Chapter 18

T here was too much chill and echo for it to be the monk’s cell, and too many voices for her to be in the company of the friar and novice alone. After losing consciousness again, they had moved her elsewhere.

Keeping her chin down to appear she remained senseless, Fira inventoried herself. From the light about me, my gown and boots were removed, leaving only my fouled chemise and footed hose. From the soft under my rear and firm beneath my arms, I am in a padded chair. From the numb of my hands and wrists, I am bound to it.

She resisted testing whether it was by rope or chain, certain the moment her audience knew she had revived, she would suffer worse. Since likely this had all to do with the necessities the novice was to ensure were ready, soon the purging by those she believed took an extreme view of the Free Spirits’ doctrine, counting themselves so near God they were accountable to Him alone—if at all.

I am at their mercy, she thought, fear and self-pity causing her to tremble .

“He has awakened her,” Drumfiddle’s words confused until she realized he referred to the demon.

Almighty Father…Heavenly Lord…Savior mine, she silently entreated.

Footsteps sounded, then sour breath swept her face, making her long to run until her heart beat no more. “We are ready to free you, Lady. As told, the sooner done, the less suffering.”

She wanted to remain still so he leave her be long enough for someone or something to aid her, but that would be more painful when it proved for naught.

Telling herself it would benefit her to better know this place should there be an opportunity to escape, she raised her chin. Shifting her gaze past the darkly robed Drumfiddle to others gathered before the door garbed the same except for one in white, she saw the long timber room was a chapel lacking benches as was common long ago when those at worship were expected to stand or prostrate themselves.

Lit by candles in iron stands forming an aisle from the door opposite to where she sat on the dais before the altar, both sides of the thickly rush-strewn walkway were stacked with furniture likely stored here for having an intact roof. As for the high windows, closed shutters seamed with light evidenced sunlight on the other side. Strangely, that was more ominous than if candles were truly needed to light the dark, the chapel made night as if to entice the demon into a trap much the same as a mouse with crumbs.

Fira quaked. And harder when she looked nearer upon Drumfiddle’s two dozen fellow heretics before the door whose hoods were down as they watched her and the man who was their leader—or aspired to be. What role would they play? Spectators? Participants?

A low wind sounded. Realizing it was her breath, she retracted her gaze and saw rope secured her wrists to the chair arms. Hating her quaking would be exploited, but having as little control over fear as she did the cold assailing her scantily clad body, she raised her gaze up Drumfiddle and thought, Would I could burn that false crucifix, land a blow to that arrogant jaw, slam my forehead against that nose down which his eyes travel me.

“Would I could,” she whispered.

He bent near. “Who speaks? The lady or the demoniac? And what say you?”

Recalling the priest of Stern Castle quoting from the book of Matthew, He that hath ears to hear, let him hear, she nearly answered thus, but he would hear only what fit his warped beliefs.

Closing a hand around her upper arm, he demanded, “Speak to me, not him, and sooner we shall restore you to God.”

Fira turned her face opposite and saw Edgar stood before a tall table. For how quickly he averted his eyes, did he question what he did?

Hearing the crack of the friar’s straightening spine, Fira looked around as he called, “Master brethren of the Free Spirits, fellow luminaries, once more we gather in this place made holy by our presence to free one entwined with the devil as will please God and His son.”

Made holy by our presence, she scorned as those at the far end who also wore malformed crucifixes and believed they stood shoulder to shoulder with the divine murmured their agreement.

“Being this woman’s only hope, we are called to do all in our power to drive out her demon. Our successes many, our failures few, we shall prevail.”

Though Drumfiddle’s admission of failure surprised, further she was alarmed. What became of those subjected to purging who could not and need not be purged? More importantly in this moment, were she to feign being exorcised of evil—however that was done—would it sooner end this or, encouraged by proof of possession, go worse for her?

Knowing the latter likeliest, she closed her eyes. What was she to do? The first thing dragged to mind was not to provide the superstitious more fodder, whether by way of a seizure over which she had no control or behavior she must control regardless of fear and anger. What next occurred would require cooperation of sorts. Though she doubted freedom would be had by kissing the cross when next he thrust near, it could be a good beginning en route to convincing the heretics she was no longer a demoniac. Surely God would understand…

“Fellow luminaries, join me in prayer around this kindler of sins, tempter of the human race, and seducer of men!”

His invitation springing her lids wide, Fira stared at those who drew their hoods over their heads and appeared to move as a single body down the candle-lit aisle, causing the rushes to crackle as they advanced.

Toward this woman they insult alongside the demon for believing we go hand in hand, Fira thought, now shaking so hard the chair rocked.

“As directed, Edgar,” Drumfiddle called.

Looking to the novice, she saw him turn with a goblet. As the friar accepted what she guessed wine, Edgar frowned over her and asked, “As the lady is cold, should I not go for a blanket?”

“Suffering will make her more receptive to expelling the seducer,” Drumfiddle clipped.

Hesitantly, the young man inclined his head, then ventured, “Shall you seek a saint’s aid in exorcising the demon? I understand calling on Saint Cuthbert?— ”

“Go, boy. Soon holy water will be needed.”

“’Tis ready?—”

“Go!”

The novice hastened to the table ahead of the arrival of those Drumfiddle named his fellow luminaries as if they were all the light in the world.

Less than two dozen strong, she thought as she looked among men whose faces framed by triangular hoods revealed they ranged from very old to fairly young.

When she was surrounded, the friar sipped from the goblet and handed it to the man on his right who wore white robes. Of middle age, bald pate, and a short beard of dark red, he sipped. When he passed the goblet to the next, Fira’s vision began closing in.

Feeling as if swept backward down a tunnel, she shook her head over The Fading’s approach, the warning of which was rare, but it would not be cast off. Worse, all began dimming, possibly toward The Gloaming that would make these men further justify what they did.

Though she neither spoke nor heard anything, she was certain she did not slump, that from what her sisters revealed of seeing her in this state she merely stared. Then she was back, in her ears Latin prayers from which she picked the words possessio and daemoniaci. Had any noticed her brief escape from the madness at the center of which she sat, there was no evidence.

After all intoned, “Amen,” Drumfiddle gripped her shoulder and motioned the others to draw nearer.

When they lay hands on her, Fira pressed her lips against a scream, certain it would be thought proof of the demoniac.

“Brother Klaus,” the friar said, and one of perhaps fifty years and German accent began reciting the life of Christ, including His encounter with men possessed by demons, their expulsion causing the evil ones to enter a herd of pigs who ran into the sea and drowned.

Fira’s tormentors, whether once of the Church or never, believed they could do the same, meaning she would endure much for their striving to prove as formidable as the Savior.

Moments later, abdominal discomfort reminding her of what she was denied that would have preserved her dignity, modesty, and garments, she caught her breath, causing the German to trail off.

“You disturb the demon, Brother,” Drumfiddle said. “Continue.”

He cleared his throat and, as he resumed, Fira squeezed her upper arms against her sides, tucked her chin to her collarbone, and tried to convince herself the longer the tale of Christ, the likelier someone would appear to aid her.

But not Amaury de Chanson, disappointment reminded her. Though she hated feeling abandoned as if she whom he hardly knew meant much to him, there it was again.

If only I could return to a life devoted to recording my family’s history so future generations grow their own branches on a tree with the strength and longevity of an ancient oak, she rued.

“Now we arm ourselves,” Drumfiddle alerted her the German had gone silent.

Fearing their weapons, Fira raised her head as they removed their hands from her and made the sign of the cross with faces angled heavenward—as did Edgar behind Drumfiddle’s left shoulder.

Realizing it was those signs with which they armed themselves, she let in relief, but then the friar said, “Brother Angus, as you have the greatest experience with exorcism, I defer to you in seeking answers to guide our efforts.” He swept a hand toward Fira, then motioned the others to step back.

As they did so, the one in white advanced. He considered her, then in an Irish accent said, “I must speak with the usurpin’ demon. Let me in, Woman.”

The command was so ridiculous she nearly laughed.

“Good,” he said as if her hard swallow was the lowering of a drawbridge. “The demoniac cooperates.”

Not so, but Fira let him believe in his power of persuasion.

“Proceed,” Drumfiddle said.

Brother Angus stepped so near his robe brushed her knees. “How are thee called, demon?”

Pressing her dry tongue to her dry palate, Fira held his gaze.

“Very well, to be gained in a less pleasant way,” he said, then asked, “Will you tell whence you come?”

That perplexed since he had to believe the answer was hell.

Once more receiving no response, he shook his head sorrowfully. “The harder you make this, the greater your torment.”

And mine, Fira thought, though were she truly a vessel, the threat against her person would not move the demon.

“Here my final question—why did you choose to enter this woman?”

Fira clenched her teeth.

Brother Angus was patient for a time, then he lifted the ill-formed thing from around his neck and set it before her face. “Behold the cross of the Lord and His luminaries! You cannot hide, for the day of judgment hangs over you, the never-ending day that will be an unending furnace. Whoever you are and whence you come, unclean spirit, whether from a bog or hell, from a dark wood or crack in a rock, behold the cross!” He pushed it nearer. “Now damned one, speak from the mouth of this maidservant of the true, living God who cast you down from the heavens!”

It sounded the demoniac must respond for the exorcism to move forward, but there was little hope her silence would end this. Though worse would come, she could not pretend what was believed of her.

Brother Angus straightened and looked to Drumfiddle, shook his head.

“Edgar,” the friar called.

The young man stepped between two wearing the dark robes to which he aspired and extended a pewter cup.

“Here holy water,” Brother Angus pronounced, then pressed thumb and fingers together, dipped beneath the rim, and cast cool droplets in Fira’s face.

“The demoniac recoils!” Drumfiddle exclaimed when she startled. “More holy water!”

This time her only reaction was anger of a strength that warmed, which was not bad considering how chilled she was.

“Now directly on the mouth,” the friar said.

As Fira anticipated much-needed moisture, Edgar exclaimed, “’Tis as Saint Bernard did,” then yelped.

Moving her gaze to where he no longer stood, she knew he had been backhanded so hard he dropped. As he stumbled upright, Drumfiddle repeated, “On the mouth.”

“Raise the demoniac’s face,” said the one in white as if he believed she would fight ingesting what her supposed demon would find so unpalatable it fled.

However, Fira felt a thrill at the realization some resistance would not go awry, that rather than drips she might gain a mouthful to ease her parched tissues.

Placing the heel of his right hand against her chin, the heel of the other against her brow, Drumfiddle tilted her head back. When drops of water rolled over her lips, she struggled to keep her tongue from darting out and tried to turn her head away.

“Again,” the friar said and moved to the back of the chair to brace himself as if the demon’s strength might test his .

She continued to resist, and though she would have further bruises for his tightening grip and forceful lowering of her jaw, a stream of water was her reward. It was wonderful—until it hit the back of her tongue en route to her airway.

Resistance now real, the friar pushed up her jaw and closed his hand over her mouth. “Swallow!”

She tried, but with her head so far back, only a trickle made it down her throat before she began choking. Thrusting her legs out, she strained at her bound wrists, swallowed a bit more, coughed.

“The demon struggles!” Drumfiddle sounded distant though his hands remained on her. “’Tis strong, but we will cast it out.” Then as if satisfied she had swallowed enough, he released her.

Fira snapped her head forward and barely closed her lips against expelling what remained of the water while drawing air through her nose. Several times she coughed against the small mouthful before her throat cleared enough to swallow.

“Since holy water is effective,” said someone of many years, “the sooner to free this wasting soul, I suggest full immersion.”

As she sought to make sense of that, another said, “An empty wine cask in the cellar could be filled with water, blessed, and the demoniac dropped in.”

Fira’s horror trebled. A mouthful had not drowned her, but that could be easily accomplished in a full cask.

“Enough!” Drumfiddle said as others agreed. “If all else fails, that we shall do, but first salt and relics.”

“Ye could take her hair,” said one of coarse tongue as if having spent his life in an isolated village, and when Fira set eyes on him, she saw a man likely of younger years looked to be of middle years for a sun-weathered face and missing teeth.

“Forget not the rod,” said another whose high pitch made him sound a boy .

Having heard tales of attempts to beat entrenched demons out of their host, Fira whimpered.

“The whip is more effective.” This from a man of heavy French accent.

“Saint Cuthbert,” that saints’ name was proffered again, this time by one other than Edgar.

Drumfiddle lunged toward the man of perhaps thirty and of clean-shaven face. “When we raised you to the rank of master and luminary, Brother Eldon, you professed to have set aside belief in the saints.” He jabbed a finger at him. “Now you wish to call on one who is as dead and powerless as my father and yours?”

The man glanced at Fira. “As I fear risking this young woman’s life and have witnessed miraculous healing with the saints’ intervention, surely that must be tried before beating and immersion.”

“Methinks you too weak to count among us,” Drumfiddle snapped. “Do you not agree, Brother Angus?”

“We do not commune with dead men whose souls are returned to God or patiently await that glory,” the Irishman said. “We trust the Lord to work through luminaries whose souls yet inhabit their bodies. For that, holy water. For that, blessed salt. For that, relics of Christ alone.”

Despite Fira’s fear and anger, she understood. Unfortunately, comprehension had no bearing on her chance of escape. As for the use of relics, had such things power, nearly all those which Christians treasured were false—passed off as genuine though they had been no nearer the Lord than bread baked this day, their sale but a means of taking coin from those desperate to believe relics protected and healed when Christ demurred.

Brother Angus sighed. “If still the demon remains mute, then extreme measures. ”

“Brother Eldon, return to your cell and meditate on the precepts of our order,” Drumfiddle said. “Your acceptance in their entirety shall determine whether you remain one of us or return to the corruption you sought to escape in leaving the Benedictines.”

“But—”

“Such thinking is tolerated from those new to our ranks who are open to correction. Leave us, and when the chosen of blood, muscle, and sinew have made a miracle of this enemy of the faith, we shall speak further.”

The chastised man was slow to comply as if forming an argument that could aid Fira were he persuasive. But then he pivoted and started down the aisle.

She had no faith in him and what he believed of the saints, yet she longed to call him back as if he were a rope to be thrown to a drowning woman. Then the door opened and closed neither gently nor harshly. Whatever his emotions, he restrained them.

Lord, she silently appealed, if naught else, strengthen me. I wilt.

When Drumfiddle called for the blessed salt, the novice stepped forward, took the holy water, and set the pewter bowl in Brother Angus’ palm.

Fira knew salt was used for exorcism and guessed it would be sprinkled on her. Thus, after Brother Angus spoke Latin over the bowl and his brethren answered his Amen, she closed her eyes lest they were stung.

“Open your mouth, demoniac, or I will.”

Raising her lids, she saw Drumfiddle move forward as if to force salt down her as he had holy water. Reasoning a pinch was little compared to more cruel handling, she put her tongue forward.

It was no pinch. As she struggled against spitting out coarse grains that threatened to eat a hole in her tongue, Drumfiddle commanded, “Swallow.”

She closed her mouth but did not swallow lest she burn her palate and throat.

“Draw nearer, Brethren,” Brother Angus called.

As they did so, loudly he said, “I exorcise thee, creature of salt, by the living God…” He made the sign of the cross. “…by the true God…” Again he signed. “…by the Holy God…” Again. “…by the God who through the prophet Elisha commanded thee cast into water.” Again, then all intoned, “Amen.”

“Open your mouth,” Drumfiddle said and, at her hesitation, reached to her.

Desperate to avoid his touch, she dropped her jaw.

Brother Angus peered within and swiftly drew back. “To ensure the blessed salt enters your being and pains the demon, you must swallow.”

“I need…water.”

“You were given holy water. Swallow.”

Her burning tongue feeling twice its size, she put it to her palate and dragged it back to move the salt toward her throat. More burning, but she got down enough to satisfy him.

He raised his eyebrows. “Now will you provide your name, whence you came, and why you entered this woman?”

When Fira could only suppress another scream, Brother Angus nodded at Drumfiddle. After exchanging the bowl of salt for a roll of purple cloth tied with a gold string, he said, “This is the nail driven through Christ’s feet. If you do not answer and depart the woman, it will be placed in her mouth and pierce you the same as it did our savior.”

Fira gasped over imaginings of what would happen when nothing came of that, then ground her teeth though Drumfiddle would pry them apart.

“Speak, demon!” Brother Angus commanded and, receiving no response, unbound the cloth and raised a large, crudely fashioned nail.

Fira struggled for persuasive words, but even were she able to form them, she was too dry, the only moisture about her the tears trembling on her lashes.

As the first fell, the cloth was passed to the friar, next Edgar who returned to the table. Then Brother Angus kissed the nail likely forged far nearer the year of her birth than the crucifixion and said, “Speak, demon!”

Fira’s convulsing throat lent movement to her tongue, producing just enough saliva to say, “’Tis The Falling Sickness, what some call…The Sacred Disease for believing its sufferers are nearer God?—”

Drumfiddle slapped a hand over her mouth. “The demoniac places herself between us and her seducer, Brethren! As she refuses to surrender the battlefield between the forces of hell and heaven, our efforts are wasted. Thus, we take extreme measures to ensure she is not lost to God.”

Certain he referred to beating the demon out of her or full immersion, no longer could she contain her scream.

As she expelled it in his palm and strained at her wrists, Brother Angus said, “First this relic. If the demon resists, we chance her life.”

Though her vision blurred further, it was not The Fading nor The Gloaming— at least not the forms with which she was familiar. Strangely, the blur eased her panic enough she ceased struggling.

“Now that we have the demoniac’s attention, release her, Drumfiddle,” Brother Angus said.

Whether or not he would have done so without the others nodding and murmuring agreement could not be known, but Fira sensed grudging about him as he removed his hand. Too, the step he took back was so small only rustling rushes evidenced his retreat.

Brother Angus bent near. “Allow me to speak to your seducer so we may restore you to your family purified and whole.”

Though he was to be disappointed for her alone able to speak out of her mouth—and only then with moisture enough to move her tongue—she nodded.

His face softened slightly. “I, the luminary, Brother Angus, command you to answer my questions, demon, after which you will cease infesting this woman, allowing the Holy Spirit to fill her. Do you not, this nail is the least you shall suffer.”

Once more tempted to affect a voice not her own, reason triumphed over fear again, it and faith warning that playing the evil one was not something done without admitting darkness these men believed dwelt in her now.

“Very well, demoniac, open your mouth so I may place the nail. Providing you cooperate, it should pain little compared to what your demon will endure.”

And compared to the pain of Drumfiddle forcing her. Hating she must yield to fear and a body weakened by hunger, thirst, and cold, Fira opened her mouth and set her tongue atop her lower lip.

The man in white spoke Latin prayers, made the sign of the cross, and set the nail on her tongue.

Though what tasted of iron did not touch her throat, she nearly gagged.

“Most unclean spirit, you writhe,” Brother Angus said. “When I remove the nail, you will answer all I have asked of you.”

A shudder caused the nail to bounce against Fira’s teeth.

“The demon commands its accomplice to spew it,” Drumfiddle warned.

Brother Angus raised a staying hand. “Recall the breath of God, demoniac.” He blew in her face, then put in her left ear, “Forget not your Creator.”

She shuddered, and the nail dropped.

“Brother Angus, by gentle means you have done all possible to persuade her demon to reveal itself,” one of the brethren said as the nail was plucked from her lap. “Now the rod.”

“And immersion if that fails,” said another.

“Alas, they speak true,” Drumfiddle rued. “We must imperil the life of she who let in evil.” He looked over his shoulder. “The rod, Edgar.”