Afra - The Witch Hunter's Mistress E-Book

Petra von Straks

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Afra Wilson and her brother do well to live on a small farm outside the hamlet of Brook on Creek in northern England. They are not only Catholics - Afra is suspected of witchcraft. When her brother disappears, the young woman seems lost. But the worst is yet to come: in a heavy snowstorm, a stranger gains access to the small farmhouse. What she does not suspect is that she has give shelter to King James I's chief witch hunter. And the snow continues to fall...

Leseprobe

Afra - The Witch Hunter’s Mistress

Petra von Straks

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Petra von Strakswww.petra-von-straks.de

Cover design:

Michael Troy, MT-DESIGN

Picture credits:

© KathySG, www.shutterstock.com

© Heartland Arts, www.shutterstock.com

Original edition October 2021

© 2021 Petra von Straks

Lessingstr. 17

67317 Altleiningen

All rights reserved.

The work, including its parts, is protected by copyright. Any use without the consent of the publisher and the author is prohibited. This applies in particular to electronic or other reproduction, translation, distribution and maKing available to the public.

Cursum Perficio.

Chapter 1:

In which evil takes its course.

„Hey there!"

The man paused for a moment and then walked on - a little faster.

"Will you please wait ..."

He hadn't even noticed the young woman as he had walked past her. Her brown dress with its dirty apron and threadbare jacket blended perfectly with the brownish branches in which she had been hiding.

He quickly looked around to see if there were any of the girl's companions a little deeper in the undergrowth.

It was bitterly cold, and he wanted to go home. He still had a few hours to go, and his bones were aching.

Besides, he had a headache that seemed to make his skull burst.

"What is it, girl? What do you want?"

She tightened and then put some bounce in her hips.

"Aren't you John Law, the pedlar from Halifax?"

She scratched vigorously under her stained bonnet, then pulled out a strand and twirled it around her index finger, tilting her head slightly.

"Who wants to know?"

"Alizon is my name."

She stepped towards him. A little too close, he thought, and in turn took a step backwards.

Perhaps he had just overlooked her henchmen ... Again his eyes searched the trees and bushes, which showed only a hint of spring green.

There was no one there.

"Where are you from?"

"Pendle Forest, if you please. You got a long way to go?"

She took a step towards him. If this continued, she would push him into the thicket.

"If you want, I could offer you something", she purred, leaning forward a little so that he could see her breasts, around which her jacket was stretched.

"Nah, thanks. I'm a happily married man. Go for someone else."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You got any pins?", she asked with an abrupt change of subject.

"Sure."

His eyes wandered over her shabby clothes.

"Well? Show me! I want to see if they're good pins, or some crap that breaks right off when you stick it in..."

"...clay?" the pedlar helped with a wry grin.

"Nah ... I don't do that. Forget about that. No black magic and all that."

"I was thinking more of a love spell ... But you can do that, right?"

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and narrowed her eyes.

"We can do business," she explained. "You give me the needles - say half a dozen - and I'll do the spell for you."

Law threw his head back laughing, which was immediately punished with a sharp stab right in the brain.

He hissed and his face contorted.

"Never mind. Half a dozen fine pins of the best kind .... No no no. If you have good money, you can buy some. Otherwise you're out of business."

She snorted and pressed her full lips together.

If you were washed and your hair combed, you wouldn't even look bad, the pedlar thought.

"You don't believe I can do witchcraft, do you?"

"Of course I do. But you know what I believe in even more?"

"Huh?"

"Money. Now get on with it."

"I can do magic. Really! Come on now... I'll prove it to you... Give me the needles and I'll make ..."

"... Your sister fall in love with me?"

He tapped his forehead and continued.

"I can do that!", she nagged with an air of childish defiance that no longer quite suited her.

The girl was getting angrier and angrier. Law wasn't in the mood for tantrums. Not with his headache and the strange dull pressure that was beginning to stretch from the back of his head downwards.

His tongue felt like it was swelling in his mouth.

He stumbled and cursed inwardly for overlooking the stone.

What a shitty day, he thought.

"You stupid old bag! I can do witchcraft! Really!"

Obviously, she had given up, because she didn't come after him. Anyway, he didn't see her again.

Law cursed the mist that suddenly rose around him.

"I put a curse on you … you old sucker! Fall over … will you?!"

She continued to nag and nag through the fog.

What an absolutely and utterly shitty day ...

Chapter 2:

In which we learn that even Kings are not always what they seem.

The King bent low over the tome that lay open in front of him, partially covered in parchments.

His small head moved back and forth with the lines he was reading.

He looked plump, almost clumsy, and the thickly padded jacket added to the grotesque contrast with his spindly little legs.

"Ingram ... What do you think of this ..." He bent even lower over the book.

The tall, slender man next to him took a deep breath.

He had placed his beret on the finely carved wooden table and was obviously looking for the right distance to avoid the smell of the King at the same time get close enough to the tome to be able to read it on the other.

It failed.

So he took a breath, held it and then approached the Ruler.

When James stood up abruptly and then walked away from the table with energetic steps, the worst was over.

"Your Majesty ..."

The King shook his brown curls.

"No. I cannot and do not concentrate."

The heavy Scottish accent made it difficult for many narrow-language courtiers to understand the King, but Ingram, himself from near the Scottish border, had no trouble.

What had puzzled him at the beginning of their - should he call it friendship? - was the fact that the King's tongue seemed too big to fit in his mouth. So the King's mouth stood always open a little and his tongue was overflowing his lower lip.

"Majesty?"

The Ruler seemed to be searching for words. His eyes wandered over the floor as if the letters of the book lay scattered there.

"If only I could send someone ..."

Ingram realised that the King was actually speaking to himself and so he paused in silence. The light of the slowly setting sun made his silvery hair sparkle, which he wore cut short, contrary to fashion.

The King straightened up and turned only his upper body, which was accompanied by a dull sound.

It was his padded doublet that seemed wrapped around him like a pillow.

"Traitor ... Assassin ... Ingram! That's it. All men around me sharpen the knives and gather the cannon powder."

He glowered wildly at him.

"Did they not strangle my father after failing to blow him up? And my mother? They cut off her head where she had thought she could trust her own cousin!"

He walked over to an enormous wooden armchair covered with furs and cushions and sat down.

The bizarrely large foot on the branch-thin lower leg wobbled nervously back and forth.

"Gunpowder ... Gunpowder ... They tried it on me too. Haven't they?"

The King nodded to himself and his words.

"If I only knew what I had done to them ..."

Ingram knew when to keep his mouth shut.

"I read. Write books. Take care of the law and education. I don't bleed my country dry with wastefulness and pointless wars. Yes! I am a prince of peace. I have a faithful wife and strong, healthy children. What the hell do they want from me?"

Ingram closed the mighty tome - apparently lost in thought. When the pages closed with a muffled sound, it jolted the King from his thoughts.

"Scotland ... Ingram ... Scotland. This is it. I am a stranger in my own Kingdom. If I had stayed in Scotland... They listen to me. With each of my words I call out to them at the same time: I am Scottish! And so they cannot forget who or better - what I am."

Ingram, now standing tall again at the massive table, breathed calmly and weighed his words carefully.

"I know what you mean, Sire."

The King raised his head as if to encourage Ingram to continue.

"It is hard to put into words.... It is as if there is a power beyond one's sphere of influence.... And this power directs one's existence."

He thought of his son.

"Exactly! Witches, Ingram! Witches!"

Now it was up to the grey-haired man to look up and look questioningly at his King.

"By your leave?"

"Well ... I am sure ... Back then, when fate united me with my queen ... When I travelled to Denmark to fetch her in person ... It was then that those powers tried ... tried their utmost ... to keep me away. First, storms such as no living soul had ever experienced drove my spouse back to her father, and then the same storms tried to keep me away from her. You know I was determined to make her mine. And if she could not come to me, I would come to her. And then, happily arrived in Denmark, who did I meet at my father-in-law's court? The great man. The greatest, if I may say so without disparaging my father-in-law."

Ingram raised his brows, but he had no intention of interrupting his Ruler's torrent of words in any way.

"Tycho Brahe!"

The King stretched his upper body and looked at his counterpart almost triumphantly. Just as if to shout: Yes! You didn't expect that, did you?

"Oh, many an evening I have sat with him and let him teach me. I listened to his words and let him show me his calculations. Oh - what an experience. And even more than about stars and the firmament, we talked about ..."

Again he paused and looked at Ingram with wide-open eyes.

"Witches, Ingram. Witches ..."

The pause stretched. It stretched further. It opened a yawning hole between the two men.

"King Frederick- yes. Surrounded himself with the greatest minds. To him alone I owe the recognition of these storms for what they actually were: Witchcraft."

Ingram knew what the King was about.

"Do you know that I have often thought that I brought much of this thing here with me? That the witches' curses are on me."

It was no news to him that the curses accompanied a man. He would have been more surprised by the opposite.

And that those storms were not of natural origin - that was also nothing new to him.

So what was the King trying to achieve with all these stories?

The Ruler, for his part, misinterpreted the look.

"Yes. Bewitched, Ingram. That's what I am. Bewitched!"

He nodded. That was quite possible. The Danish witches had unleashed their kind on the King. That's why all the attacks on him.

"I have studied them all."

The Majesty rose from his chair and came to the table, the smell emanating from him growing more intense with each step.

Ingram remained steadfast.

The King slapped the flat of his hand on one of the closed leather covers.

"Bodin ... Rémy's Démonolâtrie ... The Compendium Maleficarum ..."

He pointed to one of the books lying further away.

"I am in correspondence with Guazzo and am studying his work. The Malleus Maleficarum I know practically by heart ... And yet I have not been able to find it so far ..."

Now he was irritated after all.

"Majesty?"

"You do know German as well as Latin..."

Ingram nodded briefly and it seemed like a bow.

"Good. Then I assume you know the relevant trial records?"

Again, Ingram bowed. Albeit more hesitantly than before.

"Have you dealt with witches before? I mean, that they would have persecuted you ..."

"Not that I am aware of, Sire."

The King looked over the books and manuscripts on the table like a vast map of land.

"I leave you my complete library. Make contact with whom you will. If you have to travel, it will be at my personal expense."

Now he understood what was going on.

But he was not the man to contradict the King. No one was.

At the same moment the door flew open, and a tall gentleman came rushing into the room, like a wave of glittering gold on deep green moss.

"Sire!" he called loudly, spreading his arms. Ingram held his breath in shock, expecting the young man to yank the Ruler into his arms the next moment.

Instead, the man in green and gold fell to his knees and kissed the hem of the cape that flowed from the King's back.

Never before had Ingram seen such a beautiful man. His features were even and his skin fair with a rosy tinge.

His dark blond curls flowed slightly forward as he bent down to kiss the hem.

When he spoke - as he was now - his goatee moved slightly back and forth, providing a perfect frame for his elegantly curved lips.

His legs were exceptionally muscular, but being very long at the same time, they did not look dumpy.

And then Ingram noticed James' gaze as he put a hand under the young man's elbow, pulling him to his feet.

"I guess you don't need to be announced to your Ruler anymore," he said in a stern tone, yet smiling.

The young man, however, did not react at all, but put his hands on the table and skimmed the documents.

"What is this?" he asked. "Ah - I see. Your favourite pastime, sire. Hunting witches!"

He straightened to his full height and looked at Ingram.

"His Majesty fears to be bewitched. So that everything that happens to him is brought about by black magic and damnable wenches."

Ingram had not needed that explanation.

With an elegant flourish, the courtier - for such he had to be - turned back towards the King. He was certainly an extremely gifted dancer, it flashed through Ingram's mind. And the way he assessed the young man, he did not dance only for his own pleasure.

"Which makes me wonder if I, too, am just a spawn of hell ..."

At once all dalliance was gone from his features and the King looked at him with wide-open eyes.

"How can you say such a thing? Anna and you are a couple of the few ..."

With a quick shake of his head he interrupted himself, looked briefly at Ingram and then laughed.

"No! Where was I? The Duke of Buckingham always puzzles me when he appears. I fear it gives him pleasure to ... me thus. Ah yes ..."

His hand went under his doublet and reappeared with a folded parchment.

Ingram recognised a piece of a dark wax seal.

"A letter of safe conduct. I have signed it so that no doors remain closed to you in my Kingdom. Plus a larger sum to cover your first expenses. The rest you will settle with my treasurer."

"What is this gentleman to do for you, Sire?"

Ingram did not miss a strangely strained undertone in the duke’s voice.

Clearly, he did not like it when anything was set in motion without his knowledge or input.

"Good God, Villiers ... Don't be like that. I'll explain to you tonight what Master Ingram is to do for me."

With that he turned back to his other guest.

"I hereby appoint you, Charles Ingram, Generalissimo of all witch-hunters."

He had stood very straight in front of the much taller man, handing him the folded parchment as he did so.

"A daunting task rests on these shoulders. It is to be you who will free your King and his entire realm from the curse of witchcraft. Whatever you require for your campaign - I will procure it for you, Generalissimo Ingram."

The gaze of the man thus addressed wandered irritably over the King's shoulder towards Villiers. The latter's lips stiffened, if only by a touch, but obviously enough for Ingram to realise that there was indeed envy. If the envy was perhaps less about the task itself.

Ingram reflected and made a deep bow.

"You will find her, that witch to whom I owe the curse that poisons my days and turns my nights into days."

"My Lord Buckingham ... Escort the Generalissimo out and then come into the garden. I have some wonderful flowers sent from the Netherlands. I must show them to you."

Ingram and the Duke moved towards the door.

"I will have the folios sent to you today, Generalissimo. Then you will have them before your departure."

Ingram bowed low.

One of the armed guards closed the door behind the two men.

Villiers straightened up and relaxed his neck muscles as if to demonstrate that he now intended to relax.

"Now, my dear friend - what have you said to the King that he should elevate you in this way?"

They walked side by side down the long corridor and nothing left any doubt that they must be old acquaintances.

"Nothing, Your Grace."

"Oh, come on. Of course you whispered something to him. You can tell me. You don't go into an audience as an ordinary subject and come out as the generalissimo of the witch-hunters ..."

Ingram took a deep breath.

"I can only keep emphasising - I don't know."

Chapter 3:

Of the Agony and Hope of the Damned.

This was going to break.

There was no salvation.

She was doomed.

When they had taken her to the castle, a tiny flame of hope had flickered in her pain-ridden mind.

They had taken her into a large room with barely any daylight coming through the windows.

The walls were covered with tiles at the bottom and even her old eyes had recognised the dark red, almost brown remains of dried blood still clinging to them.

There were cuffs on the side and chains hanging from the ceiling.

She just wanted it to stop at last.

Tired, she was.

"Agnes Sampson?" said a deep voice and she turned her head in the direction it came from.

She nodded.

"Undress!" he commanded.

With her hands bound, she reached for the ribbon holding her filthy undergarment together and undid it.

It had only been a few days ago when the gout in her fingers had still been her biggest worry. She almost had to smile at the memory.

"I am an old woman. Why should I undress in front of you?"

"I'll tell you and you'll stop objecting!"

The man had begun to tamper with a table set to one side. There was a soft clink and Agnes guessed what he was sorting.

"As long as my hands are tied, I can't take it off."

As if to demonstrate her good intention, she shook herself. The undergarment slipped over her shoulders and caught at the level of her elbows. Instead, her long grey hair wallowed forward.

The man turned to her.

He had a knife in his hand, and she flinched.

"What are you going to do? Haven't I been tortured enough, good man?"

Without answering, he took a step towards her.

Her mouth went dry, and a tremor ran through her body. What would he cut off her? Fingers? Would he perhaps cut off an arm ...

"Make an end, kind sir. I beg you!"

Still silent, he stepped behind her, and it felt to her at that moment as if she must collapse.

With one fist he grabbed her hair there and jerked her head back so violently that her neck cracked.

The wounds on her buttocks had become infected and every movement triggered spurts of fever in her.

And then he began to cut. Back and forth, back and forth, went the knife and with a loud ratchet, strand after strand of her long, wavy hair fell.

He was not careful not to touch her head with the blade. On the contrary. It almost seemed to Agnes as if he was intent on inflicting deep cuts.

Blood ran warmly down her neck.

With tears in her eyes, she looked at the small mound of hair at her feet.

Her shoulders shook.

"Stop blubbering, wicked woman. You didn't cry when Satan fucked you. Nor did you blubber when you wanted the King's hide."

Was that a chance? Now she knew what they were accusing her of. She could disprove that!

"How am I supposed to go after the King, master? I don't even know the King!"

He pushed her back against the wall and she gasped from the force of the blow.

"You'd better confess. You'll get it out after all ..."

With these words he squatted in front of her and began to shave her pubic area.

"Good ... Man ...", Agnes stammered. "How can you humiliate me like this when I could be your mother!"

He looked up at her briefly with his black eyes. At the same moment the blade cut deep into her mons veneris. She cried out.

"My mother must not even be thought of, let alone spoken of, by a spawn of hell like you!"

"I am innocent. If only you would believe me ..."

"You are lost, woman."

His voice sounded tired. As if he had seen all this far too often.

"I only wish you would desist from Satan and stop casting your curses on good people."

How strange, she thought, that he should loosen my bonds ....

On her wrists she now saw the raw flesh. Yellowish pus blisters that had formed.

Even if he had let her go here and now - she was all too aware of this - she would not survive the next few weeks.

"Put your hands behind your back!"

Too soon, it flashed through Agnes' mind as he bound her again, and this time with iron cuffs, which in turn were connected with a rope, the end of which ran over a pulley and was then knotted to the wall.

She knew what that meant.

The servant now went to the other end of the rope and pulled on it.

At the same moment her arms were pulled up to the stop. She was about to scream in anticipation of the pain when he stopped and fixed her in that pose.

"We are ready," he said so loudly that it was clear to Agnes that these words were not addressed to her.

And so she was not surprised when three men suddenly entered a wooden shack opposite her.

"Justice of the Peace Henry Newell. Associate Justice David Griffin and Clerk Edward Knollys."

How strange, she thought, feeling reminded of the puppet- shows of her childhood that roamed the villages and entertained more than just the children.

The justice of the peace was a distinguished gentleman with a long grey beard and a floor-length black robe.

He wore a dark cap, and his nose was narrow and so long that it almost touched his upper lip. She couldn't really make out the assessor; he remained half-hidden in the shadows of the hovel. The scribe, on the other hand, had a board on his lap with an inkwell stuck in the side.

There was still one seat free.

"Shall we begin?"

And then she knew that everything she had suffered so far - hunger, fear, humiliation, injury - had only been a prelude.

It had as much to do with what was to come as a drawing of a sun had to do with the real sun.

And that sun would burn her.

Strangely, she didn't feel exposed now, hanging naked before these men.

It could only be the shorn hair, because she realised that she no longer felt like herself.

The woman hanging here was not Agnes Sampson. She was only the idea of a woman now.

"Show her the instruments!" the justice of the peace ordered, and the servant reached for a pincer-like instrument.

"This is the breast ripper." He opened the pointed, circular ends. "It is placed on your chest and closed. Then your chest will be squeezed with it. Then, if you are still stubborn, I will twist the ripper."

He put the pliers aside.

"Now here ..." he held up a wooden shaft. "...we have the Spanish boot. I'll put this on you and close it. The thorns inside will shred your calves and shins."

Agnes didn't really hear what he was saying anymore.

"The thumbscrews ... Well... We'll put your fingers in here and twist them shut. This ..." He pointed to various handles, the ends of which lay in an open fire at the far side of the room. "... are the red-hot tongs I'm going to pinch you with."

"But ... I haven't done anything," she cried as loudly and in as firm a voice as she could muster.

"You are obdurate?" asked the justice of the peace yet seeming little surprised.

"No, my lord. Your Grace. I am not obdurate. I am innocent. I am not a witch."

Agnes knew there was no point. Not today. Not for her. Not for anyone who ended up in this room.

They wouldn't spare her. Unless she confessed.

"My venerable lords - I confess. Yes. I am a witch."

"Oh. We're glad to hear that," declared the Justice of the Peace, rising. "Then finish the record, Master Secretary, and present it to me hereafter."

Agnes knew she had forfeited her life.

She would enter eternity and God knew her heart.

Who would be served by further suffering? God and she knew the truth in her heart.

But just as the servant approached them to untie the fetters, a movement came into the gloom of the hovel.

"Don't be in such a hurry, gentlemen!" said a friendly, level-headed voice.

Agnes and the servant looked around for the man to whom the voice belonged.

"Sir?" said the justice of the peace, with some puzzlement and also disappointment in his voice.

"What do you confess now, Mistress Sampson?"

A white hand rose from the shadows and the Justice of the Peace sat down again.

Agnes stopped breathing.

"Everything," she groaned as she exhaled.

"Everything then ... Fine. Then, as was quite correctly stated a moment ago, we would be finished at this point?"

Everyone in the room heard the question that was not a question at all.

"Your Grace?"

"I'm not of nobility," the voice explained in an obliging tone. "You should give us more details."

"Sir?"

"Who have you bewitched?"

The Justice of the Peace leaned out of the hovel.

"The King? Did you bewitch the King?"

"Why the King?" She was irritated. Believed she had misunderstood the Justice of the Peace.

"Because Her Majesty the Queen, on the occasion of her marriage to our sovereign, tried to travel here from her homeland Denmark. This was thwarted by unusually heavy storms. And when our Lord, His Majesty, the King tried to come to his bride, he was almost killed by the storms..."

"Did the King marry again?" She tried to understand what the justice of the peace wanted from her. Her life was in danger, and she couldn't make a mistake just because she didn't understand what was expected of her.

"No. He is still married to his first wife. But you have been named as the witch who summoned the storms against the majesties."

The voice from the darkness sounded neither angry nor impatient.

Polite and calm, he spoke to her.

"Who says so?"

"Geillis Duncan. She named you as the witch responsible. Were you?"

Geillis Duncan - whoever that was.

"Yes. It is true, sir, Mistress Duncan told the truth. I summoned the storms to kill the King ..."

She watched out of the corner of her eye as the servant let his finger wander over the instruments of torture as if counting them off.

What could she say? That she had wanted to kill the King? But why should she have done that? He had done nothing to her.

"Well?"

She couldn't bring herself to confess to an attempted murder of the King. It was not possible. To sin against the King was to sin against God.

"To have him for me!" she declared so quickly that the words were still spilling over in her mouth.

The Justice of the Peace abruptly retreated into the darkness as if a foul-smelling wind had passed him by.

"Mistress ... Sampson?" came incredulously from the shadows. "You wanted the majesty ... for ... you?"

Now that it was said, she might as well continue.

"Yes, sir, that's how it was. I fell in love with the King and when I heard that he was planning to marry ... then ... then I had to intervene. And I didn't know any other way to help myself."

Silence.

Absolute silence. No questions. No demand for details.

Agnes bit her lower lip and began to pray that this would be taken away from her and that she would be granted a painless death.

There was only one thing she still wanted. To enter eternity quickly in the presence of a spiritual being. And of all the possible lies, this was the simplest.

"And how would you have won over His Majesty? Well... after the marriage to the princess had failed..."

"By magic, of course."

"Ah, yes," came a cautious reply.

"One needs powerful spells for that, does one not? To bewitch such a Christian King ..."

"Certainly."

He believed her. That was all that mattered.

"And you are skilled in such powerful spells?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Now the justice of the peace interfered.

"Duncan testified that several witches had come together to cast this spell .... She wasn't lying, was she?"

"What spell did you use to hex King James? Repeat it! Here and now!"

The Justice of the Peace literally flew around, probably staring at the man in the dark.

"For God's sake, no! You can't seriously order her to repeat the spell!"

Open panic spoke from the words of the hitherto so composed man.

"Not the whole spell, Nowell. I just want to hear the words."

"Are you mad? If the spell worked once, it will work again. And suppose a misfortune should befall the Majesty - it would not be least your fault!"

"Take it easy. Nowell. Just the words. She doesn't have to say everything for all I care."

Long white fingers came out of the shadows and made a beckoning motion.

"Just the first words, then. Tell us! We want to hear them. Here and now!"

Everything in her head was whirling.

She felt dizzy.

Fear and hunger robbed her of concentration.

"Well ... there is a certain danger, of course. I'm not such a gifted witch ..."

In fact, she had not the remotest idea of such spells.

And the few she did know were now swirling through her mind.

She tried desperately to reach for them but could not.

"I can't, sirs. I can't. Forgive me, but I ..."

"You can't, or you won't?" the disembodied voice said quietly.

She hadn't noticed, but the man must have signalled to the servant.

He reached for a rope.

Maybe he would hang her. Without judgement? Who knew?

The servant stepped behind her and wrapped the rope around her head several times. Whatever would happen now, it had nothing to do with hanging.

Her breathing was so fast that she thought she was going to suffocate.

Her chest rose and fell frantically.

And then the torturer tightened the rope. It squeezed her head together.

Agnes tried to speak. To get him to stop, but her head was on fire and with each breath the agony became more unbearable. She heard a crack booming through her skull.

Her eyeballs were pressed inwards. And someone was screaming. Yelling.

Suddenly the agony ended.

"Say the words!" the voice admonished.

"Stabat Ihesus," Agnes gasped, the words just pouring out of her.

"... contra flummen Jordanis et posuit ..." Even if she had wanted to, she could not have turned it off. As if her body had released the strength it had used to bear the pain, now for the words. "... pedem suum et dixit: Sancta aqua per deum te coniuro. Longinus miles latus Domini nostri."

"Stop!" it cried imperiously.

She saw out of the corner of her eye that the justice of the peace was crossing himself.

"What do you want us to believe? What you are reproducing here is a spell to help the flow of blood. You cannot influence the elements with it."

The rope was tightened again, but this time the torturer seemed to start where he had left off before.

She screamed until her throat threatened to burst.

She felt blood in her mouth.

Lord in heaven, sweet Lord Jesus ... Take me to yourself. Here and now. I cannot bear this torment.

"Mistress Sampson - I can only exhort you to keep nothing to yourself! Consider what is at stake for you! Eternal damnation..."

Images of sparking bodies in purgatory rose in her mind's eye. She smelled the stench of burning human flesh and heard the screams of the tortured. Nothing would free her from this terror. God had forgotten her.

But what could she confess? Since she knew nothing ...

The torturer tightened the rope again, but this time her eyeballs literally bored into her skull. She heard her own jaw crack. Or was the noise coming from her temples?

Agnes Sampson tried to scream, but her ears could hear no more. Everything sank into a dark red and black horror. Feverishly she prayed to her God to remember her.

And then there was silence. No more crunching and cracking. The red dissolved and the black retreated.

She blinked until the blood had disappeared enough for her to recognise the shack again.

"I beg you, lords - show mercy!" she murmured with a swollen tongue that oozed blood from her mouth.

The old woman was not sure whether she was really speaking or whether her voice existed only in her head.

She only knew that she was closer to the ground now than before and as she forced herself to feel the pain, she realised that her arms were dislocated. That was why she was now almost touching the ground again.

Sweet Lord Jesus, it murmured in her head. Take me to yourself. Holy Mother Mary, remember the sufferings of your Son and show mercy to me.

But instead of the loving voice of the Virgin, she heard the voice without a body from the darkness.

"Who is your guardian spirit?"

The voice sounded like that of a teacher recalling even the infinite patience he needed with a tumid pupil.

"A ... A dog."

That was indeed her voice. The justice of the peace nodded with satisfaction. The first step seemed to have been taken in his eyes.

"What was the dog's name?" came from the darkness after a brief pause.

"Elva. His name was Elva!"

It had come back to her what her dog's name had been. It had to have been Satan. Why had she never realised that? Why hadn't she recognised him herself in Elva? Then she could have kept away from him ...

Too late.

"Had Satan taken on the body of the dog?"

"Yes!" she almost shouted it out. They would give her a quick death. She would tell them everything she knew. If only she didn't have to enter eternal damnation.

"I want to help, gentlemen. I don't want to lose my soul..."

"We believe you will, Mistress Agnes."

How gentle his voice sounded.

"How did you bring the elements under your control?"

It was there.

Somewhere in the gloom of voices and torment, it lurked. The question she knew no answer to.

Had she ever heard from anyone how to summon storms? Her fate now hung on that question.

"Grant me a moment, Your Grace. I must ... consider..."

Mistress Purdy had told her years ago that she could summon lightning. But when she had wanted to demonstrate it, her guardian spirit had been nowhere to be found.

And lightning was not storms.

But perhaps buried somewhere in her memory was the spell that Mistress Purdy had wanted to use ...

She pondered feverishly. Vocare? Lightning ... perhaps when she remembered which term belonged to lightning ...

No. Nothing.

Why hadn't she wanted to conjure up a damn storm back then? Now this would end her torment.

Sitte ge, sīgewīf ... No. That was the spell to protect swarms of bees.

She could think of nothing.

She was doomed.

"I ... I dug up a dead child."

That was it. If she couldn't think of a line, this was how she would manage to convince the men.

"Where and when did you do this?"

If the disembodied voice sounded so calm now, it was only because he was gathering his strength to inflict all the more pain on her.

"It was in ..."

The torturer pulled on the rope and with a cry Agnes was jerked upwards.

"Well?"

"I don't remember. It was dark and I had lost my way and I passed the graveyard and I saw the fresh grave and I dug out the coffin with my own bare hands and I took the child and carried it under my apron until I was back home and there, I cooked it and roasted it and ate it together with Elva, and while we ate I called on the storms."

The justice of the peace nodded curtly, whereupon the torturer slackened the rope, causing Agnes to fall to the ground. She heard bones crack and a new surge of agony washed over her.

"That should do it. What do you think?"

"Go on. Only when she is ready to give back the real formula, call it a day. And names - we need names! This is a monstrous picture, torn to pieces by Satanas himself. It's our job to put it together until it makes sense, and we can start saving souls. And your... Master Secretary... I want you to meticulously write down everything she says. And today, the protocol will be presented to me! Do you understand? Leave nothing out. Do not add anything!"

Chapter 4:

Of those who are bowed to and those who bow.

Whatever the number of times he read the protocol, he was not satisfied.

But now he stood in the King's study at Holyrood Palace, brooding over what to say to his sovereign.

When the door opened and His Majesty entered, he was still no further along in his deliberations.

"Generalissimo Ingram ... I am glad to see you!"

What an apparition, Ingram thought, when he saw the King all in glittering silver. He wore a black velvet cape. On his tall black hat was a jewel-encrusted brooch that Ingram could not have uncovered with his hand and splayed fingers.

His chest and shoulders were covered by a mighty chain.

"Your Majesty ..." He bowed low.

"Well, well, Generalissimo. What news do you have of the witch?"

He took a deep breath.

"Sire ... I do not think we have found the real mastermind in Agnes Sampson. From what I have heard, I would say that she is merely a wise woman. She doesn't know anything about damage control."

The King bent silently over his folios. He made a fist and pounded it against his lips.

"Christ, Ingram ... What else could it be?"

"She's a witch. Yes. But she doesn't even have the rudimentary skills necessary for such a spell. Even when we used the skull press, she couldn't think of anything more than a harmless spell for blood flow."

"That means - we're back where we started ..."

Ingram could think of nothing hopeful to say to the King.

"Did she at least mention other names?" He straightened up and stared at Ingram with his large eyes bulging somewhat from their sockets.

"A lead, Generalissimo ... One lead at least!"

How he emphasised Generalissimo ... Obviously he wanted to remind Ingram of the requirements of his position. Of how he had endowed him with so much money and power for a reason.

"You can go where no man has gone before, Genera-lissimo. Whatever it may cost - it need not trouble you. But bring me the witch who tried to murder not only me but also the Queen. We must vanquish her before she can strike another blow!"

Ingram bowed.

He knew what the King wanted and why he wanted it. But he had no idea where to start.

"Do you realise that this is about so much more than my own life? It's about the Kingdom. It is about the souls of my subjects who seem to be easy prey for Beelzebub. What kind of King am I if I do not intervene to save my people? How can I myself stand before my Maker when I have done nothing to protect their souls?"

Eyes wide, the King stared at Ingram reproachfully-questioningly.

"I know what you mean, sire. But at the moment ..."

As the King's head jerked up - he had in the meantime returned to bending over his folios - Ingram paused abruptly.

"I have an idea, Generalissimo. If the witches don't tell us themselves, their fellow citizens will."

He was taken aback and looked at the Ruler calmly and intently.

"Does the name Bodin mean anything to you? Jean Bodin? Here-in ..." He placed his hand on a slender, leather-bound volume. "... In it he gives the following advice: one should place a casket in every church. In this box the people can throw notes in which they name the witch and also list her misdeeds.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---