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Jeanne-Claire Dobbs clutched at the ragged remains of her shift in a
futile attempt at modesty. Futile, because the fever-bright eyes of
the judge didn't see her, but some mad fantasy of lust and evil.
"Has the prisoner confessed?" the judge asked.
A flush of shame crept up her neck. They had only to show her their
instruments to get her to speak, to say whatever it was they wished
to hear. A witch's power came from her blood, they told her, and if
need be, they would bleed and burn her to remove the threat she posed
to the world.
She had hoped for mercy, or leniency, if she confessed. What a
fool.
The guard handed over the signed confession. Like most church
documents, it was in Latin, which Jeanne-Claire couldn't read. The
judge took it, and proceeded to read aloud.
"That the woman Jeanne-Claire Dobbs has confessed to heresy and the
practice of witchcraft; the evidence of her crimes is this: that
the loathsome vermin of the earth, rats, spiders and insects, do
look to her as familiar spirits, and answer her summons. That she
bears the Devil's mark upon her flesh where she suckled an imp in
place of the child she should have borne, that said mark does not
bleed when cut.
"That after two years of lawful marriage, she has borne no child.
Through her sorcery, she has caused her husband Charles to forsake
his sacred vows, and has ensorcelled a young boy, all in the name of
her lord Ashtoreth, a demon of hell..."
The charges rolled on, people she had never met swearing she had
caused their injuries, spoiled their food, sickened their animals, or
hexed their spouses. Witnesses swore to improbable if not impossible
scenarios, claiming Jeanne-Claire's presence and influence.
Jeanne-Claire shut it all out. They said a demon did these things, a
demon she served. But she was a woman of faith, a good and loyal
servant of the Lord. If a demon walked among them, he did so in the
form of Charlotte Stanford. She lifted her head a fraction and
scanned the assembly. Her faithless husband and his petite chien
were watching, she knew, mock-sorrow and horror on their lying faces.
How could such a pair, steeped in the sin of their adultery, stand
before the anointed of God and make such claims? And how could the
anointed believe?
Until now, Jeanne-Claire had been certain her faith would protect
her. The Lord God, after all, looked after His own. Surely she had
nothing to fear. Even the Inquisitors had said so. But now, she
realized her faith meant nothing.
"You are not God's men!" she cried out, unable to keep silent. "You
believe the lies of a whore!"
The guard cuffed her into silence, while the judge ignored her
outburst.
"And so this court finds you guilty, and sentences you to death. You
will hang by the neck until dead, and may God have mercy on your
soul."
Jeanne-Claire spat on the stones. "That for your mercy!"
This earned her a heavier blow from the guard that sent her head
ringing. The judge gestured sharply, and they dragged her out to the
waiting scaffold.
Neither the verdict nor the sentence had ever been in doubt, she
realized in despair. The waiting crowd howled at the sight of her,
hurling stones, garbage, and abuse, deterred not at all by the guards
and priests with her. Oh, if only she had the power they accused her
of! She would summon up a plague wind to make the Black Death seem a
summer chill.
They bound her hands behind her back and shoved her up the steps.
The crowd's noise faded to a wordless roar, like the ocean's waves.
The hangman waited, hood dangling from his hand. Splinters from the
rough planks bit into her bare feet, forcing her to hobble forward.
The foul-smelling hood slipped over her head, leaving her in
darkness. Desperate, she fumbled for the words to the Act of
Contrition, trying to prepare herself. She had only minutes left,
now.
{Mon Dieu, je suis regrette...je suis regrette...} She couldn't
remember the rest of the words. The noose rasped over her head,
scratchy fiber biting into her neck. She sobbed once, and the bottom
dropped out of the world.
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