It was close to the end of the Christ-mass night and Bishop Odo of Brugge had already been interrogating Anne—there was no other word for it—for some hours. He had hurried to the Prinsenhof immediately he’d been summoned, as news of Brother Agonistes’s sensational accusations spread.
A public accusation of witchcraft was a most serious matter—a matter for the doctrinal arm of the Church, a burning matter. And though Duke Charles was not a superstitious man—he thought talk of witchcraft was nonsense in a modern state—he was a politician. Bishop Odo had influence in Brugge, and Charles needed his people united in support of the war that would come to their doors very soon.
For that, he must have calm in his city. Under these circumstances, the fate of one woman was much less important than the survival of the duchy of Burgundy. And so, over the protests of his duchess, Charles ordered that, in the first instance, a “meeting” between Anne and Bishop Odo would take place. In the interests of public stability, he would permit the Church to test the accusations of witchcraft against Anne in an informal way. To formalize the proceedings would be to sanction torture.
The bishop was delighted to oblige his duke with expert advice in this matter. He sensed that this woman—this named and branded servant of venery and the Devil—might be his path to a long-overdue archbishopric and, after that, a cardinal’s hat. Anne de Bohun would be his final test of worthiness for high office, and he would not fail. He would be her salvation also, of course—he would burn her body to save her soul if he had to, because it was his professional duty to find and drive demons out from her sinful woman’s flesh. And so, with the agreement, if not the unequivocal support, of the duke, tonight, he, Christ’s servant in Brugge, would hunt for the truth. He would search out the signs of Satan manifest within this girl.
“Lady Anne, let us revisit the recent past once again. Formerly, you lived at the house of Sir Mathew Cuttifer here in Brugge. At that time, I believe you had a servant called Jenna?”
Anne rearranged the folds of her dress over her knees to gain a moment’s thinking time. She’d been permitted to sit at last—if only on a small joint stool—and was exhausted after the long hours of questioning, though she would not let the bishop see that.
“Come, lady, dissembling is of no use. Did you once have a servant named Jenna? Yes or no?”
The bishop loomed over Anne, but the sconces in the room were behind his head and his face was in shadow. Anne could not see her interrogator’s eyes, deep in his cowl, but she could hear the bray of triumph when he spoke.
“Yes. She ran away on the same day I was kidnapped by slave traders, just after the wedding of the duke and duchess. I have not seen the girl since.”
“But I have.” The bishop was breathing hard, sensing that Anne was weakening. “Oh, indeed, I have seen her. She is a postulant now, in my care. She forgives you for all that you did and prays for you daily.” He signed a sweeping cross over Anne’s bent head.
She looked up at Odo, bemused. “Forgives me? For what?”
The bishop forced a hearty laugh, long and loud, and made a business of wiping his eyes. Lowering his ample arse into a cathedra placed opposite Anne’s stool, he brought his face down to her level; God’s servant, sitting in judgment.
“You pretend bewilderment, Lady Anne, and that is most amusing. I do not believe Our Savior ever laughed—never gave way to such animal passion—yet perhaps he might join with me here, tonight, the joke is so very good!” The bow of his belly wobbled as he gleefully slapped his knees.
Anne forced herself to smile, her heart pounding. This man was a great, fat, lazy cat. She would not be his mouse.
“It is hard for me to share your enjoyment, Bishop, since I have no knowledge of what you mean.”
The bishop leaned forward. He wasn’t laughing now and Anne could see his eyes—pale blue, the glitter of a cold sun on frost, light on icicles—no warmth in them at all.
“Your servant Jenna made her confession to me personally, eighteen months ago. She confessed that she had heard you raise spirits and have congress with them. She confessed that she observed your flagrant and adulterous relationship with Edward, then the king of England. She saw and heard you instruct a harmless child, your own nephew, in pagan ways, to the peril of his immortal soul. Do you deny these allegations, lady?”
Anne was mute, rigid. Her silence was a weapon in the bishop’s hand and he did not mask his savage pleasure. He stood over the white-faced girl, thrusting his own face close, whispering the words. “You say nothing, Lady Anne. Witch, whore, adulteress. Brother Agonistes named you as all three. How could he know these manifold sins if God himself had not made the truth a tool in his hand for smiting the ungodly? For smiting you, woman!”
That brought Anne’s head up. “God? No! It was that man’s own sin that brought him to this place, dressed in those stinking rags. His betrayal of me and the king he served brought him here; his own lust and bitterness brought him here. He is not God’s servant!”
But the bishop had snatched up his crucifix and thrust it toward Anne like a weapon.
“Confess to me now, here, woman, and your blackened soul may be saved. Fail to confess, refuse this gift, and you will be damned. Further, the Church will hand you to the secular authorities in this city and your body will be burned to a puddle of black grease in the Markt Square, while your soul, your immortal soul, roasts in a lake of fire for all eternity.”
The bishop slewed around, enraged. But he was not as angry as Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, standing in the doorway of the cell. The duchess moved forward with the gliding gait of a court lady and, reaching out her hand, helped Anne stand. She turned her dispassionate gaze on the bishop.
“I caution you, priest. Lady Anne de Bohun is English and, as such, is protected by the authority of my brother, the king.”
The bishop avoided sneering, but only just. “Your brother has been deposed, madame. And in any case, he has no authority here. But your lord and husband has, and I expect that he, as a true son of the Church, will shortly punish your disobedience in this matter by giving you over to God’s authority in this city; authority which I embody, as you well know. This woman’s soul, and yours, are my domain. Take her now and I shall excommunicate you both.”
Anne detached her fingers from Margaret’s and turned to face the bishop. “Foolish man. Do not think to threaten your duchess, or me, with empty words.”
Anne’s eyes were marble cold. Margaret moved closer to her friend. Together, they were of a height and, suddenly, similarly formidable. Their resistance confused and then frightened the bishop.
He held up his crucifix in a hand that shook. Christ’s body was his weapon against the glamour and spells of the witch—of the two witches—before him now. He was a consecrated bishop. God’s power, vested in him and ranged against sorcery, would prevail. “Duchess, I am your pastor, set in authority over this city and all its inhabitants, of which you are one.”
Margaret’s eyes sharpened on his. Hearing the quaver in Odo’s voice, she spoke over him.
“Bishop, you have tried to frighten an important guest in my husband’s domains. But this lady is defenseless no more. Be clear on that. She will come with me now and you will return to your brothers in Christ. There the matter will end. Soon this scandal will pass away and be seen for what it is. Sensational, meaningless nonsense.”
For a moment Odo almost believed Margaret of England, especially when she smiled at him. But then he rallied. It was his duty to stand against this foul manifestation of the glamour of women’s enchantment.
“Be careful, lady. Very careful. A pleasing face and body are the foul road by which men are led to Hell, but you cannot sway me with these Devil’s tools. I am a man of God and, though you may be married to our duke, understand this. Duchesses and even queens have burned for sorcery. Perhaps you protect your friend so staunchly because you, too, are a witch? Your husband must be told of this. By me. And he will put you away, out of your marriage, for the sake of his immortal soul and those of all his people. And even if he does not give your body over to be burned, be sure you will end your life immured within a convent, a silent penitent until the day of your death.”
But the lady of England now stood before the bishop of Brugge, not just his duke’s wife. One piercing glance from Margaret and a sudden, hammer-hard certainty of misjudgment weakened Odo. Pain pierced the wall of his chest, squeezing his heart like a walnut in a vise. The crucifix dropped from his hand and he slumped backward into the cathedra, heart jolting, breathing hard. His legs had the strength of empty sausage skins and they would not hold him up.
Behind the bishop, an arras rippled gently. It might have been a breeze, but Anne alone caught the movement. Something was forming in the shadows, an outline, the glimmer of a body shape. It was growing from something darker, denser than cold night air. The glint of gold shone there and, for a moment, a woman’s profile turned and found definition. Margaret was focused on the bishop and did not see. Did not see the arm as it was raised; a woman’s naked arm whose hand held a sword. Did not see as the arm dropped, the sword flashing downward, carving the air…
Margaret tore at the bishop’s neckband to loosen it but Anne was calm, speaking from somewhere far, far away. “Leave him, duchess. Let the Devil take his own.”
Odo was outraged by the sacrilege, the disrespect, of the girl’s words. Trapped within his dying body, he rallied briefly, determined to speak, but the words drowned in spittle. He smelled something. With his last breath, he snuffled and sucked the air. Sulfur. It was sulfur! The bishop made a gobbling sound and his eyes rolled white in his scarlet face; then the tide of blood receded, leaving it bloated and waxy gray. But consciousness was not immediately gone. Looking down with more than mortal eyes, Odo observed his naked feet dangling in vertiginous space over a black hole, the bottom of which was filled with a moving lake of fire. Desperate, he looked up, hoping for a glimpse of another, kinder place, but there, staring down at him, was a dark-eyed woman, long hair flying in the sulfurous wind. Spiral tattoos covered her face and a band of thick gold encircled her throat. The last of his heart’s beats was born from the terror of that sight.
“Who…?” He could not speak, but watched with creeping horror as the woman smiled and held up her arm. Muscles slid beneath the healthy skin as she whirled the sword above her head once more. He understood now: he had served the wrong cause all his life and now that life was ended.
“What are you?” he tried to say, but there was nothing left, no breath at all. His immortal eyes followed the movement for the last time as the woman pointed. Down.