As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  The duke barely acknowledged her as he disrobed clumsily and pointed at the bed. With grim resignation she stepped out of her silk nightgown and lay face-down. She heard his quickened breathing and then felt his hands on her, parting her legs as she felt his bulk press down on her. Then came the pain as he forced his manhood into her as practised by sodomites. Her face was contorted in pain while the duke satisfied his sordid desires, grunting and gasping in equal measure as he inflicted more torture on her. She heard his disgusting grunts in her ear and smelt his foul breath as the suffering became unbearable. She tried not to cry because to do so would enrage him but such was her misery that she began to sob.

  ‘You’re supposed to enjoy your marital duties,’ he taunted her, his thrusts becoming harder and her agony much worse.

  She prayed for him to finish so she would be left alone but tonight seemed much worse than her previous ordeals. She stretched out her arms and gripped the pillows tightly, praying for her torture to end. She felt something cold and hard against her right hand and in her agony believed that her prayers had been answered. It was a knife, one that she had stolen from the kitchens where it had been used to gut game.

  There comes a time when even the meekest individual will snap and lash out in response to intolerable provocation and so it was now. The duke groaned and thrust one last time as he completed his act of depravity, rolling off his violated wife to lie on his back beside her, his flabby body covered in sweat. He did not move as his wife gripped the knife and flung herself at her husband, screaming and wailing as she stabbed at his neck again and again. Blood sheeted over her and him as her stabs became more frenzied. Soon the bed was covered in blood. Lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling as she suddenly stopped, stared in horror at the knife in her hand and then flung it across the floor. She did not look at the lifeless body of the duke when she put on her nightgown and fled from the room, running from the residence into the cold night air. Such was the terror gripping her that she did not feel her feet being bruised and cut as she ran through the city streets, heading towards the cathedral where she had prayed on so many occasions. She managed to reach the great stone building, somehow finding her way through the spider’s web of narrow, darkened streets surrounding it. She banged on the huge oak doors always closed and locked at night, calling on God to help her and imploring anyone within earshot to save her. And so it was that the dean of the cathedral who liked to pray at the altar in the quiet of the night-time hours, admitted her. He saw her wide-eyed, frightened face, her lacerated feet and took pity on her for he was a godly man.

  ‘Sanctuary?’

  Gunter was standing to attention in the audience chamber of the Bishop’s Palace, the archdeacon circling him like an angry albeit fat wolf as he questioned the commander.

  ‘She is claiming sanctuary?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Stefan stopped and pointed at him.

  ‘You will go to the cathedral with some men, arrest her and bring her back here so she may be put on trial in my court.’

  Gunter went pale. ‘But she has claimed sanctuary, sir.’

  Stefan walked up to him so their faces were but inches apart.

  ‘She is a murderer, commander, and I think I know more about the concept of sanctuary than a soldier.’

  The archdeacon’s attention turned to the doors of the hall, which opened to allow Bishop Nicholas to enter. Gunter immediately went down on one knee and kissed the bishop’s ring before Nicholas swept past him and Stefan to sit in his chair on the dais.

  ‘I have heard about the death of the Duke of Riga,’ remarked the bishop, ‘a most regrettable affair.’

  ‘I think your excellency is mistaken,’ said Stefan tersely. ‘The duke was murdered, murdered by his wife who now seeks sanctuary in the cathedral. I was instructing Commander Gunter to go and remove her so she may face justice.’

  ‘The dean has informed me that the duchess now enjoys sanctuary, archdeacon,’ replied Nicholas calmly. ‘You of all people should know that canon law rules in Livonia, Stefan.’

  The archdeacon began shaking with anger, his eyes bulging as he returned to his pacing.

  ‘And may I remind you, excellency, that the Duke of Riga was Higher Burgomaster, commander of the Livonian Militia and the most powerful and wealthy individual in the eastern Baltic, nay probably the whole Baltic. To allow his murderer to escape justice would be an affront to all forms of justice.’

  Gunter was amazed that Stefan should speak to the bishop so, and even more astounded that Nicholas should tolerate such disrespect.

  ‘She must be made an example of,’ insisted the archdeacon.

  ‘I am aware that you were fond of the duke,’ said Nicholas, ‘but you must not let personal feelings cloud your judgement.’

  Stefan, still pacing, pointed at the bishop.

  ‘There can be no sanctuary for the enemies of Christ.’

  Nicholas’ eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have any evidence that the duchess is an enemy of Christ, Stefan? If so I would be most interested to hear it.’

  A sneer spread across the archdeacon’s face. ‘She is a murderess, which makes her also guilty of committing sacrilege, which means that she legally cannot claim sanctuary.’

  Gunter was confused. ‘Sacrilege, archdeacon?’

  Stefan rolled his eyes. ‘Violation of sacred things, idiot.’

  Nicholas emitted a low laugh. ‘The Duke of Riga was many things, Stefan, though sacred was not one of them.’

  Stefan regarded the bishop with contemptuous eyes. ‘The duke was very generous in his donations to the church and as his dukedom was conferred on him by Bishop Albert with the approval of the Holy Father in Rome, his position can be regarded as sacred.’

  Nicholas raised an eyebrow. ‘An interesting legal argument but one that does not help at this moment. I would have thought that you would be more interested in the fact that those seeking sanctuary are considered legally dead.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ snapped Stefan.

  ‘Well, then,’ continued the bishop, ‘you also know that as the duke had no heirs and his wife is now dead in the eyes of the law the considerable assets of the Duke of Riga are forfeited to the church.’

  Stefan toyed with the gold pectoral cross dangling from his neck on a gold chain.

  ‘I have no interest in worldly wealth.’

  Gunter made a superhuman effort not to burst out laughing.

  ‘Most commendable,’ remarked Nicholas dryly. ‘But in your devotion to the church you have forgotten that the duchess may claim sanctuary for a maximum of forty days, after which she will be ejected from the cathedral. There is thus plenty of time to bring this dismal affair to a conclusion. We will do nothing until the forty days are up.’

  But the archdeacon was a vengeful, vindictive man and that night he ordered Gunter to go to the cathedral and seize the duchess, impressing on the commander that failure to do so would result in his immediate dismissal and his family’s eviction from the large house the church provided for their lodgings. Gunter obeyed, partly to safeguard his family but also because he was certain the bishop would dismiss Stefan and send him back to Germany for his insubordination. The dean of the cathedral was apoplectic when Gunter’s soldiers entered his church and escorted the duchess from its hushed interior, denouncing them and threatening them with excommunication. For her part the deathly pale duchess offered no resistance as she walked head-down to the Bishop’s Palace.

  Gunter was surprised and disappointed when no censure of the archdeacon came from the bishop the next day or afterwards. Stefan had the unfortunate duchess put on trial in his court where he and his lackeys denounced her as a witch, heretic, adulteress, thief and liar. She said nothing as they flung accusations at her, the archdeacon relishing her humiliation and taking particular delight in pronouncing sentence, which was death.

  They executed her in Riga’s main square on a bitterly cold December day, the air crisp and pure and painful to inhale too qui
ckly. There was not a cloud in the bright blue sky when guards escorted her to the stake erected in the centre of the cobblestones. The duchess was pale and gaunt, her cheeks sunken, as she made her way slowly to the appointed place. Around the square, on balconies and wrapped in furs as a defence against the freezing conditions, were the city’s nobles and merchants. Contempt showed on the faces of the burgomasters and others of the city council, men who had grown rich like the murdered Duke of Riga. Nothing alarmed them more than the slaying of one of their own, for such an act reminded them of their own mortality despite their wealth and influence. That it had been the duke’s own wife made them shudder all the more. Such a crime was called ‘petty treason’ and was punished accordingly.

  Archdeacon Stefan sat on one balcony, his hate-filled eyes following the condemned’s every step. He curled up his lip at her pathetic demeanour and leered at the slender body beneath the gown. A body that would soon be enduring unimaginable pain. But he also glanced to his right to where Magnus Glueck usually sat. The duke had been his only friend and now he was gone, cut down in his prime by a mere woman. No wonder God had cast out Eve from the Garden of Eden. Bitch!

  The crowd parted as the duchess walked slowly to the stake where fat, brutish men wearing leather aprons and face masks waited for her. Onlookers removed their hats and bowed their heads to her and many uttered ‘God bless you’ as she passed. Usually the condemned were taunted, insulted and pelted with filth and rubbish by the riotous crowd but this time it was different. The Duke of Riga may have been immensely rich but he was never popular. It was common knowledge that he and Archdeacon Stefan treated the city and its citizens as their private property and so no tears were shed over Glueck’s passing.

  ‘Who is that?’

  Stefan’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the priest accompanying the wan duchess.

  ‘The dean of the cathedral,’ answered Gunter standing behind him.

  Stefan leaned forward. ‘I gave express orders that the whore was to be denied any priest.’

  ‘The bishop thought otherwise, sir,’ came the reply.

  Stefan jumped up and grabbed the balcony’s bannister.

  ‘I am the governor of this city,’ he roared pathetically.

  Some of the crowd below the balcony, hearing his voice, turned and jeered at him, hurled obscene gestures in his direction or laughed at him. Gunter stood as still as a statue, trying hard not to smirk.

  Stefan glared at those below. ‘If you had but one neck I’d hack it through.’

  At the stake the executioners roughly handled the duchess as they secured her to the thick stake with chains. She cried out in alarm as they fondled her breasts while doing so, angry murmurs coming from those among the crowd who spotted their molestation. Gunter noted with alarm that no rope or chain was wrapped round her neck and the dean began arguing with the executioners, who pushed him away from the duchess. The dean looked towards the balcony where the archdeacon was being served mulled wine and freshly baked pastries but Stefan ignored him. Gunter, seeing the unruly crowd and beseeching expression of the dean, became agitated.

  ‘Archdeacon, it is customary after the condemned has confessed that the executioner administers strangulation before the fire takes hold.’

  Stefan regarded him with contempt. ‘Confine yourself to your duties, commander, and let those with more intellect and knowledge worry about the fate of the condemned.’

  He nodded to the chief executioner who began to pile bundles of wood around the duchess whose eyes were closed as she recited prayers to fortify her for the great ordeal about to begin. The crowd grew restless as the wood was lit and grey smoke began to drift upwards into the sky. The murmurs turned into shouts of anger when people began to realise that green wood was being used to incinerate the duchess. Such material would burn slowly to prolong her agony. The archdeacon licked his lips and viewed the spectacle with relish as flames began to lick the woman’s feet and calves. She tried to maintain a calm demeanour but as the heat scorched her lower legs she began to pant and squirm, trying desperately to break free of her fetters. But her ordeal was only beginning.

  Gunter’s guards ringing the stake had difficulty holding back the crowd as the executioners began pulling wood from the fire so the flames would not spread too quickly. They knew their craft well, using long iron pincers to move burning wood back and forth to control the fire. By such means they could regulate the burning of the victim. First the calves, thighs and hands would be consumed, followed by the torso and forearms, the breasts and upper chest and finally the face. Skilled men could prolong the victim’s agony for up to two hours and the duchess was in great agony, screams coming from her mouth as she thrashed wildly in a vain attempt to free herself from the chains.

  The dignitaries nodded approvingly as her gown was burnt away to reveal her white thighs, which began to turn red and blister and ooze blood as they were caressed by the flames. Her screams became louder and the crowd angrier as the executioners went about their task with aplomb. The spectacle was revolting and fascinating in equal measure but the crowd was now threatening to overwhelm the ring of guards and Gunter knew he had to act. He shouted a command to one of his officers in the square below, the man pushing his way through the crowd in response.

  ‘Interfere with this execution and you will be banished from the city,’ threatened the archdeacon.

  The duchess emitted a wail as her thighs turned black. A stone hit a servant pouring wine into Stefan’s goblet, cutting his forehead and causing him to spill the warm liquid into the archdeacon’s lap.

  ‘If I do not interfere the crowd may lynch us, sir,’ said Gunter.

  He saw members of the crowd grappling with the guards who responded by levelling their spears and threatening to use deadly force against them. Guards around the sides of the square began to make their way towards the centre. He prayed he had acted in time otherwise a full-scale riot would erupt.

  He did not see the crossbowman who shot the duchess through the heart to put her out of her misery, which diffused the situation. Those nearby saw the shot and others noticed the ending of the duchess’ wails. Within minutes the tumult had died down and people began to drift out of the square, the executioners being spat at and pelted with whatever came to hand. The guards did nothing to protect them.

  Gunter was relieved, Stefan angry and frustrated while in the middle of the square the fire continued to slowly consume the now dead Duchess of Riga. Stefan said nothing to Gunter as he brushed past the commander of the city garrison to return to the Bishop’s Palace. He was beginning to regret his choice of commander of the garrison.

  *****

  Conrad was taken to a village in Samogitia, a miserable settlement of a dozen huts and around a score of men capable of bearing weapons. It was three days after the Battle of Saule and he had been stripped of his armour and weapons, the commander of the ‘escort’ taking his sword, though not for himself. When they arrived at the village beside a stream amid a pine forest, the commander gave the headman Conrad’s sword and indulged in a long and ill-tempered conversation with the man, frequently pointing at Conrad and then more threateningly at the headman. The former Master of Odenpah, his leggings and aketon splattered with mud, his gambeson having been ‘liberated’ by the Lithuanians after the battle, stood and examined the villagers who began to gather round their leader.

  He was a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and straggly hair who wiped his nose frequently on the sleeve of his dirty tunic. He wore a sword around his waist but the leather belt was old and cracked and the sword itself had no scabbard, signs of rust showing on its blade. His eyes had lit up when he had been presented with Conrad’s sword and belt, which he strapped on giving his old sword to the man Conrad assumed was his deputy. But his delight soon disappeared when the commander of the horsemen sitting on their mounts, shivering in the cold, berated him.

  After the commander had resorted to shouting and placing a hand on the hilt of his own sword,
the headman smiled and raised his hands in submission. The commander, seemingly satisfied, walked back to his horse and hauled himself into the saddle. He ordered his men to depart the village, surprising Conrad as the pale afternoon sun was waning and he had presumed the soldiers would want to sleep in a village hut rather than inside a tent. But the commander appeared disdainful of the village and its inhabitants and was eager to be away. Before he left he halted his horse beside Conrad.

  ‘I order that you not be killed,’ he said in faltering German. ‘You should pray for quick death.’

  He spurred his horse forward and left with his men. The villagers followed the headman as he strode over to Conrad and peered at him. His eyes rested on Conrad’s leather boots. Pointing at them, he shouted something Conrad did not understand. Then he struck the Sword Brother with the back of his hand. Conrad was manhandled to the ground, his boots forcibly removed. The headman took them. Conrad was given an ill-fitting pair of shoes to wear. He was then bundled away and his nightmare began.

  For the first few weeks he was not unduly mistreated, just ignored and neglected when it came to being fed and clothed. At first he was locked in a shed at night, with guards posted outside to ensure he did not try to escape. But the guards objected to having to stand in the cold night air when they could have been snuggling up to their wives under lice-infested blankets and so the headman grudgingly allowed Conrad to sleep in his ‘hall’, which was nothing more than a hut larger than the others. He slept among the cows brought in every afternoon to warm the hut’s interior, which was always filled with smoke from the fire continually burning in its stone hearth.

  Conrad was initially put to work collecting firewood from the surrounding forest. He was tethered to a burly villager who used a stick to beat Conrad if he looked up. The onset of winter made everyone concentrate on preparing for the cold months rather than tormenting their unwelcome guest so Conrad’s lot was not unduly intolerable, at least not at first. But the low temperatures and the cold did cause him problems. His feet were continually wet and soon he developed a chest infection that refused to budge. He coughed all the time, which caused the headman’s wife to complain about him incessantly.