by Dakota Chase
“Jesus.”
Grant nodded. “It trickles down too. The executioner gets paid more because there’s more work for him to do. His men get paid more because of the same reason. I hate to say it, but you saw the people who were in court today. This is the medieval version of reality television. The more people who come to town to see the trials, the more the local merchants make selling food and goods, and the more boarding houses make renting out rooms. Places like the Stone Sow will make more money too.”
I brought my legs up and wrapped my arms around my calves until I could rest my chin on my knees. It made sense, as much as I didn’t want to believe it. “And what happens when they’ve murdered everyone in town and there’s nobody left to sell them crap, or make their beds, or cook their food?”
He lay back on the grass and tucked his arms behind his head. “Then maybe it’ll be over. Here, at least. I think the last of the witch trials was in Salem about three hundred years from now.”
“Yeah, well, that’ll sure as hell be too late for those poor people we saw today.”
We sat in silence for a while, both lost in our thoughts. After a few minutes, Grant sat up and tapped me on the leg. “Come on. We need to go inside the house and get ready to leave for the church.”
I scowled at him. “I’m not going anywhere with the asshole who thinks it’s okay to torture people so he can get richer.”
Grant sighed. “We have to go, Ash. We need to keep up pretenses until we can get our hands on the book.”
“Then let’s just go over to the church now and grab it! We know von Schönenberg has it. What are we waiting for?”
“Take a minute and think! We don’t know where von Schönenberg keeps it. We can’t break into the rectory and start rummaging through all his stuff. If we get caught, guess who’ll be thrown into the dungeon and tortured next?”
I fell silent, chewing on my inner cheek. Inside, I was furious. Still, I couldn’t dispute his logic. Which pissed me off even more. “Fine. I’ll give it one more day, but if we don’t get a chance to get the book before tomorrow night, I’m going to break in and steal it. I can’t stand it here, Grant. I can’t stop thinking about what they’re doing to those poor people right now! I want to go home.”
Grant nodded. “Yeah, me too, Ash. Me too.”
THE MICHAELMAS service at the church was one of the longest, most boring events I’ve ever had to sit through.
As much as I was filled with angry adrenaline and wanted to rip von Schönenberg’s face off and stuff it down his throat for what he did to the old woman and the other accused, his droning voice speaking in Latin eventually began to lull me to sleep. My head bobbed, and I probably would’ve dropped off to sleep right there next to the front pew if Grant hadn’t reached over and pinched me.
Hard enough to leave a mark, may I add. I made a mental note to return the favor later.
I couldn’t understand a word von Schönenberg said. Merlin’s magic didn’t extend to Latin—it only allowed us to understand the form of medieval German spoken in Trier. So to me, von Schönenberg sounded a little like Charlie Brown’s teacher in the old cartoons. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. For hours.
Meier had instructed us to take places on a bench set directly to the side of the front pew. It was only big enough for two and probably put there specifically for Meier’s servants.
It began with a procession from the rear of the church up to the altar at the head. Altar boys dressed in frills much like the ones we wore were followed in turn by vicars and bishops. They walked in measured steps up the center aisle of the church. Von Schönenberg was last, and like a bride at a wedding, all eyes were on him as he made his way to the front of the church. He wore layers of voluminous fabric, and his shoulders were draped with richly colored and embroidered stoles. A tall, conical hat elaborately studded with jewels sat on his head.
Grant and I had no idea what was going on during the service, so we just mimicked what everyone else did. If they stood, we stood. If they knelt, we knelt. If they sat, we sat. We moved our lips, pretending to pray when they did.
I will admit the church was beautiful on the inside. Like everything in Meier’s house, every scrap of wood from the pews to the pulpit was intricately carved, made from dark wood, and polished until it gleamed. Tall windows were filled with stained glass depictions of people and animals. There were stone arches everywhere, and it seemed every available surface was draped with jewel-toned velvet, including a carpet that lay down the center of the church like a long dark red tongue. Candles were lit in elaborate wall sconces and in tall wrought-iron holders even though the sun was shining brightly through the windows, casting rainbows across the floor and walls.
Grant’s pinches served to keep me from falling over in a dead sleep and possibly cracking my skull open on the stone floor, but they sure didn’t put me in a better mood. Still, von Schönenberg finally seemed to wrap things up. The procession of bishops, vicars, and altar boys began in reverse, leading von Schönenberg over the red runner and out of the church. Beginning with the first one, each pew emptied and followed. Grant and I fell into step behind Meier, following him out of the church and into the square.
I was surprised to find it was still relatively early. It felt like it should’ve been midnight—the service had seemed to go on forever—but judging by the sun, it was only midafternoon.
The square had been transformed while we were in the church. Thankfully, the stakes with their grisly burdens were gone. Instead, long tables had been put up all along the square and set with platters and bowls of steaming food. Huge bowls of fruit made colorful splashes next to whole roasted pigs, sliced beef, goose, sausages, and other meats. Large round loaves of bread waited to be cut. There were stone pitchers brimming with water, milk, and ale. I even spotted a few bottles of wine on the tables.
There was clearly enough food to feed the entire town, and it was a good thing too, because it looked as if the entire town had turned out to eat it. People packed the square, standing in groups or sitting on the blankets spread out on the ground. The richest citizens, like Meier and von Schönenberg, had seats waiting for them at the tables.
Grant and I escorted Meier to his place. He motioned to Grant to pour a cup of wine for him, although he didn’t drink it right away.
Instead, von Schönenberg stood up and offered another long, rambling prayer in Latin. The crowd remained respectfully silent, but when he finished speaking, the silence erupted into happy shouts and laughter as the people of Trier dug into the Michaelmas feast.
Meier drained his cup of wine and motioned for Grant to pour another. After picking up a fork, he snagged a thick piece of roast beast from a nearby platter. “You boys go back to the house and see if Frau Weber has any of that horseradish sauce I like. Bring me a crock if she does.” He waved us off and began cutting his meat into smaller pieces.
I realized no servants were participating in the feast. They cooked the food and served it, but only the richer townspeople were allowed to enjoy it.
The longer I stayed in Trier, the more I was coming to despise it.
“Come on, Ash.” Grant tugged on my arm. I followed him, threading our way through the crowd until we made it out of the square. “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for. We can go to the rectory and search for the book. If anyone asks what we’re doing there, we’ll just tell them von Schönenberg sent us to get it.”
I nodded. It sounded like a good plan. Servants wouldn’t question why von Schönenberg wanted his book, and he wouldn’t come all the way back to the rectory to get it himself during the feast.
We passed the Meier house and the church, then turned up the street. The rectory was located directly behind the church. It was a separate building where von Schönenberg made his home. It was almost as large and elaborately built as Meier’s house.
Just as we were turning into the neatly landscaped garden that separated the rear of the church from the rectory, the clatter of wooden wheel
s against cobblestone caught my ear. I turned and looked, not expecting to really see anything. It’s like when you’re walking down the street and you hear a loud radio blasting or a glass-pack muffler. You just automatically look to see where it’s coming from.
There was a wagon lurching down the road, pulled by a team of oxen. The wagon had a flat bed, but wood-slat sides and a roof had been added to it, making a sort of cage.
The cage was filled with people.
“Oh shit. Grant, look!” I tugged on the back of his jacket, urging him to turn around.
He sighed. “More accused witches, I guess. There’ll probably be another trial tomorrow. I don’t want to be here to see it. Come on, let’s find the book.” He turned away and started walking again.
Something made me look closer. I don’t know what it was, maybe the shape of a face or the color of hair that looked familiar, but when I did, I was shocked. I ran after Grant and grabbed his arm again, then pulled him to a stop. “Grant, look!”
Brida Bauer’s face was staring out at us from between one of the gaps in the wagon’s wood-slat side.
Chapter Ten
WE RAN to the wagon, walking along beside it since the driver obviously had no intention of stopping for a couple of servant boys. Ash followed so close behind me he was practically tripping on my heels.
“Brida? What happened? What are you doing here?” I looked over her shoulder and received another shock. Irmla was in there too. “And your mother? They arrested both of you?”
Brida’s face was dirty, and tears had washed thin white lines over her cheeks. Her hair was partially pulled free from its usual neat, tight braid. She was still in her linen nightgown and wore no shoes. She looked like she’d been pulled right out of her bed.
“They came in the night. Someone told them mother and I were healers. They called us witches! Accused us of consorting with the devil. Grant, you met us, ate at our table. You know we are not evil!” Her fingers gripped the boards forming her cage so tightly her knuckles whitened from the effort.
“Of course you aren’t.” I reached up for her hand, but her mother pulled her away.
“Speak not to us, child, else you be accused of consort with witches.” Irmla looked every bit as disheveled as Brida. Her face seemed to have aged since the last time we saw her. Dark circles made her eyes look sunken, and her skin looked gray in the late afternoon light.
“We’ll get you out. Wait and see!” Ash called out to them as the wagon rumbled around the corner, heading toward the Meier house.
I remembered Meier saying he had an interrogation room in the basement of the house. It was a dungeon, in other words, the place where they kept and tortured the accused witches.
Then the wagon was gone, and we were alone on the street again. Ash wasted no time. He launched into his argument with as much energy as a lawyer making a case in court.
“We need to get them out of there, Grant. We can’t leave them there, knowing they’ll be tortured. We owe them!”
I suddenly felt really, really tired and more like a shit than I ever had before in my life. But it had to be said. “We can’t change the past, Ash. If Brida and her mother were executed as witches, there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We need to find the book and go home.”
Ash pulled away from me and glared at me as if he’d never seen me before. “You know, I joke about you being an ass, but you really are an asshole, aren’t you? You cold, unfeeling, ungrateful son of a bitch! Those people took us in and fed us. Irmla took care of the cut on my hand even though she knew I could report her for witchcraft if I wanted to. How can you even think of leaving them there?” His palms slammed against my chest, pushing me, rocking me on my feet.
My own anger flared up, and I pushed him back. “I’m not an asshole. You’re just not being rational. Read my lips, Ash—we can’t change the past. Even if we got them out of there, something else would happen. They’d be rearrested, probably, maybe tortured worse than they would have been if we’d left them alone. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“You don’t know that.” A mix of fury and frustration had brought tears to his eyes, and they glinted in the light. Then they widened, as if he’d just had an idea. “In fact, you can’t know that. What if we’re the reason they were arrested? The men we met on the road on the way here. Remember? I told them Irmla healed my hand. Isn’t it possible they accused her of witchcraft? And that when Irmla was arrested, they took Brida too?”
His scenario stopped me cold. It was possible. More than possible—Wilhelm was entrusted with a pair of Meier’s oxen. Brida was proud of that fact. She’d said it made Wilhelm an important farmer in the area. It was Wilhelm’s responsibility to take the oxen to different farms to plow the land. He earned a stipend from each farmer for doing the work. If Wilhelm’s wife and daughter were proven to be witches, he would lose his position and the benefits that came with it. Meier would need someone else to care for his oxen—perhaps one of the two men they’d met on the road. I nodded slowly. “It could be. Maybe. But how do we know for sure?”
“I don’t think we can know for sure, but I think it’s a chance we need to take.” Ash sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “I only know I can’t go home and live the rest of my life knowing I had the chance to help Brida and Irmla and did nothing.” He put his hand on my arm. His emotions were raw and plainly visible in his expression. “Come on, Grant. I don’t want their faces to haunt me, and I know you don’t either.”
I twisted my fingers in my hair, fighting to come to a decision. Ash was right. Brida and Irmla had done us a solid when we needed it. We needed to at least try to return the favor. But what if we only made it worse for them?
“Grant? We have to try. If it’s our fault they’re in there, we need to make it right.”
“But there’s no way for us to know for sure that it’s our fault.”
“Yes, there is.”
I arched an eyebrow. “How?”
“We find the book. If they were arrested because of us, it means we changed the past already and Merlin’s magic won’t bring us home until we fix whatever it is we did. If not, it’ll take us home and we’ll probably have to go into therapy or something.”
“What if causing Brida and Irmla to be arrested isn’t what we did to change history? What if something happened when we stole the clothes, or—”
Ash blew out a breath. “For God’s sake, Grant, we’ll just have to assume it is.”
“You know what happens when you assume.”
A small smile teased at the corners of his lips. “In this case, I don’t mind being an ass, and since you’re already one, we’re good on that front.”
I smiled and then took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
HOW WE were going to do it was another problem, and it was a doozy. After all, we couldn’t just waltz down into the dungeon, clonk the jailor over the head with a vase, steal his keys, and let Brida and her mom—and the rest of the accused—out of prison.
Although, actually, I thought it was a pretty brilliant plan when I first suggested it to Grant.
He didn’t agree.
Big surprise, right?
“That’s the most stupid plan I’ve ever heard of. Where did you get it? A rerun of some detective show on television?”
I wanted to knock the arrogance right out of him. Or kiss it out of him. Why did I always think about kissing Grant when he pissed me off? A shrink would probably have a field day with me. “It’s not stupid! It may need a little work, but—”
“A little work? I’d need a cement truck to fill in all the holes in your plan. What if the jailor isn’t alone? What if he doesn’t have the keys on him? Where do we find a freaking vase? Do we have to carry one down there? How would we explain it to Frau Weber if she saw us? And how on earth do we get all those accused people out of the house? Where do we hide them after? How do we get them out of Trier? And how the hell do we get back inside the city to find the Malleus Maleficarum?�
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I put my hands up in surrender. “Fine! Fine! Okay, then, bright boy. What’s your plan?”
He sighed. “I don’t have one yet.”
“Oh, there’s a shocker. Crap all over my plan, but you don’t have one of your own?”
“The operative word in that sentence was ‘yet.’” He folded his arms across his chest. “I will. Just need a little time, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well time is something we’ve got in short supply. They’ll go on trial tomorrow, and you know what that means. First they’ll be searched for witch’s marks, and then…. We can’t let them put Brida and Irmla through that.”
We were sitting in a darkened corner of the garden, out of sight, shielded from view of anyone walking from the house to the kitchen or vice versa by a large bush. We were talking over our options, of which there weren’t many.
Personally, I was finding the whole process exhausting. Because we still needed to find the Malleus Maleficarum, and we’d decided to help Brida and Irmla escape—provided Merlin’s magic didn’t whisk us back to the present the minute we picked up the book—we had to keep pretending we were servants for Meier.
We’d gone into the house and found Frau Weber, who was not particularly happy to see either one of us. I guess she thought we were more trouble than we were worth, considering every time she saw us, we asked her to do something. Dress us, feed us, find some sort of special horseradish sauce for us to bring to Meier at a feast she wasn’t allowed to attend. That sort of thing.
I guess I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to see us either.
