Anne Bishop: The Pillars of the World

“I have copies of the pattern,” Adolfo said. “I’ll see that you get one—when our task is complete.”

He kept his eyes on Sax, but he had been watching the witch, had seen the moment when she could no longer maintain her defiant stance and had slumped once more into the resignation of a dumb animal caught in a trap.

“Bind her legs. Be sure to leave enough leather for the spikes.”

Sax pulled the length of leather from his belt and hunched down. When he reached under her dress, Adolfo snapped, “Bind it over her dress. We do not want any good man standing witness here to be provoked into lust if she should begin thrashing and expose her limbs. Women are weak vessels, easily corrupted by the Evil One. But even a strong man can be snared through the lascivious actions of a woman who is the Evil One’s servant.”

Sax quickly finished tying her and stepped back, rubbing his hands against the rough fabric of his trousers, as if even so little exposure to her might put him in danger.

Adolfo made a slight gesture at the grave. “Put her down. One of you other men get the box from the cart.”

When Sax and his friend lowered her into the grave, she began struggling again. Reluctantly, they slid into the hole to force her onto her back.

“Drive the spikes into the ground and tie the leather to them to keep her legs still,” Adolfo instructed. He gestured to the man who had retrieved the box that had been built to Adolfo’s specifications. “Place the box over her head and shoulders. Fix the other spikes through the straps.”

As soon as Sax and his friend were done, the other men helped them out of the grave.

“Fill it in,” Adolfo said. “Begin at the feet and work toward the head.”

He and the baron watched in silence as the men shoveled dirt into the grave. When the first shovelful of dirt finally hit the wooden box, they heard her scream.

“I wouldn’t have thought the Master Inquisitor was a compassionate man,” Hirstun said quietly. “What difference does it make if the bitch gets dirt in her eyes?”

“I am a compassionate man,” Adolfo said just as quietly. “If I were not, I wouldn’t have taken up the task of freeing good people from these wicked creatures. The box will hold a little air after the grave is filled in. That will give her time to repent.”

Hirstun eyed him warily. “And how will anyone know if she does repent?”

Adolfo smiled sadly. “True repentance comes at the moment before death. If she was spared at that moment, she would swear that she had repented, but it would be a lie. Death is the only freedom these creatures know, Baron, and even that isn’t freedom since their actions in this world have condemned them to the Fiery Pit that awaits the Evil One’s servants.”

They said nothing more until the last shovelful of dirt filled the hole.

“Well, it’s done,” Hirstun said, watching his servant pass out copper coins to the men who had assisted. “You’ll come back to the manor to . . . settle things?”

“I’ll be along shortly. I want to maintain watch for another minute.”

“You are most diligent in your task.” Hirstun walked away, his servant and the common men trailing behind him.

“Yes, I am,” Adolfo said softly once there was no one close enough to hear. “I will not suffer a witch to live.”

She lay in the dark, feeling the weight of the earth pressing down on her. Not much air left, not much time.

She’d tried to summon the power, had tried to move the earth so that she might somehow escape. But it was water, not earth, that was the branch of the Mother from which she drew her strength, and her efforts had gained her nothing.

Why had things changed? Why ? For generations, the women in her family and the rest of the people in Kylwode had lived and worked peacefully in each other’s company. How many of the common villagers and tenants on the baron’s land had been helped by her grandmother’s simples when they didn’t have the coin to pay the physician, who was really only interested in tending to the gentry and the merchant families in the area? How many had she helped by showing them where to dig their wells? And this was how they showed their gratitude for all the help that had been given?

She tried to breathe slowly, tried to make the air last, knowing it was useless to hope, and still unable to keep from hoping that some of those men— any of those men her family had helped over the years— would defy Baron Hirstun and return to free her.

Why had resentment begun to simmer in Kylwode? Was it because people had looked at the sparse crops they were scraping out of their own overused land and then had turned envious eyes on the rich meadows and forests—and the game that lived there—that belonged to the women of her family since the first witch had walked the boundaries and marked the Old Place that was in her keeping?

How many years had they been telling people, over and over again, that the Mother was bountiful, but one must give as well as take? The people in Kylwode simply didn’t want to listen. The Mother gave—and should keep on giving and giving. And lately, the response to any suggestion of giving something back to the land was, “witch words,” followed by uneasy, suspicious looks—and the suggestion that the “giving” was some kind of blood sacrifice. And that the bounty of her own garden was payment from the Evil One for carnal pleasures.

She’d never heard of the Evil One until Master Adolfo came to stay with Baron Hirstun. But she knew with absolute certainty that there was such a creature, that the Evil One did, indeed, walk the earth.

And its name was Master Inquisitor Adolfo, the Witch’s Hammer.

He was the very breath of Evil with his quietly spoken words and the gentle sadness in his eyes. Those things were the mask that hid a rotted spirit.

Oh, yes, treat the witch gently so that she may repent. Don’t look upon her limbs so that you won’t be swayed by lust.

The soul-rotted bastard just didn’t want those men to see the welts, the cuts, the burns he had inflicted on her to “help” her confess. The hobbles provided a clever excuse for why she couldn’t walk well. And he certainly hadn’t hesitated to indulge his lust. His rod was as much a tool as the heated poker and the thumbscrews.

Three times he had led her to the small writing table in the hated room in Baron Hirstun’s cellar that he had changed into his Inquisitor’s torture chamber. Three times he had insisted that she must confess her crimes against the good people of Kylwode.

Twice she had refused to sign the confession he had written out, had even demanded the first time to know who had accused her of doing harm. She had done none of the things listed as her “crimes.” Harming others was against the creed she and her family lived by.

Twice she had refused. But the third time, he had shown her the other bridle, the one she would force him to use if she continued to resist his attempt to lead her to repentance. That bridle had what he called “witch stingers”—spikes that would pierce the cheeks and tongue. He had shown her the other things that would have to be used to persuade her to “freely” confess.

When she finally signed the confession, he told her he was grateful she had relieved him of the burden of continuing such an onerous task. And by signing, it was she, and not he, who had condemned her to this death.

Bastard!

Tears filled her eyes.

So hard to breathe now. So very hard.

She was glad her mother and grandmother had gone to a neighboring village to help with a birth when the baron’s men—and Master Adolfo—had come for her. She hoped one of the Small Folk had warned her family while they were still on the road home so that they could flee.