Anthony, Piers - Tarot 3 - Faith of Tarot

by Faith of Tarot (lit)

  "Nice." No question about it: Brother Paul was desperately afraid. He had never been tortured in this fashion and knew the Inquisition was expert at this type of thing. This might be a kind of play, but he knew the torture would feel real and perhaps be real. Had any of the prior Animation fatalities occurred by torture? It was all too possible.

  Brother Thomas drew open a great oaken door and showed the way into the darkest chamber yet. He picked a torch out of its socket, lighted it with his own, and replaced it. Now the room could be seen in all its awful splendor, the details imperfect but still far too suggestive for Brother Paul's taste. It was filled with metal and wooden structures. The purpose or function of some were obscure, while others evinced their nature all too brutally. There was a large fireplace with assorted kettles placed about, filled with water, oil or other fluid. There were knives and irons and axes. Ropes descended from rafters. Chains and manacles were at the walls. Ladders and large spoked wheels abounded.

  "You see, the practice of magic by laymen is witchcraft," Brother Thomas said, as though this were a matter of merely academic interest. "And witchcraft is heresy. France has led the world in the definition and clarification of this threat. Our theologians are well on the way to formulating a comprehensive system of procedure that will rid the world of this evil. Archbishop Guillaume d'Auvergne of Paris showed the way more than a century ago, and Thomas Aquinas did much to develop it further. We Dominicans were assigned by Pope Gregory to perform this holy office, subject only to the Pope. We do our best."

  "No doubt," Brother Paul agreed.

  "Yet we would not willingly cause distress to any person. It is our desire only to abolish willful religious error and establish the truth as it has been declared by the Church. For the good of the souls of all the people. Therefore, we use every device to encourage voluntary renunciation of heresy."

  "Such as torture," Brother Paul agreed.

  "We prefer to call it interrogation," Brother Thomas said with a wry expression. His eyes met Brother Paul's momentarily, and now there was no doubt about the agony of conscience behind the discipline of the role. "I sincerely hope you will be persuaded to cooperate voluntarily, making recourse to coercive methods unnecessary."

  The Vice Squad at college had entertained similar hopes back in Brother Paul's youth. But seldom was human dignity and freedom suppressed voluntarily. People always fought back, some in token degree, others completely. Brother Paul knew he was fated to be the latter type.

  Yet he knew that Lee did not want to torture him. So though the lines of the play were intended to be hypocritical, in this case they were sincere. "I believe you," Brother Paul said. "Yet, merely as supposition, what would become of the soul of a man who betrayed those who had placed their trust in him? If he saved himself from discomfort by yielding them up to the burning stake?"

  "Heretics?" Brother Thomas snorted. Yet, again he showed the stigmata of stress. There was a tremor in the muscle of one cheek, and his eyes were narrow. He abated these symptoms somewhat by proceeding to the first implement of torture.

  "These are thumbscrews," Brother Thomas said, lifting small metal contraptions and holding them in the light of the torch. "The vise is applied to the tips of the thumb or finger, no higher than the base of the nail, and tightened until the blood flows or the bone splinters. It is amazing how well this promotes confession; often the very first finger suffices. In recalcitrant cases, however, the screws may become stuck, so that they can not be removed except by cutting off the finger. We hope to develop better instruments so as to avoid this messiness."

  Brother Paul forced himself to examine the thumbscrews. They were crude things, not screws at all but merely bands of metal, tightened by twisted wires. This was, after all, early in the Inquisition; in the next three centuries the torture instruments would develop greater sophistication—as Brother Thomas had anticipated. In the early days it was possible for subjects to die before they confessed and recanted; in the later days this seldom happened. Should he consider himself lucky—or unlucky?

  "Here are the whips," Brother Thomas continued, showing the next niche. "We generally strip the suspect, bind him tightly, and whip him about the back and buttocks. This is the first degree of interrogation. If this is not effective, we stretch him on the ladder—" He indicated an ordinary wooden ladder. "And pour boiling fat over his body. Normally he will confess at this time."

  "How convenient." This stuff was crude, yet surely sufficient. Brother Paul was sure that he himself could not withstand such tortures. Yet, knowing that many Waldenses, whose only crime was their belief in the original precepts of Jesus Christ and the sanctity of the Holy Bible, would be routed out and similarly tortured if he yielded—how could he yield? He thought of the thankful old woman, racked on the ladder, and of the sick little girl with thumbscrews on her thin little fingers. Something very like Satanic rage clouded his vision.

  "Suppose the suspect is innocent?" Brother Paul inquired, surprised to find no quaver in his voice. "What would your torture avail when a man has nothing to confess?"

  "There are no innocent suspects," Brother Thomas said with chilling conviction. "There are only taciturn heretics. Those who resist the preparatory interrogation are then subject to the second degree, called ordinary torture." He indicated a rope strung over a beam. "This is for the strappado. The suspect's arms are tied behind his back. He is then hoisted into the air and weights are attached to his feet in order to wrench his shoulders from their sockets without shedding his blood or marking him."

  Dislocation of limbs. That meant that even if the hapless prisoner were released thereafter, he would probably never regain his former health. But of course he would not be released; his agony would end only in death. The prospect sickened Brother Paul, yet morbid curiosity forced him to inquire further: "And if his taciturnity persists?"

  "Then we must regretfully apply the third degree, called extraordinary torture. This is squassation. This resembles strappado, except that he is hoisted higher, the suddenly dropped to within a few inches of the floor. Because stones weighing as much as a hundred kilograms are attached to his feet, his arms are instantly disjointed and his whole body stretched cruelly. Three applications are deemed sufficient to cause death."

  Had they used the kilogram as a unit of measure of weight in medieval France? Regardless, that was more than the weight of a man. By any measure, the business was grim enough! "And if even this does not bring confession?"

  "The surviving subject may then be interrogated by special means." The Dominican showed a crude pair of pincers. "These are heated in the fire, and when red-hot are used to tear the flesh. Or he may be seated in a metal chair placed over the fire itself so that his posterior slowly cooks. His hands or feet may be cut off. Or—"

  "I think that suffices," Brother Paul said. Was there a place he could safely vomit?

  "I am glad to hear that." The look Brother Thomas turned on him was compounded of victory, relief, and barely suppressed horror. How can we know the dancer from the dance? Brother Paul thought, appreciating the deepest meaning of the line from W. B. Yeats' poem with sudden intensity. What nostalgia for that 500-year future he felt! How could the Friar live with the conscience of the Juggler within him? Satan was surely testing him as severely as he was testing Brother Paul. "Come upstairs, where our scribe will record your statement."

  "You misunderstand," Brother Paul said. "I have no confession to make—except for my belief in the timeless and measureless beneficence of God."

  Disappointment—and muted hope. "You renounce your heretical belief, and take sanctuary in the bosom of the Holy Mother Church?" Which would mean capitulating and yielding up the information and producing the complete Waldens' Tarot deck from memory, as well as betraying all the Waldenses he already had encountered. Lee did not want to participate in the torture of his friend as surely as Brother Paul had not wanted to hammer a nail through the wrist of his friend on the cross. But Lee also did not want to see th
e Waldenses persecuted. But he had to play his part faithfully, seeing no way out. "I warn you, you can not escape from our power; no ruse, no false recantation will avail." For him, it would be best if Brother Paul escaped so that neither torture nor betrayal occurred. Thus, this covert suggestion: at least TRY to escape our power. Brother Paul might be able to kill himself in the attempt, and that would be better than the Churchly alternatives.

  "I mean that I have more than sufficient understanding of the specific instruments of the Church's beneficence," Brother Paul said, gesturing at the assembled torture devices. "Now I must retire to consider my decision."

  "Of course." Brother Thomas guided him out, locking the dread chamber behind them. It wouldn't do to have anyone sneaking in here and playing with the instruments! "You may consider as long as you wish—but I regret you must do so without the benefit of water."

  Thirst—a most effective inducement! The longer Brother Paul delayed, the worse it would get. Had Lee known of his sensitivity to thirst, dating from his childhood misery, or had it merely been a lucky guess? His torture had already begun!

  Back in his chamber, Brother Paul re-examined the barred window. No hope there; it was completely solid, and it opened to an inner court. He would have to depart by the regular passages and doors—which would surely be guarded. Of course he had special physical skills; he could overcome the monks, rendering them safely unconscious by careful judo strangles during the night—

  No. First, he was ill; his pneumonia had abated during this rest, but he could still feel its variable fever and the catch in his breath, signaling the involvement of his lungs. Violence and flight would quickly throw him into a potentially fatal relapse—but not so rapidly as to prevent them from nursing him back to health for the torture. Second, he knew that these monks were merely actors to the extent they had any tangible existence at all; he had no moral right to practice violence on them.

  Yet the alternative to escape was torture—or betrayal. If he were tortured, he might confess anyway—but possibly the others would be restrained by the same considerations that restrained him—reason, friendship, and ethics—and ease off after token punishment. Then he might be able to get through. Yet if Lee played his role with complete integrity that torture would hurt. So the impasse remained.

  There was a delicate knock on his door. "I'm here," he called sourly. As if there were any question!

  The door opened. Yvette stood there. She had changed her attire; now she was more Italian in style, her hair braided and bound circularly about her head like a coronet. Her dress was closely contoured about her upper body with sleeves closing in firmly about her wrists and the front molded exactly to the shape of her full bosom. The neckline was almost straight from the curves of her shoulders across the uppermost swell of her breasts. In back it became a cape, whose excess material had to be held out of the way by hand. In all, it was strikingly like the costuming in the earliest Tarot cards and most attractive to the male eye. But of course that was the way of Amaranth; in whatever role she played, she had strong sex appeal. The question was, did she have anything else?

  "Come," she murmured conspiratorily. "The King has granted you audience."

  "What?" He had been distracted by the costume.

  "King Charles VI," she said, winking. "I told him of your magic cards, and he is interested. This is our chance!" She took him by the arm and drew him on.

  Well, at best it was a chance to make a break. Brother Paul suffered himself to be guided through the silent halls and out into a chariot whose canopy descended to close off the outside view entirely. The ride was rough, but quite private, jammed in with Yvette.

  She turned to him, enjoying it. Apparently his prior rebuff had fazed her only temporarily; like a healthy young animal, she had bounced back for another try. And bounce she did; her breasts threatened to detach themselves entirely from the dress. She might as well have been naked above the waist. Yet what use was this to him? Eunuch that he was, the stimulation was all in his mind.

  "I do so admire a man with discipline," she said. "If only you perform this service for the King—"

  Brother Paul merely shrugged. He was sorry he could not see the great city of Paris. Even in the fourteenth century, it must be something! Obviously Yvette was working with Brother Thomas, carrot and stick under the Devil's direction, trying to lure him into the betrayal he resisted. So both of them took care that he should not pick up any notion of the local geography that might facilitate his escape.

  Of course he could simply jump out of the chariot and run—but he was sure guards on horseback were following. No chance there! He had to bide his time, waiting his opportunity—if it ever came.

  The palace was impressive both in scale and primitiveness. They entered a huge central hall from which doors led to the kitchen; he knew this by the constantly trooping servants carrying loaded platters of fish, venison, boiled meat, fritters, and pastries.

  Suddenly Brother Paul was hungry. This entrance must have been carefully timed to expose him to the main meal of the day. He had been so concerned with thirst he had not realized he had not yet eaten today. He certainly knew it now!

  "The King doesn't seem to have arrived yet," Yvette observed. Brother Paul was uncertain how she could tell since this room was filled with people lustily feasting at the long tables. Many of them were well dressed in fur-lined robes and capes; since the air was chill, Brother Paul wished for heavier clothing herself.

  She noticed. "Oh, are you cold? Come over here by the fire." And indeed, there was a raised hearth in the center of the hall with a great fire blazing. But there was no flue. The smoke rose and spread voluminously until it found egress through an aperture high in the ceiling. Well, at least this bonfire was warm! No wonder they needed a large dining hall; otherwise the smoke would stifle everything.

  "Let me fetch you some food and wine," Yvette offered solicitously.

  Temptation indeed! "Is that permitted?"

  "Of course. You are here for audience with the King; he would not let it be bruited about that you were not treated properly. You will always eat well here."

  That was not precisely what he had meant. Well, he would experiment. "If I could just have something to drink—"

  "If the King enters, there'll be a fanfare and silence. You must face the royal entourage and bow. Otherwise, just stay here and keep warm." She traipsed off, hips swinging beautifully in the gown as she marched toward the nearest table. Now came the test: did this role allow her to abate his thirst, undermining the Friar's coercion?

  Brother Paul glanced about. What would stop him from walking out right now while he was unattended? Apart from hunger and thirst. His eye caught that of a guard standing near the wind baffle at an exit. Unattended? Ha!

  He refocused his attention on something more positive: the groaning tables of food. Multiple dishes had been set out simultaneously, and with a little analysis he was able to identify a number of them with fair certainty. Beef marrow fritters, a popular medieval dish; large cuts of roast meat, origin dubious; saltwater and freshwater fish; broth with bacon; blancmange, which was shredded chicken blended with rice, boiled in almond milk, seasoned with sugar, and cooked until thick. Surprising how much he remembered once he put his hunger-sharpened mind to it! He hoped Yvette brought him some of that!

  But first he hoped she brought him something to drink. She had not answered his plea directly; until he had that drink, he could not be certain this was not merely a refinement of the torture. Maybe he would be allowed all he wanted of thirst-producing food, without liquid.

  Dogs chewed on the bones and scraps under the table. No problem with waste disposal here! The diners tore fragments of meat from the main roasts with their hands, openly licking off their fingers before grabbing again. One noble evidently had a cold; he blew his nose noisily with his bare finger and thumb, wiped the digits off on his robe, and fished with them in another stew for a succulent chunk. There were no napkins or eating utensil
s.

  There was a sound like that of a horn, followed by a brief, astonished silence. The fanfare announcing the King? No, a false alarm; someone had broken wind so vociferously as to be audible above the tremendous clatter of the meal. People in that vicinity edged this way and that, making exaggerated faces and snufflings, but it was impossible to tell who was the culprit. Obviously a meal like this was bound to produce considerable flatulence, but the proscription against audible venting was strong. Brother Paul was reminded of Mark Twain's commentary on the subject, titled 1601—supposedly a conversation between Queen Elizabeth of England and her courtiers, including William Shakespeare. "The pit itself hath furnished forth the stink," Brother Paul murmured, quoting the famous playwright's response when accused of authoring the stench. "And heaven's artillery hath shook the globe in admiration of it." A fitting comment for this sequence spawned by the Devil, the Lord of Air. And how did the Biblical "Wind of God" relate? Could the Suit of Swords of the Tarot actually embrace flatulence?

  But now Yvette was back. She had assembled a splendid platter for him: brewet—pieces of meat in thin cinnamon sauce; eels in a thick spicy puree; frumenty, which was a thick pudding of whole wheat grains and almond milk enriched with egg yokes and colored with saffron; venison; and several obscure blobs he hoped were edible by his modern definitions. And—bless her!—the spiced wine he had requested. The abatement of thirst!

  What a contrast this plate was to the poor fare of the peasants! But no eating utensils. He could of course employ his fingers, but didn't want to emulate the slobbish manners he had observed here.

  "Use the trencher," Yvette suggested delicately. That was Amaranth speaking, misinterpreting her part; the true medieval lady would not have realized his problem.

  Oh, yes—the trencher. A thick slice of stale bread about fifteen centimeters long: the all-purpose pusher, sop, spoon, and plate. Essential in a situation like this.