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One - The Inquisitor
Solana stumbled across the Town Square, her wrists tightly bound behind her back with thick rope. It was autumn, but she was barefoot, her feet aching with cold, her naked arms coarse with goosebumps. In her mouth was a gag, a leather ball between her teeth, secured with a leather strap. H er lips formed a seal around its circumference, her jaws ached.
Three guards. Two held her arms: the Sergeant followed. They hurried their frightened prisoner towards the thirteen steps that rose to the malevolent Justice H all. Grey stone columns, iron fittings in which unlit torches rested, a black metal gibbet suspended above, the off-white of old bone s w ithin its bars.
Solana wore nothing but a lace-up bodice and skirt. H er breasts, plumped by the corset, were all but bared to the November chill. The bodice's slim straps had slipped part-way down her bare muscled arms. H er skirt s w ere torn, muddy. H er hair was loose, a thick black mane tumbling to her shoulder-blades, partially obscuring her face.
H alf African by birth, her father descended from black slave s, her mother Spanish, Solana had inherited the beauty of mixed races. The slender nose and rich, curly black hair of her mother, the full cheekbones, proud lips and perfect teeth of her father. H er eye s w ere dark brown, lashes long, her brows bold. H er body was strong, lithe, muscular, her skin smooth, the colour of coffee. A life tending animals on her mother's small farm half a day from Pamplona had blessed her with good health. But now her slim finger s w ere blue with strangled circulation, the coarse rope s w earing ruts in her wrists, tightly confining her hands behind her back. H er feet were bruised from her journey through the city streets.
They reached Justice H all. Solana would have pleaded to turn back, but for the gag. H er feet found the ascent, and she helplessly did as the guards bade, entering the cavernous atrium. Perhaps a hundred people stood within, most queuing to have petty grievances settled. But all moved aside for the beautiful prisoner and her armoured escort. A few pitied her: most simply felt relief that it was her, and not themselves, being led inside.
The four stopped at the head of a queue. A Clerk, robed and sombre, regarded the ragged girl. H e dipped his quill in ink, reached for a heavy leather-bound book. Worn fingers leafed through thick pages, filled with the names of hundred s w ho had come thi s w ay before.
“Name?” The Clerk's voice came in a monotone, his disinterest plain.
“Solana Degas,” grunted the sergeant on his muted prisoner's behalf. From beneath the rim of his iron helmet, deep-set eye s w atched the quill scratch its path. “She is accused of witchcraft.”
Solana tried to protest - stifled exclamations barely escaping the heavy leather ball that packed her mouth. H er dark eyes burned with rage as the Clerk wrote. H ow was it that such an injustice could be committed before her? She knew only too well her accuser - Catalina Lacrosse, her only rival in beauty, the blonde, lithe vixen from the nearby village. Catalina, who had been jilted in her efforts to be crowned H arvest Princess. To Solana, it had been a frivolous and childish celebration, but accepting the crown had pleased her fellow villagers and satisfied tradition, so she had borne the formalitie s w ith grace.
But Catalina, jealous, had began causing trouble for her rival. Culminating in this - Solana's arrest in her own mother's kitchen, dragged bound into the cold and brought here, to Pamplona, and the foreboding Justice H all.
The Clerk finished writing. H e looked briefly at Solana. “ H ave her examined.”
The guards propelled her forward, through a second chamber, finally halting outside tall oak doors, trimmed in brass, with elegant gargoyles as knockers, four guards outside. The Sergeant pounded once with his gauntlet, and the door was opened from within.
Solana's expression resembled one agape with wonder, though her mouth was merely held wide by the leather gag. They were in a cavernous hall. At the far end, tall stained glas s w indows splashed coloured light across a mosaic floor. Perhaps a dozen guards stood silently at posts along the walls. A brazier glowed sullenly in a far corner. Directly ahead, on a raised podium, three stern-looking men sat at a huge oak table. All wore the robes of Clergy. Apparently they had been in discussion, but all three now looked up.
A figure scurried to meet the four newcomers. A scribe in his forties, ferret-like in appearance and manner. H e looked openly at Solana, his eyes taking in her shapely form, the lush tangle of her hair, her handsome face. Without breaking the stare, he listened to the Sergeant's brief communication. Finally, as Solana was brought within a dozen paces of the high table, the scribe turned to his superiors.
“Your H onours, the prisoner is Solana Degas, an accused witch. She comes this day from Sanguesa, where she live s w ith her mother.”
The central of the three figures glowered at the woman before him. Solana's racing mind identified him as the Inquisitor, a deeply religious man, whose role was seeking the truth from those accused of witchcraft or heresy. H e, she hoped, would be kind.
“Free her hands.”
Solana looked back over her own bare shoulder as one of the guard s w orked the rope at her wrists. The rope had shrunk with cold and damp, and it took a time to loosen it, but eventually she was released, and massaged deeply-grooved wrists gratefully.
“Now strip her.”
Solana's eyes bugged over her gag. Momentarily stunned, she failed to react as one of the guards grasped her skirt and tugged. At once, she fought back, swiping at him, but the Sergeant caught her arms. “Steady, there, lass!”
Mute, Solana struggled, but the soldiers disrobed her quickly, then stepped away, clutching their trophies proudly. Solana cupped her hands over her breasts, more anxious to conceal her vulnerability than her nudity.
But the Inquisitor would have none of it. “Place your hands upon your head!”
“Do it!” The Sergeant butted Solana's shoulder. Unable to speak for herself, she reluctantly complied, feeling her nipples tighten in the chill. She closed her eyes as the three Clergymen leaned forward.
They regarded a body truly spectacular. Five-seven in height, slim, beautiful. Skin flawless. An oval face swathed by the rich black of her hair. H er breast s w ere high, plump, topped by black-brown nipples. H er belly was shaped by muscle, quartered by defined gullies centred on a petite navel, smooth skin like velvet. Lower, her slender hip s w ere the frame for a tidy triangle of tight black hair. H er leg s w ere long, shapely, terminating in dainty feet, high arches, perfect toes slightly curled on the cold tile floor. Under her lifted arms, the black hair was fine and soft.
“What is that?” The Clergyman on the Inquisitor's right pointed.
Solana flinched as the guard grasped the fine gold chain about her throat. “I believe it is an adornment of some kind, your H onour.”
“ H uh.” The Clergyman sat back. “Remove it. Then burn her clothes.”
Solana's heart sank as she was stripped of her jewellery; the necklace, along with the rags that had been her clothing, were carried from the room in the arms of a guard.
“Sergeant, bind her hands, then remove her gag.” The Inquisitor spoke. “I wish to question her.”
“Aye, your H onour.”
Now was not the time to resist. Solana lowered her arms, and one of the guards grasped her wrists, holding them behind her back while his comrade twisted the rope tightly around-and-between, knotting it well, securing her. She flexed her fingers against the bondage, tugging experimentally, but her wrists may a s w ell have been locked in stone.
Now, the Sergeant loosened the buckles of her gag. The oversized leather ball was extracted carefully from between her teeth. Solana slowly closed jaws strained by the cruel gag. She licked her dry lip s w ith a numb tongue.
“Your name is Solana Degas?”
Solana straightened. Though she was naked, standing in full view of a dozen men, with hands bound behind her back, she kept her composure, dignity shining from her brown eyes. “It is.”
“Your age?”
“I am twenty-seven years, your H onour.” H er voice was strong, confident..
“And not married?”
“I have not yet found a man worthy.”
Amusement echoed around the hall. The Inquisitor seemed less inclined to laugh. “And what say you to the charge of witchcraft?”
Solana fixed him with cool eyes. “I say it is a lie, your H onour. I am innocent.”
“ H m.” The Inquisitor sat back. “The Court shall investigate further. Take her away.”
H ands still bound, Solana was led to another door. It opened onto a steep stairwell, and they descended to a small guardroom. There, several soldiers sat idle. Their command, a weathered Jailer in his forties, met the newcomer s w ith barely a glance.
Solana lost count of the doors that opened and closed to the keys on the Jailer's belt. The five of them descended countless narrow stairways, marched between wet and slimy walls. Guttering, oily torches lit claustrophobic passageways lined with heavy, windowless doors. It stank of human waste. Cries and groans echoed eerily from distant rooms of torment.
Did the guards not feel anything? Solana looked to each in turn, but they seemed distracted, perhaps intent on leaving this hell-below-ground, this tight, intestinal nightmare of cells. The Jailer finally stopped alongside a door, unlocked it, pushed it open.
Solana nearly choked. Black, putrid, the cell was ten feet square, stone walls and a ten-foot ceiling. There was no bed, no pot, no source of water or light. Only a huge iron ring set four feet from the floor, in the rear wall. From it, on short, thick chains, dangled two heavy iron manacles, rough with age, chipped with years of use.
“What is this place?” she demanded in horror.
“This i s w here you stay,” the Sergeant sneered. “You will quickly become used to it!”
“Are you mad?” Solana looked wildly about as her wrist s w ere again untied. The moment she was freed, she tried to bolt, dodging from the grip of first one guard, then the other. There were shouts of alarm; Solana was faster and stronger than any expected, but as she threw herself towards the open door, the Jailer blocked her way, grasping her shoulders, flinging her backwards. With a shriek, she tumbled, naked, to the cell floor.
“Restrain her!” the Jailer bellowed.
Solana tried to struggle up again, but this time the two soldiers seized her arms, the sergeant catching her right leg, and she was dumped against the rear wall of the cell. With her back to the stone, they lifted her hands over her head to the open manacles. Solana fought in rage and disbelief as the heavy shackle s w ere clamped about her wrists. The Jailer quickly locked each with a key. The cold, hard iron snugly enclosed each wrist, trapping her hands. She felt vulnerable, exposed, her breasts and belly, loins and underarms naked to her captors.
“Stupid wench!” The Sergeant's boot thudded hard into Solana's unprotected ribs. She shrieked, jack-knifing and wrenching her hands in the manacles, then half-slumped, gasping, unable to lower her arms and hug herself against the pain. On the Sergeant's command, all four men turned to leave.
“Wait - please!” Solana shouted breathlessly after them, but the wooden door boomed shut. Despite the pain in her side, she found her feet, twisting to face the wall, and jerked against her restraints. But the shackles jarred painfully on her wrist-bones, not relinquishing their hold for a moment.
The cell door's lock was turned, a restraining bar clanked home.
Solana gave a wail of despair. “Listen to me! I am innocent!” She closed her fists, tugged again and again on her chains, twisting her hands, trying everything in her power to free herself. She braced a bare foot against the wall and hauled with all of her might, her muscles taut. H er teeth were gritted in rage and determination. “You bastards! Set me free!”
Solana was strong, but the chains did not so much as shift. Regardless, she fought their restraint for almost an hour, until her body shone with sweat and her breasts heaved. At last, exhausted, sobbing in frustration, she dropped to the wet floor, letting the chains pull her arms over her head again, with her naked back against the wall.
Nausea and weakness swelled from the pit of her belly. H er will was strong, her face rarely giving way to grief, but now it overwhelmed her, and she burst into tears, her head against one lifted arm, hands drooping from the metal cuffs. The shackles' cold bite seemed to burn into her wrists, a bitter reminder that she was now a captive, a prisoner, deep in the dungeons of Justice H all.
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