The Scribe(22)
Suddenly her heart gave a leap upon hearing voices outside, and those voices were growing ever nearer. Horrified, she stopped what she was doing and ran to the door. Was it the Larssons? She pressed her head against the wall, peering through a crack, and saw two blurred figures approaching the house. Oh, Lord! They looked like armed men and in a few seconds they would be inside the room.
She had to find somewhere to hide. Remembering the pile of wood by the guillotine, she ran and crouched behind it, just as the men burst in. She tucked her head between her legs and prayed they would not discover her. But the two men, instead of searching the place, went to the middle of the room and set about lighting the fire.
Hidden behind the firewood, Theresa could see what was happening. What were they waiting for? Why were they not searching for her? From her hiding place she peered around the woodpile to watch the men remove their weapons and skewer a pair of squirrels to roast on the fire. They laughed and gesticulated like two drunks, shoving each other and turning their spits with indifference. She examined the bulkiest one, a mountain of fat covered in furs, whose mere girth made simply standing upright and not falling flat on his face seem laudable. The skinny one would not stay still and was constantly scratching his freckled face and turning up his nose to sniff his prey. Theresa thought that if a rat could walk on two legs, it would look just like this man.
At one point, the bigger one blurted something to the freckled man, who then made a motion as if to grab his knife. But he suddenly stopped, and they both burst out in noisy laughter. When they had calmed down, Theresa realized they were speaking in an unintelligible dialect, and then it dawned on her that only a miracle could save her. Those men were not soldiers, nor were they from Würzburg. They looked like Saxons: pagans ready to kill the first unlucky soul to cross their paths.
At that moment Theresa leaned against a piece of timber, knocking it onto the ground with a crash. She held her breath as the big man’s stupid eyes fell upon the log, but instead of investigating the source of the noise, he turned back to the fire to continue his cooking. The freckled man, however, gazed toward the woodpile. Then he picked up a burning branch, gripped his knife, and slowly advanced toward the logs. Theresa closed her eyes and curled up so tightly her bones hurt. Suddenly a hand grabbed her hair and pulled her up onto her feet. She kicked and screamed, trying to shake off her captor, but a brutal punch to her face took her breath away. The taste of blood made her realize that the last thing she would see would be the faces of these murderous Saxons.
The freckled man held the torch near Theresa and examined her like someone who had found a vixen in a rabbit trap. He smiled when he noticed her fair skin, its only imperfection the mark from his punch. He slowly looked down to her breasts, which he could see were firm and generous, before continuing down to her hips, wide and well-defined.
Sheathing his knife, he dragged her by the arm to the center of the room. There, Theresa watched in horror as he undid his trousers to reveal a hairy, palpitating member. The young woman stood paralyzed. She could never imagine such a horrible thing could be hiding under a pair of trousers. She was so terrified that her bladder spontaneously emptied itself, making her feel she might die of shame. The two men, however, celebrated her accident with a guffaw. Then the big man held her, while the other tore at her dress.
A grotesque smile spread across the freckled man’s face as Theresa’s stomach was exposed in the glow of the embers. He admired how her pale flesh contrasted with the triangle that crowned the top her legs and felt desire ferociously gnawing at him. He spat on his member, rubbed it, and guided it toward Theresa.
The young woman cried out and struggled furiously. She cursed them over and over and, somehow amidst her thrashing about, managed to free herself, taking the opportunity to run toward the pile of logs. Frantically she groped for the stylus she had in her bag, thinking she might have a chance if she could find it. But her hands rummaged in the dim light, seemingly in vain.
Just as the freckled one was about to jump on her, Theresa grasped her father’s stylus and held it out in front of her, hands trembling. The skinny man stopped, the implement just a hand’s width from his face.
The big man looked on in astonishment, waiting like a dog for his master’s command, but the freckled one said nothing and merely burst into laughter. Then he picked up a jug and drank until the liquid streamed down his chin over his clothes. Without letting go of the jug, he slapped Theresa with his other hand, making the stylus fly through the air.
Theresa suddenly found herself lying on the clog-covered bench, with the Saxon on top of her drooling over her face. The smell of alcohol filled her nostrils. Fevered from the wine, the Saxon fumbled for his organ, pinning Theresa’s arms down above her head. Theresa tried to close her legs, but the man pulled them violently apart. At that moment she noticed that her assailant’s right hand was resting under the gigantic blade. He was so drunk he hadn’t even realized. If she could just get her arms free for an instant… She lifted her head and kissed the Saxon on the mouth, taking him by surprise.
Theresa took advantage of his confusion. In an instant, she pushed away the support under the guillotine, making it drop down onto the Saxon’s hand with such violence that his fingers flew through the air, blood gushing as they were severed clean off.
Theresa took her chance and ran for the door while the wounded man rolled around like a hog. She would have escaped were it not for the big one, who stood in her path. She tried to sidestep him, but with unexpected speed the man grabbed her by the hair and raised his knife.