Jeanne did not answer and Yursa turned her head to see a strange maid.
“I thought you were Jeanne,” she exclaimed. “Is she off duty?”
“Non, m’mselle, but she’s hurt herself and she asks if you’ll come and see her.”
“But, of course!” Yursa said. “Has she had an accident?”
“A small one, m’mselle, but her hands are bleeding and she thought that you would know what to do.”
“I will come at once,” Yursa said. “Have you any bandages?”
“Oui, m’mselle, everything. If you’ll just come and see her – ”
Yursa walked to the door and the maid hurried ahead.
She led her quickly along the broad corridor and down a small staircase that Yursa had not seen before.
Then they walked along a narrow passage and down some more stairs that were dimly lit unlike the rest of The Château, which always seemed to be a blaze of light.
Yursa thought vaguely that it was in the direction of the Chapel, but she did not recognise it.
When they had descended the last staircase, they were in what seemed a small very dark hall with an outer door in it.
She wondered if Jeanne had not fallen inside The Château, as she had assumed, but outside.
Yursa was just about to ask if that was true when the maid opened the door.
She thought that she saw somebody large like a man in darkness, but was not certain.
Whoever it was pushed through the door, bumping into her and something dark and heavy was thrown over her head.
She gave a cry of protest, but her voice was lost in the thickness of the material that covered her.
Then she was picked up and carried outside.
She was put down roughly on what she thought was a wooden floor.
But, as she struggled ineffectively, she felt the floor beneath her move and there was the sound of wheels and of horses’ hoofs.
She realised that she was in a cart.
Because what covered her was so thick and heavy, her voice as she tried to cry out for help was lost and she doubted if even those nearby could hear her.
She felt hands on her ankles and realised that her feet were being tied together and then a rope enveloped her waist and pinned her arms to her sides.
The cart was very uncomfortable and she was thrown from side to side as the horses gathered speed.
She was aware that somebody was sitting near her and, even if she had struggled to be free, she could not escape.
No one spoke and there was no sound except the rumble of wheels over stony ground and the clatter of the horses’ hoofs.
‘I have been – kidnapped!’ Yursa told herself.
There was no need to ask who was responsible for such an outrage.
She might have guessed, she thought, that when Zelée de Salône’s curses failed she would try to hurt her in some more violent way.
Yursa was frightened, so frightened that she felt as if her heart might stop beating.
Then because there was nothing else she could do, she began to pray to her Guardian Angel as Jeanne had told her to do.
‘Help – me! Help – me! Save – me!’ she begged.
Remembering the hatred in Zelée de Salône’s eyes and the vibrations that had emanated from her, she was desperately afraid.
They must have travelled for perhaps fifteen minutes, although it seemed longer.
The horses, because of the rough ground they were travelling over, had to go much slower and still slower until they were moving at only a walk.
Suddenly the cart came to a standstill and now Yursa could hear voices, women’s voices.
It seemed, although it was hard to hear through the thickness of the material which covered her head, that they were intoning or rather chanting in what seemed to be a strange incomprehensible language.
Then strong arms were lifting her out from the cart.
Somebody untied her feet and, when the rope was taken from her waist, the covering was lifted from her head.
For a moment, because she had been in complete darkness and because she was afraid as well, she could see nothing.
Then there was the light of flares and she could see that she was in a wood.
There were also several people near to her, although she was not aware of them for a few seconds.
And they were all women.
They were looking at her, staring at her.
In the light of the flares, which were coming nearer, she could see that they were peasant women, dressed in the worn gowns they worked in in the fields, but with their hair falling loose over their shoulders.
She thought that they were young, but it was difficult to see clearly until a flaming torch carried by another woman lit up the scene.
It was then because the sounds of those around her were so eerie that Yursa asked,
“Why am I – here? Why have you – brought – me away from – The Château in this disgraceful – manner?”
She meant her voice to ring out, but, because she was afraid, it was low and she thought rather childlike.
The women looking at her did not reply, but the woman near her holding the torch took a step to one side.
Confronting her was Zelée de Salône!
Her appearance was very different from the way she had looked when she was at The Château.
Now her dark hair, which had been dressed so fashionably, was flowing over her and she wore a peculiar dress that flared out at the knees.
Her shoulders and arms were bare except for the skin of a wild animal, which hung down from one shoulder over one breast and was caught round her waist with a gold band.
She wore golden earrings that flashed as her head moved.
There were bracelets on her wrists and, Yursa was to notice later, round her ankles above her bare feet.
She stood gazing at Yursa and now the vibrations of hatred seemed to pour out from her so that Yursa felt as if she could not only feel but see them.
With an effort, because she had the idea that Zelée de Salône was trying to hypnotise her, she asked,
“Why have – you brought– me here madame?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” Zelée replied. “I warned you, but you would not listen to my warning. Now you must pay the price for your disobedience to our Lord and Master!”
She spoke with a strange exaltation in her voice.
Yursa saw in the light of the flare she held that the pupils of her eyes were dilated and very dark.
“You had no – right to carry me – away!” Yursa managed to say.
Zelée laughed and it was a very unpleasant sound.
“Tonight I have every right,” she said. “I am a servant of Satan and when he calls you obey! Tonight, you insignificant little Englishwoman, you have the honour to be the sacrifice to our Master! He will then give us the power we are asking of him.”
As she spoke, still in that strange wild tone, there was a murmur of excitement from the women who were listening to her.
Now Zelée turned round with a swirl of her skirt and without being told, Yursa was seized by the arms and forced to follow her.
They went further into the wood where there was a clearing and Yursa could see more flares and more women and knew without being told that this was a Witches’ Sabbat.
She felt a shiver at the idea, but there was nothing she could do but march along behind Zelée.
Then, as she appeared the women who had been intoning as Yursa had heard them, all rose to their feet.
Zelée stopped.
“She is here!” she screamed. “Here, the sacrifice that our Lord Satan, Prince of Darkness, has demanded. We have brought him what you all know he desired, an Englishwoman to pay the price for the crime the English perpetrated against our own Joan of Arc.”
The women cheered in a way that made them sound as if they were screaming.
Then, as they pressed forward to look at Yursa, Zelée said,
“
Don’t let’s waste any time, but offer her up so that she dies as Joan died, in the flames, for which Burgundy has wept tears of blood.”
Listening to her and the strange wildness in her voice, it suddenly struck Yursa that she was doped in some way.
She remembered vaguely hearing that the herbs that witches used in their potions often included the wild poppy, which yielded opium.
Then, as Zelée moved away, Yursa could see directly in front of her that there was a post in the centre of the clearing.
She knew as her captors pushed her forward that she was to be tied to it and only as she reached it did the full horror of what was to take place sweep over her.
She had to climb over several stacked logs to reach the post and then they turned her round and wound a rope around her waist.
Another was tied round her feet and she understood with a terror that was almost beyond thought that she was to be burned at the stake!
Zelée was screaming and chattering and the witches, most of them young rather stupid-looking women with their long hair falling untidily round their faces, were rummaging about in the wood.
They came back with small branches of dried leaves, throwing them on top of the logs that had been arranged round the post.
It seemed to Yursa that she was in a bad dream that she could not wake up from.
It was impossible to believe that this was really happening to her.
Could Zelée de Salône, whom she had seen as an elegantly dressed social guest in The Château, be this wild, drugged, screaming creature?
Yet there was no doubt that she was mad with excitement and the effect of the drugs she had taken.
Zelée kept looking at Yursa, who pressed her lips together and lifted her chin defiantly, because she knew what satisfaction it would give if she begged for mercy.
Suddenly, as if her hatred welled up within her, Zelée screamed,
“Why should she burn in a gown when Joan died in little more than her shift? Take it from her! Cut it off! Pull it off! Let her look like the English canaille she is!”
Two women hurried to obey her.
They dragged the drapery from Yursa’s bodice and the delicately puffed sleeves that covered the tops of her arms.
Another woman hacked away at the pretty bustle and the draped skirt until Yursa wore nothing but her chemise.
Only the petticoat that hung from her waist covered her legs.
The women flung the pieces of the gown they had ripped away onto the logs and other women coming from between the trees covered them with more leaves and twigs.
“Pull down her hair!” Zelée shouted.
Roughly so that Yursa winced, but forced herself not to cry out, two women snatched away the pins that Jeanne had arranged her hair with.
It fell over her shoulders, covering, she thought, a little of her nakedness.
“That is better,” Zelée sneered. “Now she is an ordinary creature who nobody could be afraid of. She will be humiliated and destroyed. Like the English brutes and murderers who killed our Joan!”
The name obviously meant something to the young witches, who repeated it to themselves as if it was a catchphrase and shouted and cheered after everything that Zelée said.
Drawing herself up, she cried,
“That is enough. Now we will begin to invoke the Great One, our Master the King, he in whom we believe, and ask for his presence here amongst us tonight.”
“Our Master – Beelzebub! Adramelech! Lucifer! Satan we are thy slaves! Come to us! Come! Come! Honour us with thy presence!”
The women intoned the words, but now there was nothing low or melodious about their voices.
Instead they were shrill, some of them shrieking, several waving their hands as they did so.
“We worship you,” Zelée was calling. “We worship you, Satan. We are your slaves, your lovers. We kneel at your feet. Hear our cry and come to us!”
“Come to us! Come to us! Lord, we worship you.”
The women’s voices rose to a shrill crescendo.
As she listened, the rope that held Yursa’s feet and hands seemed to bite into her flesh.
She could feel the evil behind every word and pulsating in every breath they drew.
Then she looked away from them up into the sky towards the stars.
She knew that God would hear her prayer and that, if she died, it would not be Satan who had carried her away, but God.
She had prayed every night ever since she was a child and she felt that her mother was with Him now.
There was no chance of her being saved, she thought, but at least she would die knowing that death was unimportant.
She belonged to everything that was good and beautiful and therefore Satan could have no claim on her.
She felt as if her whole being strained upwards towards the stars and that the Saints were protecting her and she could see her mother’s face.
‘Help me, Mama,’ she prayed. ‘Help me to be brave so that I do not scream or humiliate myself before these terrible women.’
She thought that her mother smiled at her.
Then once again she was hearing Zelée’s words above the noise of the other women.
“Come, Satan, Come! Beelzebub, hear us. We are waiting. Here is your sacrifice. Here is the Englishwoman who will die in your name!”
Then, taking her eyes from the stars and looking down, Yursa saw Zelée seize the torch from the woman nearest to her and bend forward.
She ignited the leaves and twigs at the base of the pile.
As she did so, Yursa was aware that she was thinking that the slower the fire burned before it reached her the more frightening it would be and the more pain it would cause her.
Slowly, Zelée walked all round the pile, making the twigs and the dried leaves burn up sharply and just begin to affect the bottom row of the logs.
The smoke from it began to rise.
Yursa thought that if she breathed deeply, perhaps it would dull her consciousness and help her to bear the pain when it came when the flames reached her feet and legs.
‘Help me. Oh God, help me,’ she prayed.
She looked up again at the stars, feeling that only they could see what was happening to her and in some way would help her.
‘Help me! Help me!’
Now the bottom row of the logs was burning.
Zelée gave out a command and the witches, joining hands, began to dance round the burning pile.
They were still shouting, crying out their prayers to Satan, and the logs were beginning to crackle.
Yursa knew that it was only a question of minutes before she would begin to burn.
‘God, help me!’
There was nothing else she could say as even the words of her prayers slipped from her mind.
She was left with an intensity that consumed her whole mind, heart and soul for the God she believed in.
Then, as the women’s voices rose higher and higher, Zelée screamed with ecstasy,
“He is here! Satan is here!”
Yursa found herself trembling.
Could they really have summoned Satan by their faith in him?
Chapter Five
When all his older guests had gone up to bed, the Duc found himself left with three of his friends, who were about the same age as himself.
“What shall we do?” he asked. “Do you feel like a game of bridge?”
“I have a better idea,” one man replied. “I would like to see a duel between you and Henri. It is something I always enjoy.”
The Duc laughed, but Henri, the Vicomte Soisson, said ruefully,
“That means that, as usual, I shall be defeated.”
“You can at least try,” his friend laughed, “but perhaps we should handicap César by blindfolding him.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” the Duc came in. “Let’s go to the armoury and choose our foils.”
Laughing the four men went down the corridor.
They had almost rea
ched the armoury, which was one of the most interesting rooms in The Château, when there were footsteps behind them.
The Duc turned and saw Jeanne, Yursa’s maid, hurrying towards him.
“Monseigneur! I must speak to you, Monseigneur!”
The Duc’s three friends went into the armoury while he asked somewhat irritably,
“What is it? You are Jeanne, are you not?”
“Oui, Monseigneur,” Jeanne replied.
She dropped him a little curtsey and he then realised that she was very agitated.
“Well, what is it you want?”
“It’s m’mselle, Monseigneur – they have – taken her!”
The Duc looked at her in bewilderment.
“Taken Mademoiselle? What are you talking about?”
For a moment Jeanne seemed tongue-tied and then she crossed herself and said in a whisper he could hardly hear,
“It is the – witches’ Sabbat!”
The Duc was suddenly very still.
“The witches’ Sabbat?” he said angrily. “What are you telling me?”
“They have taken m’mselle to it, Monseigneur. I was deliberately – detained downstairs and, when I – escaped, I saw the new maid who I suspected as being – one of them taking m’mselle down the Cardinal’s Staircase.”
The Duc was listening, but he found it hard to believe what he was hearing.
Jeanne gave a little sob and continued,
“I watched them – I watched them from the top of the stairs, Monseigneur, and they threw a blanket over m’mselle’s head – and carried her to where there was – a cart waiting outside.”
The Duc drew in his breath.
Then, as Jeanne looked up at him pleadingly with tears on her cheeks, he knew that she was trembling and he asked,
“Where have they taken her?”
“They will – kill me if they – know it was I who – told you the place, Monseigneur.”
“I will protect you,” the Duc said, “but tell me quickly where Mademoiselle has been taken.”
“To le Bois du Dragon!”
The words were only a whisper and again Jeanne crossed herself.
“Don’t be afraid, Jeanne,” the Duc said. “You were right to tell me.
He went into the armoury, saying in an urgent tone that surprised his friends,
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