Chapter 4

‘I will be the greatest witch hunter this world has ever known.’

Having uttered the words, Pierre de Lancre immediately wanted to take them back. While the gentle hum of fiddle music played in the background, the men at his table erupted into laughter. What had he been thinking, coming to this tavern frequented by charlatans and cuckolds? When he had sat down with these men, he had thought them to be like himself – educated, pious and dedicated to the same mission as he. Yet when he had simply questioned why one would choose to become a notary, the man retaliated by asking Pierre about his aspirations. Their laughter echoed in his ears, even as he withdrew from the table.

He had expected too much from Cologne. Simply put, it was a dull city filled with tedious people going about their vacuous lives. Six months had passed since he had graduated from university with a doctorate in canon and civil law – a qualification that made it possible for him to practise law and dispense justice. But it was not the disputes of landholders or even the crimes of felons and murderers that required his attention. He would make his name by pursuing an evil more insidious than that found in the hearts of men.

Witches.

And Pierre did not just want to prosecute them, he wanted to root them out. He had the qualifications; now all he needed was the opportunity. Travelling to Cologne had seemed the best choice, a city reputed to be teeming with witches.

If witches were here, they must be well hidden.

In the weeks since he had arrived, there had not been so much as a single arrest, nor a credible accusation of witchcraft. He could not return to his family home in Lorraine until he had something to show for it. His father had spent good money on Pierre’s education, and if there was one thing his father detested above all others, it was wasting money.

Pierre had resigned himself to returning to his rooms at the boarding house for an evening of quiet contemplation when an arm shot out and blocked his passage towards the tavern door.

‘Monsieur Pierre de Lancre? Is that you?’

A miasma of smoke hung about the table, but Pierre could identify three men. ‘Monsieur Michel Palomer?’

‘I have not seen you since graduation,’ said Michel Palomer. He turned to the two other young men sharing his table. ‘Do you remember Monsieur de Lancre?’

Pierre did not recognise Michel’s two companions, hats askew and passing what looked like a small ladle between them that they sucked at various intervals. Nor did they appear to know him.

‘Come now, mes amis! How could you forget this scholar who was always the first to arrive and the last to depart?’ Michel said with a smile. ‘He was always so eager to help his fellow students, quick to point out our mistakes and correct us. A gentleman and a scholar, he is!’

Michel’s two cronies sniggered into their tankards. ‘Yeah, I remember him now,’ one of them said.

‘One could hardly forget such a man,’ Michel said. ‘Please, monsieur, sit and share a drink with us.’

Pierre was tempted and indeed flattered by the other man’s words. However, it grew late, and he had important thinking to do. ‘I’m afraid I must decline. I am expected elsewhere.’

‘Nonsense!’ Michel said. ‘Sit down. I’ll stand you an ale.’

The other men continued to snigger as Pierre sat down on the proffered chair. Another drink would be welcome, more so at someone else’s expense. ‘Perhaps just the one.’

Michel Palomer had been one of the most popular young men in their class. In all their years at the university, Pierre could count on one hand the number of words they had exchanged. He could probably do the same with any of the other students. But Pierre had not been at university to make friends. He had been there to secure an education, as his father had before him, and who now held a privileged position as a royal official. Pierre aspired even higher. Proximity to greatness was not enough for a man such as himself. No, he aspired to be great. His path had been revealed to him as a boy, while attending a witch trial with his father. The hunter who had delivered the witch served as prosecutor, and Pierre had watched in awe as the man spoke words that would lead to the witch’s execution. Such power, such strength, and all done through the due process of the law. It was an experience that had transformed his young mind and changed the course of his life.

When his ale arrived, he took a long draught.

‘What brings you to Cologne, monsieur? The last time we met you were clutching your doctorate in one hand and ready to take on the world with the other!’ Michel said, passing him the ladle. ‘Care to drink the smoke?’

Pierre looked at the device and thought of the end being mouthed by every man at the table. The house harlot would have seen less use. Besides, the tobacco smelled like piss.

‘I am here on business,’ Pierre replied, waving the pipe away.

‘Business? Then you are working as a prosecutor?’ Michel took a swig of ale.

‘Not precisely. I am working for myself.’

‘Men, did you hear that? Monsieur de Lancre is carving his own path! Not content with the comfortable lives we plan to lead.’

‘You have secured positions? All of you?’ Pierre asked.

‘Right here in Cologne. Consider Monsieur Jacques Fontaine here.’ Michel nodded towards the bearded man blowing rings of smoke. ‘His noble sire has set us up in one of his businesses. By the time the year is out, we shall all be wedded, bedded and going to seed.’

Pierre’s mouth went dry when he thought of his own father’s silence in the months since his graduation. Until Pierre achieved anything of note, his father did not feel it worth his time to communicate with his son. He took another drink.

‘But that life is not for you, is it?’ Michel leaned in close. ‘You are destined for great things, a man such as yourself.’

Pierre had always thought so.

‘And what is it that guides you? What rouses you from your bed each morning? What is your true calling?’

‘I know what rouses me from my bed each morning,’ the bearded knave said, grasping the front of his breeches in a crude gesture. Pierre paid him no heed. Such behaviour should not be encouraged. Michel, however, seemed to find it amusing, which disappointed him. Perhaps it was time to depart. Pierre went to rise and leave this rabble to their debauchery, but a hand gripped his wrist. Michel’s hand was warm and soft, his eyes wide, and there was no trace of amusement on his face now.

‘Do you want to see a witch?’ Michel asked.

Pierre looked down at Michel’s hand covering his. ‘There are no witches in Cologne.’

‘They captured one two days ago. Brought her here for interrogation.’

He glanced between the three men but could see no deception. ‘You speak the truth?’

‘Papa told us where they’re keeping her,’ Jacques said.

‘This could be your chance, Monsieur de Lancre. I doubt the Inquisition has had time to interrogate her. You could be the one to get her to confess.’ Michel’s eyes shone brightly, even in the smoke-filled haze.

This could be his moment, Pierre thought. His first opportunity to apply the talents that God had bestowed upon him. ‘Lead on.’

Pierre found walking more challenging than usual. He allowed himself to be led through the darkened streets and alleyways, his feet sliding dangerously on wet cobblestones as he brushed away pox-ridden harlots with their dubious offers of pleasure and dodged piles of sour-smelling vomit. He paid no attention to the direction they took. When Jacques Fontaine eventually stopped, there was nothing familiar about the building, nor the street on which it stood. Certainly nothing to suggest a witch resided therein. Perhaps a family of middling wealth. No candles shone from the windows of neighbouring dwellings, nor lights on the street. The street was quiet, almost deserted.

‘How do we enter?’ Pierre asked.

‘Around the back,’ Jacques said.

He followed the men to the rear of the building. If anything, it was darker here, tall structures obscuring what little light shone from the moon. He heard a creak, followed by someone cursing.

‘Light the torch! I cannot see a God-cursed thing!’

The sound of flint striking steel was followed by a spark as the torch ignited. Michel stood before an opened hatch in the ground, securing the wooden door to prevent it from closing behind them. A couple of stairs were visible, the rest disappearing into the darkness. A foul smell wafted up from somewhere deep within.

‘Follow me,’ Michel said, torch in hand.

Pierre and Jacques both stepped forward, but the third man hesitated. ‘I am not certain about this,’ he said.

‘Coward,’ Jacques spat onto the ground near the defector’s feet.

The man took a step back. ‘The hour is late. And we’re trespassing. Would Monsieur Fontaine, your father, approve of this?’

Jacques’ eyes narrowed. ‘Why don’t you cry to him like a woman and find out.’ He pushed the other man, sending him tumbling onto his back. The coward said nothing as he picked himself up and walked away.

‘Just the three of us then. Come on, Monsieur de Lancre. Show us how an expert does it,’ Michel said.

Pierre watched the other man disappear into the night. A part of him wished he could leave too. He considered himself to be good at reading other people’s intentions, and he’d begun to suspect that Michel Palomer might not be someone he wished to follow. However, he could not walk away from this opportunity to see a real witch, not when his previous endeavours had failed to produce fruit. ‘At your back,’ he said.

Sandwiched between Michel at his front and Jacques at his back, Pierre stepped into the darkness. The foul stench that could only be human waste grew stronger as he descended, filling his nostrils and travelling to the back of his throat, stinging his eyes. When he reached the base of the stairs, he glanced back, hoping to see a patch of the night sky, but there was only Jacques, who had closed the hatch behind him. Pierre had left his bravado somewhere above ground, in the open air. Jacques shoved him roughly aside and began moving around the room, taking the flaming torch from Michel and shining the light into the corners.

‘Where is she? Where is the witch?’

Long seconds passed while Pierre’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, revealing details that were perhaps better left in the darkness where they belonged. Chains of iron held something distinctly human-shaped to the wall. Emaciated limbs with too-pale skin were marred by scores of bruises in shades of purple, black, yellow and green. The skin at her wrists and ankles was painfully torn and reddened where it rubbed against the manacles that held her in place. Her head hung forward and long matted hair trailed almost to the packed dirt floor.

He had made a terrible mistake in coming here.

‘Here she is.’ Jacques shone a light on her face.

While Jacques and Pierre had walked the length and breadth of the room, Michel had not moved from the stairs, the whites of his eyes visible. Despite the bone-cold chill in the windowless basement, a line of sweat trickled from under the brim of Michel’s hat and rolled down his cheek.

‘Is she dead? A shame. Oh well, mes amis. We shall have to seek our sport elsewhere.’ Michel laughed, the sound hollow and false.

‘Hold!’ Jacques said. ‘She lives.’ He gripped the woman’s hair and raised her head.

Pierre’s body tightened, and he found himself conscious of his breathing, the sound, the feeling of air entering and filling his lungs.

Michel still did not move.

‘Come and look,’ Jacques said. ‘They gouged out her eyes. From the sounds she is making they also took her tongue. The Inquisition has been here already.’

‘Have they now?’ Pierre said, moving closer. His lips were suddenly dry, and he licked them, coating them in a film of warm saliva.

‘The Inquisition may return,’ Michel warned.

‘It is late. They would have no cause to return tonight,’ Pierre said. There was so much to see. So much to learn. ‘They have used the boot. See her legs, the torn flesh, the protruding bone, the fluid seepage. Possibly the rack as well.’

He turned at the sound of someone retching. Saw Michel doubled over.

Facing the witch once more, Pierre ran his finger gently down her cheek, her skin soft and tender, chilled to the touch but with warmth flowing beneath the surface. Jacques raised and lowered his torch to reveal the exposed parts of her skin. Her neck, her breasts, her stomach. The thatch of dark hair between her legs.

‘So still, so quiet,’ Pierre said, his breath catching in his throat.

Jacques put the torch against her skin and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Like roast pig. The witch began to moan, an unearthly sound that Pierre felt deep within his own body. Heat centred at the base of his spine and travelled down, settling in his loins. He lurched back, away from the light, his hands hiding his erection. He was not a man given to passions of a carnal nature – no, this was something else, something divine .

Michel vomited again and Jacques laughed. ‘The men who talk a big game are always the first to fall. I have had my fun. Have you?’

Pierre stood tall as the torchlight passed over him, his hands cupping his arousal. ‘Not yet.’