THE MEMORY OF BLOOD
BOOK 2
THE PARCHMENT
***~~~***
Sylvie BRISSET
Copyright 2012 Sylvie Brisset.
Cover by Manon Le Meur
ISBN : 979-10-91456-04-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Memory of Blood Novels
By Sylvie Brisset
Book 1. The portal
Book 2. The parchment
Book 3. The Visionaries
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am particularly grateful to Pauline Gausset who read the manuscript carefully, and who, as usual, gave me constructive comments. Thank you! I do not forget the loving Bridget.
CHAPTER - 1 -
“Public proceedings resume! Silence! Silence in the courtroom!”
The whispers rustling like a beehive ceased with a last laugh that hadn’t been repressed and which provoked a disapproving frown from the judge. He never managed to get a prolonged silence. If the people massed at the forefront were silent, those further back were exchanging news in whispers, hailing one another.
The judge sat with his two assessors behind a wooden table, on a platform covered by a canopy of red velvet. Behind them, a large crucifix was visible to all, reminding them of the legitimacy of judges, and that the Lord was watching the debates. The three clergymen were dressed in their finery for the occasion. They wore white albs stitched with gold thread and embroidered caps. Their power was reiterated by their position in the order and relating attributes, the richness of their clothes and their being overweight in this period of scarcity.
This great pomp contrasted greatly with the ceremonial hall, which was a barn converted into a courtroom for justice purposes. It was located not far from the abbey of the men to whom it belonged. The Lay Brothers had emptied it to make it available to the judges. But anyway, it was no longer in use. The west wall had collapsed, and had been replaced by makeshift wooden boards until its complete rehabilitation.
The audience was both proud and awed to be so close to such high dignitaries. The prelates seldom honored the lower classes with their presence. The nearby villagers had traveled for the occasion. They were so numerous, nearly two hundred, that the room hadn’t been enough large to contain them, and many had to follow the debates through the cracks left between the sometimes disjointed boards of the barn walls.
Entrance into the courtroom was always done in a terribly disorderly fashion. The sound of wooden clogs dragged along the dirt floor, the rustle of skirts, and the squeals of matrons jostled echoed.
The peasants were massing outside the door as early as dawn, a necessary condition for obtaining a good place. Others remained stationed near the entrance in the hope of selling some pancakes. But if the atmosphere was reminiscent of fairs, onlookers had no money and carried their snacks with them. This was also the reason why some bold footpads, drawn by the trial, soon left to try their luck near a more opulent assembly.
Guards, forks in hands, were positioned in an arc facing the platform, keeping bystanders at a distance, not because they tried to approach, but because their number sometimes created jostling difficult to contain. The village had only a few watchers, and most guards had been requisitioned from the peasants. They went about their task with a seriousness and zeal that suited their temporary assignment.
Even a few farmyard animals expressed themselves sometimes among the spectators to the chagrin of the judge, who could not tolerate seeing his sentences punctuated occasionally by the bleating of sheep, or squawking of chickens, making loose their solemnity to the exchanges and causing audience laughter.
In the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and ten, in England as elsewhere, the distractions were scarce in the countryside, a trial for witchcraft a godsend.
The three clergymen came at the request of Childeric, a member of the Holy Inquisition, and did not appreciate being called for holding trial for one of their flock. Childeric was not part of their community. But they were invitations very difficult to refuse, even when they came from a simple monk.
Brother Childeric had no need of them to proceed with the trial. His request was only rhetorical. The temptation was great to let him take sole responsibility for the conduct of the proceedings and the verdict.
He was reputed to threaten with excommunication those he found ardor of Christian faith to weak. No one was required to commit a heresy to attract his punishment. With Brother Childeric, better repent before even thinking about what you had to confess. By nature, anyone was guilty in his eyes. Women were only manipulative whores serving Satan, and men weak creatures influenced, tempted by the devil's daughters. And these were only their most insignificant turpitudes.
So that he did not interpret their reluctance in an abusive manner, the three priests had decided to diligently grant his requests. In other circumstances, they would have just given their ring to kiss. But he belonged to the Holy Inquisition and this gave him a power they had the prudence not to neglect.
They doubted the guilt of the accused, reproved this fanaticism born on the continent, but had found nothing to oppose the monk when he said that it was sometimes good to remind the working class of the Church omnipotence and that nobody, not even the noble, were beyond the laws of God.
They asked their bishop permission not to respond to the request of Childeric, but waiting for an answer long in coming, had had no choice but to begin the hearing of the trial. They hoped at least, by their presence, to temper the fervor of the monk.
Confession of the Lady Tower was improbable, but would alleviate their consciences. As the trial proceeded, they came to hope for it.
The locals had found that the reputation of Brother Childeric was not usurped during church services he presided and sermons he declaimed.
Upon his arrival, he summoned all the villagers. One after the other, they had come to confess their sins. Those who did not appear were condemned with excommunication. But that was not enough for the monk. He wanted heretics’ denunciations. He asked many questions about the Baroness Tower. How a woman, a widow, could she be able to lead alone the affairs of her husband, manage her household and her peasants? There had to be a few secrets down there. His questions had become increasingly focused and insistent. Had she been seen for a night out? Did inexplicable events occur after her passage? Full cooperation would bring light penance to the villagers. He told them he had already collected evidence, failure to incriminate her would be tantamount to complicity...
The peasants did not understand his questions about their Lady. In fact they knew little of her, and were rather in contact with the steward and his employees. Many preferred to say nothing, begging beforehand the advice of their parish priest.
But when one of them, to escape his penance, declared that his donkey had died after being touched by Lady Tower, the situation swung.
As if dikes were breaking, the testimonies flooded in. Did the villagers want lower penances, revenge, or perhaps just to appear like good Christians? Nobody really knew. But it was an escalation of testimony. The old adage, there is no smoke without fire, justified their view, the statements they made, and that the monk interpreted. Brother Childeric had the support of judges, members of the diocese. If even these eminent personages believed in the guilt of Lady Tower, how would they, as simple peasants, pretend otherwise? Anyway, they could not withdraw without risking punishment of perjury, which consisted of life imprisonment. The monk compared the evidence. Were
n’t they less good Christians than their neighbours? Hadn’t they forgotten anything? Weren’t they themselves also servants of the devil?
The spiral was launched, the rollback impossible.
***
The monk made his entry into the room. Late as always. Probably so that everyone was well aware of his presence, and that nothing could be done without him. Although they were tight, the rows parted to let him pass. And, as was the case for ten days out of the trial, his appearance gave rise to fear. It vibrated, almost palpable in the audience. The atmosphere suddenly went from joyous reunion to reverent silence. But this meditation did not bring peace to the soul. It evoked more fear, experienced by a stormy night when thunder vibrated with all its power, when the air seemed heavy with menace and they hunched their shoulders, overwhelmed by anxiety about being the victim of the unleashed wrath of God.
His thin appearance made him look even more cantankerous. This man did not know what smiling meant, and all his interventions sounded like threats of judgment.
In contrast to other church officials, he wore a brown travel cassock, rope-soled sandal tired by the roads. Itinerant monk, he scoured the country. His right hand was resting on a wooden cross hanging on his chest, the left held a leather bag.
The man was aged no more than twenty years, but his tonsure made him appear older than he was. He was thin and nervous, seeming never to hold in place. His voice was deep and far stronger than could be assumed from his low stature.
Much more than the exhortations of the judge, his entry brought silence among observers. Nobody wanted to attract the attention of Brother Childeric. He did not hesitate to apostrophize the crowd and threaten excommunication and eternal damnation to anyone daring the slightest reservation, in fact even the slightest approval. Silence and humility were mandatory.
After genuflecting before the crucifix, he said a silent prayer, made the sign of the cross, bowed respectfully to the three clergymen, and took his place behind a table at the foot of the dais.
He was the main focus of attention. The least of his gestures, his slightest expressions were scrutinized, reported, interpreted. But none would take risk to make eye contact with him
He opened his leather wallet and pulled out sheets, minutes of the trial he was writing, and placed them in a manic arrangement on the desktop, ensuring their proper alignment. The same way, he placed a pen and an inkwell.
He motioned to the judge that he was ready and this one said in a loud voice:
“Bring in the accused!”
All turned to the side door through which Childeric had entered. A sound of chains, dragging on the ground, preceded the accused brought forward by two guards. All parted with caution in her path, for fear of being touched by the witch.
The woman walked with dragging feet, kicking up dust that seemed to remain suspended in the barn. Her limbs were bound by chains that the blacksmith had made at the request of the monk. These fetters, coupled with her extreme weakness, gave her a jerky and slouched gait. Clearly each step cost her.
Obviously she could not evade justice, so it was not to prevent her from escaping that the monk had made her tied. He wanted to demonstrate his dominance, bring this infamy forever upon Lady Tower. She figured the demon chained by him. The links were the evidence of a dangerous nature hidden under a fragile appearance.
Her long shirt was stained, tattered. She kept it tight in her hands in a fit of decency to hide her body. Her hair was matted and partially cut. Long brown locks covered one side of her back. Her face was pale as chalk. Her nose was red due to the cold morning. She had deep shadows around her dark eyes, swollen from weeping too much. Despite the cold of February, she felt the sweat sticking her shirt. She was afraid, but wanted to maintain a dignified attitude, even if she had the feeling of being thrown to the mercy of this monk’s aggressiveness. She had long lost all hope. She was exhausted, doubted everything. God saw the hearts, she repeated. She had entrusted herself to His righteousness.
She did neither look at the crowd, nor her accusers. Her attention was only going to the cross that overlooked her judges. She wanted to pray, but the thoughts in her mind were incoherent. She did not know what to say, if it was silently imploring the Lord to help her.
She collapsed at the foot of the dais, in front of the crucifix, and was rudely driven by one of the guards into her dedicated place, standing, and facing her accuser.
Assistance had been silent on seeing her. Rumours had circulated that she was dead, and some feared that the trial would come to a sudden end. But she was still alive. For now. Even if she was a mere shadow of herself. The unity gave support to the villagers, had justified their actions, and convinced them they were on the side of the right.
Lady Tower was exhausted, was no longer certain she felt anything. When the monk had come to arrest her, she thought it was a mistake that would be quickly corrected. She had always been very religious, took care of her peasants, and considered as her own her husband’s obligations, since he died seven years earlier. Baron had been carried away by the disease. She went to all the church services, had raised her children in the Christian faith.
The denunciation that she had suffered could only be a mistake. A terrible mistake. She did not know of enemies. She had sometimes to intervene in some disputes, but nothing important. They were far from the capital. The locals were rough peasants, subject to the whims of nature, not envious persons trying to get noticed by strangers. She had just hoped that the misunderstanding would be cleared up before the evening so she could fulfill her tasks. We had arrived at the time of plowings, and she had many tasks that could not wait.
But she had spent the night in the tower, in the prison that usually kept not much more than peasants too drunk. The edifice was actually an old mill fallen into disuse. The walls were in bad condition but with solid doors. They did not even give her a straw-filled mattress, just a bucket. She had spent the night shivering, tight against the wall, watching for the slightest noise, signal of her liberation from this infamous situation.
The monk had questioned her, assuring her that he would get to the bottom of this. He was austere but seemed fair and sensible, at least during the early hours. So she took her misfortune patiently, and answered his questions as best she could.
He asked her if she had taken over the responsibilities of her husband, if she considered herself to be succeeding in carrying out his duties. She answered humbly, she did her best. Yes she had plants at home to cook. Yes she believed in God. Yes she feared Satan and its representatives. She had nursed her husband when he was ill. She organized the sowing, and other important moments in the lives of her people. And the questioning had continued, turning her head.
But it seemed that whatever her answers might be, they were strengthening the monk in his accusations. He accused her of pretending to be a man, to believe to be his equal. Didn’t she use plants to make potions? What representatives of Satan did she know, as she seemed so well informed? What poison she had used for her husband?
The interrogation lasted three days. Three long days, repeating the same things. When she asked who was accusing her and of what she was accused exactly, he did not bother to reply. Nobody was allowed to speak to her, and anyway, no villagers could or did ask to visit her. At least she had been given a mattress on which to sleep. But it was so infested with vermin that she had put it aside to build a rise that gave a semblance of privacy.
When she was informed of the impending trial, she had conceived of relief. She did not doubt the loyalty of her people. The monk would have to stop harassing her. Life would be back to normal, and this would soon become a bad memory.
She had fulminated against the chains he had wanted her to wear, but could not escape this humiliation. The monk would just have to wait and see. However, things went too far, so that a simple apology might erase this nightmare.
The following days were dedicated to witnesses. She had great hopes, in seeing coming a woman she assisted
in childbirth, her servant that was attached to her house for over fifteen years, the parish priest she regularly received at her table and all the others she knew so well. They could only speak out against the infamy to which she was subject.
She had been broken by hearing the charges of the worst evils. The most unbearable was having had sex against nature with her own son! She thought of a plot hatched by the monk, but how would he have been able to convince so many people yet so familiar.
She had rebelled, protested. Her voice rose against these outrageous lies. But they had threatened to continue the trial without her, should it occur again. She had been accused of trying to impress witnesses who claimed to know how she spent her nights, when they were not even inhabitants of the village and had probably never even seen her before her trial.
But not all of them were strangers. The nurse of her children came also to accuse her. "Not you!" Lady Tower whispered to the one she had always considered as a sister. But the nurse had answered with a look of hatred and accused her of the worst felonies.
Then Lady Tower went silent. She had looked at the witnesses, one after another, without hearing them, the monk apostrophizing her with a disgusted face, taking the crowd to witness, pointing a finger at her. She had seen the crowd booing, demanding her death. She couldn’t be the only who was right against all others. She was perhaps too presumptuous. Maybe she really was possessed as the monk said it. Perhaps she had acted without realizing it.
The monk had wanted her to confess her allegiance to Satan, to save her from eternal damnation, but she refused to listen to him while he was screaming "Repent! Submit yourself to God, resist the devil and he will flee from you!" And he was brandishing his wooden cross.
The Parchment (The Memory of Blood) Page 1
