The underground chamber stank of iron, piss and burnt flesh.
Brother Callum adjusted his leather apron, the thick hide already stained dark from years of use, and regarded the man strapped to the table before him. The prisoner was perhaps thirty years old, thin and pale, with his wrists and ankles bound with iron manacles bolted directly into the stone.
His name was Thomas. Or perhaps it had been Theodore. Brother Callum could not remember, and it did not matter.
After all, this man had been accused of heresy.
