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CHAPTER TWELVE – HOSTAGE AT CANTERBURY

(Canterbury, England, June 9, 1066)

Pacing about her quarters in the Archbishop’s Palace in a profound fit of agitated remorse for having foolishly taken the lure of the duplicitous Stigand to abandon security at Fecamp in favor of embracing his own promised hospitality, Lady Agatha pondered her terrible dilemma with an awful sense of hopeless despairing, unable to envision any plausible means for liberating herself and Katerine from the Archbishop’s grasp. Since arriving in England almost a week earlier, the young companions had been held separated with no communication between them and Agatha’s deepest fears had run rampant, the distressed and confused noblewoman conjuring up all sorts of grim scenes that might be unfolding. Wiping tears from her eyes as her heart pounded within her Agatha endeavored to remain calm, knowing panic could not help either her or Katerine however tempting its natural entertainment.

“She’s well. I know she must be well, for not even the Archbishop would dare harm her, she is a proper gentlewoman of Normandy, and my dearest friend and attendant, he couldn’t hurt her, I know he couldn’t, it’s not possible, oh Christ Jesus, please tell me it can’t be possible he’d hurt Katerine, oh please, Lord, upon my knees in humble beseeching I implore Thee!” Sinking down Agatha clenched her hands tight together in a fervent petition to heaven, before collapsing into a convulsing heap of lamentation as she vented her grief, outrage, and intolerable apprehension at the mysterious fate of Katerine. It seemed as if eternity itself had elapsed when Agatha heard a sound at her locked door and raised herself to her feet to confront the latest captor to impose on her solitary confinement. The young melancholy monk Brother Waldred entered with a look of even greater regret than Agatha had yet beheld, motioning for her to follow him.

“You must come with me, Madamoiselle. His Eminence wishes to speak with you, again. I must warn you, Lady, your truculent refusal to cooperate with the Archbishop can only result in dreadful misfortune for your and your woman. Stigand can be most cruel when opposed and he has all the time and power necessary to bend you to his pleasure, literally as well as figuratively, alas.” Agatha shivered at the ominous implication of Waldred’s admonition but the memory of the Archbishop’s treachery in rendering her and Katerine prisoners inspired Agatha’s resolve to stiffen, and she shook her head in implacable defiance to Waldred’s rueful anxiety.

“I thank you for your warning, and your genuine concern for me and Katerine, Brother, but I am Norman born and bred, the daughter of Duke William and Lady Matilda, and I am not afraid of anything save dishonor and the ultimate Judgment of God. The Archbishop may bluster as he pleases in futile menacing, but I shall not kneel to his demands, nor shall my noble attendant I’m sure. Please lead me to His Eminence, for I would speak with him as well to learn what has been done with my fair Kate.” Brother Waldred nodded, admiring of Agatha’s courage though fearful of its consequences, and escorted her down a long corridor and around a corner into the audience chamber of the Palace. Archbishop Stigand sat upon a large oak throne gilded in gold, the chair set on a raised dais with several steps leading up to it. As usual, he wore his full clerical regalia to create an intimidating impression, Agatha’s attention being drawn to the polished silver cross resting upon his breast. Also present were a pair brutish-looking men who wore the purple garb of Stigand’s bodyguard. One of them licked his lips rudely as Agatha gazed at him in silent but extreme terror.

“Good day, Lady Agatha. I trust you’ve been giving my requirements for your comfortable stay with us further consideration, and have decided expedient accommodation is preferable to extended isolation, and far worse, perhaps. Have you been so enlightened, Madamoiselle, may one ask?” Agatha straightened her posture as her mother had always taken pains to instruct her, and evinced pride and dignity befitting a gentlewoman of her high birth as she responded to the Archbishop’s routine query with a consistent firmness of resistance, demanding her reunion with Katerine and either their immediate liberty or presentation to King Harold as the Archbishop had promised. Stigand frowned, then smiled in sinister fashion at Agatha’s rebuttal, looking to those he commanded with a terrible anticipation.

“With all due respect, Eminence, I must insist you allow me to visit my attendant to establish her good health and proper treatment and I further insist you take steps to introduce us to Harold, my royal betrothed, without further delay so I may discuss the general terms by which I am to be recognized and crowned as this realm’s Queen consort. I am not interested in your demands and respectfully decline to address them, as I’m here under the Church’s full protection as your ward, my lord, and not as a captive if I need again remind you. And that protection extends to Katerine as my trusted and cherished attendant. Therefore, Eminence, I ask you again. Where is she, and when might I see her?” Agatha’s only answer was a nod from the Archbishop, signaling his men to seize hold of Agatha as Stigand arose to dismount his throne, contemplating her with a wicked grin. Brother Waldred advanced to petition the Archbishop’s restraint, but a stony glare from the Primate halted him and with a wave Waldred was dismissed, retreating timidly as he cast Agatha a last woeful glance. Agatha struggled to maintain her composure although Stigand could see her intense fear manifested in her heavy breathing, and the throbbing of her heart beneath the silk of her blue gown.

“As we so often say within the Church, Madamoiselle, suffering’s the surest way to salvation. I believe you’ll have a greater appreciation regarding the wisdom of that maxim, ere this day has passed. Gentlemen, bring our young guest along. We’ve much to show Lady Agatha concerning the manifold ways pain brings one closer to God, by yielding potent experience of the alternative to His merciful embrace.” Agatha was brought forth in rough fashion by Stigand’s minions and pushed down the outside corridor toward a large iron door which when unlocked revealed a dark steep stairway that seemed to wind down into the bowels of the Palace. The Archbishop lifted a lamp hanging upon a hook and led the party into the subterranean depths of his abode, Agatha’s anxiety increasing ten-fold with each step as alarming sounds began to be heard, the cacophony of wild shrieks, pathetic pleadings, and a babble of profane gibbering mixed with harsh dictates for confession informing a pale and trembling Agatha regarding the dreadful nature of the abyss into which she was about to be thrust.

“I know your sire has dungeons at home you may’ve heard of, although of course your father wouldn’t have been so callous as to have sanctioned your personal witness of torture in his name, Madamoiselle. To spare the rod is to spoil a child, I’ve always held, and likewise to spare a girl from comprehending just how cruel fortune can prove for those who incur the wrath of heaven’s displeasure. It’s about time we enhanced your considerable but sheltered education, young lady. I guarantee the lessons you absorb within this chamber of horror will remain vivid in your mind as none concerning more refined subjects of your prior study ever have or could.” The progress of the Archbishop’s party terminated before another large iron door, firmly locked and guarded from behind which the concert of screams, curses, wailings, and shouted commands intensified to an appalling degree. When the door was unbolted and Agatha was shoved inside, the stench of the cavernous torch-lit interior almost made her retch in disgust and the hideous assault upon her hearing from the countless wretched cries of the poor souls incarcerated in Stigand’s private underworld caused Agatha to clamp her hands to her ears as tears of horrified pity flowed freely to the savage amusement of the Archbishop and his underlings.

“What ails you, Madamoiselle? I’d thought you Normans were made of sturdier stuff than to evince upset at the sight and sound of official justice’s rigorous imposition. All imprisoned here are criminals, heretics, and moral trespassers of the worst sort, and as such are unworthy of your copious weeping. Of course, there may be an innocent soul confined within one of these cells of righteous torment you could hope to redeem from agony’s endurance, young lady, but I fear you will have to seek out that most needful entity yourself from amongst all these damned villains. I shall be generous, and offer to you the guidance of my chief warder to assist your compassionate efforts. Bear in mind, however, that the gate of hell doesn’t open without first receiving a proper tithe for such rare indulgence. Waldwulf! Come forth and escort Lady Agatha upon her tour of this fair facility.” Through the inky darkness, Agatha discerned the advance of a tall misshapen figure, one foot dragged behind with consistent thudding upon the cold damp floor, her stomach turning at first view of the jailer’s awful visage. Waldwulf’s head was huge with protruding ears, bulbous bloodshot eyes, a twisted, thick-lipped oral cavity that issued forth a constant stream of drool, a long beaked nose that looked to have been several times broken, and tremendous hands with tapering fingers that ended in sharpened yellow nails. His gait was somewhat stooped due to the great hump protruding upon his back and amidst his forehead the vivid etching of a third eye peered down in baleful staring beneath his pointed hairless crown, completing a portrait of monstrosity perfect in petrifying malevolence. Waldwulf wore a faded blue tunic, stained with sweat and scarlet, and when he spoke reminded the shaken Agatha of the sound of small stones clattering together beneath a speeding stallion’s hooves.

“Yew kawld, yer Aminnenz? Wad’z yer blezure, melard?” Agatha gazed upon the grotesque countenance of the deformed and leering Waldwulf and shuddered, stifling a gasp of pure nausea by hiding her face within her hands. Archbishop Stigand smiled, issuing his abominable retainer order to permit Agatha inspection of the dungeon’s cells, and their occupants, for the purpose of locating her attendant among their sorry number.

“Waldwulf, my good man, this young gentlewoman is eager to be reunited with her attendant who I believe may be established here, somewhere among these God-cursed sinners. Please let Lady Agatha look to discern if a certain Madamoiselle Katerine La Fidele languishes hereabouts in your custody. And keep a close watch upon our special guest, in event she finds your guided intrusion into our pit of perdition more than her wits can withstand.” Waldwulf nodded, a gross grin contorting his foul countenance. Turning to Agatha the repugnant creature took her by the right arm to Agatha’s instant flesh-crawling revulsion, Waldwulf’s rank breath nearly knocking Agatha off her feet.

“Az yew wesh, melard. Kum wid mae, melatie, andt weale sey ef wey kan vint yer waenjch fer yew. Thiz wae, Medam.” Despite her absolute deploring reluctance to accompany the vile minion of Stigand upon the proposed inspection Agatha knew it held out Katerine’s only hope for redemption from the dungeon’s dank clutches and so she steeled herself to walk beside her lumbering escort, taking care to avoid an unnecessary contemplation of Waldwulf’s sickening mien. Coming to the first cell Waldwulf employed a silver key to unfasten the slim wood slat that allowed for penetration into its baleful interior, and Agatha moved to gaze inside, bracing herself for a view of unparalleled horror. The hellish sight that greeted her eyes made Agatha gag but she was transfixed by its sheer awfulness, unable to step back or look away.

Within the cramped and filthy cell a young woman was bound naked to a long wooden frame by ropes whose stricture had reduced her wrists and ankles to distended and discolored segments of pus, her body covered by burns, bruises, and festering sores. A handle at the top of the frame was being vigorously turned by an excited tormentor, causing the attached ropes to become ever more taut until a terrible cracking of the victim’s bones echoed into the corridor as the woman’s anguished screams likewise rebounded off the thick stone walls, her eyes bulging and glazed in mindless terror and agony and her twisted mouth ajar in an endless cry of mortal condemnation. A second gleeful torturer inserted what appeared to be a hollow horn of ivory equipped with an aperture at the end into the woman’s sexual orifice, pouring a malodorous substance through its conduit to inflict what must’ve been a horrendous internal scalding, the hapless wench writhing in broken battery and despair as tears streamed down her once-pretty face in blind excruciation. Overwhelmed by the hideous scene Agatha swayed and stumbled backwards, bile rising in her throat along with a quivering sense of furious indignation that any helpless member of her sex should be subjected to such unspeakable atrocity.

“That … that’s the … that is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life, I, I can’t truly believe Christian people can commit such, such raw acts of wanton unmitigated barbarity, if I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I couldn’t … I wouldn’t … Oh my God, my God! I won’t let this bestial practice of fiendish inhumanity continue! I will not, by the Blessed Virgin Mary’s sublime mercy! Are … Do you dare subject Katerine, my sweet sister Kate, to such cruel and wicked mistreatment? By Christ and all His blessed saints, if ma cher ami’s had so much as a single hair plucked from her fair head by any contemptible villain employed in this despicable den of inequity, I swear by God and upon my soul’s hope of eternal salvation I’ll witness every last one of you savage scum brought to the harshest rigor of civilized justice possible, including your venerable master, the depraved blackguard who postures as the Archbishop of Canterbury! Where’s Katerine, you brute ogre, take me to my beloved Kate at once, do you hear me, at once, now, you accursed shambling freak!” Agatha’s hysterical outburst elicited aggravating ignoring from Waldwulf, who flashed his crooked grin at her with drool spilling down his chin and asked if Agatha recognized the pathetic soul as her acquaintance. Agatha glared at Waldwulf with red eyes already swollen from weeping, cursing the indifferent jailer under her breath.

“Dat er, melatie? Nu? Daen wae moof tu dey negzd wun. Fulloo mae.” Her heart and soul consumed with dreadful despair and anticipation Agatha summoned all her strength to heed the directive of Waldwulf, distressed beyond measure by the little she’d observed and full of fright for how she might yet discover Katerine in such living hell of Stigand’s merciless maintenance.

Approaching the next cell Agatha experienced a panging thirst owing to the fearful dryness of her mouth, her palms slick as was her entire form and her beleaguered mind struggling to cope with the brutal environment, and appalling perspective her clerical captor deigned force on her. Wavering as she walked, Agatha endeavored to remain conscious and retain clarity as she was guided to behold another vista of deliberate human degradation, a silent prayer for her friend’s safety and redemption intoned by her ardently drumming heart.

“Weev a payre ov sudemides en haere, melatie. Nud ligle ta vint yer frent en der, bud yew mide vand ta av a luge annywae.” Peering into the cell with tingling trepidation Agatha beheld two naked young men undergoing terrible tortures in sight of one another, the nature of which seemed purposely similar. One suffering youth straddled a large apparatus that arose in the form of a triangle upon which the victim had been placed with his feet tied so that movement of either limb would affect the other. Agatha saw the triangle came to a point that penetrated into the arse of the prisoner thrust upon it, and that his involuntary jerking motions pushed it ever deeper into his bowels with each passing moment. A stream of crimson dripped down the sides of the cruel device as the victim groaned and wept in utmost anguish, his eyes wide and staring emptily into space. A torturer had affixed heavy iron weights to the condemned’s legs and rocked the awful implement to and fro, augmenting the youth’s pain to what a pitying Agatha could only assume to be an unimaginable degree.

Situated just across from the first youth was another fiendish instrument, likewise fashioned for its victim’s enforced seating. This chair brandished sharp spikes upon its seat, back, and on the rests for the arms, legs, and feet. Another youth had been horrifically impaled on the spikes that pierced his flesh to the bone, his arms and legs pushed forcibly against them by iron bars to facilitate their agonizing entrance. The pathetic lad was covered in crimson although the spikes served to block his wounds and somewhat staunch his loss of scarlet. Underneath the chair of torment a basin of blazing coals had been set, the intense heat of these rising through a hole in the evil chair’s bottom to sear the trapped victim’s perforated carcass. The smell of blood and slow-roasting meat sickened Agatha, forcing her to turn away lest she vomited. The last thing she noticed about the hideous punishment was the device fastened to the second youth’s skull, consisting of an iron cap installed over a metal bar, with the victim’s head inserted in between.

A jailer twisted a large screw protruding atop the device, his effort having the effect of slowly crushing the youth’s impacted crown and face. A muffled shriek issued from the compressed lips of the hapless captive as scarlet and serum flowed from his compacted visage to the feral amusement of his personal demon.

“Oh Christ, sweet Lord Jesus, have mercy, please, I beg of you, this place makes the domain of Lucifer seem like some mere child’s nightmare, how can any man of God, the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, maintain other Christians in such a wretched condition of living damnation, how is this possible under heaven? If I were to declare how the highest prelate in this realm has fashioned his own version of hell upon earth, beneath the very residence he occupies as Christ’s supposed servant, below the sacred church where he purports to spread the Holy Gospel of Our Lord’s divine forgiveness of sins, I daresay I’d be locked fast away as a madwoman and yet the proof surrounds me, inconceivable unless confronted first-hand! I have had enough of viewing this, this most abhorrent travesty of human justice! I demand to be permitted to see Katerine! I demand it! I demand it at once! Kate, Kate, ma cherie, where are you, where are you amid this foul cave of dignity’s unpardonable debasement? Kate, Kate, if you are here, ma ange, call out, call out and I’ll find you, ma cher ami, I swear!” Agatha swift ran down the corridor away from Waldwulf, desperate to locate Katerine and crying out her name in a frantic hope of her response. The figure of Archbishop Stigand abruptly loomed in her path, flanked by his guards who seized Agatha yet again and roughly transported her down another long dark passage to be stood before a cell whose slat had been opened, the sound of brute mirth and a young woman’s weeping pleas audible from within.

"I believe the entity you seek is lodged herein, Madamoiselle. You must excuse the wench’s somewhat sore condition, as like you she’s been reluctant to afford me her solicited cooperation. Perhaps you would like to speak with your attendant, and be thus persuaded by such converse to exercise better judgment. Go ahead, Lady Agatha. You have my leave, but do not waste words for such indulgence may prove alas fleeting to your wench’s sorry regret, and yours.” Agatha’s heart leapt into her mouth as she advanced to gaze upon Katerine’s perilous ordeal imposed by Agatha’s own blind folly now so deplored. Upon grasping the range of dire pains Stigand was disposed to inflict upon Katerine with ruthless lethal efficiency, Agatha sobbed in panging grip of her own personal torment for having so witlessly delivered her cherished friend unto such a potentially horrible fate as the diabolical Primate threatened to encompass.

Katerine was chained upright to a metal post with her arms and legs stretched taut, covered in burns, bruises, and what Agatha recognized to her ghastly horror were rat-bites of a considerable proportion. A metal cage bristling with spikes enclosed Katerine’s head, this instrument forcing silence upon her for fear of suffering severe mutilation of the face, neck, and throat. Agatha was infuriated at Stigand’s deceit but realized it was hardly the most urgent problem she faced so far as her determined effort to assure Katerine’s present defense from more excruciating torture was concerned. As Agatha inspected the sundry implements gathered within the cell awaiting a fatal employment she had to dig her nails into her palms to steady her besieged nerves and keep from screaming aloud at the stabbing terror they inspired. Archbishop Stigand relished Agatha’s fear and began a gruesome description of the assorted instruments and their functions in explicit and enthusiastic detail.

“Permit me to educate you concerning the nature of these devices present, Madamoiselle, that you may understand without misconstruing the precise impact utilization of such tools will exert upon your fair friend’s fragile femininity. Those iron claws held by Oswald are used to mutilate the breasts of your fair sex as Oswald shall now demonstrate and to extract the genitalia of male miscreants as well when so required.” At Stigand’s nod the burly bearer of the wickedly curved claws attached them to Katerine’s bosom and began twisting them, causing her body to convulse in anguish, a muted whimper escaping her as Katerine’s eyes rolled wildly in agony and Agatha observed in aghast appalling. Agatha pounded fiercely upon the Archbishop, raging in helpless impotence and insisting Katerine be spared an extended abusing.

“No, no, stop, you can’t do this to her, you can’t, I won’t let you, I won’t let you torture her, stop it, stop it at once or I’ll, I’ll kill you, God-cursed fiend, I’ll kill you before I let you wound Kate further!” Agatha found her burst of indignant temper answered by having an arm twisted behind her back by one of Stigand’s minions who pushed her against the cell door and held her immobilized to continue her unwilling woeful examination of Katerine’s ongoing predicament. The Archbishop admonished Agatha in stern fashion, warning her not to endanger Katerine by any additional displays of resistance.

“I’ll thank you not to annoy me with further outbreaks of emotional instability, young lady. Otherwise, things will go much worse for the cunt therein than either of you could conjure in your most terrible visions of eternal hell’s character. Do I make myself clear, Madamoiselle? Now, if you’ll focus your attention upon that pretty instrument over there. The one crafted to resemble Our Blessed Mother.” Agatha gasped as she contemplated a metal statue measuring some seven feet in height fashioned in the likeness of the Virgin Mary, such wanton blasphemy’s shock and odiousness augmented by the fact of its owner’s exalted clerical stature. At Stigand’s whistle another of his henchman assigned to Katerine’s torment used a key to unlock the device and expose the deadly rows of crimsoned barbs festooned with torn flesh aligning both sides of its suffocating tomb-like interior. Agatha shut her eyes at the sight, but a wrenching of her arm forced the young noblewoman to resume her reluctant gazing on the nightmarish scene as torrid tears stained her cheeks and a seed of violent hateful vengeance flowered within Agatha’s heart. Archbishop Stigand smiled with smug satisfaction at Agatha’s distress and began describing the malign working of the impious contraption along with its alleged history.

“In your realm the instrument is known most popularly as la vierge de fir, or the iron Virgin. Here it’s known by several names, Madam, the Iron Lady being one, but my personal favorite’s Notre Dame de douleur, or in English, Our Lady of pain. It first originated in the Holy Roman Empire, the story being that a smith left furious at his wife’s flagrant infidelity created a fitting implement by which to dispose of his conjugal rival, casting the means of his vengeance in the wanton strumpet’s own form and face. Another version has a mad priest obsessed with a bride of Christ who repelled his advances, leaving the cleric in his seething insanity of denied desire resolved to immortalize his beloved in death by imposing a form of perverse apotheosis on her through the rendering of her coffin in the image of the Holy Mother. No doubt in his distorted mind the Virgin received her pure soul with arms as open as his mortal invention’s, although I daresay with less tear upon the maiden’s hence-preserved chastity. At any rate, whenever an occupant is placed within the Iron Lady’s bosom, the spikes therein pierce such unfortunate to the hilt, maintaining them by virtue of this profound perforation to endure for a time in severest torment. The interior is soundproof and permits no light to enter for the occupant’s comforting. They perish in black silence, alone with their pangs and contemplation of eternity as they merit. It would truly be a pity to have to seal your attendant in that dark quiet of the Virgin’s embrace, Madamoiselle, but that’s a consideration for you to ponder more than I.” Agatha flushed at her baiting by Stigand, who gestured to the jailer he’d identified as Oswald to display the next tools of his savage trade available for Katerine’s agonizing. Agatha managed to meet Katerine’s eye for a brief instant, communicating a loving devotion and passionate sorrow through the fleeting glance and garnering what she perceived and prayed was a wan smile indicating of her beloved attendant’s unbroken spirit.

“Those stocks are employed for positioning the feet for prolonged exposure to the effects of white-hot coals. Next to them is what you may have heard referred to at home as le diviseur de genou, in our tongue known as the knee splitter. Oswald, if you please.” Katerine was released from her chains and placed in a plain chair while her feet were inserted within the stocks. Once this had been accomplished a basin of simmering coals lying nearby was pushed with a hook to rest beneath her lower extremities, the acute anguish of the intense heat’s contact with her flesh causing Katerine to writhe and moan, to no avail, her arms bound behind her as her feet charred until she swooned into semi-consciousness. Agatha bit her lip to prevent herself from shrieking at the abominable outrage being perpetrated, Stigand’s gloating voice now equivalent to a blade thrust into and withdrawn endlessly from her soul’s aching and bleeding sensitivity.

“Well, Madamoiselle, it appears that thanks to your stubbornness and her own equally foolish evincing of defiance, your attendant will require assistance in maneuvering for the rest of her life if she moves again at all. You may put an end her suffering at any time, by yielding to my stated demands, Lady Agatha. Or shall I bid Oswald and Blaecric continue?” Agath tried to speak, but found herself unable to articulate due to the immensity of her horror at Katerine’s brutal torturing and the Archbishop took her silence for refusal, signaling to his minions to proceed with renewed torment. Agatha started to react but her arm’s harsh panging cut off her burgeoning protest ere it could be uttered. To her despairing guilt Agatha observed the lanky pock-faced henchman called Blaecric pour a large bucket of cold water over Katerine to reclaim her from her battered state of dazed delirium as Oswald moved to replace the heated coals that had burned Katerine’s feet with another device of even more damaging function. Katerine’s left leg was put between two spiked claws that were then brought together in slow fashion by Oswald’s turning of an attached handle, resulting in a heinous mangling of the limb which induced a high-pitched wailing and anguished convulsions from Katerine, her countenance twitching in agonized distortion as saliva drooled in thick torrents from her lips, and the whites of her eyes showed as they rolled back in wild frenzy from the intolerable pain. Agatha sank to her knees weeping uncontrollably, unable to bear any further witness of such wicked practice and imploring Archbishop Stigand to relent.

“Oh stop, stop, in the name of all that’s sacred I beseech you! I’ll … I shall do whatever you ask, Eminence, I promise! Tell me what you desire from me and you’ll have it instantly without question, I swear upon my life, upon the salvation of my soul and that of Katerine’s fair spirit as well, only please spare Katerine additional ordeal, upon my knees I beg you my lord Archbishop, I will be your good servant henceforth, only spare her, spare me, my lord Stigand, oh please, I’m willing to do anything you want, just spare us in the name of sweet mercy, Archbishop, spare us! Lord Jesus in heaven, I petition Thee, hear this my prayer for deliverance and grant me Thy holy grace of mortal redemption, and my sweet Katerine as well!” The Archbishop smiled crookedly at Agatha’s submission, his minion forcing Agatha to turn about to assume a genuflected posture at Stigand’s feet. The preening Primate gazed down upon the sullen but subordinated girl with a contemptuous sense of superiority, informing Agatha of the penalty should she dare renege upon her given oath to him.

“It took you long enough, little tart, and your friend will have some harsh words for you I am sure if she recovers. Now, you’re going to do what I say, young lady, and in event you presume that some possibility exists you might be enabled to frustrate me in any way, I want you now to contemplate one final implement whose fatal effects your lovely attendant’s yet to have the true misfortune of enduring. Rise, if you please, and cast your eyes therein as before.” Agatha was lifted to her feet and set against the opening to Katerine’s cell, not even wishing to speculate as to what sort of dreadful sword was to be held over her and Katerine’s heads. Inside she beheld Oswald and Blaecric brandishing similar-looking devices shaped within the form of metal pears, each instrument consisting of what appeared to be four leaves, and sporting long screws at their tops. Unfamiliar with such an object and its purpose Agatha looked over her shoulder to garner explanation from the Archbishop, who obliged her apprehensive curiosity with eager inflaming to Agatha’s pallid panicking.

“You want to know what that is, do you, Madamoiselle? It may interest you to know it’s of Norman origin, being christened la poire de l’angoisse or the pear of anguish by your inventive countrymen. It’s true, Agatha! It’s employed to inflict significant damage upon carnal sinners by means of a vigorous insertion into offending orifices depending upon the sex of the accused and his or her moral trespass. The way it works is, it is placed in the vaginal or anal cavity of a given subject and the screw atop the implement’s then turned to expand the four leaves to their maximal capacity, the consequence to such sensitive entrances proving well, I suppose that the proper word’s ruinous. Do we understand one another, young lady, or is a demonstration upon your wench or perhaps your own female delicacy warranted, Madamoiselle?” The prospect of either Katerine or herself being made to bear the inconceivable devastation of such a monstrous violation proved beyond Agatha’s strained senses to withstand and she fainted in a dead heap at Stigand’s feet, engulfed by blessed unconsciousness. For a long time Agatha drifted upon a sea of insensate oblivion, plagued by fleeting dreams of troubling character that left her tossing and murmuring incoherently in a deep sleep of fevered disturbance. When at last she began to wake from her profound stupor Agatha detected a presence lurking in her vicinity, and leapt up fast to shield herself from anticipated injury.

“Who goes there? Identify yourself, varlet, and tell me where I am, or I swear I will tear your wicked heart out with my fingernails!” To her immense relief Agatha heard the voice of Brother Waldred answer her fierce decree, the young monk raising his hands to assuage her anxiety as he approached Agatha. The agitated noblewoman gazed about her surroundings, recognizing she’d been transported back to her prior quarters after her horrendous experience of Stigand’s dungeon. Brother Waldred endeavored to soothe Agatha by reporting upon Katerine’s whereabouts and of a critical development that made Agatha’s weary and wasted spirit flush with an infusion of vital hope for her and Katerine’s escape from the Archbishop’s cruel custody.

“It’s me, Brother Waldred, Madam. All is well. You’ve been returned to your room and are quite safe as is your attendant I’m pleased to say. Katerine is resting in the infirmary, and shall make a fair recovery, I’m told, although her mobility alas shall prove greatly restricted without assistance. You’ll be taken to see her very soon, my lady, but first you must accompany me to meet with a visitor to Canterbury, Bishop Wulfstan of Worcester. He is a close intimate of the King, Madam, and has been dispatched here to escort you to Winchester for a conference with His Majesty. It seems your gambit may yet yield you fair profit, Lady Agatha. You now have that opportunity to confront King Harold face to face as you desired and who knows what may come of such a fateful reunion? So if you please, Madam, follow me. We can’t keep Wulfstan and the Archbishop waiting.” Agatha breathed a sigh of gratitude for heaven’s granting of her earlier imploration and went with Waldred back to the same audience chamber where her past dilemma’s drama had been commenced. Stigand was seated as before upon his throne, but his mien was now shorn of its previous bullying confidence and instead boasted an irate scowl of defensive indignation. Another cleric stood before Stigand with an expression of heated anger upon his face, Agatha discerning despite such vexed sentiment an encouraging abundance of warmth, dignity, and piety within Bishop Wulfstan’s animated expression.

“I’m telling you plainly, Stigand, if you’ve harmed Lady Agatha or her woman, there’ll be hell to pay from King Harold, mark me! His Majesty wishes me to take custody of Agatha at once, presuming she expresses a willingness to go with me to Winchester to meet Harold as I anticipate. Therefore, she and her noble attendant Katerine La Fidele are to be released without a delay for immediate travel to His Majesty’s residence. You’d best comply with Harold’s dictate, Eminence, lest you tempt the King whom you have already alienated in sore fashion to consider more forceful measures of extracting your alleged guests from your clutches. Remember Rome maintains an interest in you it might do Harold Godwinesson well to oblige to your great regret, Archbishop, and the general approval of this Christian realm’s pious populace.” Stigand glared at Wulfstan with bitter resentment for the thinly veiled threat, and retorted with a vicious barb’s lewd implication regarding the intimacy rumored to exist between Wulfstan and King Harold’s mother. Wulfstan flushed at the lascivious taunt, despising Stigand with even greater intensity for its hurling.

“It’s a pity the Lady Gytha didn’t deign spread her legs for you in times past instead of that degenerate lout Prince Alfred, Wulfstan, or did she, pray, since you always seem to defend her bastard’s interests with what could be construed as paternal fervor. Just between us, Eminence, was your riding of Gytha’s arse as elating as I’d heard Earl Godwine often boast, and does her practice of gorge profond truly put the oral skills notoriously displayed by the sluts of Paris to shame as her late husband was inclined to report? And are you still hard to engage the whore under Harold’s nose, so to speak, or has Gytha’s cunt turned rancid to the palate with age and wearying familiarity?” Bishop Wulfstan bristled at the Archbishop’s crass calculated insult to Lady Gytha, but reined his temptation to satisfy Stigand’s evident attempt to incite him into a scandalous physical confrontation injurious to King Harold. With effort Wulfstan responded with tactful but sharp discretion to the Archbishop’s crude ugly innuendo, delighted to refute Stigand’s venomous perspective with tidings he knew would prove most unsettling.

“Yes, Stigand, I’m well aware of your recent nefarious effort to sully Lady Gytha’s reputation and undermine her royal son through the spreading of malicious falsehoods in alliance with Lady Aldgyth and her unsavory agents. I’ve an understanding you’ve also presumed Lady Edith to be another reliable ally, and supplier of perjured testimony against her kin, but let me to be the first to disillusion you, Eminence. The Queen dowager and her brother are engaged in the process of reconciling, and Harold expects to appear in public with his good sister imminently after Edith’s release from Dover at which time the Queen’s expected to declare Harold her late lord Edward’s official choice as his successor, and deny all other claims upon the throne, foreign and domestic. In wake of such announcement His Majesty will proclaim his intent to seek divorce from Queen Aldgyth and also inform England concerning a resolution of the current contention between him and Normandy to be accomplished through the marital union of their noble houses without delay. So, you see, Eminence, it truly won’t serve you to keep shoveling merde upon the royal house of Godwine unless you wish to immerse yourself inescapably up to the neck in it.” The Archbishop blanched at Wulfstan’s surprise intelligence as an overjoyed Agatha rushed forward to give a hug to the startled Bishop of Worcester, believing Wulfstan had just told Stigand of Harold’s definite design to marry her. Agatha then turned and made an obscene gesture to the flustered Primate in gleeful vengeance and contempt, vowing to encompass Stigand’s quick and fatal deposing.

“Who’s got who by the short hairs now, Eminence, you filthy bestial bastard? I’ll soon be the next Queen consort of this fair land, Stigand, and when I am established in full majestic authority beside my good lord and husband Harold, duplicitous wretch, I’ll see to it your arse displaces the one I saw forced astride that diabolical instrument of torture I saw earlier, or perhaps I’ll seat you within that other chair of agony and watch as your skull receives the same crushing mistreatment as him who doubtless perished anon in your fiendish sty below! Better yet, why not have one of those devices, what did you call them, pears of anguish, why not bend you over and force one of them up your stinking arse to see how long its painful expansion requires to split your foul entity asunder, you God-cursed savage beast! Va te faire foutre, sale con, the daughter of William and Matilda spits at thee upon the road to her days of sovereign glory as this exquisite island’s royal domina, you corrupt clerical cock-gobbler!” Bishop Wulfstan moved to restrain and silence the gloating girl, placing an arm around Agatha’s shoulders to guide her from the fuming Primate’s presence. Stigand’s baleful stare followed the pair, and a somewhat smirking Brother Waldred out, the Archbishop swearing in thwarted fury as Sister Agnes intruded upon her master’s bitter solitude to await orders and perhaps offer the stewing cleric some small solace.

“Your servant, Eminence. I take it things haven’t gone as well as you thought they would? I couldn’t help overhearing your little tete-a-tete with Bishop Wulfstan. It seems King Harold is disposed to correct his prior error of the Norman wench’s ignoring and actually wed the cunt to preserve peace. Given our recent endeavor against the house of Godwine, my lord, that’s not a development that would prove much to our advantage, to say the least. It behooves us therefore to swiftly conjure forth a feasible alternative strategy to prevent any matrimony from transpiring that might result in exile for you, and a return to the stink of the brothel, or a term in Dover keep for me. I believe Ladies Aldgyth and Agathe could prove most useful to us in this instance, and the Queen has already received tidings of what her less than doting husband intends. Oh, by the way, my lord, I spoke in error before when I said Harold planned to marry Agatha himself. It’s not His Majesty who shall receive that romantic idiot as a blushing bride, but Prince Edmund, his less than eager son.” Archbishop Stigand’s eyes widened in disbelief at Sister Agnes’s report of Harold’s covert tactic to avert war by imposing his starry-eyed betrothed on his already engaged heir, and the wily Primate began convulsing in malevolent laughter at the magnitude of Harold’s compounded folly. Rising from his seat and shaking his head in crafting amusement at the sheer stupidity of the King’s hopeless maneuver, the Archbishop retired in Sister Agnes’s company to contemplate a proper and efficient checkmate to Harold’s desperate ploy, aroused by the critical opportunity thus presented to pursue carnal and political wickedness alike with equal ardor.

Chapter 13