Stefan could not get used to the smells inside the cell. Bjorn would not have washed them. Bjorn would want a criminal to suffer in every way, and once, Stefan would have agreed.
He hoped he would get used to it after the first hour, but two nights had passed. Every time he relieved himself it grew worse. He could hear very little weeping today. The women in the cells flanking him had worn themselves out. Without family to pay for food and drink, many now saw their third day of starvation. Stefan hoped the other women, those who had families unafraid to visit them, shared their drink and food. If they did not, women would begin dying before Bastion could burn them. Stefan wondered if they preferred that. He wondered where Bastion and Bjorn had been and when they would return. He did not want to speed that hour, but neither did he want to remain here.
“Pray for us, Father,” a woman called to him.
Stefan could hear a guard fling the cell door open to another cell. He heard the crack of palm to face and the guard’s voice. “Do not blaspheme. Not on my watch.”
“My son,” Stefan called. The guard appeared in the square window on the cell door.
“Perhaps you are thirsty?”
The guard frowned at the question.
“If I give you my keys, you will have complete access to my beer cellar.”
“Getting me drunk so you can escape?”
“I am your priest. I answer to a higher authority than yours. Even if I could break down my cell door, I would go nowhere, for God has sent me to serve you and this village.”
“You tried to hurt Bastion.”
Stefan nodded with a forced grin. “Have you ever had too much beer and done something foolish? My son, take these keys and bring a good priest a drink, won’t you? You know we are all well secured here. Nothing will happen.”
Stefan handed the keys through the window to the guard. He heard the guard rattling each cell door as if to check for strong locks, then heard the main jail door open and close.
“Is everyone all right?” he called out.
No one answered.
“We are alone now. The guard is gone. Speak!”
“We cannot trust you,” a girl called out. “Whatever we say will be twisted.”
“No,” Stefan called. “Am I not in jail like you? I can be trusted.”
“You will not be burned,” an older woman’s voice said. “Nothing you say can save us.”
“Why not let us die in peace?” another woman called. “It is too much work to convince you of our truths.”
Stefan did not recognize their voices, though the women must have been from his flock. He wondered if he had ever really heard them.
“I have made many mistakes,” Stefan said. “I will do everything I can to save you, but it may be too late. Just tell me, in what manner did Bastion accuse you? What is his proof?”
The first to speak was a woman Father Stefan knew well. Dame Alice. He closed his eyes in gratitude. Her voice was rough with no refinement. He had cringed often when she confessed to him, unaccustomed to a woman so devoid of interest in affectation.
“I was brought in for questioning just after I tried to save Nelsa. His proof? My back was sore.”
“What’s that?” he asked. “How did a sore back make you guilty of witchcraft?”
“Anything would have done. But Bastion is clever, I will admit to that.”
“But how did he do it?”
“Mary, the dairyman’s daughter, thought a witch had caused the milk to dry up on her prized cow. On advice of Bastion, she hung an empty kettle over the fire. When it was red hot, she began to beat it with a stick.”
Mary’s voice shot out from that same cell. “Bastion promised me that every blow would land on the witch’s back.” She sounded unrepentant.
“Bastion will see you dead too, Mary. You should realize that by now,” Dame Alice replied. “Father Stefan, you know my back is often sore. My babies were the biggest in the village. That’s no witchcraft.”
“Mary,” Father Stefan called, “why did you think a witch would have reason to curse your favorite cow?”
“Bastion spoke kindly to me, and I feared other girls might be jealous,” she answered. “He would be a fine catch for me, seeing my father has no money.”
“But why would Dame Alice care? She did not desire Bastion for herself.”
“I don’t trust her, Father Stefan, and neither should you. She’s always sheltering strangers, trying to feed people who wander about. She has no discretion. She takes anyone in. It’s not proper. She even admits to trying to save Nelsa, who proved herself a witch in front of everyone. I wasn’t surprised when Dame Alice was revealed as a witch herself.”
“But Bastion spoke kindly to me, too, and I am no witch.” A soft voice carried across the jail. Stefan was unsure who it was. “Would you like to see what he did to me last night?”
Stefan heard gasps. “What is it?” he asked.
“Iris showed us her fingers.”
“And?”
“They are burned. He laid a hot poker across them.”
“Iris? Is it true?” he asked.
No answer came.