by Cleo Cordell
Stephanis gulped audibly and nodded, motioning for the other men to stand back. He looked miserable and dejected. The skin hung slackly at his jaw. She had heard that he had asked to be transferred to another monastery, but the abbot had refused his request. Stephanis’s punishment was to accompany her to the place of execution. ‘Will you kneel with me now and renounce Satan and all his works?’ he said.
Garnetta laughed in his face, pleased to be able to deprive him of her fear. ‘Will that stop you from burning me? I thought not. Save your entreaties for those who welcome them.’
‘I shall not give you up,’ he said ardently. ‘You may call out to me at any time throughout your ordeal.’ His voice wavered. She thought he might burst into tears, but he collected himself. ‘The task of bringing you back into a state of grace is a burden I bear willingly.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ Garnetta said acidly. ‘I have seen what pleasure you derive from affliction, be it your own or that of others!’
One of the watching monks tittered. Stephanis winced, his face so bleak that she felt a moment’s pity for him. ‘Even now, you persist in wickedness. The hold of the Tempter is strong. But no one can withstand God’s cleansing flames. Bring her outside brothers. All is ready.’
Garnetta did not struggle as they bundled her to her feet. Even had she thought of trying to break free, there was nowhere to run to within Holy Penitence. The dull roar of the crowd echoed through the corridors as the monks bore her along between them. Without Karolan’s presence within her she would have been sore afraid, but there was a sense of unreality to the proceedings. Her heart beat fast, her pulses pounded in her ears, but the feeling was more of excitement than terror.
Everything had happened so fast since John de Mandeville had taken charge; the ordeal in the infirmary, the convening of a council, the hours of questions. She was branded a heretic, but she no longer knew what was meant by that. Just by being herself, it seemed that she sinned against the Church. How ironic that, just when she was beginning to accept herself as something rare and fine, she should find herself under sentence of death. Lost in her thoughts, she felt removed from the journey through the monastery. It was as if this was all some bad dream that was happening to someone else.
Then the outer door leading to the street was flung open. A wall of sound and light crashed in upon her. The noise was deafening, the smell of sweat and sour bodies churned her stomach. Despite her faith in Karolan’s powers to help her, she cringed away from the hostile faces, the mouths stretched wide to yell obscenities.
‘That’s her! The wanton!’
‘The cursed heretic! Don’t look in the witch’s eyes!’
‘Devil spawn! May you rot in hell!’
A seething mass of onlookers pressed towards her. Raised fists shook overhead. Other hands were raised to pelt her with rotting food. She felt a blow and looked down in surprise to see that a gnawed bone had struck her on the breast. A hail of filth and offal fell around her, some of it hitting the monks who held her. The hate which came off the crowd in great hot clouds alarmed and confused her. Why were these people howling for her blood? None of them knew her. But she sensed that the great gathering acted like a single beast, the individual subsumed beneath excitement and blood lust. They did not see her as a person, but as an object for their entertainment. All the hate, the confusion, and fear engendered by the pestilence had been distilled into righteous outrage and all of that was directed towards her.
At her side Stephanis wore a look of terror. No doubt he wanted this dreadful thing over and done with. With her gone he would no longer be torn by self disgust. Others would forget his transgressions. He could resume a normal life. His face was red and sweating. She could smell the acrid odour of his body. ‘Bind her to the hurdle! Swiftly now!’ he ordered. ‘The abbot and the church fathers are in place.’
One of the monks led a mule towards her. A low wooden cart, like a sled, was attached to the animal. Rough hands took hold of her, forcing her to sit on the hurdle. Although still chained hand and foot, they wrapped coarse rope around her, binding it tightly below her breasts. One of the monks slapped the mule’s rump and the animal lurched forward. As the hurdle jerked and bumped over the cobbles, Garnetta fought to stay upright, her bones jarring painfully.
Crowds of people pressed up close to Holy Penitence as she was dragged towards the waiting procession. She had a jumbled impression of brightly coloured robes, trimmed with gold braid. At the head of the procession was a monk, robed in red, carrying the banner depicting the ruby heart surmounted by a cross. Ranks of cowled monks stood ready to march, every one in four of them swinging a censer, the others carrying candles. The sweet, peppery smell of incense was heavy on the air. Last of all came the churchmen of note, all of them dressed in their finest robes. Since the sumptuary laws allowed the clergy to wear finery, they wore fur-trimmed hats and perfumed gloves. Most carried jewelled breviaries or crosses.
John de Mandeville, wearing a jewelled cross on his breast and clothed in a robe of white, cowled with red, lifted up his arm and the procession moved forward. The mule gave a jerk and the hurdle, bearing Garnetta, scraped over the cobbles. The vibrations numbed her bones and made her teeth rattle. She pressed her lips tight against the rubbing of the coarse rope which chafed viciously at her skin. Soon her shift was smeared with blood. It does not matter. None of it can harm me. Karolan is coming for me. The noise of the crowd beat at her ears. She closed her eyes momentarily, weary of the bestial expressions, the foam-flecked lips spitting curses. Soldiers of the watch beat back the crowd with the flat of their swords when the spectators came too close for safety. Stephanis walked ahead of her. She could see his broad stocky form, his tonsure gleaming in the light of many flambeaux and candles. On each side of the hurdle walked more monks, chanting prayers.
‘Here, witch! Something fer you!’
An object sailed through the air and landed on the cobbles beside her. Garnetta bowed her head under the onslaught of rotten vegetables and dung that rained down upon her. She almost gagged as something smelling vile exploded against her mouth. Excrement clotted her hair, stuck to her skin. Unable to wipe her face, she shook her head to clear away the filth. Karolan. Where are you? How much more of this must I endure? She could sense no answer and for a moment felt faint as terror washed over her. Faces loomed out of the crowd. Each of them contorted by hate, their mouths twisted, their eyes glazed with collective madness. Surely this was a vision from hell. It seemed impossible that she could escape. He could not have forsaken me. He could not.
The mule stopped, the hurdle coming to a halt so abruptly that Garnetta was thrown onto her side. Her cheek struck the cobbles. She bit back a cry of pain as hands reached out to right her, then felt her shift torn from her shoulders, lewd fingers seeking to paw her breasts. She screamed in terror of being crushed as the hurdle was jostled. Those nearest surged towards her, grabbing for her hair, pulling out chunks as keepsakes. Suddenly Stephanis was at her side, his face alight with outrage as he grabbed a flambeau from the nearest soldier. Brandishing it in the faces of those who had a hold on her, he yelled, ‘Get back! God shall judge this woman, not you!’
There were cries of pain and more curses as the crowd was forced back. Soldiers of the watch crossed their pikes to form a barrier, preventing other spectators from breaking free. Under cover of the commotion, Garnetta felt the rope untied. Jerked to her feet, she was hustled forward, stumbling as eager hands helped her climb a set of wooden steps. Dazed by the fall, her injured cheek and scalp stinging painfully, she did not at first realize that she had stepped out onto a wide platform, at one end of which was a gallows. The monks who held her, pulled her upright. She saw the huge pyre topped by a stout wooden stake.
Despite her resolve not to show any fear, she faltered at the sight of the pyre. The crowd jeered loudly as she stepped forward. The noise was deafening. She felt blinded, made dumb by the sea of people. Jagged shadows were thrown by the fire brands held alof
t by soldiers ringing the platform. Orange light flickered on sweaty faces, made hostile expressions into demonic masks. The miasma of raw emotion was crushing, suffocating. Are you there Karolan? I cannot feel you in the midst of all this. Her composure wavered. How could he possibly help her now? How could anyone? Karolan can. He is master of the impossible. He will come.
Another roar went up from the crowd as three men were led towards the gallows. Two of them were weeping. The third was pleading for mercy. A priest stood by, reading from the Holy Scriptures as the hangman slipped nooses over the condemned looters’ necks. The crowd hissed and spat, jeering when one of the men lost control and wet himself.
‘Mercy! Have mercy!’ he screamed, his face contorted by sobs. The second man wept quietly. The third seemed to have fainted.
Garnetta looked away, feeling sick as the men were hoisted into the air. From the crowd’s reaction she knew that the bodies were jerking and threshing in the air. The looters were probably murderers too, but she felt compassion for them. It was hard to die well in public.
‘Burn the heretic!’
‘Aye, toast the wench’s toes!’
To the sound of more laughter and jeers, Garnetta was taken to the back of the platform and half-carried, half-dragged onto the pyre. The breath was forced out of her lungs as she slammed against the wooden stake. A wave of dizziness overcame her. She sagged at the knees, hardly aware of the hands that secured her to the pole. Stephanis ascended the steps and walked towards the pyre. He stood by as the other monks walked away and took up their positions at a distance. Garnetta refused to look at Stephanis, even though he called out to her to repent. In his hands he held a long pole, topped by a wooden cross. Her lips curled with derision as Stephanis fell to his knees and began to pray.
Glancing towards the gallows she saw that the three bodies were swaying gently, turning round in graceful circles. They, at least, were at peace.
John de Mandeville, climbed the steps, stood facing the crowd. The great cross on his breast blazed with rubies. As he pushed back the red cowl, rush-light glimmered on his silver hair. The abbot held up his hands for silence, his patrician face serene. A hush settled over the crowd, the silence heavy with expectation. Part of the enjoyment of the spectacle was the prepared speech, which would warn all of the dangers of heresy.
In the ensuing quiet, Garnetta looked out over the great mass of people. She had never seen so many gathered together at any one time. The market place and streets leading into it were crammed to capacity. The lull was unearthly. She felt held in some strange hinterland where nothing was real. The taint of blood-lust in abeyance cast a veil over her senses. With a sort of weird clarity, she saw the vendors selling food and drink weaving in and out of the crowd. Pedlars held trays of ribbons and beads, which people could buy to mark the occasion. Parents held their children aloft, so that they could get a better look. A fight had broken out between two opposing groups of apprentices.
Then the silence was split asunder by the ringing tones of the abbot’s voice. ‘This night we are to consign a heretic to the flames. Let God be the judge of this woman’s sins! Wretch that she is, she is unrepentant! Despite being given every opportunity to turn away from Satan, she persists in her sin!’ He paused for the expected outcry. A howl of rage went up from the crowd. Garnetta could not help flinching from the renewed screams of hate and the curses of those nearest to the platform. Gobs of spittle flecked the boards. If she had been within their grasp she had no doubt that they would have torn her limb from limb. Again the abbot held up his hand for silence. The crowd responded. ‘There is no salvation, but for those who embrace the Lord! This woman sought to bedevil and beguile men of the cloth, to lure them into ways of wickedness with her lies and falsehoods!’
‘For shame!’
‘Burn the wench!’
‘Aye,’ rang out the abbot’s voice. ‘Burn she shall. So that she will be cleansed by God’s Holy fire. But there is still time for her to repent, that she may be shriven and admitted to Heaven in a state of grace.’
‘Repent! Repent!’
Stephanis held up the pole, topped with a wooden cross, and brought it close to Garnetta’s face. She had but to lean forward to kiss the cross and the crowd would be weeping at the prospect of a sinner saved, instead of baying for her blood. She looked Stephanis full in the face and was not surprised to see that he was weeping freely. Great tears rolled down his face. His voice shook as he shouted above the din. ‘Admit your sins. I beg you. You will spend eternity in purgatory if you do not. In the name of God the Father! I implore you to kiss the cross!’
Garnetta turned her face away and heard the crowd’s collective groan. All this held no reality for her. Karolan would come soon. He must. Oh, but it was difficult to keep faith with him and not waver.
Stephanis began to shriek, ‘There is no more time! The faggots are being lit. Why are you so stubborn? Garnetta! Repent! Repent!’
‘She’ll repent, when her toes are burning!’ someone yelled.
Even as the abbot began speaking again, his measured tones absorbed by the growing excitement of the crowd, two monks moved forward and put a taper to the pyre. Threads of smoke rose into the night sky. The acrid smell of it caught at the back of Garnetta’s throat. She felt the first stirrings of real panic. This was too close. Why was Karolan leaving it so late? She sent a silent, desperate message to him.
No. It cannot end like this! Karolan! Flames began licking at the edges of the wood. The abbot’s voice rang out clear and strong, warning everyone to guard against straying from the path of righteousness. Stephanis fell to his knees, sobbing openly. Garnetta gave a hollow laugh. So it had all been for nothing? Karolan was no more than a trickster after all. All his promises were but illusions. He was not coming for her.
Strangely she felt less fearful than detached. After all she had suffered, all that she had lost, perhaps this was a fitting end. She did not even go in terror of her lost faith. If all that awaited her was a pit of blackness, then that was better than the half-life she would have without Karolan.
‘Repent,’ sobbed Stephanis, as tongues of flame pushed up through the faggots. ‘Acknowledge Christ as your Lord, so that you may enter the Kingdom of Heaven in a state of grace!’
‘God and all His saints have forsaken me!’ Garnetta cried, finding her voice at last in her anger and despair. She lifted her chin and stared through the rising smoke at the abbot. ‘And I curse you churchmen all! With your cant and your hypocrisy. Your fear of women and of your own flawed natures. I only regret that the master I serve has forsaken me also!’ Her voice cracked on a sob.
She looked away from Stephanis’s shocked and deathly face. Aye, let those be the words he carried with him for ever! And if he thought she spoke of the devil – well perhaps she did. The smoke grew thicker. She knew that the wood had been dampened to prolong the spectacle. Though her heart felt fit to burst with terror, she resolved to breathe deeply of the smoke, so that the end might be quick. Karolan. I did not think you would fail me.
Suddenly she became aware that the mood of the crowd had changed. There were cries of alarm and fear mixed with the screams for her death. For a moment she could see nothing for the smoke, then the wind blew it clear and she saw with amazement that the three hanged men were – dancing? In a grotesque parody of life, the arms and legs were jerking and flailing as if they were being worked by a diabolical puppet master. The dead heads lolled back and forth, the jaws moved up and down in soundless laughter.
Then, into her mind, she heard Karolan’s voice say clearly. Have no fear. Join with me. None of this can harm you. You and I are invincible. She felt faint with relief. Tears welled in her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. Join with me. She pushed away the terror, opened her mind fully. And was flooded by the unbreakable chain of Karolan’s steadying presence. As her extended senses melded with his something was conjured between them. A sensation akin to warmth flooded her limbs. But it was something less tangible, like
liquid light. She felt it coursing through her body and recalled feeling something similar when she had run into the forest clearing to save the boy from the brigands. But that had been nothing like this – this was so . . . exhilarating. It was energizing too, a force that could be focused into a point of bright clarity. There was a roaring in her ears. That’s it, my love. Concentrate all the power of your mind and push it downwards. I’ll help you.
She felt powerful, unafraid. If Karolan said nothing could hurt her, then she believed him. The damp wood crackled as the smoke dispersed. Flames sprang up all around her. She cringed away, expecting at any moment to feel the agony as her skin began to burn. But there was no heat. The fire around her grew dull. She thought at first that she must be putting the flames out by the strength of her will. Then she heard shouts of horror from the crowd, saw Stephanis’s face frozen into a rictus of mortal terror, his lips moving in a silent prayer as he looked from the scaffold where the hanged men laboured in a grotesque death-dance, then back to the burning pyre.
Turning her head to one side she saw that her arm was actually glowing. The fire was not growing dull. She was getting brighter. It seemed that she saw her surroundings through a haze. Somehow her flesh had taken on a new form. Flashes of colour obscured her vision. With a brittle sound, the chains fell free of her limbs. She held out her arms, fascinated by the terrifying prismatic radiance of her skin.
‘An angel! Is it sent by God?’
‘Nay! She is Lucifer’s bride!’
Garnetta looked around with wonder. Those at the front of the crowd fell to their knees, sobbing for mercy, tearing their clothes. Others scrambled to escape, trampling anyone who stood in their way. The air rang with screams of pain and abject fear. Scraps of prayers were torn and scattered on the air. Soldiers and churchmen alike fled. She saw a bishop trip over his furred robe. People surged over him in their panic to escape the market place. John de Mandeville stood grey-faced and open-mouthed on the platform. Stephanis threw the hem of his habit over his head, rocking back and forth, gibbering with fear. And through it all, the three hanged men danced jauntily, while a reedy, mirthful voice rang on the air.