Jan waits impatiently. The clerk is scribbling the accusation as fast as he can. Jan wants to grab the quill from the boy, flip the page, scrawlguiltyalong the bottom, and put it under the legate’s nose to sign. But they must follow the protocol; there must be a trial.
It’s her own fault. If she hadn’t resisted his brother, if she hadn’t run, they’d be testing a saint instead of trying a heretic. She’s forced his hand. As he said to Willems this morning, rolling a piece of parchment, “A trial of miracles would have made better entertainment.” Jan passed the scroll to Willems. “One more for the bonfire.” A blaze that will clear his brother’s name. They’ll forget his transgressions once they learn she’s a heretic. There can be only one truth, and it must be the bishop’s.
Willems placed the scroll with the other documents. “This evidence shall be kindling and branch.” He patted the bag. “Most flammable.” Willems will be good company on the road south.
The bishop surveys the courtroom with satisfaction. His contingencies are all in place. The only wild card is his brother. Lukas is on the bench behind him, fiddling with his frayed belt.Stop it, Jan wants to say.Hold yourself like a man. It was the Benedictine abbot who insisted that the accused’s confessor be present at her trial. Jan regrets it. You can’t help but contrast the composure of Aleys with the haunted appearance of Lukas. But the papal legate has hardly noticed his brother. His attention is wholly focused on the accused. Jan has the troubling sense that the legate is deciding now, that her guilt or innocence is writ on the air between them, plain to read. Maybe the legate is the wild card.
The clerk waits with suspended wrist. For a moment the court is poised, the judge and the accused locked in gaze, the others glancing nervously between them. This girl could seduce the court with her presence. He seizes the moment.
“The woman before you is charged with the following crimes against the Church.”
He puts out his hand to Willems, who fills it with the first roll of parchment.
“First, that she has in her anchorhold entertained Satan.”
The air in the courtroom grows sharp. He has their attention now.
“Second, that she allowed him to whisper abominations into her ears.”
Jan raises the parchment.
“Third, that she disguised the words of the devil as showings from God.”
He unfurls it.
“Here are her words.”
He glances at Aleys. The girl has closed her eyes. But she doesn’t flinch.
Jan turns back to the panel. “The evidence is before you.”
The legate nods at the clerk and quickly recites, addressing Aleys: “I, legate of the apostolic see and inquisitor of heretical depravity, order and warn you once, twice, and three times”—he ticks the warnings off with a jerk of his hand—“canonically and peremptorily, that you swear upon God’s holy gospels that you will tell the whole and plain truth about these charges.
“Though,” he adds, his stray eye fixing on Jan, “this council finds it odd that a woman renowned for miracles would collude with the devil.”
Damn it, thinks Jan, he should never have commissioned that song of the miraculous anchoress of Brugge.
The legate clears his throat and asks the girl, “Do you swear to tell the truth?” Jan thinks, What good is the oath of a heretic? Still, it’s required. If she won’t swear, they will imprison her until she does.
Aleys stands silent.
“Woman, speak!” commands the Dominican scholar.
She does not. Jan cannot help but admire her equanimity, her regal bearing. He sees the same admiration in the legate’s face. “You refuse the oath?”
The scholar drums his fingers. “I have seen this before,” he says. “Heretic’s pride.” The Dominican has already decided her guilt.
But the legate hasn’t.
The moment draws out. Finally, Aleys speaks. “I swear to tell God’s truth.” Her quiet emphasis on the wordGodfills the room. As if the girl is privy to some lesson that the Church has yet to learn. As if God holds a truth greater than the Church’s truth.
The legate frowns. The scribe pauses, uncertain what to record. The legate’s right eye, trained on Aleys, narrows. It’s so quiet Jan can hear him breathe, the long draw, the lingering pause, the short outbreath. Finally, the legate nods to the scribe, who lettersGod’s truthon the parchment. “Bishop, you may proceed.”
Good. Let the holy fool take her damned oath all the way to the stake.
“Your Excellency,” Jan begins, “we have collected this woman’s purported showings. I submit them now to the court.” Willems slides the documents before the legate. The abbot leans in. The Dominican pushes back his chair and stands to read over the legate’s shoulder. They form a tableau of judgment.
“I believe you will find them in grave error,” says Jan.
