Hammer of the Witch

by Dakota Chase

  Grant and I exchanged an uneasy look. If we weren’t assigned to the main house, searching for the book would be even more difficult. “So, you want us to go back to the stables?”

  Ordulf grunted. “No, let Heinrich have his way. This time. Next time, we’ll have words, he and I.” He took a hard look at us. “You two are reasonably clean, with no obvious deformities. You have shown respect and a willingness to do what is asked of you.” He tapped his chin with one finger. “Baron Meier will sit on the Court of Inquiry this morning and afterward will be present at Michaelmas services in the church. You two will attend his needs.”

  “Attend his needs?” I raised an eyebrow, not sure I liked the sound of that.

  “You’ll fetch him water, food, a quill, or extra ink. You’ll kiss his backside if that’s what he orders you to do, and you’ll be quick about it.” The look on Ordulf’s face was stony and brooked no argument.

  He wasn’t going to get one from either of us. I know when I’m outmanned. Ordulf could probably crush my skull like a walnut if he wanted to. Happily for me, Ordulf seemed to be a nice guy most of the time. He smiled soon enough and patted my shoulder. “Baron Meier is a serious man. He won’t run you ragged over trivialities.”

  Grant and I nodded. “Yes, sir. Got it.”

  “Good. Then go to the house and search out Frau Weber, the housekeeper. Tell her I said to outfit you both properly for court and church. She’ll see to your clothing. Be polite—that woman’s tongue can skin a man alive quicker than any hunting knife. Hurry now. Court is due to start midmorning, and Archbishop von Schönenberg does not tolerate lateness from anyone, not even Baron Meier.”

  We jumped up and ran out of the kitchen, then across the short strip of grass separating it from the main house. There were several doors along the back of the house, and we picked one at random.

  Once we’d dashed inside, we realized we were in a chapel. Several beautifully carved wooden pews faced a small altar, which was draped with a rich emerald-green cloth. Banners embroidered with gold thread hung from the wall on both sides of it.

  The room was empty, and even though we whispered, our voices seemed to echo. I asked the obvious question. “Where do you suppose we look first?”

  “Well, it’s not in here, that’s for sure. Maybe the baron has a library or an office or something.”

  “Where would that be?”

  Grant sniffed at me. “Do I look like a tour guide to you? I have no idea.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe upstairs? That’s probably where the bedrooms are. He may have a study up there.”

  “Okay, it’s a start, I guess. Let’s go.”

  We crept out of the chapel and found ourselves in a large hall. Everything in the manor house seemed overly done. The furniture was dark wood and bulky, carved with images of hunters and deer or decorated with painted flowers and horses. A wide staircase curved up to the second floor. The banister was also thick, gilded, and carved with intricate designs. Tapestries depicting battles and hunts hung on the walls.

  We hurried up the stairs to the second floor. Just as we were going to enter the first room we came to, a voice called out.

  “You there! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  We both froze as if suddenly doused with liquid nitrogen. I recovered first and slowly turned around. An older woman was bearing down on us. She was short and round and wore her hair wrapped in a tight braid encircling her head. From the deep scowl on her face and determined step, she was not the sweet grandmother type, but more a force of nature like a tornado.

  I whispered to Grant under my breath, “I think we just found Frau Weber.”

  Chapter Eight

  IF I looked half as ridiculous as I felt, I’d be ahead of the game.

  Ash and I had not been able to escape Frau Weber’s attention. She’d demanded to know who we were and what we were doing, and the only answer we had to satisfy her was that Ordulf had sent us to be dressed for court and church.

  She’d harrumphed at first, complaining bitterly about her workload and how Ordulf had no right to add to it. As soon as she’d led us into a bedroom farther down the hall, though, she’d clucked and fussed over us, yelling at maids to fetch this and hurry to bring her that. A pile of clothing soon appeared, and from it she began selecting pieces for us.

  I kind of wish I’d told her I was there to find a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum and steal it. Then maybe she would’ve just killed me outright and my suffering would’ve been at an end.

  Ash looked every bit as uncomfortable as I felt. We both wore high frilly collars, woolen jackets, and dark green tights that pinched in places nobody wanted pinched. Each of us had a heavy cape pinned over one shoulder. Frau Weber had our boots replaced with knee-high ones, and we wore preposterous Robin-Hood-style hats with long, sweeping feathers in them. I suppose we were both the equivalent of medieval runway models, but I thought we looked like a pair of really bad cosplayers.

  We didn’t have a chance to search the house before needing to leave for court. Frau Weber shooed us down into the main hall as soon as we were dressed, and Baron Meier made his appearance soon after.

  He was of average height and looks, a totally forgettable man with thin mousy brown hair and a hawkish nose. Yet everyone in the house treated him with obvious deference. I wasn’t impressed. I was very familiar with the expressions I saw on the faces of the servants when they looked at him. I’d seen those very same looks on the faces of the people who worked for my father—a combination of fear and resentment, with a tiny smidge of grudging respect for the number of digits on his bank statement.

  I also knew the look on Meier’s face—it was a form of arrogance that can only come from the deeply held belief he’s better than everyone around him. I’d seen that expression on my dad’s face every day of my life.

  Money has its privileges, I thought. Some things never change.

  He never spoke to us but clearly expected us to follow him when he left the manor. We did, meek as kittens, keeping pace behind him, maintaining a respectful distance until we reached the courthouse. Ash was quick to open the door and hold it for Meier to pass through.

  I lifted my nose in the air and followed, ignoring the scowl Ash shot me and the whispered taunt of “ass” accompanying it.

  The courtroom was nothing like I’d pictured it to be. I was thinking of the last one I’d been in, when the judge, the Honorable James Frederick, had sentenced me to the Stanton School for Boys after I chose to break into an office building. That my dad owned it hadn’t helped me at all, by the way.

  Anyway, that courtroom had looked just the way they did on television. The judge’s bench was raised so that he could look down on the defendants and plaintiffs. There was a jury box, but since I didn’t have a jury trial, it was empty. Two long tables were provided for the plaintiffs and the defendants, although in my case, it was more of a cattle call. The defendants sat in the seats provided for public viewing until the bailiff called their name to approach the bench.

  This courtroom looked like the set of some medieval torture movie. It was dimly lit by lanterns and whatever sunlight made it through the tall, narrow windows. The stone walls and floors made it feel cold and damp. There were only two tables in the room, and the largest one, heavy and wooden, was positioned at the front. That’s where Baron Meier sat, along with two other men, both obviously as rich as he was and just as dour. I’d soon learn that the lean, rawboned man sitting in the middle was Archbishop Johann von Schönenberg. The heavier man sitting on the opposite end of the table was Peter Binsfeld, the vicar-general.

  They’d erected a wooden frame near the head of the room, but off to the side. Manacles hung from it. I had no doubt it was used to secure the accused during the trial. The only other table in the room was set next to it. It wasn’t as big or as ornate as the head table, but the array of tools it held were far more frightening to me than the three men sitting at the front. I had a
n inkling of the frame and table’s purpose, but I refused to dwell on it. If I did, I was afraid I’d be sick.

  Ash and I were ordered to sit on a narrow bench set behind the inquisitor’s table. Our sole function was to see to Meier’s needs, whatever they might be. If he wanted something fetched, one of us would run for it.

  Personally, I also thought our main function was simply proof of Meier’s wealth. Neither of the other men had two servants at their beck and call in the courtroom.

  There was a knot of men standing at the back of the room who I realized were just onlookers. The court seemed to be a form of entertainment for them. They stood there talking quietly among themselves, waiting for the show to start.

  I was drawn out of my thoughts when Binsfeld picked up a piece of thin brownish-yellow parchment and began to read from it in a clear, deep voice. “Frena Hofer, widow of Otto Hofer. Accused of the heinous act of witchcraft by Gertrude Brun, wife of Reinbolt Brun, tenant farmer.” He looked up from the parchment and addressed a servant standing near the door. “Bring forth the accused.”

  The servant opened the door and held it as two men dragged a wild-eyed old woman into the room. Her bone-thin arms were tied behind her back, and a nasty-looking bruise bloomed on one cheek. The men held her before the inquisitors’ table.

  Archbishop von Schönenberg spoke up. His voice sounded as dry as old toast. “What says the accuser of this woman?”

  Binsfeld answered. Evidently, the accuser either wasn’t needed or wasn’t allowed to be in the courtroom for the proceedings. “Gertrude Brun claims Frena Hofer, widow, came to her door begging for scraps. When she was turned away, Hofer cursed Frau Brun and her household to suffer great agony and death. Not two days later, one of the Brun’s children took sick with fever and died soon after.”

  Von Schönenberg addressed the old woman. “How does the accused plead to these charges?”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong, my lord! I’m a good woman, a pious woman. Lies are being told here today!” The old woman’s voice was as thin as she was, and raspy with age.

  Baron Meier pointed a finger at the woman. “You deny being a witch? Of consorting with the devil and casting a heinous curse on the Brun household that caused her child to die of fever?”

  “I deny it! I am innocent!”

  Binsfeld rolled the parchment up neatly and set it to the side on the table. “Has the accused been searched for the witch’s mark?”

  One of the men holding her answered. “Not yet, my lord.”

  Von Schönenberg shook his head. “Have we not asked the accused be searched before the trial? There is no need to waste our time if the witch’s mark is found on their bodies. Its presence proves guilt.” He waved a hand at the men. “Go on, and be quick about it. It’s Michaelmas, and I must adjourn this court before the ceremonies at the church can begin.”

  To my horror, the men dragged the old woman to the wooden frame and attached the heavy manacles to her wrists and ankles. Without hesitation, they began ripping and cutting her clothing away until not a scrap was left, and her withered, wrinkled old body was exposed to the eyes of everyone in the courtroom. I dropped my gaze, staring at my feet. I couldn’t block out her pained cries, though.

  “Here, my lord! Look, here is the witch’s mark!”

  Ash’s voice whispered in my ear. “My God, Grant, it’s only a mole! What the hell are they talking about?”

  I pressed my lips to his ear to answer so no one would overhear. Since all I could do for the old woman was offer her the very small courtesy of not looking at her, I was very careful to keep my eyes averted. “I read once that the witch hunters believed when a woman became a witch, she made a pact with the devil for her powers. The devil would leave a special mark on her body. The witch hunters would see any mark on a person’s body—a birthmark, a mole, a discoloration, anything—as the witch’s mark.”

  “That’s stupid!”

  “That’s the way it was. Is. Whatever.”

  “So that’s it? She’s guilty because she has a fucking mole?”

  “Shh! Don’t let them hear you or they might accuse you of being one too.” I moved my hand until it touched his. “It’s awful, I know, but you need to control yourself. There’s nothing we can do anyway. We can’t change the past, remember? Merlin said it’s one of the rules of time travel.”

  Ash nodded, but he looked angrier than I’d ever seen him before. I knew exactly how he felt too. I wanted to beat some sense into the three arrogant sons of bitches sitting at the table who were torturing a poor old woman and condemning her to death based on nothing more than a mole she’d probably had since birth. My hands curled into fists as I fought to take my own advice and control myself.

  Then something happened that distracted me. Ash nudged me. He was staring past me at von Schönenberg. “Look, Grant! Look at what he’s reading!”

  Von Schönenberg held a small book in his hands. He was perusing a page, running one long, thin finger down it, his lips moving as he read the passage.

  Was that it? Was that the Malleus Maleficarum? I squinted, but trying to read the tiny text from where I sat was impossible.

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to read it. Von Schönenberg did it for me. He stood up and motioned for the men to unshackle the old woman. They did so and covered her with the rags they’d torn off her earlier. She sobbed as she tried to hold the tattered fabric around her.

  “You bear the witch’s mark. How do you plead?”

  “I am innocent, my lord!”

  “The devil places lies on your tongue even in the face of irrefutable proof.” Von Schönenberg held up the book. “Know you what this is?”

  The old woman sobbed and shook her head. “No, my lord. I know not.”

  “It is the Malleus Maleficarum, a book written by learned and pious men. Dare you, an uneducated woman who bears the mark of Satan himself, contradict the words of wise, God-fearing men?”

  “I am innocent, my lord!”

  Von Schönenberg shook the book in the air. “Witch! You are found out. Confess!”

  The old woman moaned and collapsed, huddled on the floor. “I beg you, my lord, believe me! I am no witch. I am but an old widow. I know nothing of the dark arts!”

  Von Schönenberg banged his fist on the table. “Liar! Will you not confess?”

  She began to shake, crying and continuing to mutter her innocence.

  Baron Meier waved his hand. “Take the witch away. The sight of her sickens me. Bring her to the interrogation room in the bowels of the manor. Perhaps the touch of a red-hot poker to her withered flesh will bring the truth to her lips.”

  Ash whispered to me again, and his voice sounded tight with barely controlled panic. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Don’t you dare. We can get through this. We have to. We know where the book is now. We just need to get our hands on it.”

  “But that old lady, Grant. Don’t you understand what they’re going to do to her?”

  “Ash, that poor old woman died centuries ago. There’s nothing we can do to change it. It sucks, and I hate it, but that’s the way it has to be. Come on, now. You need to calm down. Take deep breaths.” My hand found his again, and this time I slipped my fingers over his and gave them a gentle squeeze.

  I understood how he felt. I wanted to puke myself, but what I’d told him was true. We had our target in our sights. We were so close—literally within feet of it. I swallowed hard and wondered how many more “accused” were waiting in chains outside the door.

  Chapter Nine

  THERE WERE nine that day in all. Nine people, eight women and one man. They ranged in age from a girl who looked no older than Grant and me to the woman who looked old enough to be a great-grandmother. Each of them was paraded into the courtroom one by one and accused of witchcraft. Nine innocent people, whose only crimes were being too old, or too ugly, too pretty, or too poor, or having an opinion their neighbor didn’t like. I think some of them were accused for no
reason at all besides pure spite.

  True to his word, Archbishop von Schönenberg had ordered them all searched before being dragged inside the room. Six of them were found to have witch’s marks, which made it quick and easy work for the court to find them guilty and demand a confession.

  Three confessed, which surprised the hell out of me. None of the three seemed even remotely magical—I mean, if they had powers like Merlin, wouldn’t they use their magic to get out of trouble? I sure would’ve. I would’ve turned the inquisitors into bugs and squashed them flat. Or maybe I would’ve just disappeared in a puff of red smoke or something. I sure as hell wouldn’t confess to being a witch knowing it meant I’d be thrown in prison and condemned to die.

  “They’re the smart ones, Ash.”

  Grant and I were sitting on a grassy spot at the rear of the main house. Court had been adjourned, and we’d been sent to get food before the Michaelmas church services began. An untouched plate of cold sausage and cheese sat between us. Neither of us was hungry. After what we’d seen, I thought I might never eat again.

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighed and shrugged. “Confessing is the only way to avoid being tortured, and they know it. Once they’re accused, there’s no way the court won’t find them guilty, so confessing at least saves them from pain.”

  “That’s crazy! What’s the court for, then? What good does it do?”

  Grant turned his face away, but I could see how upset he was. “I saw my father make a lot of deals for political favor for his corporation, Ash. I’ve seen him make hostile takeovers of companies too. I don’t think this is very different.”

  “Your father didn’t torture people.”

  “No, that’s true, but it’s still basically business. Meier, for example, gets a nice, tidy, legal reason to confiscate the goods of the accused, which makes him richer. And he can get rid of people who might be a threat to him. For von Schönenberg, well, he may really believe he’s ridding the world of evil, but he also gets to keep his nice, fat, cushy job as archbishop. Nobody’s going to kick him out or send him somewhere else while he’s busy saving Trier from all the wicked witches running around the countryside. Same thing for Binsfeld. He’s vicar-general. It’s his job to assist and support the archbishop. If he disagreed with von Schönenberg, how long do you think he’d get to keep his position?”