The Passion of Dolssa

by Julie Berry

  The people of Bajas gaped in horror. We expected the flogging. Never this.

  A fire crackled between the accused and their accusers. Small, but hot, and hungry, fed from a pile of wood and a bellows by one of the bishop’s servants. Now I understood its purpose.

  Waves rocked soothingly at the sand, making gentle music to accompany the torturing of Jacme and Andrio. Both stood, with bound wrists tied high to a pole, on the very same beach where they had thought to teach the inquisitor a lesson. They were a sight less menacing-looking now, and sadly sober. Stripped all but naked, and terrified. Still, after what they’d done, I found it hard to pity them. A cleric’s murder could have cost us all our lives.

  But now, the clergy believed our Dolssa had already been executed. After today, they’d all go home. We could get on with our lives. We would find her a new hiding place to live out her life in peace. I reached out and took my sisters by the hand. The image swam unbidden into my mind of each of them with cross-scarred foreheads.

  Poor Jacme and Andrio. Poor, poor, stupid creatures.

  We all stood to behold the pageantry of justice. Lop had led the accused down the hill and into the public ring. The nobles, the friars, the bishop and his priests, and their retinue of soldiers formed a wall of righteousness to withstand the teeming threat of our drunken, heretical, rural peasant vice.

  In the midst of the clergy, seated in a chair and sheltered on either side by other tonsured friars, was a frail Lucien de Saint-Honore. Even from afar, the red wound on his scalp cried out for retribution.

  Lop practiced a few strokes with the whip upon the sand. On the second test it cracked. The third made Lop confident. The fourth caught Andrio across his left shoulder.

  The lash’s bite left a mark, and soon a thin line of blood.

  Jacme was next to cry out.

  The whip cracked and stung, cracked and stung, and before long they were sobbing, broken, their feet scrabbling in the sand as they tried to fall, pleading for an end, cringing before the lash. Drops of blood sprayed off their skin at each stroke.

  Jacme and Andrio had been prepared to kill a man in cold blood. Or so they’d said. And they nearly did. They were lucky to walk away with their lives. But it was a pitiable thing to watch a human soul treated worse than one would ever treat a donkey. It always was. No matter how many times I’d seen it before.

  Lop left them there, drooping, crying, no longer caring who saw them so. He knelt and winced before the fire’s heat. With both hands he wrapped a hot iron handle in leather and thick cloth, then raised a red-hot poker high. Its thick cross glowed bright as poppies.

  It happened so fast. Two knights in the bishop’s retinue wrapped broad leather straps around Jacme, and pinioned his limbs to the pole whereon he was tied. A third clamped his hands on either side of Jacme’s head to hold it still. Lop brought the poker to Jacme, and Jacme spat at him. Lop pressed the hot brand onto his victim’s forehead. Crookedly.

  His searing skin hissed. Jacme screamed. Smoke billowed, floated away on the breeze. Lop pulled the brand away, then carefully pressed it back again, to cauterize the mark.

  Piss darkened the cloth tied around Jacme’s middle and ran down his legs.

  I couldn’t bear to watch Andrio’s turn. Sazia hid in my arms. “Poor fools,” Plazi whispered to herself. “So young.”

  It ended. Lop stopped. The poor maimed ones’ pitiable cries keened on the wind off the sea.

  We exhaled, and waited. Please, Dieu, put a stop to this.

  Let someone speak. Let something release us all from this horror. Let lightning from heaven strike these churchmen who even now triumph over such mad cruelty.

  There was a stir. We all watched as Lucien de Saint-Honore rose, guided by his helpers, and approached the blubbering, bleeding men. They stopped their whimpering and waited. I imagine they wondered what more he could do to them.

  He stood over them, beholding their faces with grave and sober concern.

  “I forgive you,” he told them.

  “You’re a fool,” was Jacme’s answer.

  The clerics looked aghast at this irreverence. Lucien de Saint-Honore’s hand fluttered to his wounded head.

  A burnt cross leered at the friar from above Jacme’s swollen-shut eye. The other eye found Symo in the crowd. He spoke, though, to the friar. “You think you’ve burnt your heretic,” he said, “but you’ve been duped. If you want to know where your Dolssa is, follow the tavern cat.”

  BOTILLE

  y sisters and I clutched one another’s hands.

  Jacme. How could you?

  God in heaven, show me what I must do. Was there time? Could I run and warn Dolssa?

  Shocked murmurs ran through the assembled villagers. Among them were many sounds of joy. Lisette de Boroc. Saura Garcia. Discovering their angel was not dead.

  A figure slipped away from the clergy. I watched in horror as the tall form of Senhor Hugo strode up the hill toward the village and Na Pieret’s fields beyond. My heart sank. That man was deadly. He’d surely find her.

  Senhor Guilhem hurried toward Jacme and Andrio. “Get them away from here,” he told Lop. “Drag these beggars out.”

  Lop untied Jacme from the post and began pulling him up the hill.

  “The ruffian thinks to surprise me with this revelation about Dolssa, the heretic,” cried Lucien. “But it was already plain to see that this town is steeped in a conspiracy of silence. They’ve sworn a pact not to reveal the heretic’s whereabouts. She lives, I’ll swear it, concealed away by the tavern sisters.”

  “My srres,” I told them in tears. “I—”

  “No, Botille.” Plazi stopped my apologies with a kiss. “No need.”

  The older Dominican friar, the one who seemed to be Lucien de Saint-Honore’s superior, hurried to his side and tried to persuade him to come back to his seat.

  “And the woman you burned,” the friar told Senhor Guilhem, “was never Dolssa de Stigata. Isn’t that right, Senhor Hugo?”

  But the knight was gone. The churchmen looked about for him in confusion, but it didn’t matter. Now they all knew.

  “I swear to you, my lords of the Church . . .” began Senhor Guilhem, but I had no ears for his feeble protest.

  “We’ve failed.” I could barely speak. “I couldn’t save Dolssa, my sisters, and now I’ve killed you.”

  From somewhere, Symo appeared beside us. The young friar fixed his eagle eye on us.

  “Those two.” Lucien pointed to Symo and me. “They did it. I met them on the road. They pretended to be sister and brother, but they aren’t. Fornicators! Secret lovers. Sinners, heretical conspirators, posing as kindred and thinking to fool the Lord by it!”

  The Dominican prior, the bishop, and Senhor Guilhem eyed one another.

  Symo’s eyes met mine. Fornicators, lovers? Any other day I would have laughed. The look in Symo’s eyes, though, made me want to weep.

  “Of course they’re not siblings,” said Senhor Guilhem. “I told you that.”

  “They brought her here,” Lucien said, “and hid her in the tavern. Then they taught the village to adore her as a holy woman, by tricking them into thinking she had healed their false ailments.”

  “Symo,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  He made me look into his eyes.

  Lop returned from hauling Jacme, and deputized others to take Andrio away.

  “Lucien,” said the older Dominican, “what do you mean, Dolssa de Stigata has not been executed?” He looked about him. “Everyone told us she’d been burnt days ago.”

  “I don’t know who that was. Some vagabond, perhaps. But it wasn’t she.” Lucien’s expression was triumphant. “I’m certain of it. Even without the brute’s admission. Else, why so many lies?”

  I had underestimated Friar Lucien’s cunning. We all had.

  “Why burn the woman all the vila adored? Everything smells wrong here. Like the stench of rotting fish.” A high flush colored Friar Lucien’s cheeks. “It wa
sn’t Dolssa de Stigata. She’s still alive.”

  “If that’s true,” said Bishop Raimon, “then it will soon be remedied. And this time, the entire village will witness her execution.”

  A wail went up from the crowd. The bishop’s sharp eyes turned to find the offender out.

  “Woman!” he cried. “Step forward, and explain this outburst.”

  Lisette de Boroc stepped forward with her infant in her arms. He’d grown fatter. Martin de Boroc held his daughter in his long arms and watched his wife in horror.

  Bishop Raimon surveyed her appearance.

  “You wish to defend the heretic, Dolssa de Stigata?”

  Lisette genuflected. Poor simple creature. Her face was full of trust.

  “Honored bishop,” she said, “spare her life, I beg you! Dolssa helped my baby eat when he wouldn’t. She saved his life. It was a miracle.”

  She tried to slip back into the crowd, but Bishop Raimon would have none of that.

  “State your name,” he said.

  Martin de Boroc closed his eyes.

  “Lisette de Boroc,” she replied.

  “Your age?”

  “Twenty-five,” said she. One of the younger Dominican friars who had accompanied the clerics from Tolosa produced parchment and ink to write her words.

  “How many children do you have?”

  I think it was then that Lisette caught the first scent of danger.

  “Two,” she murmured softly.

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Two young children. What is your husband’s name?”

  “Martin, Lord bishop.”

  People began to stand apart from Martin. He had caught the disease they feared.

  “His trade?”

  She turned and faced him. She realized what she’d done, poor creature. I’m sorry, her face said.

  “His trade?”

  Martin nodded to his wife, whose face grew red.

  “I’m a fisherman,” he called out.

  Lucien de Saint-Honore had some words with the older Dominican friar, the one who seemed to be his superior. At length he said, “Present yourselves at church tomorrow morning.”

  Martin pulled Lisette close to him and wrapped his arms around his entire family.

  Saura stood, pale and stricken, at the forefront of the crowd. She crept forward in the sand, and hesitated, but when she opened her mouth, she poured out her words like water.

  “Please, holy friars, pardon me, a poor ignorant woman. I am a mother and a wife, and my husband and son were ill, ready to die of fever, and this femna, Dolssa, healed them. The fever parted, and they got better. Please don’t hurt them. They were asleep when she came, and they didn’t know anything about it. It was I who asked her to come help them if she could. I know you will learn this anyway as you question people, for the whole town was there, and they saw it happen. We rejoiced together. Dozens came forward afterward to be healed and helped by her. She healed them all. And they know it is true. I know you will question me soon for saying all this. But I must tell it now. Please do not kill her. Dolssa de Stigata has the spirit of God in her.”

  Bishop Raimon and Prior Pons recoiled at her last statement.

  Martin de Boroc stepped forward, and did the bravest, most foolish thing he would ever do. “What Saura says is true,” he said loudly. “Only God could have healed my son. Na Dolssa does God’s work, and who can deny God?”

  A breeze off the lagoon ruffled the assembly. We all, it seemed, held our breath.

  “Do you hear her, my brethren?” the bishop cried. “How many souls has this creature infected already? The whole vila is reprobate. The damage is far worse than we’d feared. These people convict all Bajas with their damning testimony.”

  The clerics huddled once more. Their wall of soldiers closed ranks around them. The churchmen whispered together for long, torturous moments, while seagulls cawed across the beach, and bells tied to fishing boats chimed a lullaby.

  Then the circle broke.

  “We have reached a decision,” cried Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore. “We recommend to Senhor Guilhem that he implement these sentences, to demonstrate that he is a true lord of the Christian faith.” Senhor Guilhem all but shook. “The heretic should be found, and struck through with an arrow, then burned. You three sisters, and the young ome, will lead the bayle to her, then share her fate.” He gestured wide with his arm, taking in the sweep of the assembled Bajas. “This entire village is guilty of fostering and concealing heresy, so the entire village—the houses, all the property, and those persons identified as believing her words—must burn.”

  A cry went up from the assembled crowd. The clergy turned sharply to find the offenders, and the soldiers’ hands went to their scabbards. Then all was still. We couldn’t even mourn our homes, much less our friends or our lives.

  Senhor Guilhem and Lop looked gray. The lord of Bajas could not impose such a sentence and keep his lands, nor his people’s obedience. Neither could he ignore the churchmen and their soldiers and keep his lands, much less his immortal soul.

  The prior sent friars up the hill to ring the bells at Sant Martin. To smoke out any remaining villagers who might still be in their houses.

  Soldiers were sent to ransack our barns, strewing hay around each maisoṇ, ready for burning. A few were left to keep a close watch on us.

  The canons returned with a stack of candles and a glowing lamp. One by one they lit the candles, one for each of the churchmen. From the bishop down to the lowest monk, each in his own orb of holy light, they bowed their heads and prayed, asking God to bless them in their sacred work.

  “I told Litgier to stay away at all costs.” Plazensa’s whispering voice shook. “He’s out fishing. Didn’t want him mixed up in the whipping.” She wiped her eyes. “Now I’ll never tell him good-bye.”

  Oh, Plazi. To hear my sister admit what she never had before cut my heart.

  On the beach, husbands and wives huddled together. They clutched their children against their breasts.

  Behind me, Symo stood with his head hung down. My sisters, drained of hope, held each other.

  Somewhere, in the darkness, Dolssa sat in her cell, and if her beloved kept watch over her, perhaps Senhor Hugo would not find her.

  I had one last chance to try anything. But what? God in heaven, what?

  My gaze fell upon Dominus Bernard, watching me. I remembered his words. They even convict and execute the dead. Who could hope for mercy from such monsters?

  They dig up heretics’ bones and burn them.

  There it was. My chance.

  I stumbled forward and fell down upon my knees in the sand at the churchmen’s feet.

  “Good bishop,” I cried. “Good prior. Good friar.” I licked my lips with a dry tongue. “Spare this village, I beg you. These people are innocent. The victims of my falsehoods. The heretic will mislead the village no more after this moment. Teach them, explain to them the error of their ways, and they will listen. They are ignorant, and they believed my lies. Correct them, and they will repent. But you need no longer fear the heretic, for she is dead.”

  The churchmen continued their chanting prayers, but Bishop Raimon conferred with Lucien de Saint-Honore and the prior.

  “Explain,” demanded Lucien.

  I took a deep breath. If ever I’d lied my way out of trouble before, oh, Mamà’s magic, don’t fail me now.

  “I found Dolssa de Stigata by the side of the road, nearly dead from starvation, on a journey, weeks ago. I brought her home and nurtured her out of pity, and nothing more. She told me she feared you, so I shielded her from you.”

  “Hear how by her own admission she damns herself!” Lucien pointed accusingly at me.

  What to say? My beautiful sisters. Could I not find a way to help them?

  “All this was my own doing,” I said. “My sisters, and this young man, who fear God and his church, warned me against it.”

  “They were complicit with you f
rom the very start,” insisted Lucien.

  I shook my head. “Only for kindness’s sake. After Senhor Guilhem burnt the bona femna,” I said, “I was content to let that story stand, that she had been Dolssa, so that we could all have peace. Because Dolssa de Stigata died of fever two nights ago. She caught it from the sick Garcia family.”

  I heard a cry in the crowd. Saura.

  Felipa, forgive me for what I am about to do.

  “The heretic Dolssa is the last person buried in the churchyard,” I said. “Go look for yourself, and see. Spare these who have been victims of untruth. Give them a penance, but let them live. If you must burn Dolssa de Stigata, you’ll find her in the graveyard. Burn her, and me along with her. Take my life for both our crimes.”

  The sun sank behind Bajas. The sky was soft, a heavenly shade of lavender.

  “Lop,” called Senhor Guilhem. “Bring more wood for the fire.”

  “It isn’t so!” cried a loud, familiar voice.

  My heart sank. Astruga.

  “The last woman buried in the churchyard is the good Christian wife of Joan de Prato, may she rest in peace,” Astruga said. “Botille lies, not caring if she damns an innocent femna.”

  Astruga, you stupid creature! You who once called yourself my friend. To please your new love, and guard his wife’s bones, you have robbed Bajas, and me, of our last hope.

  “Botille lies,” repeated Friar Lucien slowly. “Again and again, Botille lies.” He approached me, cautiously, as if I might bite. “But why? It is curious, is it not? Even as she offers her own life, she lies. She is desperate to make us believe the heretic Dolssa is dead. Why? Because she is not dead. And Botille is so far gone in the service of Satan that she’s willing to die to shield the heretic.”

  He was practically upon me now. The friar’s face swam before my tear-filled eyes.