Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2) Page 26
‘I thought so’ she said, before she raised her arm, in The Grip, to lift the landlady into the ceiling, where the woman thrashed and screamed before Lucia hurled her to the floor. A dull crack came from the landlady’s leg, and she howled and clutched at her deformed spine. Maria flinched at the screeches behind her.
The woman contorted herself in a helpless mess upon the floor - calling out and exclaiming with anguish and groans. But Maria held her gaze before Lucia spoke: closing her mind to the woman that writhed on the floor behind her. ‘This place belongs to you now’ said Lucia, ‘I see you can do it. But you’ll have to look after her: she’ll not walk again unaided.’
Maria nodded and wiped tears from her face. Lucia muttered again and wafted her hand through the air in the direction of the landlady who then grew still and silent. ‘She’ll be a burden to you, but no greater than the burdens you face already’ she added. ‘You'll make a better job of it - you know how to work hard. I’ll tell you what to give her for her pains. But I warn you’ Lucia said, fixing Maria with a look, ‘NEVER betray our sex again: for a woman that scuppers another, for her own gain, is no better than a devil.’ Maria bowed her head several times, as Lucia illuminated the room. With that she took up her box, black velvet cushion, and ball to leave the cellar. She then went back to her room to gather together her basket and spiders, with all her belongings, and the rest of her winnings she had hidden below a loose floorboard. The money was undiscovered. Lucia mentioned to Maria in passing what the disabled landlady would need - but made it clear what would happen to her and her former mistress should they utter a word. Lucia tossed Maria a gold coin before she took her leave: 'Take this to cover what remains of my rent and board, the rest is yours' she said when Maria let her out.
When Lucia left, to walk down the street, the guests in the shared living room roused from sleep. But the former landlady did not awake for days - she would never walk pain-free and unassisted again.
The sorceress made her way back to the Professor’s lodgings. She would get a room there instead.
Chapter 19
The Inky Print
Padua, Monday 11th of December 1611
Beppe sat at a desk in the courthouse of the Palazzo Della Ragione, in his Dominican black habit, and wrote the finishing touches, with ink and quill, upon the vellum of Illawara’s denunciation. He dusted the page with powder and dried the ink as if he were polishing a treasured antique.
‘Do you believe the claims?’ said a Magistrate standing over Beppe as he finished his work.
‘Is not the land riddled with witches?' He said, over his shoulder to the long-bearded man that stood pensive and concerned while he strummed at the grey tufts of his face. The Magistrate prepared himself to speak by taking in a deep breath.
‘Inquisitor Conti’ he said, in a voice that wobbled with age, ‘if we burned every witch and magic worker in these fair lands, we’d not see the sun for the smoke, and the towns would be denuded of people as if struck by plague.’ Beppe wanted to dismiss the man’s words out of hand, even though he agreed somewhat with them, but then thought of Illawara’s outburst of fury and folded the scribed vellum with forceful strokes.
‘She’s possessed so I’m told - and I have it on good account’ he said with a sureness that bothered the Magistrate.
‘I hear the young woman is both beautiful and rich’ said the mature man thumbing his beard. ‘Is it not possible that she inspires envy as well as praise?’ Beppe paused, but then carried on with his folding. He could not divulge for a moment to the Magistrate of why he felt sure of Grizelda’s trumped up claims, or that he had met Illawara.
She’s dangerous he thought to himself before he answered the Magistrate. ‘Your honour, you’re a man of great experience, and I’m sure that you can sort fact from fiction - however, I believe the claims to be genuine.’
The Magistrate gave out a grumble that seemed to be the misgivings of father time and eyed the Inquisitor with suspicion.
‘Tis often the case’ he said with gravitas, ‘that many a charge is more fiction than fact: I’ve seen embittered servants, jealous husbands, scheming neighbours and adulterous wives that have forked their tongues to speak ill of others to serve themselves - or strike a blow against a reputation.’
The Magistrate then raised his tufted brows, defying gravity, above his baggy eyes like autumn grasses atop a cliff face: as if to caution and better comprehend the Inquisitor’s motives. With the Magistrate’s last words Beppe paused, and heard the smash of China, that Illawara had hurled, ring in his ears again before he had dashed for the stairs. His heartbeat increased for a moment with the memory. He did not turn to look at the Magistrate as he tied the denunciation with a ribbon, not yet needing to seal it with wax.
The Magistrate shifted position, and Beppe heard the ruffle of his elaborate robes. ‘Can you be sure of the validity of the statement of a woman who cannot read?’ he said, eyeing Beppe as he stood up to leave the small chamber off the vast courthouse in which they resided.
Beppe sighed and tried to keep his annoyance out of his voice, thinking the Paduan authorities too lax and liberal in their ways.
‘It is her statement - verbatim - your honour, and many a woman and man, of her class, can observe life perfectly well without reading a word.’
The Magistrate frowned.
‘An untrained mind is prone to spite’ he said, rubbing his chin, ‘and susceptible to foolish whims and superstitions: the courthouses are littered with fools who denounce one another out of fear, frustration and envy.’
Beppe clenched his jaws and wondered if he should flash the Magistrate the warrant from the Pontiff to end the argument, but he worried the shock would stop the old man’s heart.
‘She is quite sober, your honour, and I’ve been meticulous. I will read back her denunciation to her, and if still convinced she will sign it: the enchanting witch must be apprehended before she seduces all of Padua with her spells.’ The Magistrate gave a sage nod as he eyed Beppe.
‘From what I hear it is already too late’ he said, with a wry smile: already prepared, in his mind, to throw the case out. The Inquisitor’s expression shrunk at the statement. But the mature Magistrate had seen too much of life in his years to take a denunciation at face value, and he eyed the younger man’s agitated movements as he made ready to leave his company. Beppe turned and puffed out his chest to address the Magistrate.
‘This court would do well to remind itself of the dignity of my office, your honour, for my mandate is authored by Rome itself.’ said Beppe with his nose in the air. The Magistrate eyed him with cunning.
Inexperienced men, of weak character, are often petty when rejected mused the Magistrate to himself, scrutinising the Inquisitor, before he answered Beppe aloud. ‘Rome would do well to remember the independence of the Serene Republic’ he said full of solemnity, ‘but know that Rome’s mandates can still float upon our waters respected.’ Beppe smirked, at the conciliatory tone, nodded with half a bow, and turned to the door. ‘However,’ said the mature man with an arthritic hand raised aloft, ‘beware of heavy cargo borne on paper ships’ he added, his brows tangled. Beppe paused before he turned back around with a smile of ice:
‘Good day to you, Signore’ he said, terse, and shut the door with a thud behind him before he left the courthouse.
◆◆◆
Grizelda fidgeted all day, as she went about the house, and frequented the kitchen window at intervals as she carried out her chores with distracted animation. The atmosphere, at times, in the dwelling had been as joyless as a morgue, and Bianca had found it impossible to sooth the contempt between Illawara and her maid - much to her distress. Illawara had fallen into spending most of the days in her room, if she could manage it, and tried to avoid everyone - only venturing out for necessities. Church visits had passed in a blur, and she did her best to ignore the mutterings and crane-necked interest in all her movements there.
Bianca and Dondo had discussed that suito
rs would have to be allowed to call upon Illawara soon, regardless of Illawara's reluctance. In their eyes, she had damaged a good portion of her dowry, as well as some of Bianca's most prized porcelain. The pair worried about the volume of the gifts they had turned away as delay continued. The pair also speculated about Antonio’s return and discussed Orsini’s recent visit, anticipating his next call - knowing such a man could not be refused when he returned - and tried to think of ways to lift Illawara’s spirits.
Grizelda could not have cared less for Illawara: she looked forward to putting her thumbprint upon her denunciation and ridding the house of the beautiful spectre that had become her torment since she arrived.
She went to the window again. A thrill dashed through her when she spied Beppe move along the street below wearing his black habit. He looked up to the window and caught her eye. He had abandoned the spectacular clothing that had so impressed her, but her heart still leapt for joy. She followed him, keen, with her gaze as he moved to camouflage himself in an archway shadow. She stood poised as if enchanted. She needed to get out.
‘You’ve been like a caged bird for days’ said Dondo. The maid jumped when Dondo spoke from behind her. She clutched her flat chest. He had eyed the maid who had moved about the house with an almost skittish frenzy.
‘Have I?’ she said, with calm affectation, ‘whatever gave you that impression?’ She said distracted. Dondo gave the maid a look of benign curiosity.
‘You move about as if expecting something’ he said, ‘like a woman waiting to hear news from her lover.’ Grizelda scoffed: the closest thing to laughter for a week in the house.
‘I don’t think you’ve recovered from the beating that she-devil gave you’ she said, pointing to the remnants of Dondo's bruising in trying to deflect his intuition. The maid tried not to look at the window. Dondo gave an awkward smile, and touched the green-purple bruises, still tender, above his eyes and around his face that Illawara had clouted there with her full force.
He recalled the startled glances that neighbours had given him when they first saw his face. Most made niceties to conceal their shock or spoke about the bite of the sudden cold weather when they chatted with him and listened to his excuses. But Dondo knew better. Illawara and her suitors were the dominant topics of conversation amongst the neighbours, and rumours circulated that there had been a very illustrious visitor indeed: although opinion lay divided. Few of the neighbours could think of a time of such entertainment apart from feast days and the end of Lent.
The recent refusal of suitors, to allow Illawara to recover, only added to the curiosity of the neighbours, and some were frustrated by the lack of action. The neighbours had grown used to a steady diet of interesting visitors bearing expensive gifts for Illawara which, by extension, added colour to their drab lives. Would a suitor leave smiling or in despair? What would he be wearing to catch Illawara's eye? What gifts would he bring? Which suitor would return to try again? The possibilities were almost endless. Many of the older neighbours and housewives cackled with glee, saying that when sat on a seat by a convenient window, entertainment was guaranteed.
Those with the best views enjoyed the attention of their less well-sighted neighbours on lower floors - who would bring up food and wine with them. Together the neighbours had gathered at the windows overlooking Bianca’s door to be titillated - by any stepping in or out of the house - into fanciful speculations.
‘Ooh, but tis very quiet of late’ one said shaking her head, disgruntled, between sips of wine and mouthfuls of cheese.
‘What if she’s found herself a rich husband?’ Another neighbour whispered, making eyes at those gathered around.
'Or maybe she’s afflicted with the French disease?’ said another to guffaws of laughter from some, and reprimands from others at the gathering of ten people in the dwelling opposite Bianca's.
The other neighbours not in favour with those that had premium seats had to content themselves with views of the street. However, they found that their stock had risen, in a matter of hours, when suitors turned away from the main door kicked up a fuss, and could thus - with their titbits - filch tastier gossip from the better located but deprived neighbours on the upper floors.
‘Hush… hush’ a premier seated woman said, 'look, someone is upon the stairs'
'He's a Dominican by the looks of it, but he's covered his head - maybe someone let him in downstairs?' said another. The Neighbours exchanged glances, as they saw Beppe approach Bianca's door covered by his cloak. He knocked on the door before he sprang away.
Dondo and Grizelda heard the knock in the kitchen.
'He scurries like a squirrel' said one neighbour as Beppe made for the stairs. Excited chatter ensued among the onlookers.
'Did someone knock?' said Dondo. Grizelda's breath quickened.
'It must be the wind?' she said, before Dondo made for the door. When he left the kitchen, Grizelda rushed to the window in time to see Beppe slip back into the shadows across the street.
‘Hark, the door opens' said one of the neighbours. Silence fell before they groaned together when looking at Dondo’s battered face as he peered outside to see who had knocked on the door.
‘Sweet Mary’ some sighed, crossing themselves.
‘Look at him’ exclaimed one older man with a limp, ‘he’s got a face like a bowl of plums.’ Laughter broke out amongst the neighbours at the observation of their newest member. Dondo closed the door when he could see that no one was there. The neighbours fell into gossip.
Within a short time, a consensus had settled among them as to the cause for the pause in visitors: Illawara, now betrothed in marriage to a suitor, was grief-stricken that Dondo was beaten up by a snubbed rival while defending her honour.
'Strange, no one was there' said Dondo returning to the kitchen, 'maybe it was the wind.'
'I told you, she's beaten you out of your senses' said Grizelda with some relief.
‘It’s nothing…’ he said, stroking his bruises, unable to convince Grizelda, ‘I’ve had worse.’ The maid snorted air from her nostrils,
‘I doubt that…’ She said, arching her brows at him, ‘well, she may have blackened your eyes, but she still couldn’t knock sense into your head' she added, wagging her finger, 'lover indeed’ she huffed to Dondo's earlier suggestion. Grizelda tried to shuffle past him to get her shawl.
‘You envy her, don’t you?’ said Dondo, blocking the maid's way out, ‘I mean - really ENVY her.’
‘Rubbish, get out of the way’ said Grizelda, dismissing the comment and resisting an urge to rush to the window to be sure that Beppe still waited downstairs. Her breathing became unsteady.
‘Where are you going?’ he said stepping aside, the maid’s keenness to get along.
‘I have to go to market for her ladyship’ said Grizelda flicking her head in the direction of Illawara’s bedroom, ‘Bianca says she’s looking pale, and that I should fetch milk and cheese for her from the market.’ Dondo studied her anxious face.
‘I can go if you want?’ he said, ‘give me the money, and I’ll save you the trouble: you’ve not given yourself a moment's rest.’ She hesitated, and Dondo noticed her effort to appear calm. Grizelda flashed him her best smile, but her eyes betrayed her.
‘That’s sweet of you Dondo, but with your face as it is I would stay indoors’ she said. ‘I’ll not be long’ she called back as she brushed past, snatched up her shawl with her cloak, put them on, and then stepped outside to close the front door behind her. Dondo stood to stare, mouth somewhat ajar, at Grizelda’s exit. He paused in thought for a moment, before he then rushed to the kitchen window to hold himself at an angle to spy upon the shaded street below. Grizelda was quick upon the steps, and before long Dondo spied her skinny frame - that struggled to fill her simple dress - as she paused, feather-like, upon the pavement, considering the shadows across the street. She then pulled her shawl around her shrunken frame before she turned and walked in the direction of the market. Dondo thought he sa
w a dark figure move upon the other side of the road and follow her, but he could not be sure from his vantage point.
Dondo then walked over to the money box in the kitchen, where Bianca kept cash for necessities and counted the coins there: no money taken. He frowned, closing the lid to the money box and returning it to its former position. He opened the kitchen window to stick his head out into the breezy chill and look down the street, but Grizelda had already walked out of sight.
◆◆◆
‘Follow me’ said Beppe under his breath as he caught up to the side of the maid, and swept past her to step into a storage area for market equipment. The food and goods sellers used the space to store poles and props at night, after use in the day and afforded the pair some privacy.
Grizelda’s breath quickened before Beppe unsheathed the square of vellum from its red ribbon. She then listened to the Inquisitor, rapt and compliant, as he read back her statements, like a woman hearing poetry from her lover.
Her ears burned, and her face flushed.
‘May I see the words?’ she said, trembling.
‘Have I been incorrect?’
‘Indeed, you’ve improved what I said’ answered Grizelda, almost breathless, ‘I just want to have a better look before I sign it.’ Beppe handed her the vellum and watched as she took the document in her gnarled hands with reverence. She rubbed the edges of the vellum between her fingers, admiring its smoothness, and marvelled at the inked words that seemed to her like strands of black lace. She hugged the document to her face and breathed in the folded vellum as if savouring the scent of a rose.
The scribed letters held no direct meaning for her, but to know that those elegant shapes represented her words gave Grizelda a surge of power that she had never felt before.
For a moment Beppe stood transfixed as he looked at her, appreciating the power of the written word anew, his pride enhanced, before he reached into his pocket to take out a scrap of cloth and a vial of ink. He wet the rag with the ink and took up Grizelda’s right hand as she held the document in the other.