by Luz Gabás
“Father Guillem,” said Jayme, “is it not true that to be obstinately of the opinion that witches do not exist is heresy?”
“It is, sir.”
“Even if it is your own wife, daughter, sister, or goddaughter?”
Father Guillem nodded slightly, and Jayme turned to Pere and Corso.
“Don’t forget it.”
Corso ignored his words and ran to Brianda. He took her face in his hands and caressed her bruised skin where they had hit her.
“I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” he whispered in his wife’s ear, “and I will come to save you. You know I keep my promises. I came back when you thought me dead. I’m alive to save you.”
Brianda tearfully nodded. They brought over an ox-pulled cart that Jayme had kept waiting by the graveyard all that time and forced the women into it. Aldonsa looked at Leonor, who covered her mouth to keep back her sobs. Gisabel called to Remon, who hung his head. Antona and Barbara from Besalduch held on to the wooden sides of the cart with their gaze lost somewhere on Beles Peak.
Brianda rested her forehead on Corso’s chest.
“Look after Johan,” she begged him. “Save our son.”
38.
Brianda had never been in Cuyls House. She had passed near it on rides with her father when she was a child, but they had always avoided the narrow path on the border between Tiles and Besalduch that led to a neglected copse of trees. Hidden in the undergrowth was a medium-sized house that looked abandoned. The walls surrounding the small yard were falling down; there were holes in the flagstones, and the roof was missing slates.
She was filled with a deep unease. This would be her prison.
The cart stopped in front of the main door, whose wood the sun had turned gray. The four men who had escorted them roughly forced them down from the cart, and one of them knocked on the door. Soon after, a thickset and sweaty man opened the door, let them into a dark and dirty entrance hall, and guided them to the upper floor, where a scrawny, one-eyed man was waiting for them by a door. He opened it, pushed them in, and locked the door behind them.
The room was rectangular and fairly large, but it was also dark and cold with a stone mantelpiece at the far end. Brianda presumed it was the main hall of the house, but there was no furniture or any decorations on the walls, and a moldy stain covered much of the ceiling. It was difficult for her to imagine her grandfather’s brother living in such a sad place. Probably, at that time, the fire had crackled in the hearth and some thick curtains had covered the windows, but after Lida’s departure for Aiscle when she married Medardo, and Jayme’s for Lubich, no one had maintained Cuyls House.
A weak moan caught her attention. She exchanged glances with Aldonsa and Gisabel, and they quickly crossed to the fireplace, beside which lay a body on a pile of straw. Brianda let out a scream and knelt down.
“Cecilia! My God! What have they done to you?”
Cecilia was barely recognizable. They had cut her beautiful, long hair, and her face was bruised and swollen. Brianda wanted to hug her, but Cecilia whimpered as soon as she was touched. Aldonsa checked over her body with her hands.
“She has been whipped and has a dislocated shoulder,” she said, looking around for something.
“What do you need?” Brianda asked.
“Something for her to bite on, but I don’t see anything.”
Brianda thought for a moment and took off one of her shoes. Aldonsa nodded in agreement.
“I have reset many sheeps’ legs. I know what I have to do.”
“Help us, Gisabel,” Brianda asked, but the woman did not move. Fear had deranged her. She brought her hands to her face and moved away from them.
Aldonsa laid Cecilia faceup and had Brianda put the shoe in Cecilia’s mouth. Then Aldonsa pulled Cecilia’s arm in one sharp movement. The gypsy’s eyes reflected unbearable pain and she fainted. Aldonsa tore a long strip of material from her petticoat and used it to pin the girl’s arm against her body.
Brianda lay down beside Cecilia, hugged her, and cried silently until she noticed that Cecilia was waking up.
“I won’t be able to resist it again,” moaned Cecilia hysterically. “I won’t—”
“Don’t think about that now,” murmured Brianda weakly, feeling her spirits and her faith abandoning her. What madness had taken over this place?
“If they come back, I’ll tell them whatever they want to hear.” Cecilia began to tremble and weep. “What I saw and didn’t see, what I dreamt, what I did …” She gave a start and looked around the room, terrified. “Is it night already?”
Brianda stroked her arm.
“There’s still a while to go before sunset, Cecilia.” She pointed to the only window, which had all its panes missing, allowing the chill February wind to enter. “Can you see the afternoon sun?”
Cecilia sighed in relief and closed her eyes.
“I just want to die,” she said before falling asleep.
“They’ll kill us all!” whined Gisabel from the corner where she had hidden.
Brianda sat up and rested her back against the wall. Aldonsa paced the room several times, peeked out the window, and finally sat down also. Barbara, the widow, still had her head down, and the old and toothless Antona softly sighed, crooned, and cackled.
Nobody brought food or water for hours. Night had long since enveloped them in darkness when the door opened and the guards entered. Cecilia sat up and hugged Brianda. One of the men carried a lighted torch and the other a wooden bucket of water and some stale bread. He left the bucket on the ground and threw them the bread. The one with the torch approached and shone the light on the women one by one, showing his disgust for them. When he got to Gisabel, he hesitated.
“Why are you taking so long?” the one at the door asked.
“It’s Remon’s wife.”
“Then leave her. She’s just recently given birth.”
It was Brianda’s turn next.
“You must be the noble. What a pity!”
Then he turned to Cecilia, grabbed her by the arm, and lifted her without effort. “You’ll do for the moment.”
Cecilia began to claw at him while screaming at the top of her lungs. Brianda got up and, taking advantage of the fact that the man was holding the burning torch with his other hand, did the same. She called for the other women to help, but none of the four made a move. The guard at the door quickly threw the bucket of water over Brianda. Then the man hit her until she fell to the floor, where he continued kicking and insulting her. She rolled into a ball to protect her womb and went completely still. Finally, the blows ceased, but Cecilia’s cries continued as they took her away. They locked the door and opened another close by. Voices and cries could be heard just at the other side of the wall.
Brianda thought she was going crazy. She did not dare imagine the actions that caused the metallic cracking and creaking sounds. She was unable to understand all the words they were shouting. But what made her cover her ears and begin screaming in horror was the certainty that life was ebbing out of Cecilia’s body while those savages first tortured and then raped her. Her dear Cecilia. That poor girl she had once saved from a death by whipping to take her to this place where she thought she would be safe and find a man to love her, and which had now turned into a hell far worse than that described in all of Father Guillem’s sermons.
She heard the men panting. First one and then the other. Then a high-pitched, heart-wrenching, crazed cry. Later, silence.
Shortly afterward, the door opened, and they dragged Cecilia’s body into the room as if she were a dead animal. Brianda crawled to her and rested her hand on her head. Just that. She was incapable of saying anything to comfort her. There could be no comfort after what they had done.
The hours passed.
Brianda suddenly woke and realized that dawn was breaking. Sleepily, she looked toward the window and what she saw frightened her. Cecilia was sitting on the ledge looking back into the room. She stared at Brianda with he
r dark eyes, the only part of her swollen face that was recognizable, and said, “Death cannot be any worse.”
She leaned back and allowed herself to fall before Brianda could do anything.
When Brianda peered out the window, Cecilia’s body lay motionless in the middle of a large pool of blood.
Brianda lost all notion of time. The days passed with hysteric laughing, wailing, sorrowful moans, and pain. The guards had nailed boards to the window to prevent anyone from copying Cecilia, so Brianda only knew night was falling when the slim rays of light that filtered through those boards disappeared. With no warning, the door would open and they would take one or two women. And all who went got their hair cut. Brianda soon understood that those they tortured but who did not confess came back. She did not know what happened to those she never saw again.
Aldonsa and Gisabel were the first to leave, two or three days after Cecilia’s death. Four or five days later, they took the women from Besalduch and four more arrived. From them she learned that the others had been tried and hanged immediately.
They did not touch Brianda again, but what she saw and heard was already torture. She did not feel any physical pain but an unbearable sorrow in her soul, convulsed by profound panic and dread of the nightmare her life had now become. She no longer had any tears to shed, but her heart suffered sudden palpitations, and she felt a permanent sensation of drowning and nausea. But one thought prevented her from giving in to madness, one thought nestled her on the rough, cold floor.
Corso.
She went over every one of the gestures, caresses, words, and moments she had shared with him since the day they met in Monzon. That dark, defiant shadow who had driven off the miscreants at the doors of the church; that tall, evasive soldier with long dark hair who had smitten her heart to the point of lunacy, who had become her husband and the father of her Johan and of another child growing in her womb. She recalled how the same intense shiver that she had felt when she saw his face for the first time had run down her back every time he had taken her in his arms, making her tremble with him by night and revel in his solid presence beside her by day. Such was her devotion that she was convinced the sound of hooves she heard at night came from his horse. She pictured him riding in the darkness to be as close as possible to that jail, to tell her that he would get her out of there, that he would never abandon her, and that he would seek revenge for all that horror and evil.
One morning when she was by herself, the door opened, and Pere appeared. His hair was completely gray, and he had lost a lot of weight. In less than a decade, he had become an old man. Brianda gathered all her strength to go over to him. She had spent too long surviving on scraps of bread.
Pere hugged her for a second in silence.
“I’ve made the council agree not to torture you because of your noble birth. I’ve also written to the justice of the kingdom demanding that he put a stop to this madness. I expect his answer shortly. Nevertheless, they will submit you to trial in a week, two at most. I will defend you.”
Brianda squeezed his hands in thanks.
“What has brought us to this, Pere?” she moaned. “What has happened to the Tiles I grew up in? Why won’t anybody stop this lunacy?”
“Everyone is afraid, Brianda. The council has approved punishments for those who aid the accused.”
“Then, you are in danger as well because of me.”
“For the moment, I’m still someone important. It’s Corso that worries me.”
Brianda became alarmed.
“Have they done anything to him?”
“He’s acting like a madman. He’s publicly threatened to kill anyone who lays a hand on you. His attitude doesn’t help either the trial or your reputation. People are talking about your power to cloud his judgment in such a way that he dares to defy fear and common sense. I’m afraid they could accuse him. You must talk to him and calm him down.”
“He’s here?” Brianda shouted.
“You have an hour.” Pere kissed her on the cheek, opened the door to let Corso in, and left them alone.
Brianda and Corso stared at each other for a long while, as if neither dared approach, as if both wanted to delay the moment of contact so the hour before departure would not begin. Corso looked at her like a wounded animal, with his teeth and fists clenched, controlling the rage, confusion, and pain he felt on seeing her dirty, thin, pale, weak. Brianda looked at him, holding back her desire to shout all that she had seen and heard, to tell him how Cecilia had died, to announce she was expecting another baby, to plead with him to get her out of there, to ask him to allow her to be delirious in his arms, like when he saved her from falling off her horse over the cliff.
Finally, he covered the distance that separated them and sheltered her against his chest, where she cried in silence.
“Pere has asked me to be calm, Brianda. Leonor too.” Corso ran his fingers through her hair in desperation. “How can I be calm with you in here?”
“The trial will not be held for a week,” she murmured, trying not to show her despondency, but conscious that another seven days would be an eternity. “You must look after Johan.” She felt a sharp jab of pain when she said her son’s name. She did not want to ask about him in order not to become filled with anguish.
“I can’t even look at him!” Corso bellowed. “My hate is so deep that not even his company consoles me. He reminds me that you should be by my side.” His voice faltered. “Those that fought together with Nunilo and your father now watch my movements. Jayme’s words and threats intimidate those who could once stand against him. He makes the people afraid and then rises as the hero to save them from the evil he himself sowed. You don’t know how much I regret not having killed him before, Brianda. I would prefer the galleys or the rope knowing you were alive rather than—”
“I’m still alive!” Brianda interrupted him. She ran the tips of her fingers along his lips while looking at him tenderly. “I breathe. I move. I speak to you. I feel you inside me every second I spend in this horrible place.” She took a deep breath and intoned her father’s words: “The people of Lubich are not easily humiliated.”
“Damned Lubich,” muttered Corso. “All this is because of that place. Those that didn’t die supporting the count are now made to suffer.” His tone turned contemptuous. “The count is also a prisoner. He got paid for selling his land and will now die as a traitor to the king.”
Brianda bit her bottom lip to stop the sobs.
“I don’t need any more bitterness, Corso,” she stammered. “Where is your fortitude?”
Corso held her fragile body tightly in his arms. He lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers.
“Promise me that you’ll hold out until the trial,” he pleaded. “Think of nothing except me.”
Brianda sealed the promise with a kiss. With each breath, she reminded him of the love she felt for him. With each nip of her teeth she revealed how much she needed him. With each press of her hands around his neck to make the kiss deeper she confirmed that nothing could break the bond that joined them, like an invisible but unbreakable chain, because they were each other’s soul, beyond their mortal bodies, which would decompose sooner or later under the cold, hard land of Tiles.
39.
The afternoon of the sixth day after Corso and Pere’s visit, Brianda, who had remained strong, felt her hopes disappearing as she recognized one of the two new women brought to Cuyls House. It was Maria, Pere’s wife, whose pale skin looked transparent on her distraught face.
“You also, Maria!” exclaimed Brianda. “It’s not possible—”
Maria wore a strange look, as if she had to try not to be disgusted by her. Brianda raised her hand to her chest, suddenly gripped by horror. The witch hunt had extended to Aiscle for one reason only: Maria had been accused to punish Pere for wanting to defend Brianda. The blackmail would force her father’s friend to abandon her.
The other woman, of uncertain age, hazel eyes, and plain clothes, wa
s going around the room sliding her hand along the wall, lost in thought.
“My childhood home is now my prison,” she said before laughing.
“Your home?” Brianda asked.
“If Medardo was still alive, I would not be here.”
“Lida!” Brianda recognized Jayme’s sister and Medardo’s widow. “I don’t understand. Your own brother can’t help you? He should realize the witch-hunter is a fraud!”
“The witch-hunter?” Lida let out a hysterical cackle. “He left weeks ago!”
“But who’s accusing you then?”
“Anyone. Someone thinks, suspects, or suggests something, and the following day it happens. Anything will serve: a fight, a feeling, a rumor, a dream …” She lowered her voice. “I was foolish. I had an argument with Jayme in front of several neighbors. I asked him to stop this lunacy. I told him that Medardo fought to free us of the fear that chained us to a lord and that he would never have allowed this. I questioned Jayme’s authority, and now I am here. He’s the one possessed by a demon. Nobody can impede his grandiose work to clear this land of the devil, heresy, and witchcraft.” She slid to the ground and burst into tears. “I’ve wanted to visit this house for a while, but not like this.”
Brianda began pacing the room in a daze. If Jayme was capable of arresting his own sister, what could she possibly hope for? Marquo? She had long since marked him as a coward, only worried about his own survival. The only one who could speak in her favor was Pere, and now his own wife was accused. But she could not give in to despair. For Corso and for her son she would have to defend herself.
Just then, the door opened and the thin, one-eyed jailer entered. Brianda wondered how he did not tire of the routine of pain and suffering. Either his nature was rotten from birth or they were paying him so well that he could forget his scruples. Or both.
This time he came toward her and grabbed her arm.
“We don’t think it’s fair that you leave without a dose of what the others have had.”
Brianda brusquely shook herself free.