Knight Errant (22 page)

Fra Marco’s eyes lit up. “Know you such a one?”

“I might.”

“If it could be proven that the woman is not guilty of any accused sins, and if Fra Basti had tortured her, his enemies would raise an outcry.”

“Does he have many enemies?” Robert prayed it was legions.

“Enough.”

“Then where do we begin?”

“First we must prove the woman is actually in the prison.”

“I know she is.”

“Yes, yes, but ’twill be difficult. Basti holds total control over most of the prison and wields much influence in the papal court. We must convince someone with greater authority to seek the woman out before Basti can move her. Do you have any documents about her?”

“Aye.” Robert was certain the gleam in his own eyes now matched the one in Fra Marco’s. From the pouch in his jerkin, he removed the letters with Edward’s signature and handed them to Fra Marco. Waiting was difficult when every instinct urged him to tear the place apart looking for Juliana.

“Edward Plantagenet of England. Excellent.” Marco shuffled the papers and continued to read. “Why did you not say she was the cousin of England’s king?”

“Do you think this will gain Lady Verault’s release?”

“No, ’tis not sufficient for that. This will prevent any possibility of rape, however, and I know a certain bishop whose interest will be piqued enough for him to investigate quickly. I am certain we can move Lady Juliana’s trial to take place in just a few days.”

Robert beat a fist against the table. “What good will that do? You said yourself that Basti tortures his women prisoners. She has been in his custody for four days. A few more and she could be dead, or worse.”

“If Edward’s cousin is guiltless, ’twould not do for her to be raped or die before her innocence could be proven. If she’s only been with Basti for four days, we may yet prevent the greatest harm. Come with me.” Fra Marco handed back the papers and led the way from the room.

“Where are we going?”

“To see a bishop.”

• • •

Robert stood once more outside the prison gates, torn between hope and frustration. The bishop had asked for a hefty “contribution” to the church and had promised to look into Juliana’s situation today but refused to allow Robert to go to the prison, claiming it would attract too much attention. He was warned not to mention his letters from Edward to anyone then dismissed with a promise of news by messenger as soon as there was news to tell.

He left because he had no other choice.

What to do? The condemned woman in Genoa had blackened limbs and a broken face. He could not let that happen to Juliana. He turned away from the gates, despair and hope at war in his heart. For Juliana’s sake he must take the side of hope. Thus, he had preparations to make. Once she was released, he had to be ready to get her out of Rome quickly. And she would be released. The alternative sickened him too much to contemplate.

He did not know what shape she would be in when that happened. He must be ready for every eventuality, so he set off in search of better accommodations and new horses. He would have to find some lady’s clothing as well. To fend off despair he spent a busy day, returning to the prison to leave word with Fra Marco about his new lodgings and learned that Juliana’s trial had been moved up to the following afternoon. He was warned not to be too hopeful of a positive outcome, but he would not let despair and doubt win. Despite his worry and frayed nerves, he prayed Juliana’s suffering—and thus his own—would be short and light.

Basti had not touched Juliana during the swift ride to the prison in Rome. He smiled when her clothes had been stripped from her body and she’d been forced to don a gown of rags that smelled of unwashed bodies and did little to cover her. But she kept her head high and her hands folded serenely before her as she entered the cell to await her turn for torture.

She’d been appalled at the state of the other women in the crowded space and had done what little she could to ease their suffering. She gave her food to those with starving bodies. When urged to eat herself, she smiled, saying God would provide her a feast soon enough. With little more than water and filthy rags, she tended the women hacking from lung fever or in pain from pus-filled sores. To raise spirits, she kept up a steady flow of conversation about any topic her fellow captives wished to discuss.

In comforting the other prisoners, she found solace and confirmation that the Beguine tenants of faith and work for the good of others could heal the deepest spiritual wounds. She encouraged her companions to tell the truth because no matter what happened at their trials, God would welcome them when their earthly time was done.

“But what of those who need us?” a very young woman, little more than a child, had questioned. “I have a babe Basti has taken from me. If I do not recant and return to him, that priest will have my son raised to hate women.”

“Did Christ deny his faith to save himself despite the wrongs done to him and his followers?”

“No.”

“Yet the world had need of him, did it not?”

“Yes.” The young mother nodded.

“But Jesus held to the truth knowing he would die, and his death became a great salvation to the world. Had he lived, that would not have happened. You must have faith that God will not allow hatred to triumph.” The words were easy to say, but Juliana knew how difficult the action was. Faith in the face of persecution and pain was never easy. Robert’s image filled her mind. He was a man she could have loved, had that been her destiny. A moment’s regret for what might have been was all she allowed herself before she buried selfish longings and resumed her determination to live the faith she espoused.

Tears fell from the girl’s eyes. “You are telling me I will be condemned to the stake.”

Juliana embraced her, letting the mother weep out her sorrow. “’Tis most likely. You must take what time is left you to comfort those around you. Make your son proud of you. God will find a way to let him know of his mother’s courage and kindness.”

Done weeping, the young woman moved back. “I am not so brave.”

“Neither am I,” Juliana confessed.

The girl looked at her with astonishment. “But you are so calm and have helped so many of us in the short time you’ve been here.”

“Kindness takes no courage and comforts my soul. I cannot change Basti nor influence the minds of the bishops who preside at the heresy trials.” Though she did pray that the letters would end the persecution of women and earn them a rightful place in the church. “But I can act where I see pain and suffering. If my fate is to die, then I accept that. God has reason beyond knowing. All he asks of us is to believe in him.”

The young mother stood straighter. “I believe.”

“Then, like me, you have naught to fear. Now help me tend the others’ wounds.”

Juliana saved all her tears for private moments when the others slept. She refused to sleep for Robert lived in her dreams. He held out his hand promising peace and contentment. All she had to do was wed a stranger. But the stranger had empty eyes with Basti’s face and represented all the cruelty possible in man. Juliana refused to allow such horror to touch her, even in sleep.

Every day Basti came with his guards. “Do you recant your heresy?” he asked each woman one by one. A few did.

“Take them away and have them washed. They must be presentable in the marketplace if we are to encourage true believers to open their homes to these lost souls who now seek God’s light.”

In other words, Juliana translated for herself, no master wants a slave who is dirty and stinks.

The women, like her, who refused to recant were taken away individually to a chamber where Basti would watch as the guards did unspeakable things to the women’s bodies.

Juliana knew he allowed the guards to rape women and assumed that she would suffer that fate before she died, but not yet. Evidently Basti wished her to contemplate that terror while inflicting lesser wounds. He took joy from her agony when his minions twisted her foot at an unnatural angle. The pain she experienced was terrifying enough that only her faith in God kept her from pleading for a merciful death. Of a certainty the torture would get worse. However, she would endure as long as she could and pray for a speedy trial. It seemed her prayers now were answered.

The guards came without Basti and, chaining her to two other prisoners, marched them from the cell through dim, dank hallways to a courtyard filled with light.

Smiling, Juliana hobbled into the space. The priest had made a mistake. Yes he’d succeeded in torturing her body and causing her physical pain, but he’d neglected to isolate her and thus had been unable to break her spirit. She shut her eyes at the brightness of a sun she had not seen in more than three days. Grateful for the small warmth, she raised her face to its beams and gathered her serenity about her. Then she stepped forward to shield her companions.

• • •

First, Robert heard the shuffling clink of chained feet. A nauseating smell followed as the procession filed into the square. Then he saw them.

They were filthy. Their torn clothing exposed body parts, bruises, cuts, and running sores. The rags provided no defense against the elements or prying eyes, so the accused huddled together, linked by common need as much as by the chains that bound their hands and feet.

He had to look twice before deciding that Juliana was the creature in the middle, hovering in front of the other two as if she could protect them. She was in slightly better health than her companions, her body not quite as bent or trembling, but her cuts and bruises were more plentiful. High on her cheek, almost hidden by her hair, a reddened circular sore oozed pus. He could not tell if it was a bruise or a burn. Robert saw that she favored her right leg. He followed the limb to the ground and saw her foot twisted inward, the ankle puffed to twice normal size. His heart wept tears for her pain, but he kept his face a careful blank.

He lifted his gaze to her eyes. Her expression frightened him. She smiled. That calm, beatific turning of her lips was familiar to him. Her otherworldly focus was not. She neither looked at nor responded to the crowd around her. ’Twas as if she had already left this life.

Nay! That could not happen.

He wanted to reach out to her. Take her in his arms and soothe her pain. At the very least he wanted to give her hope as she had given him.
Look at me. I am here. I will not let that man or any other hurt you. Juliana
! Anger and despair lifted him from his seat.

Fra Marco’s hand restrained him. “Do nothing,” the priest warned.

“I cannot allow this to continue.”

“If you wish to see her live, you will follow our plan.”

Robert subsided onto his seat. “She may well hate me when this is done.”

“Can you accept her hatred?”

“If she lives, aye.”

“You must love her very much.”

Robert turned astonished eyes on Fra Marco. “I love no woman, now or ever.”

The priest shrugged. “You need not deny it so strongly. ’Tis nothing to me if you love or not.”

“You do not understand.” Yes, Juliana gave him joy unlike any he’d ever known. But love? No, too much anger filled his heart for him to be able to love. It was true that knowing her had helped his spirit begin to heal. Slowly he could feel the scabs of guilt and shame over his father’s deeds slough from his soul, but the anger still festered. And not even love would dissolve that ugly barrier to peace and forgiveness.

The man looked at him with clear, wise eyes. “I do not think I am the one who needs to understand.”

Aye, Robert agreed silently as the bishops announced the first case.
’Tis Juliana who will need to understand and, if I am lucky, forgive
.

The first heretic to be tried was an old woman, gray hair wisping about her head. Bent and twisted with age, her body shook as if with palsy. Her hands were blackened and clublike. Robert realized they had been burned so that the flesh of her fingers fused together. The sight sickened him, and he swallowed back bile.

“Carlotta di Doreno,” intoned one of the bishops. “You stand accused of refusing the Eucharist and claiming that all priests are cannibals because they eat of the flesh of our Lord. How plead you?

“Please you, my lord bishop, have mercy on an old woman. I was falsely accused by my greedy nephew who wants my fish shop for his own.”

Basti stood and pointed a finger at the woman. Sunlight glinted off a huge gem-crusted ring. “Carlotta di Doreno, you have tasted of the fires of truth. Do you still dare to lie to this tribunal?”

The woman shrank from the accusation. “Nay,
Fratello
. I speak true.”

Basti nodded, a pleased smile on his face. “The heretic refuses to recant, Lord Bishop. I demand her trial by fire.”

“So be it.”

“That was no trial,” Robert murmured to Fra Marco. “Are they all like that?”

“Most are, but Lady Juliana’s will certainly be different.”

The woman began to cry as a guard led her toward the first of the stakes. Halfway there she collapsed.

Amid shouts of surprise and wonder, Basti ran to the woman’s side. A moment later he stood. “God has passed his judgment without fire. The woman, Carlotta di Doreno, is dead. Blessed be the Lord. I call the accused Beguine, Lady Juliana Verault. Present yourself for trial.”

As Juliana moved to stand before the bishops, the third prisoner—a young woman scarcely more than a child—wailed and clung to her. Juliana bent and touched her lips to the woman’s filthy hair. Robert could see that Juliana spoke, but he had no idea what she said. The other woman nodded and released her hold. Whatever words his Beguine had uttered, they obviously had helped the poor woman now standing with head raised high, alone in the dock.

Juliana halted before the bishop’s table, her most serene smile in place and her hands folded before her.

“Lady Juliana Verault,” the same bishop said. “You stand accused of the heresy of refusing confession, the cardinal sins of lust and envy, as well as the ordinal sin of lying. How plead you?”

“I have never committed any cardinal sin, and I challenge those who accuse me to prove otherwise.” Her voice was calm and strong, showing no trace of fear or the pain she must feel standing on her injured foot.