Wolves Among Us(18)

Stefan opened his mouth to say more, then shut it. What knowledge did he have of witches? Who would call in an Inquisitor and then be so bold as to argue with him?

“My friends,” Bastion called, circling the fire to either side. The heat distorted his face. “Can a good woman be forced to commit adultery? Would a good woman welcome the Devil into her home, destroy her marriage, provoke her husband’s murder?”

Stefan saw looks exchanged among his people. What the looks meant he did not know. His people had their own language, just as he had his Latin, he supposed.

“Catarina was no good woman. She was the witch,” Bastion declared.

Heads in the crowd swiveled, words were murmured as hands clutched onto arms, and children put their hands to their mouths. Stefan caught sight of Dame Alice, arms folded, jaw set. She did not believe Bastion. She turned to look at Stefan, shaking her head at him.

“Does the news shock you? In the Spanish royal court, we saw many of these cases. But I will prove it easily. How did the husband die?”

Stefan spoke for the village. “Stabbed in the side.”

“The wounds of Christ.” Bastion smiled to himself. “Stabbed in the side, just like our Lord and Savior. Betrayed with a kiss, no doubt, just as our Lord and Savior. A righteous man dying an unjust death. Do you see it, the mockery of what you hold sacred?”

The people nodded. But Stefan didn’t see it, certainly didn’t see the Savior in Cronwall, not with Cronwall’s drinking and temper.

“And the witch, the woman you call Catarina, how did she die?” Bastion called.

“A broken neck,” someone replied from the crowd. “There were bruises, too.”

Ducinda pressed her face into her shawl, weeping. Stefan instinctively reached for her but stopped himself when he noticed the villagers watching him. What would it mean to comfort Ducinda if her friend was a witch? He took a step back from her, returning his attention to Bastion, willing the people to do the same, to turn away from his momentary indiscretion.

Bastion smirked, eyes closed. “Our enemy is predictable. Dangerous, yes, but entirely predictable. My friends, I have chased your enemy, the Devil, over sea and land, across borders and kingdoms, and yet I tell you the truth: Never once has he surprised me. His work is always the same. Only the women’s names change.”

Stefan nodded in agreement with Bastion, cutting his eyes side to side to see if anyone still watched him.

“The Devil often breaks the necks of his witches. In my travels, when I have caught a witch and she is to burn, I often find her dead in her cell by morning, most often by hanging. Her neck is always broken. Witches who desire confession, who desire to turn from their errors, are troublesome to the Devil’s work. He silences them the only way any woman can be silenced: through death. Sometimes there is a struggle, if the woman had been a good soul before she gave herself to him. Oh, beware, my friends: The Devil is indeed among you. But he cannot harm you without human assistance. For how can the spiritual world enter into the physical world except by human host? The Devil is powerless among you until he inhabits one of you. Bring me Catarina’s body.”

Erick pulled a cart with the casket upon it toward Bastion. Erick’s shoulders strained under the linen shirt Stefan had supplied last year. Erick had outgrown yet another set of clothes. He had become an impressive man in many ways. Stefan wondered if Erick would remain with him much longer, especially now that Bastion had arrived.

“Thank you, my son,” Bastion said. Erick seemed taken aback. Bastion called him a son for the second time today. He had only just met him. Stefan frowned.

“What fellowship does light have with darkness?” Bastion asked the people, who remained silent. Stefan glared at them and huffed. They should know the proper response. “What have you taught them, Father?”

Stefan froze with no answer.

Bastion ran his hand over the coffin. Ducinda had paid for a lovely coffin, carved with spring flowers and vines. Bastion shoved the lid onto the dirt and tilted the coffin away from himself. Catarina’s body tumbled out, her broken neck making her head land at a grotesque angle.

Children screamed and ducked underneath their mothers’ shawls. Men looked away, twisting their mouths. Stefan found he could not close his mouth, his shock freezing his will.

Bastion pointed at him. “You would give a Christian burial to a witch?”

Stefan was nervous. “I … I asked a woman, Ducinda here, to help with her burial, and this is what she chose.” He didn’t mean to turn against Ducinda, but it was the truth. He wanted this over quickly.

Faces turned to Ducinda, who lowered her shawl from her tear-streaked face in horror. “I did not know. Father Stefan told me nothing.”

“A witch must be burned and her ashes dumped into a river,” Bastion said to the crowd. No one moved. Erick stepped forward to protest, but Bastion whipped toward him with a pointed finger, holding him back.

“Did you hear me? Does anyone among you fear the Lord? An enemy of Christ is before you. Throw her body into the fire! Show me that you fear your Lord.”

In obedience, Stefan made a move toward the body, but other men grabbed her first. One took her by the ankles, the other by her hands, carrying her to the bonfire. Erick threw his arm over his eyes, turning away. Stefan looked away too, into the dark edges of the night. These men once hoped to court gentle Catarina. He had heard their confessions; he knew the thoughts they had of her in those days. Now he heard them grunt as they lifted and threw her into the flames. A shadow caught his eye, and he thought he saw a woman running into the forest beyond them, her silver hair catching the moonlight.