The grinding of iron sounded in the dark—a key in the lock, its teeth gnawing on mechanical innards. It was time. Jezebel forced herself up and tugged at her tunic, pulling it tight with her wounded arm behind her. With her free hand she tossed her hair. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her nipples stiff in the bitter air, but the smell of rotting flesh—she only hoped the jailor’s nose was as keen as the rest of him. The door yawned open and lamp light poured shadows over the dungeon floor: of torturous devices and a man, familiar, in white silk robes and a golden fringe sash, hair slick and black, eyes like a pair of iridescent beetles, his voice full of laughter, malevolence, and evil.
“Hail Ye, Holy Matron, mother of King Solomon. Blessed are we whom received your son in grace. We beg, pray for us that his covenant shan’t be broken, that our sons shall have a place beneath the seat of the Lord!” The bishop shut the door and sauntered forward, his eyes crawling over her body like lice. “And pray for this one too. The whore of Babylon.”
Jezebel spat at the man’s gold velvet sandals.
He smiled, “What? Were you expecting someone else? It can’t be it’s me you’re all hot for, can it?”
Silence.
The bishop brushed the scars on his cheek. “What, you don’t want to talk? Are you sure? No one else is coming to help you, and even God can only save your soul.”
“I don’t want God to save my soul.”
“No? Well, he’s not going to anyway. You’re going to burn.”
“Good,” Jezebel answered. She let her arms by her sides and held her head high. She refused to play his games, to let him control her. “Anything is better than looking at your disgusting face.”
“Is it now? Mayhap for you. But what about the boys here? Is it better that they burn too? Huh? No, I didn’t think so. God, look at your face. That shame.”
“Is that why you came down here? To taunt us?”
The clergyman approached, cautiously, within an inch of the chains of Jezebel’s fetters. Then he whispered to her no louder than the wings of a fly, the humor suddenly gone from his face. “I am here to make you an offer. You see, in just a few moments the saint and his retinue are going to march into this Hellhole and take you and the Imp and the boy and put you all to the stake. Mayhap David’s son gets let off. Maybe not. But you can be damned sure that you half-breeds are going to burn. We’ve already got half the nobility making camp out there. It’ll be quite the show.”
“And?” pressed Jezebel, trying her best to hide her desperation.
The bishop bent closer—craning his neck, exposing his scars—tempting her. “And all that can be avoided if you play along with me. Are you ready? That’s judgement coming now.”
He did not lie. Footfalls sounded softly from the corridor through the dungeon door and into their cell. Two men by Jezebel’s ear, boots brisk against the packed dirt floor. The clergyman stepped back. The door swung open. She winced as lamp light flooded the chamber, followed by a priest and two armoured men. At once, the bishop took to his knee.
“Your Holiness,” he said.
The priest advanced with a royal arrogance and held his hand to his clergyman’s face. They were wrinkled fingers, long and thick like their master’s neck, and hard as his jaw, square and naked. His other hand kept busy smoothing his cassock: red watered-silk and a sash of gold with red leather sandals. On his crown a half-wreath of snowy hair. A deep creased scowl. A column backbone. His expression was stone as the bishop muttered, “Worthy,” “Glory,” “Mercy,” and “Praise,” between kissing the images embossed on the rings on those wrinkled fingers.
“Rise,” spoke the priest.
The clergyman rose.
“So these are the pagans of whom I’ve been informed? Sir Holland, bring the light closer.”
One of the armoured men, he in maille and crimson surcoat, brought his lamp to Adam and Adnihilo. His nostrils flared at the ragged sight them: Adnihilo, soiled and shirtless, his red-brown curls like matted rats’ nests; and Adam, he was nothing but bones. He had refused to eat after that night, or even to talk. His soul was broken and it showed.
From his black tusks of nose hair to the ruddy flush in his cheeks, Jezebel could see that the knight wanted nothing more than to go. The other fellow, however, seemed almost concerned. His green eyes squinted in a sad grimace as if he was looking on a fallen friend, yet it was Adnihilo at whom he stared. He sighed inside his enameled breastplate while the half-blood glared, bitter and hateful.
“Yes,” the bishop answered, “these are the ones we captured fleeing from the parish. The boy is Pastor David’s son. Unfortunately, his father got trapped inside during the raid. I tried to warn the man, but he wouldn’t abandon his flock—God rest his soul. The half-breed is one of David’s converts, but the woman—” he paused and glanced toward her “—she’s our wolf-in-the-pasture. You’ll recall her from the early mission reports, Your Holiness; the ones which make mention of the Pale Witch of Babylon.”
The gruff knight turned his lamp from the tattered young men to Jezebel. Her eyes fluttered shut in the yellow glow, but she could feel their disgust for her threadbare frock, her unkempt hair, her filthy
