by Mark Teppo
The inquisitor came around from behind the table and stood over Gerda. “There will be no more interruptions,” he said sternly. He turned his attention to the cringing magistrate. “I will gain a confession from this woman or I will judge her an unrepentant heretic. One of the questions I will ask her is for her to name her companions, her coconspirators who also seek the Devil’s favor. I will bring the full weight of my office and my holy duty upon those individuals as well.”
“Yes, yes, Your Grace.”
“Give me your belt.”
“Your Grace?”
“Your ignorance tires me,” the inquisitor snapped. “I am not a bishop, nor a man so easily flattered by such honorifics.” He held out his hand. “Your belt.”
Gerda heard the magistrate fumble with his belt, the rattle of his sword as it bumped against the table and chair, and she twisted her head so as to better see. The magistrate pulled his sword from its hanger, laying it on the table, and handed over the long leather belt. The inquisitor folded the belt over itself until he had a strap as thick as his wrist and as long as his forearm. “Put your hand on the table,” the inquisitor said.
The magistrate acquiesced, and the inquisitor slapped the length of leather against the magistrate’s extended hand. He yelped in pain, and his voice hummed in his throat thereafter, but he made no other sound. The inquisitor looked down at Gerda. “My questions will be answered directly,” he said, “or there will be punishment.”
He knelt and forced his hand under her chin. “You may pray to God during your ordeal, but remember that he hears your thoughts as readily as your words. If you cry out again, I will take that as a sign that you are attempting to summon demonic aid. I take no pleasure in condemning heretics to death, but I will not suffer the Devil to walk amongst good Christians.” He stood again, his knees popping, and thrashed the magistrate’s hand one more time with his lash. “Do we understand each other?” His gaze roved from Gerda to the magistrate and back again.
She offered him the tiniest of nods.
“Good,” he said. “Turn her over,” he commanded his man. “Uncover her back so that my displeasure may be felt more readily by her unrepentant flesh.”
Gerda bit her tongue so hard blood flowed in her mouth as the inquisitor’s men roughly turned her over. Her hands were pulled over her head and her shift was yanked upward, bunching the material at the top of her shoulder blades. She struggled for a moment, until she felt the inquisitor’s booted foot press down on the small of her back. “Lie still,” he said, rocking his foot back until the sharp point of his spur pierced her flesh.
“Now,” he said when she stopped moving, “let us start again. This woman, Gerda, you say that she is known for leading men astray, yes?”
She kept her eyes closed, listening to the magistrate answer the inquisitor’s questions. The inquisitor was ignoring the death of her husband—it was as if he had never existed—and he was asking questions about her now. She did not understand why, and the magistrate’s answers were equally as unreal. None of his responses were true, but the presence of the inquisitor’s foot on her back was a constant reminder of what would happen if she dared to open her mouth and speak. She could not contradict what the magistrate was saying, but that did not lessen the gravity of his lies.
The inquisitor was correct in his assessment that the Devil lived in her village, but it was not her house in which the fallen angel had taken residence. It was not her ear in which the serpent had whispered.
ACEDIA
“The horse you admired earlier?” Raphael began his explanation with a question, and when Andreas nodded, he continued. “It was a gift from Frederick the Second.”
Andreas nearly choked on a mouthful of ale. “The Holy Roman Emperor?”
“Aye. The Emperor and I enjoy a certain…friendship, I guess. I have, on occasion, been able to offer my services to him, and in no way have I ever expressed any desire for any recompense for such duties other than the pure pleasure of being useful to the Holy Roman Empire.”
“No,” Andreas coughed. “I can’t imagine anyone would have the audacity to think otherwise.”
Raphael offered the younger man a slight smile. “In this instance, I happened to be traveling in Italy when he was in the final months of assembling the Liber Augustalis.” On seeing Andreas’s blank gaze, he explained. “Frederick’s grandfather, Roger the Second, put together a code of laws known as the Assizes of Ariano that codified and laid out the rules of secular government for the Kingdom of Sicily. Frederick, in turn, has redrafted these laws twice—once in 1220 at Capua and more recently at Melfi.”
Raphael paused to wet his throat. “Mostly these accords affirm Frederick’s secular power of the lands he commands, but they also lay out a fair number of regulations concerning the welfare and safety of the individual citizens. As such, he wanted to be sure he had the opinion of a number of learned citizens in regards to this new constitution before he proclaimed it to be law.”
“And you happened to be one of these learned citizens?”
“The Emperor and I share five languages in common, more than most at his court. In fact, in any given conversation we enjoyed, he would switch between the five at his pleasure, mostly to maintain his fluency, but also—as he admitted to me at one point—to confuse his court. If they couldn’t understand what he was saying, they would think he was talking about them, and fearful of losing face, they tended to behave themselves.
“The reason he gave me the horse was not just for my assistance in the Liber Augustalis, but because of a favor I had done him several years prior. I heard you telling stories of the Crusades earlier. Was that the Sixth?”
Andreas lowered his mug and stared at Raphael for a long moment. “Aye,” he said, dropping his gaze to the knife-marred wood of the tabletop.
“You are a very florid storyteller, Andreas,” Raphael said with a smile. “Though I was not in the Levant at that time, I do recall that it was possibly the least contentious of any crusade. Not that it matters. Crusading in the Holy Land changes a man; God affords such a survivor some leniency when telling others of his actions in the service of God and kingdom.”
Andreas nodded, and his shoulders sagged slightly—the only visible sign of his relief that Raphael was not going to chastise him further for his embellishments. “You were at Damietta?” he asked. “During the Fifth?”
“I was.”
“Once I would have given anything to have been a part of that host, to be in the thick of the fighting, but I have heard stories from men who returned from Damietta, and I lost all pleasure in seeking glory in that way.”
“And you are a better man for it, Andreas.”
Andreas shrugged as if he did not concern himself overmuch with such distinctions. He raised his tankard and took a long drink.
“Regardless of my experience in Egypt,” Raphael continued, “when I heard that Frederick was finally preparing to take up the Crusade, I meant to go with him. However, while preparations were still being arranged, word reached Frederick that Ludwig the Fourth, the Landgrave of Thuringia, had died of fever.
“Ludwig had come to Cremona to participate in the Diet, and he had been so taken with Frederick that he had pledged, on the spot, to go with the Emperor on his crusade. Frederick had thought to dissuade the young man—he had a very pregnant wife back home. Ludwig refused to hear any such talk and marched ahead of Frederick, saying that he would wait for Frederick along the coast of Italy—forever, if necessary.
“For Ludwig, unfortunately, forever came much sooner than anyone anticipated, and when Frederick learned of the young man’s death, he asked me to travel to Thuringia. He wanted his grief to be delivered by someone he could trust. I went, and that is how I met Elisabeth.”
Raphael paused, suddenly unwilling to share the rest of the story with Andreas. The memories were bittersweet, at best, and he did not deny the impact they had had on him, but they were his private sorrow. He was not the sort to parade h
is grief about and seek sympathy and solace from others.
However…
“Elisabeth,” he continued, his voice softer, “had already heard of her husband’s death before I reached her. She was deep in mourning, and even the joy of her daughter’s recent birth was not enough to dispel the despondency that had come over her. In her despair, she had turned to the Church for aid.”
“Ah, the Church,” Andreas said, a sympathetic note in his voice.
“Yes,” Raphael continued. “She turned to Konrad von Marburg. He had been her confessor, and after Ludwig’s death, his influence over her grew. She was very young, not yet fifteen when she married Ludwig, and the strain of her husband’s death—whom she loved dearly—as well as the strain of governing Thuringia was a great deal of weight for such a young heart to carry. She became…erratic…in Konrad’s eyes.
“She had always sought to lead the sort of life espoused by Francis of Assisi—helping the poor and sick—and Ludwig had tolerated her desire to offer aid to his subjects. Konrad, however, insisted her works were not enough—she had already assisted in the construction of a hospital at Wartburg Castle, and daily she offered ministrations to the sick and wounded housed there. He believed she should take vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience as well.”
“Chastity?” Andreas asked. “With her husband dead and her children not yet of age, Thuringia would have needed some sort of regent. A vow of chastity would disallow marriage. How then would the regent retain his authority?”
“The task fell to Ludwig’s brother, Heinrich, but as there was no opportunity for marriage, Heinrich was responsible for the kingdom but received none of its income.”
“Which frustrated him to no end, I am certain. Why did he not petition Rome?”
“He did. However, the Pope saw no reason why Konrad should not be Rome’s representative in the matter. The Pope named Konrad Elisabeth’s official Defender—in all matters concerning her soul and person. Konrad was the ultimate authority.”
Andreas shook his head as he glanced toward the closed door. “The poor woman,” he said softly.
“She refused to allow anyone to pity her,” Raphael said. “Even though her husband’s death wounded her greatly, her devotion to those in need was undiminished. She asked me to stay and assist her at the hospital at Wartburg Castle, which I did, and I was moved on a daily basis at the depths of her charity and constancy.”
Raphael paused and, deciding he had dwelled overlong on Elisabeth’s character, moved on to the end of his story. “When I returned to Germany a few years ago, she and her son had been exiled to Marburg. She was frail, her body ravaged by the strain of her heartbreak and vows, even though her spirit was as strong as ever. She was building another hospital, and she was overjoyed that I had returned to help her. But her joy was misplaced, because she thought I had only been gone a few nights and not three years. She had become somewhat…bereft of her sense of time’s passage. And it was not just my presence in yet another hospital that she was building that confused her. There were other…instances where she displayed a lack of awareness.”
“But she was compassionate and attentive otherwise?” Andreas asked, intuiting what Raphael was suggesting. “Her malady was not obvious to everyone?”
“Yes,” Raphael said. “It was only those close to her—myself and her household—who knew of her mind’s decay. To everyone else, she was—as you said—a generous soul, though a little forgetful.” He sighed and drank from his tankard. “Shortly after the hospital was completed, she became sick. She insisted on being near those who needed her most, and so we let her stay among the ill. I have some small skill as a physician, but I was unable to help her, and a few days later she died.”
“I am sorry,” Andreas said, bowing his head.
Raphael nodded in gratitude at Andreas’s compassion. “After her death, her companions spoke to me of things they had vowed to never speak of while Elisabeth was alive.” He put his hands around his tankard to keep them from shaking. “They told me of the abuses heaped on her by Konrad, both physical and spiritual—how he threatened to have her children sent away; how he beat her; how he accused her of not being pious enough.” His hands tightened, his knuckles whitening. “None of that would have happened if I had stayed. They did not accuse me of abandoning her, but…”
IRA
The door leading to the back room opened suddenly, bumping the man who was standing in front of it. Andreas, who had been shaking his head slowly as Raphael ended his narrative, grabbed his sword and leaped to his feet.
“No,” Raphael admonished. “Wait.”
Andreas ignored him, striding across the common room. The man at the door stepped forward, drawing the long knife from his belt, and Raphael caught sight of the other guard drawing his own sword as he crossed the common room toward Andreas.
The situation, already fraught with tension, was going to erupt in violence.
The inquisitor stepped out of the back room and stopped at the sight of the approaching Shield-Brethren. He stared at Andreas coolly, no hint of panic on his flat face. The guard who had been standing at the door raised his knife in a defensive position and readied himself for Andreas’s attack.
Andreas’s hand tightened on his sword, and though he kept it at his side, Raphael knew the guard was an excellent choice, both offensively and defensively. Andreas might look like he was not ready to fight, but such lassitude was merely an illusion.
The inquisitor’s gaze flickered from Andreas to Raphael and back. “I thought I made myself abundantly clear,” he said, his voice cold and authoritative.
“You did,” Raphael said as he stood from the table. “We were just leaving.”
The inquisitor raised an eyebrow but did not move otherwise. For all his bluster, he knew not to provoke the young man standing before him.
“Brother Andreas,” Raphael said. “We are leaving.”
The second man had paused halfway across the room, his sword drawn but not yet raised aggressively. Raphael measured the distance between them as well as the obstacle presented by the table and the distance between the man and Andreas. He would not be able to stop the man from attacking Andreas from behind, but he would be able to warn the Shield-Brother with a word.
Andreas stepped back and turned so that he could see both men and the priest. His grip did not lessen on his sword as he split his attention between both men, waiting for them to put their weapons away. The priest made a noise with his tongue and put his hand on the arm of the knife-wielder next to him.
The other swordsman lowered his weapon.
Andreas, his weapon still held at his side, walked slowly past the second man, his eyes never leaving the other’s face. Watching for some change of heart, some flicker of aggression.
“I have rendered a judgment,” the inquisitor said.
Andreas froze, not quite past the second man, and Raphael slowly shook his head in dismay.
“She is an unrepentant heretic,” the inquisitor continued, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “I tried to help her back to God, but she refused. She has tasted the blood of the Devil and she does not wish to return to God’s embrace.” He made the sign of the cross. “I have given her to the secular authorities—what little exists in this speck of a village—and they have declared that she will be burned at the stake. Tomorrow, at dawn.”
Raphael cleared his throat carefully. “Why are you telling us this?”
The inquisitor made a face. “This village is rife with superstitious fools. Your friend spoke earlier of offering aid to any who might require it. My duty is done, and I have no desire to stay here overnight. You will guard the woman and make sure she does not try to avoid her due punishment.”
Andreas let loose a short bray of incredulous laughter. The man nearest him flinched.
Raphael regarded the inquisitor coldly. “With all due respect, Father,” he said, “but we are leaving.”
“A pity,” the inquisitor said, “but I am not
terribly surprised. It is, after all, a habit of yours, is it not, Raphael of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae?”
“We’re just going to let them kill her?”
Raphael whirled on Andreas as they crossed the expanse of the village green. “What other choice do we have? Would you take up arms against the entire Holy Roman Catholic Church?”
“Aye, I would,” Andreas said, standing his ground. The afternoon sun hung behind him, making his blond hair even lighter.
Raphael turned away, the memory of another boy and another time surfacing in his mind, a ghost image that floated over Andreas’s face. “You are all too young,” he said. “Too eager to sacrifice yourselves.”
“Is self-sacrifice not the glory we seek in upholding our vows?” Andreas countered.
“There is no glory in dying,” Raphael snapped.
“No,” Andreas said. “Which is something Gerda is going to discover for herself when the sun rises on the morrow.”
Raphael glanced around the green, exhaling slowly. After the crowded confusion of the mob earlier in the day, the square was deserted. Even the onlookers who had been hanging around the pyre of wood were no longer loitering, waiting for something to happen. The village had, it seemed, slipped into a lazy slumber. “What would you have us do?” he asked Andreas, his voice softening and losing its edge.
“Find some way to save her,” Andreas said.
“How?” Raphael asked. “The inquisitor has rendered his verdict.”
“Yes, but he has handed her over to the local magistrate for punishment. It is his decision that she burns.”
“What other alternative does he have? He’s not going to cross the Church.”