The people moved closer and closer to Bastion, edging Stefan out. Only a few lingered on the periphery of the crowd, perhaps too intimidated to come closer.
Bastion stopped and signaled for Stefan to cross over. Stefan approached, unsure what would happen. Bastion kept his words soft as he grasped Stefan’s hands.
“You were wise to call for me,” Bastion said. “A man must admit when he is outnumbered by his enemy. Only if he has courage will he live.”
Stefan shook his head in confusion. “I am not outnumbered, sir. We seek one person here, one murderer.”
“You have a sheriff to rid your town of murderers. Should I leave?”
“No.” Stefan was humbled. “I need an answer. The mystery is how a woman such as Catarina could stray so far without any of us noticing.”
“And you think that is a mystery? Do you know nothing of women? Or of witches?”
Stefan looked away before answering. “We so rarely have crimes, Inquisitor. It’s a quiet village.”
“A quiet village with bloodstains on the steps of the church.”
“We might have one witch here; I don’t know. But no more than one, I’m sure. It would explain why a good woman was caught up in this.”
Bastion set a hand on his shoulder. “You called for an Inquisitor. Trust your instincts. One man cannot fight one witch. They are powerful; so must we be. I know priests who died fighting their witches before anyone thought to call an Inquisitor.”
Stefan opened his mouth to say more, then shut it. What knowledge did he have of witches? Who would call in an Inquisitor and then be so bold as to argue with him?
“My friends,” Bastion called, circling the fire to either side. The heat distorted his face. “Can a good woman be forced to commit adultery? Would a good woman welcome the Devil into her home, destroy her marriage, provoke her husband’s murder?”
Stefan saw looks exchanged among his people. What the looks meant he did not know. His people had their own language, just as he had his Latin, he supposed.
“Catarina was no good woman. She was the witch,” Bastion declared.
Heads in the crowd swiveled, words were murmured as hands clutched onto arms, and children put their hands to their mouths. Stefan caught sight of Dame Alice, arms folded, jaw set. She did not believe Bastion. She turned to look at Stefan, shaking her head at him.
“Does the news shock you? In the Spanish royal court, we saw many of these cases. But I will prove it easily. How did the husband die?”
Stefan spoke for the village. “Stabbed in the side.”
“The wounds of Christ.” Bastion smiled to himself. “Stabbed in the side, just like our Lord and Savior. Betrayed with a kiss, no doubt, just as our Lord and Savior. A righteous man dying an unjust death. Do you see it, the mockery of what you hold sacred?”
The people nodded. But Stefan didn’t see it, certainly didn’t see the Savior in Cronwall, not with Cronwall’s drinking and temper.
“And the witch, the woman you call Catarina, how did she die?” Bastion called.
“A broken neck,” someone replied from the crowd. “There were bruises, too.”
Ducinda pressed her face into her shawl, weeping. Stefan instinctively reached for her but stopped himself when he noticed the villagers watching him. What would it mean to comfort Ducinda if her friend was a witch? He took a step back from her, returning his attention to Bastion, willing the people to do the same, to turn away from his momentary indiscretion.
Bastion smirked, eyes closed. “Our enemy is predictable. Dangerous, yes, but entirely predictable. My friends, I have chased your enemy, the Devil, over sea and land, across borders and kingdoms, and yet I tell you the truth: Never once has he surprised me. His work is always the same. Only the women’s names change.”
Stefan nodded in agreement with Bastion, cutting his eyes side to side to see if anyone still watched him.
“The Devil often breaks the necks of his witches. In my travels, when I have caught a witch and she is to burn, I often find her dead in her cell by morning, most often by hanging. Her neck is always broken. Witches who desire confession, who desire to turn from their errors, are troublesome to the Devil’s work. He silences them the only way any woman can be silenced: through death. Sometimes there is a struggle, if the woman had been a good soul before she gave herself to him. Oh, beware, my friends: The Devil is indeed among you. But he cannot harm you without human assistance. For how can the spiritual world enter into the physical world except by human host? The Devil is powerless among you until he inhabits one of you. Bring me Catarina’s body.”
Erick pulled a cart with the casket upon it toward Bastion. Erick’s shoulders strained under the linen shirt Stefan had supplied last year. Erick had outgrown yet another set of clothes. He had become an impressive man in many ways. Stefan wondered if Erick would remain with him much longer, especially now that Bastion had arrived.