by Tracy Falbe
People leered at her and someone poked her with a stick but the dreadful men holding her shoved him away. When the throng impeded her captors too much, riders came alongside and cleared the way.
They entered a street off the square, and the pressure of the crowd relented.
“Let me go. Let me go,” Altea pleaded.
The men brought her to a squat stone building with small windows and an appalling smell. Someone pushed open the thick door. Confronted by the dark hole, she clawed at the men, but her fingernails scraped uselessly across thick cloth or armor. She twisted and kicked and threw a foot up against the door frame. The men yanked her back to dislodge her foot and then bashed her head against the door frame as punishment.
The pain was stunning. She was only aware of a mixed up swirl of grim images as they dragged her inside. She saw dark red splashes of blood on the stone walls and floor.
Down a long hall they took her. When she saw the lattice walls of thick iron bars, she started screaming. A door screeched open and they tossed her into the reeking straw.
Altea landed on her knees and stayed there trembling and crying. The men followed her inside. One of them grabbed her from behind and lifted her up. His hands scooped her breasts and he pressed himself against her bottom.
“Got caught in just your nightie,” he laughed.
His partner came around in front of her. His blonde hair was greasy, and dark grunge filled the grooves between his teeth. He put his hands on her hips. The thin fabric of her nightgown offered only a flower petal’s protection from his calloused hands.
“No, no, no,” she sobbed.
The man behind her covered her mouth and squeezed her breast hard. The man in front of her cackled into her face. She shut her eyes. His hands slid between her thighs. He groped her genitals, and pressed his fingers into her vagina.
“My cock’s getting hard for you. I know you witches like cock,” he said.
Altea shoved him back with her knees.
“Hold the bitch,” he complained.
The man behind Altea hooked one of his feet in front of hers, and his mate stomped on Altea’s bare foot. He clamped a hand around her throat and started lifting her nightgown.
“No time for that,” declared someone outside the cell.
The men released her. She fled uselessly into a corner and collapsed against the bars like a fly in a spider web.
“You can’t do this!” she screeched.
The men laughed and heaved shut her cell door. It clanged into its frame like a badly tuned bell. When everyone left, Altea ran to the single window and stood on her tiptoes to see outside.
“Help me! Help me!” she screamed to someone on the street. He frowned at the jail and sped up. Two women walked by and Altea screamed to them. They looked aghast that she had spoken to them and hurried onward.
Altea screamed and sobbed until she slid down the wall and huddled in pitiful defeat. Grimy straw that stank worse than a chamber pot after a bad meal splayed out around her. Rat turds sprinkled the slick floor.
Shaking and utterly depleted, she lapsed into a half conscious state. She stared into space while her mind blundered across the broken ground of reality seeking escape.
She yielded to the drunkenness of despair. Her eyes lost focus. Trauma vibrated through her battered flesh like a nail plucking a lute string. A tenacious flicker of her spirit clung to the cliff edge of madness and coaxed her to hang on. The delirium of true raving insanity would bring no comfort.
“Thal,” she whispered.
She was here because of him. There could be no other cause. She had embraced his monolithic mystery. The lessons of a lifetime she had tossed away. Her hungry kisses had gorged on sweet fruit born of forbidden freedoms.
Yet she could not match these terrible punishments to her actions. She had only yielded to a natural longing for love. Despite an upbringing that had warned against the temptations of the flesh, she had found no evil in the connection of their bodies. The exciting pleasure had beckoned her with the promise of bliss, and Thal’s passion possessed a purity that seemed meant only for her. Kissing him had been as if sipping from the Holy Grail. His touch had redeemed her from an oppressive loneliness that confined her and admitted no breeze of the world as it actually was. Even on the filthy floor she savored memories of their brief encounters.
And now she understood the unhappiness in Thal. His adoration had not masked his aching despair. He had feared that his desire would destroy her, yet he had been too in love to stay away.
He will come for me, she thought believing that his love would demand it.
Altea blinked and the light came back into her eyes. The gray hues of stone and iron rejected outright the hope in her heart. Prisoners had clung to the dream of rescue in this nasty place many times, yet no memories of miracles softened the cold hard edges of the slimy cell.
Down the hall, a woman screamed. Fresh panic stabbed Altea when she heard her terror reflected in another. She pushed herself up as the next prisoner arrived.
Altea did not recognize the woman. She was older and raggedly dressed. Her gray streaked hair was in wild disarray. She kicked and cussed while being manhandled into the adjoining cell. The two men started beating her. Their punches landed hard and the woman was soon in a ball on the floor. Then they kicked her.
“Stop it!” Altea cried overcome with empathy for their fresh victim.
The man with greasy blonde hair whirled. His eyes tore into Altea and she quailed back from him. The memory of his hand between her thighs gutted her courage.
He came to Altea’s cell. She surged to her feet in a wild panic when he put the key in the lock. Reaching through the bars she tried to keep him from turning the key.
He laughed at her pitiful effort and punched her through the bars. Her head jerked and she tasted blood. He came in, punched her again, and threw her down. She landed on her stomach and he kneeled behind her and grabbed her ankles. Spreading her legs he pulled her up against his body. She screamed and twisted and tried to hit him but she was as defenseless as a chicken held upside down by its legs.
He punched her hard in the small of her back. The pain was sickening. Altea moaned as he exposed her bottom.
“You can have your sport with them after they confess.”
Her tormentor turned his head. “Brother Vito,” he said and got up.
Altea scrambled away to her corner and pulled her gown over her legs. Vito and Tenzo advanced into the cell block.
Vito said, “I want to announce her confession in the morning and get her sentenced.”
Tenzo said, “Brother Vito, are you sure we should move so quickly?”
“The people need action,” Vito said. He looked over the cell block, judging that the Magistrate had been correct about its sturdiness. The cells did look capable of holding Thal. He hoped that the men he had sent with Rainer succeeded. If not, he assumed the jail was baited well. The blonde woman despite her battered state was beautiful, and he would give her the gift of dying young.
“Will the Magistrate really sentence his own stepdaughter?” Tenzo wondered.
“It’ll be best to get him to do this quickly before he can recover his wits or worse yet ask his friends for help. I need all the better classes to understand I’m not a man to be resisted,” Vito explained.
Tenzo nodded.
“Application of torture is the recommended way to get a genuine confession,” Vito said.
Glancing over the women huddled in the cells, Tenzo figured they looked ready to agree to anything.
Miguel entered the cell block carrying writing materials. The dank environment revolted him but he girded himself to perform important duties.
“Which way to the torture room, Constable?” Vito said impatiently.
“Through that door I think,” Tenzo guessed. He had not had a chance to acquaint himself with his new place of employment.
“Start with the Magistrate’s stepdaughter,” Vito said.
> Tenzo’s men dragged Altea out. The blackness beyond the torture chamber door had a sickly slaughterhouse smell. The room had no windows.
“We need more light,” Miguel complained.
After setting up some lighting, everyone came in with the prisoner. Miguel was relieved to find a little desk where he could work.
Vito scanned the room, recognizing some of the equipment from drawings in books. He knew this room would be the wellspring of his power.
“Strap her to that table,” Vito said.
Altea resisted fiercely. Tenzo had to assist his men. Leather straps were slapped across her arms and legs. Two men held her down while Tenzo tightened the buckles.
Vito bent over Altea. He brushed a lock of her golden hair out of her face. Tears washed through the grime on her cheeks.
“Did you like your werewolf lover?” he whispered.
Altea turned away from him, refusing to acknowledge what he said.
Vito took her chin and forced her to face him.
“Confess your witchcraft and intercourse with the Devil,” Vito said.
She shut her eyes and shook her head. Her very soul recoiled from the stigma of confessing such lies.
“God will forgive you if you repent and confess right now,” Vito urged.
“I’ve done nothing!” Altea screamed into his face.
“Tell her what we already know,” Vito said.
Miguel cleared his throat and brought out Tenzo’s sworn testimony against her. He read off the details of her marketplace dalliance with the werewolf known as Thal Lesky.
The vignette used to condemn her summoned her longing to live forever in that moment when they were last together. She recalled his face and his touch and wished that the world could be different.
“Confess your unholy perversions,” Vito said.
Altea did not respond even if the time to regret her actions had come.
“We know also that you’ve been trying to seduce your stepfather,” Vito said.
Outrage made Altea forget her bindings. All her limbs jerked against the straps. “That’s not true. He’s been on the verge of raping me for days. Whatever he told you is a LIE!” she raved.
Vito shook his head. His narrow bald face possessed no sympathy. To him her guilt was beyond question, and Altea wondered why he required the cruel formality of a confession.
“Please bring Father Refhold. He knows me. He knows I’m no witch. I’m just a woman!” Altea said.
Vito rubbed his chin, pondering if he should involve a local priest. “I will allow you to make your confession to your own priest,” he decided.
“No, no, no!” Altea protested. “I want Father Refhold to tell you I’m not a bad person.”
“I don’t see how he can do that,” Vito said. He gestured to Tenzo to get things going.
Tenzo and his men puzzled over the board and stone weights stacked next to the table. Miguel’s quill scratched across paper. He checked the spelling of Altea’s name and prepared the statement of her confession. He took facts from Tenzo’s statement and added details to embellish the shocking value of her crimes.
“I see how this goes,” Tenzo muttered, lifting the board. He placed it over Altea’s torso. “Put a weight on it,” he instructed.
Another man hoisted a stone block. “Christ that’s heavy,” he groaned. “Sorry,” he muttered when Vito’s eyes flashed at him. He dumped the weight on the board and Tenzo kept it steady. An awful groan was pressed out of Altea. Beneath the grinding pain she could not draw a breath farther than her collarbone.
“Stop. Stop!” she pleaded.
“Put another on,” Vito said.
The sellsword turned jailer loosened his shoulders and asked his counterpart to help him. Together they lifted the second weight and deposited it on Altea. She squeaked, unable to breathe. Pain shot through her chest as ribs cracked beneath the cruel burden.
“Say you are guilty of witchcraft,” Vito demanded.
Only wheezing groans came out of Altea. Her eyes rolled back.
Vito’s mouth puckered with a sinister frown. This technique was not suiting him. She was passing out. “Take them off!” he snarled.
The two men obeyed. Altea gasped back to life and screamed. Drawing a real breath had assaulted her with pain where her ribs were broken. Tearfully she moaned and begged for release.
“Confess or I’ll do it again,” Vito said. He watched the dread play across her face. The poignant detail of her tortured thoughts upon her maidenly features fascinated him. He had not expected to glimpse such delicate beauty in so loathsome a situation. He shook his head a little to dispel her glamour, knowing that her wicked magic must be making his mind sparkle.
The young woman surprised him when she licked her cracked and bloody lips and shut her eyes. Her silent resolve irked him.
He grabbed a lantern and inspected the chamber. He recognized a few devices and made his decisions. He took the thumbscrews off a rack on the wall and commanded his men to sit her up.
Tenzo grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright. She screamed because the movement aggravated the wreckage around her chest.
The thumbscrews clunked onto the table. “Use these on her,” Vito said. He imagined that they would deliver awful pain but still leave her able to walk. He wanted to be able to take her into the Court for a public sentencing. Her ravaged beauty would be a good lesson for people vulnerable to heresy.
Tenzo took her by the wrists while the man with the dirty blonde hair positioned the little screw press over her thumbs. Altea was too subdued by injury to put up much of a struggle.
When he began turning the screw, the pressure was subtle at first, but after a few more twists the crushing force against the delicate flesh and bones became awfully vivid.
“Stop! Stop! Stop! I’ve done nothing,” she said. “Please God no!”
He kept turning the screw. The other man grabbed her around the neck to keep her in position. Her words degenerated into a helpless yowl as the thumb bones cracked.
Blood oozed from the little press. The tips of her thumbs were purple.
“Confess, woman, or he’ll turn those thumbs to pulp,” Vito warned.
Her sobbing came in hysterical gasps. Pain ruled her senses and she was incapable of thought.
“Confess to your witchcraft!” Vito said and slapped her.
His blow snapped her out of her agonized stupor. She looked away from her broken thumbs dripping in the metal vice. This pain would be nothing compared to the fire they would light under her. She moaned, but refused to give him the satisfaction of breaking her.
Vito recognized that she was prepared to lose her thumbs just to spite his effort. It was time to take the step that she could not resist. He told his men to remove the thumbscrew.
Altea received no relief when they took off the grim contraption. The broken digits dangled uselessly. Blood seeped from flesh ground into shattered bones. All she could do was cradle her swelling hands in her lap and watch them unstrap her legs. The men hauled her off the table.
“Put her in the maiden,” Vito said, lifting his lantern and illuminating the coffin-like metal box with a vaguely female face.
“I’ve heard of these,” Tenzo remarked as he opened the iron maiden. He touched one of the spikes and shuddered.
The two men holding Altea backed her into the tight box. She was shaking with mortal fear. Tenzo began to shut the door. Vito stood to the side and held up his lantern so it would illuminate the spikes as they approached Altea with the promise of lingering death.
She screamed and her bravery broke like an icicle falling onto stone.
“I’m a witch! I confess. I’ll tell you anything. Please don’t! Don’t! Don’t!” Her words descended into wailing as the gruesome spikes poked her tender body.
Vito stopped the closing door. Leaning into that void beyond hope, he hissed, “You’ll say that in Court. Nice and pretty or you’ll die in this thing.”
Altea nodde
d. “Yes…I…will,” she promised, barely able to utter words.
“God bless you woman for returning to Christ,” he said.
Altea could not believe it when the spikes withdrew. Ten little points of blood seeped into her soiled gown but the wounds were shallow. Although her execution was certain, she felt utterly redeemed to see the door swinging wide.
“Brother Miguel, write that she confessed to her crimes,” Vito instructed.
Miguel nodded without looking up. His face was shiny with perspiration. He told himself that her Devil worship had made her resist confession with such ferocity. Innocence could not possibly have been the source of her strength.
Altea passed out when they put her back in her cell. Broken and bleeding, she was awoken once from her fitful faint by the screams of the other woman in the torture chamber.
Chapter 43. The Side of the Law
Martin leaned over his desk and mopped his brow with a cloth. The stuffy air in his office clawed at his temper. The meeting he had just finished with three of the Aldermen had been uncomfortable and embarrassing. Martin had needed to defend the abrupt intrusion of the Jesuit outsider into municipal affairs, but amid so many murders, Martin had successfully argued that they needed any help they could get.
“Thank you for impressing upon those corrupt bastards the severity of the threat,” Martin said to Zussek, who was pouring wine for both of them.
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t seen as colluding with these Devil worshippers,” Zussek said and handed a glass to Martin.
The Magistrate took a sip and noticed that it was watery. Some servant had been filching the wine at his office. He hated to suspect his secretary, but it was the least of his problems.
“Thank Christ I got them to give up their men-at-arms to support me. Vito doesn’t have enough sellswords,” Martin said.
“The beast won’t be able to choose his ground tonight,” Zussek encouraged. “He’ll come for you and be killed in the trap.”
Martin finished his wine with a long gulp. He found little consolation in being bait for Thal. He hoped the monster went for Altea first.
