The Omega Factor(14)
“That’s a decision for the abbess.”
She knew this woman was nearing eighty, a maiden for nearly sixty years and a former abbess, now retired. Once a capable guardian, like so many other women who’d come before her, now she lived here in seclusion and safety, enjoying a hard-earned rest, far away from the realities to the south.
She was curious. “Did you ever have to deal with death?”
“Once.”
She knew that in the time leading up to and including World War II, there’d been several fatalities within the order. Ever since, though, she’d always believed that things had remained relatively calm. But this woman was speaking of a time long after the war.
“I was unaware,” she told her elder.
“There is much you do not know.” The older woman laid a hand on her shoulder, the small appendage shaking with a slight palsy, worry lines heavy on her face. “We all believe that you will one day be abbess. You are a devoted guardian. But please don’t forget your vows.”
None of that mattered at the moment.
Only Sister Rachel.
So she bowed her head.
And prayed.
Chapter 7
Bernat considered himself an experienced, worldly man with an infinite capacity for patience. But the sight of the bound priest swept waves of revulsion through him. And not for the older man’s predicament. No. His thoughts were with the victims of this sexual predator. He’d spoken the truth when he’d told Tallard why they’d come.
For justice.
“Waterboarding was one of the most common tortures employed by the Spanish Inquisition during the fifteenth century,” he said. “This has never been a secret. It is attested to by reams of letters, debates, manuals of instruction, and copious records of trials that include verbatim accounts of the torture sessions. I personally have read some of those in the historical archives of Spain. But it was not invented there. Since the thirteenth century it had been widely used by European civil and ecclesiastical courts. Unlike the Americans in the twenty-first century who wanted to label it ‘enhanced interrogation,’ it is clearly torture—and was meant to be that from the start.”
Tallard’s eyes were wild with fear.
“The Holy Roman Church used it extensively here, in the Languedoc, when the Inquisition came after the Albigensian Crusade. And they were quite methodical with its application. When ready, the inquisitors and a recording secretary adept at speed writing would gather in a chamber. Everything that happened was written down. Sort of the electronic recording of its day. But unlike today, back then an attending doctor could rule the accused unfit to be tortured and order the procedure stopped.” He paused. “Of course, that rarely occurred.”
Then he smiled, enjoying this man’s anxiety.
Andre returned with a pitcher filled with water.
“Once the accused was brought into the chamber, he or she was offered six opportunities to make a full and voluntary confession. Fear, in the presence of imminent pain, was generally enough to loosen an accused’s tongue. It was only when fear did not work that torture was applied, with each step of the procedure, each jar of water, each turn of the winch, each question and choked-out answer, duly noted by the recording secretary.”
The priest angled his head up and screamed for help.
Bernat slapped the back of his hand across the fool’s face, sending the head back down over the table edge. “There’s no one to come to your aid.”
“You’re insane.”
He tossed a practiced show of casualness Tallard’s way. “I prefer that label to what you are.” He faced Andre. “Tell him.”
The young man stared down at the priest. “Do you remember me?”
“No.”
One.
“I remember you,” Andre said in a low, dry voice. “The smell of your sweat. The touch of your clothes. Your wandering hands. The way you held me tightly against you.”
“Lies. Lies. Lies,” Tallard yelled.
Two.
“The way you tried to put your tongue in my mouth. I was eleven years old and could not avoid you.”
“You are mistaking me for someone else. I feel for you. I truly do. But it was not me.”
Three.
“You would always say I was your little boy. That you loved me and that what was happening was our secret and I must not tell anyone.”
Tallard shook his head in denial.
Four.
“And I told no one,” Andre said. “Not my parents. Friends. Other priests. The nuns. No one. I kept it all to myself for twenty years.”
For the first time Andre’s voice cracked. Horrible memories surely flooding back. Bernat had been warned that this could occur. No matter. Evil had to be faced. Tonight.
“You both must believe me,” Tallard spit out. “I have never done such things. Never.”
“This young man,” Bernat said, “and others say otherwise. The charges you currently face say otherwise. Are they all lying?”
“No. Of course not. I would never want to minimize their pain. But it was not me.”
Five.
“You have been shielded for a long time,” he said, keeping his voice in a hushed, reverent tone. “By bishops who thought they could sweep it all away with no accountability. By Rome who turned a blind eye. By prosecutors who did not want to be bothered. By the public-at-large who seemed not to care. But your crimes are clear. There is no doubt as to your guilt. So I will give you one last chance to confess.”