother’s
name?”
“Mari.”
“Not a Juden
name. Her surname?”
“I don’t know
it.”
All three
blinked at her. “How can you not know it?” Tor Tomás asked.
“She died when I
was three.”
“Even so, I find
it hard to believe that you wouldn’t know her name. Surely, your father told
you. How did she die?”
“An illness of
some kind, I think.”
“You think and
your father’s a physician.” He turned to the Exchequer and secretary. “Maybe he
poisoned her, too. What were the details of her death?”
“I don’t know
them.”
He set a long
finger to his lips. “Was there some scandal involved? Some reason your father
would disassociate himself from her? Was she Juden, as well?”
“We are Conversos.”
“Yes, yes. How
old are you?”
She glanced away.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen and unmarried?”
“My father never
arranged it.” Ephraim had, but she had refused all three suits. Every time she
had tried to talk to the mayor’s son about the town’s growth, he said her
interest demeaned her—she was too pretty to be concerned about such things. The
head of the Silk Guild’s nephew rubbed his thighs and spoke to her breasts. The
third was a widower three times her age with a daughter two years younger than
she. After one too many pats on the knee, she told him he was a lecherous old
panderer who should marry someone his own age and leave her alone. He called
her a shrew. After that, the suits stopped. She decided she didn’t need men and
would remain a spinster all her life.
“You’re a
virgin?”
She frowned. It
was no business of his.
“Answer the
question!”
“Yes!”
He regarded her
without saying anything. His gaze drifted to her breasts and lingered on her
hips. Her face grew hot. He shifted in his seat. “How did you kill Alonso de
Santangél?” His voice returned to normal.
“I didn’t kill
him.”
“But your father
did.”
“My father
hasn’t killed anyone.”
“Yet you
practice medicine alongside him. Perhaps you made a mistake.”
“I didn’t….” A
trap. “I do not practice medicine. I
only help him clean.”
“Perhaps you
assisted in killing the High Solar.”
“I didn’t murder
him.” She regarded him through narrowed eyes. He had dropped the powder into
the wine. The certainty that he had killed Alonso de Santangél resounded in her
heart so loudly that it might have been a bell tolling from a tower.
“Am I allowed to
ask you a question, Radiance?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Does the god
speak to you directly?” The Solarium taught that only saints heard the voice of
Sul.
He nodded
stiffly, unsure of where she was going. “He sends me impressions.”
“Then if the god
speaks to you truly, you know who really committed the High Solar’s murder.”
His eyes flashed.
She had accused him covertly and he knew it. The Exchequer didn’t notice. He
waved his hand in dismissal. “This is getting us nowhere. She isn’t about to
confess unless we put her to the question. Set her on the potro and be done with it. We have a Requiem to arrange.”
The small flush
of victory curdled in her gut. She wanted to bolt, but the guard was behind
her. Tor Tomás held up his hand and smiled coldly. Why had she been so rash? He
would punish her even more severely, because of it. “Not yet, Luminance.”
She swallowed. He
was breathing more heavily, now. “With one so young, we must be…indulgent. By
all means, go and arrange the High Solar’s interment. Take Brother Diego and
the guards with you. I’ll finish the interrogation on my own.”
Her heart hammered
in her chest while her head yammered warnings. If they left, there would be no witnesses.
What were those marks on his
fingernails? He could be capable of anything. She didn’t want to be alone with
him.
The Exchequer
fidgeted. “I wish it were so easy, Radiance. Unfortunately, we can’t go. The
Crown expects us to stick to proper procedure. With the High Solar’s demise, it
falls to me to act as spokesman for the Solarium. Granad must remain above
reproach. As protocol dictates, I will stay awhile longer.”
Tor Tomás bit
off the words. “If you recall, Luminance,
I established those procedures. Under their most gracious majesties, I have the
authority to change them at will.”
The Exchequer
remained unruffled. “Of course, but revisions take time. We’d have to assign a
scribe to pen them, and then send them by the fastest horse to Madrone. I wish
we had that luxury, but we have a funeral Mass to perform. We can’t leave
Alonso for long. Not in this heat.”
Tomás leaned
back in his chair. “Let us continue with the questioning. Do you bear any
birthmarks or unusual blemishes?” The hooded snake of some new emotion lifted
behind his veneer. He was calm again.
She did bear one
birthmark, a tiny dark crescent that lay between her breasts like a curl of
hair. A moon mark, Ephraim had called it when she was little. She hoped her
tone conveyed a lack of interest. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am sure.”
“What about tattoos?”
Tattoos were associated
with forbidden knowledge. She didn’t have any, but her mother had had. She
scoffed. “Of course not.”
He smiled at her,
a serpent cornering a chick. “So, you know what tattoos are?”
“I’ve seen them.”
Why had she been so brash earlier? It would have been better to play the fool.
“Where?”
“On a man who
visited my father. A sailor. The mark was infected. My father treated it.”
“What did it
look like?”
“I don’t
remember.”
“How did he
treat it?”
“A…a poultice.”
“What kind of a poultice?”
Too great of an
understanding of herbs would confirm her knowledge of medicine. Maybe it was
too late for that. She had convinced him she was no fool. Drat, her blasted
tongue! “I don’t know.”
“Again, that dreary
response, you don’t know. Let’s leave
her for now, Luminance, and speak with the father. Barto, watch her.” He rose
from his chair. The henchman nodded.
The three
priests filed from the room and closed the door behind them. The guard was her
one chance. She approached him as she might a tame bear. “Your name is Barto?”
He frowned at
her and looked away. It was against the rules to speak with prisoners.
“Please. They’ll
hurt me. You know this.” She plucked up her courage and set a hand on his forearm.
“Get off!” He pulled
his arm away, but it was enough. The touch confirmed what she knew. She reminded
him of someone.
“Do you have
family somewhere?” If she could appeal to that sense of connection, she might turn
him.
He refused to
look at her. She thrust a finger at the potro,
as if to accuse him of setting it there. “You’d let them do that to your sister, Barto?”
“I don’t have no
sister.”
“Your mother,
then?”
“She’s dead.”
“I’ll be dead if
you don’t help me! Please! You must!”
He turned his
back on her.
He was too big
to straddle. She would have to talk her way around him, to coax him. Who did
she remind him of? He wouldn’t have a wife. As part of the Grand Inquisitor’s
retinue, he wouldn’t have the means to maintain a mistress, either. “Please, I’m
innocent, Barto. I…I am only seventeen! I’m too young to die! You must believe
me! I didn’t kill the High Solar!”
He looked
pained.
“Please, I beg
you! Do what’s right and let me go.”
He laughed. “And
have my cojones torched for it?”
He might as well
have slapped her. Fury found its way up from her throat like coals spewing from
a pit. “So, you’d let them burn me instead?
What kind of a man are you? You’re a coward! You’re all cowards! I hate you!” She flew at him, rammed his chest with
her fists.
His face twisted
with anger. He shoved her aside. “I ain’t no coward! Shut up!”
A harsh staccato
came from down the hall. Someone running. The door to the cell burst open and
Tor Tomás rushed in, breathing hard.
His face shone
with triumph. “Your father claims he never treated anyone with a tattoo! Which
means you lied to me, Witch! I
suspect you know all about them, that you’re hiding a few yourself! Hold her,
Barto. Let’s see what kind of a creature she really is.”
She drew back in
alarm. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I don’t have any tattoos!” she insisted.
If they stripped her, they would find the birthmark. They would put her on the potro. It was only a matter of time
before she told them everything—how she did more than assist Ephraim, how she
prepared his potions, and worst of all, how she sensed others with a touch.
“Don’t stand
there like a fool! Seize her!” Tomás’s words set Barto into motion. She backed
away from him but kept her eyes on the two of them, looking for a break in
their front. With Barto on her right and Tomás on her left, they hemmed her
like hounds on a doe.
Her fingertips bumped
the far wall. She made a mad dash past Barto, but Tomás lunged and caught her in
his horrid hands. He swung her around and slammed her into the table. Quills
flew through the air. His eyes were feral, he stank of wine. He pushed her
down, grappled her breasts. She screamed and kicked him only to win a blow to
her head. The pain stunned her. She choked in shock.
“What are you
hiding, Witch?” His lips nuzzled her ear. His lust felt as greasy as blood. He
drew back his arm and struck her again. The blow shuddered through her
cheekbone. She bit her tongue. She gasped and turned her head away, fearing another
strike. Something hard prodded her between the legs. She didn’t have to guess
what it was.
“Stop!”
She couldn’t see
who had shouted, but whoever it was had enough authority to stay him.
“This is highly
untoward! There is no need!” The Exchequer was discomfited by the display of
violence. “You can let the girl go. The doctor has confessed.”
The words rang
in her head. Ephraim had confessed? Why would he do such a thing? Papa, what have you done?
And then she
knew. The answer flattened her like one of Tomás’s blows. Ephraim had lied to save
her. Oh, Papa, she thought, you haven’t spared me. You’ve only made
things worse!
“He’s admitted
his guilt, although he maintains his daughter is innocent. I see no need for us
to proceed further,” the Exchequer said.
“There is a need.” Tomás’s weight crushed her.
She lay trapped between his arms. “She’s a witch. She has a tattoo, I think. At
least one, maybe more. I was about to search for it.”
“Be that as it
may, there’s still the Mass to perform. You can leave her for now. Once we’re
done, you can deal with her as you see fit. She isn’t going anywhere.”
His mouth brushed
her ear. “I want you to think of something while I’m gone,” he whispered, like
a lover suggesting favors. “Have you ever heard of a device called ‘the Pear’, little
witch? It’s an interesting tool, shaped like its namesake. One inserts it into
bodily cavities, like so.” He drew away from her and held his hands as if in
prayer. And then he spread them into a ‘V’.
She knew what
had caused the blood stains on his fingers.
“Are you coming,
Radiance?” The Exchequer waited at the doorway.
Tomás ignored
him. “I can’t wait to see how my toy affects you. But of course”—he touched his
crotch briefly; she doubted that the Exchequer saw—“you can always beg for the
alternative.”
He smoothed down
his habit. His intentions were clear, his plans for her delayed, not done.
Her legs threatened
to give out from beneath her. As Barto locked the door behind them, she slid to
her knees and lay where she fell. Her cheek throbbed where Tomás had struck her.
She barely noticed it, chilled by his words. He would return in a few hours and
rape her, perhaps do worse things. She turned her face into the flagstones, choked
to keep from crying, and utterly failed.
*
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