by Alex Dylan
Heughan screamed for Rodrigues but no sound came out. Instinctively, his sword was in his hands. He slashed at the falling masonry in a futile attempt to protect his friend. He fell to his knees, the stones rolled past him, he didn’t care. He just needed to get inside. Dust filled his nostrils. He closed his eyes and crawled, dragging his legs free. As his hands fumbled over the rubble, he tried to open his eyes but they stung as though nettled. He felt blood drying on his legs where the grit bit into him, slicing open his palms in beautiful fine cuts. He closed out the pain.
In a rush, all sound returned. There was a hole in the dust and he could hear horses panicking. Was that Willie shouting for him? Heughan heard the fiery zip and close hollow whistle of pistol shots coming at him. There was shouting, a lot of shouting, he knew the voice but couldn’t place it. Call to me, Roddy, call to me, he repeated to himself, willing the stocky form of the barrel-shaped Spaniard to appear before him.
Heughan thrashed his sword in desperation. He felt something soft beneath his blade. Dropping his sword, he reached out for the motionless form, grabbing tightly with both fists as he heaved it towards him. Exhaustion wearied him. He wiped away the blood and sweat from his eyes and laid his head on the sleeve of the body. Heughan felt along the arm and came up against stone, boulders that were too big to move. The man was clearly dead.
He had found Rodrigues.
The Tower. Sudden Change. Enlightenment.
He had known that this was the end even as they had looked at each other the last time.
He had hold of one black-gloved hand, on the thumb of which was Rodrigues’s famous black ruby ring. Heughan knelt up, grasped his sword with both hands and swung it up high behind his shoulder. He brought it forcefully down and cut off the hand with one swipe. He stuffed it inside his jack even as he fell backwards into the escape tunnel. Willie stopped him rolling, hauled him onto his feet and urged him along the tunnel, out of the sally port and into the saddle.
“Go Aluino! Go! Ride him out!” said Willie slapping the horse hard on the rump.
Chapter 19: Trial by Ordeal
Melisande tugged hard at the grenado’s wick, struggling to pull it free and cursing Desmond for having jammed the cork seal in quite so tightly. It rushed out with a pop and she threw it quickly onto the fire. The wick sputtered and sparked, curling away to dull ash. Pounding footsteps thudded on the main staircase, followed by Sorcha’s voice, shouting for her and hammering on the door. She had barely made it back to her chambers before them.
She heard Ross shouting above the confusion and imagined him muscling his way through the troops, knocking them out of the way to reach her. She wouldn’t be able to hold them off any longer, and she had very little time. She hurled the last pottery grenado against the back of the fireplace, where it smashed against the sandstone hearth. There was a bang, a roar and a heartbeat’s silence. Melisande felt the chimney inhale all the air from the room in a rush before spewing a wall-full of soot and dirt back. It hit the fireplace with a self-satisfied whump, puffing out a huge black cloud into her chamber.
Ross flung open the door and burst in upon her.
Melisande looked like an imp from hell. Soot encased her; only her eyes burned bright as coals in her blackened face. “You’re the cause of all of this. You started this fire. Witch!” screamed Ross, pointing to her. “Devil! Whore! Spawn of Satan!”
“Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” she countered. He too was singed and ruffled from the fire, smuts covered his face and hands, streaked with sweat and heat.
“I can smell the brimstone on you from here,” he waved his finger accusingly, not moving from the doorway. Melisande looked hard at him. For the first time ever, she saw fear cross his face; her soul was proud to inspire such genuine emotion in him.
Mark A’Court was either more confident or more accustomed to dealing with witches in confined spaces. He held fast to the large gold cross surmounting his chest and strode over to her; their eyes met briefly in a shared instant. “We were concerned for your safety, my lady.” She let him take her hand. He bowed low over it as though he were about to flatter her with a kiss and inhaled her fragrance. “It does smell suspiciously of sulphur and charcoal,” he said quietly, “but then it would, wouldn’t it?”
Her eyes mocked him. “Of course, I smell of fire. We all do. I was helping to save the animals.”
“Those with two legs or four?”
“She did it all,” ranted Ross. “She destroyed the Castle and loosed the prisoners.”
“Oh, come now,” Mark A’Court objected. “You are surely not suggesting that Lady Melisande here has the capacity to reduce the West Tower to rubble and spirit the prisoners away all by herself? Master Nortbie’s work must surely be more reliable or else the whole citadel will fall around us.”
Jeffrie Nortbie, standing in the doorway, coloured to the tips of his ears. “My lords, I assure you that the works are sound. The West Tower has been crumbling these long years. I warned often enough of the dangers of footings that stood on shifting sands. The moat diversion accelerated the process…”
“The whole bloody tower’s in the moat now,” screamed Ross.
“And where are the prisoners, do you imagine?” asked Mark A’Court.
Jeffrie coughed nervously, “I am afraid that we will find most of them still in the tower. However, it could take some time to clear the rubble. We will have to work with the tides, make sure the subsidence is complete…”
“She’s a traitorous witch!” repeated Ross stubbornly. “Intent on destroying us all. Search this room. I say you will find your proofs.”
“It’s true, my lord,” said a nasal whine from the doorway. Melisande was surprised to see Ruth Nortbie and the other ladies. “This evil, ungodly harlot has perverted the most fundamental innocence of those around her, claiming she can lift the curse of Eve…”
“There is no curse,” Melisande interrupted, “there are just cycles, rhythms…”
“Heretic!” accused Ruth Nortbie. She propelled an embarrassed Phillice forwards. “Do you deny that you gave this child potions to drink, claiming you could alter her courses, ensure she would fall pregnant, when, in fact, all you did was make her barren?” Her eyes flicked to the collection of items on the table and she grabbed for the melusine jar.
“Poisons and love philtres!” she screeched, waving the evidence and scattering dwayberries onto the floor.
Ross stared at her with a cold glint in his eyes. “She put a glamour on me, inflamed my passions,” he accused.
“That wasn’t passion,” Melisande snapped. “That was just your lust.”
“What’s the difference?” Mark inquired casually.
“Nobility of spirit,” she said, squaring her shoulders. Mark inclined his head quizzically.
“My lord, I tell you she is a witch,” repeated Ross doggedly. “She incited me to unnatural carnal desires, with other men’s wives,” he added.
There was a shocked gasp from Phillice. Melisande turned her head to see Sorcha trying quietly to persuade Phillice to back out of the room and leave. Their eyes met briefly.
“Again, just your lust,” Melisande said.
“She rendered me impotent,” Ross insisted, “unable to consummate the union with my wife.”
Mark looked at Melisande questioningly. She shrugged noncommittally.
“She poisoned me! She poisoned my wife with her wicked potions!” raged Ross.
“I did no such thing,” Melisande refuted.
“She interfered with nature, my lord,” Ross was frothing, his words sick with speed. “It’s against God’s commands. She’s meddled with the rightful order of things.”
Mark directed a quiet, “Guilty,” out of the corner of his mouth to her but didn’t meet her eyes. She couldn’t tell whether he was teasing her or toying with her.
Lettice stood back listening, with her hands folded across her ample curves, bolstering her bosom with an armful of confronta
tion. Her attention was drawn to the wooden roundel on the table. Frowning, she slipped its mate out of her skirt folds and placed the two side by side, much to the interest of Mark A’Court.
Melisande looked in shocked surprise at Lettice, who returned her gaze defiantly. Lettice glanced back at the table, noticing the scroll. When she realised what it was, she passed it to Ruth with a whispered comment. Ruth immediately grabbed it from her hands and ripped it open, jabbering wildly, “See here, my lord, the evidence of her wicked idolatry, worshiping the moon, making blood sacrifices.”
Melisande shook her head sadly, “Revenge restores nothing, Lettice, and retaliation is a pernicious mistake.”
Lettice gave herself away. She looked at Mark A’Court for reassurances.
“Do you hear?” shrilled Ruth Nortbie, “even now she makes threats.” The noise upset Phillice’s dogs, who were hiding in her skirts, and started them barking. “Do you dare deny that you use forbidden knowledge to brew up your sinfulness and deceive us all with your claims of healing powers?”
Phillice, Lettice and Ruth. Mother, maiden and crone together. Like little lapdogs, Mark held them all on leashes, but he had used them to corner her. Was the goddess mocking her?
Queen of Cups, reversed. A woman wronged.
The High Priestess, keeper of secrets, betrayed by her own sisters… Ten of Swords.
Melisande heard the underlying malice in Ruth’s voice and composed her response carefully, struggling to keep the indignation out of her voice.
“I use the gifts that have been granted to me to help others, that much is true. That I have knowledge that has been forbidden to others it is true also, but it is not knowledge that is forbidden, as such, rather that which has been denied to others through want or circumstance.”
“Abomination!” hurled the venomous Ruth. “There is nothing more displeasing to the sight of the Lord than an educated woman.”
“Madam,” interjected Mark with implied menace, “I do believe that if anyone here is qualified to speak on what is or isn’t pleasing to the Lord, it would be me, rather than your good self?”
Ruth was humiliated into silence. Phillice subdued the other bitches. Sorcha tried to pull them all from the room, leaving Melisande to deal with the men.
“My Lady Melisande,” Mark addressed her formally, “may I enquire as to how you came by your knowledge?”
“I learned from my father, as any dutiful daughter should,” she replied, lowering her glance briefly before him. Mark looked at her sharply, sensing irony.
“And you deny that you have brought about ill through the application of this knowledge?” Melisande heard the cautionary warning in his voice.
“Is this a trial, my lord?” she asked gently.
“Do not make it so,” he said with equanimity. “Have you caused harm, Melisande, intentional harm?”
“She killed a cow,” Ross supplied.
Melisande rolled her eyes. There’s always one, she thought humourlessly.
“It was struck by lightning, and when she touched it, she said it was dead. She killed it, it died by her touch.”
“Can you hear yourself?” she said disbelievingly, shaking her head and pausing a moment before she carried on. “I use simple herb remedies and common sense, nothing more. Though it seems that common sense is somewhat lacking hereabouts,” she aimed spitefully in Ross’s direction.
“Remedies?” queried Mark.
She nodded, “Old recipes handed down to me…” and stopped, realising too late that she had walked into Mark’s trap.
“Recipes, written down?” he asked politely. “In a book perhaps? A journal that contains common sense and perhaps other intelligences less common?”
Melisande remained silent.
“Such a thing does indeed sound like it could be dangerous. Mistress Nortbie could well be correct.” Melisande’s heart skipped a beat. Her eyes flicked to Ruth Nortbie, who responded with the unpleasant smile of a cringing vixen even as she followed Sorcha out of the chamber. Mark waited for the strength of masculinity to dominate.
“The existence of such a book is worrying. There are some who might suggest it could be a necronomicon,” suggested Mark serenely, watching Melisande twitch at the word. “Surely, it would be better if you handed it over to me, and I could put an end to this nonsense, put all our minds at rest. The king is most ardent in those matters described in ‘Daemonologie’.”
All eyes turned to Melisande. “I don’t have such a book,” she denied flatly.
“That’s a lie, my lady, and an affront to us both,” said Mark.
She shook her head, “It is the truth.”
Mark narrowed his eyes shrewdly, “The truth boldly stated often makes for the best lie, doesn’t it? I believe you offer me a lie cloaked by the truth; which is harder to see by far. Do not try your craftiness with me, I warn you. I will find out what happened here tonight. If this is the mischief of others, you would be wise to tell me straightaways. I will winkle it out of you eventually; I have tools especially designed for the purpose.”
“I am not afraid of your threats,” she said.
"Perhaps not. I think you are courageous, take it as a compliment. However, do you have the courage to sit by and watch others fight your battles for you instead?
“How brave and boastful will you be when you have put your friends through the indignity of an interrogation? If you have the power to end this, do so now.”
Melisande shook her head, “This isn’t just about power, my lord, is it?” she said sneeringly, looking in Ross’s direction. “This is about gold and what treachery you can buy with it. This is alchemy of a different kind: corruption of the divine by the basest metal.”
Mark A’Court glittered with menace, “Be careful, my lady, lest you condemn yourself out of your own mouth. Need I remind you that alchemy is also a heresy? Would you want to submit to another ‘auto-da-fé’?”
She was stilled. “You know about that?”
Mark smiled like a garrotte, “I believe I know you quite well, my lady, and in a great deal more detail that you know me. In a way, you could say that you are an open book to me. However, I would prefer the ledger be closed. Some secrets are best kept away from the prying eyes of men, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I agree that some men would be too ignorant to read a book if it was opened out in front of them,” she said, still glaring at Ross.
Mark tut-tutted. “That’s uncharitable, Melisande. Not everyone has had the benefit of an education, you said so yourself. Your education, on the other hand, appears to have been most singular.”
“I educate myself,” she said smartly. “Is that also a crime now? All I am doing is transcribing common knowledge into the common tongue so that ordinary people may have the means to look after themselves.”
“How grubbily human,” Mark said distastefully, crossing to the small table to pick up her mirror. He stood behind her. She did not flinch. Mark curved one arm in front of her and held up the mirror for her to see her reflection. “Look where your folly has brought you, Melisande. Look at what you have done to yourself.” He leaned close to her ear and whispered viciously, “Take a good look and see your future; it’ll take about five seconds for the flames to do this to you.”
“Auto-da-fé,” she said, her voice barely audible even to him.
“Yes,” he agreed with sibilance. “Auto-da-fé. Public trial, ritual humiliation, trial by ordeal, the flames…” he tailed off. "It’s all very unpleasant; especially for those on the receiving end. I wonder is it true what they say, that the prayers of the dying travel to heaven mixed with the smoke and their souls.
"It’s strange, but I find that the prayers of the dying are almost always drowned out by the screams of those most keen to live. I have heard from a reliable source that you have a penchant for arguing Leviticus. ‘All the fat is the Lord’s. The offering made by fire for a sweet aroma.’
“If I were feeling philosophical, I would wonder w
hy God wrapped the core wickedness of women with a layer of soft, plump fat if he didn’t mean them to be burned like candles. Should you care to debate that with me, Melisande, or shall we just watch you go up in flames?”
“I don’t have the book,” she mumbled, mesmerised by her reflection in the mirror.
Mark sighed with disappointment, “If you insist,” and clicked his fingers to the guards. In an instant, they were one on either side of her, holding her firm.
“I’m not guilty of anything,” she objected, recovering her mettle and struggling against the guards. “You have no right to imprison me without charge. You have no jurisdiction.”
Mark’s laugh was dark as sin. “I am the Constable of the Realm. Here in the Border Marches, you have no idea as to the extent of my special dispensations. I could make the Leges Marchiarum stretch all the way to Westminster if I wanted. However, if you insist on doing things by the book…” he said, putting the emphasis on the phrase and not finishing.
He turned to Ross, “My Lord Middlemore, perhaps I might impose upon your rights as Lord Warden of the Castle to find some suitable accommodation for Lady Melisande. And by suitable, of course, I mean, suitably secure. Assuming, that is, that there is anywhere in this pile that hasn’t been either blown up or fallen down?”
Ross rubbed his hands together gleefully, “I think I can oblige, my lord.”
“And do make sure you post a firm guard,” Mark suggested. “We wouldn’t want her spirited away and people claiming it was ‘witchcraft’, when it was nothing more than a cunning escape plan, would we now?”
Ross coloured but smiled unpleasantly. Mark turned to leave but at the door, he touched his forehead, as though he had had a sudden afterthought, “Oh yes, I nearly forgot. No torture, please. Not yet.” Ross looked disappointed. “And make sure she washes, yes? A change of clothes, perhaps? I believe white is customary for a sacrifice.”