“You, of course, have never been tempted by the Devil because you are a good woman.” He leaned across the table, catching her by the hand. “You are a good woman. I am harsh sometimes, when you test me, and I say harsh things. I do not mean for you to remember. You don’t remember them, do you?”
“No,” she lied. She wanted it to be true. But his words were as unpredictable as his moods, and she could not forget how he had wounded her without reason on so many nights. He always apologized, and she always lied, saying no harm had been done. One day she hoped to understand what called up those dark rages in his soul.
“There is no such thing as an unanswered prayer of the believer. Deliverance always comes if we do not give up hope. Do you believe that to be true?”
She pushed his hand away. What did he know of unanswered prayer? “Where did you hear that?”
“I do not say Stefan is a bad priest …” he said, standing to refill his bowl before sitting back down.
She nodded, acknowledging his kindness in serving himself.
“… only that he has not taught us many things, important things. He has not taught us of the Devil, of his ways among men.”
“I would not care to dwell on that even if he had.”
“That is why your prayers are not answered. You do not know the truth. How can you pray if you do not know the truth? Come with me tonight, to hear the Inquisitor.”
She flinched, turning away so he wouldn’t see tears spring to her eyes. He was wrong. She did know truth, she wanted to scream, and she knew what truth did to people. Truth did not always bring peace and healing; sometimes it set the world on fire and took loved ones away to the place where the living could not follow.
But what if Bjorn was right about her prayers? “Put Alma to bed and see to it that Mother is well covered with a blanket,” Bjorn said. “This man, Bastion—you must hear him. What he teaches is powerful truth.”
“And if it is not?”
He dropped his spoon and stared at her like she had taken God’s own name in vain. “If it is not,” he said, choosing his words slowly, “then we will leave this village and never return. The dangers are too great.”
Chapter Ten
The witch crawled to the bars, pressing her face against them so that red lines looked as though they had been burned onto her cheeks. The clean whites of her eyes sparkled, but every other visible inch of her body was thatched with filth. She reeked of waste, the straw in her cage used both as toilet and a bed.
Mia turned away in horror, pushing her face into Bjorn’s leather vest. His arm went around her, holding her there. She held her breath, willing his arm to stay there. He rarely touched her.
Why did he want her to hear Bastion or look upon this witch? What could any woman do to deserve this living death? While everyone around her pressed closer, hungry for details of this woman’s crimes, Mia turned her thoughts to her home. She wanted to run home, not stand here. She did not want to hear such details.
Mia’s stomach growled. She had not eaten. After everyone slept tonight, perhaps, she would eat. Stefan had sat with her and Rose once, long ago when Mia had been round with child. Stefan told them of the fasting women of God. Anorexia mirabilis, the miracle of no hunger. These blessed women ate nothing, not even a crust, as a sign of their favor from God. Holy women were not hungry women. Pilgrims made long journeys to see them, touch them, to listen to their intimacies. Miraculous healings were said to occur through the touch and prayers of such holy women, these miraculous maids, as Stefan called them.
Mia had no favor from God. She was often hungry. Stefan had patted her shoulder that day, telling her she should eat plenty while pregnant. Then she would deliver a strong child, a sign of his blessing. Mia had failed to secure that blessing too.
Now, as she stood in front of the cage, she ached from the day’s work done in patched, worn shoes. She tried rolling her weight from side to side, trying to ease up on the painful, swollen pads. The pain made her frown and purse her mouth, and Dame Alice stole a glance at her sour face. No wonder all the women shied away from Mia and gossiped about her. Her face probably shouted that she had a shrew’s heart. Dame Alice nodded as if she understood. But Mia knew; Dame Alice understood nothing. The old widow would regret it if Mia stopped to eat one day. Mia imagined she would sit and eat, and eat, and never leave her table. She would eat until food fell out her ears and she would die, full of food and relief, right there in Dame Alice’s kitchen. That would give the village something to talk about.