The crowd was a wave. A wall of bodies, screams, and torches that crashed down on us. There was no logic, only blind fury fueled by the priest's words and months of repressed fear. Instinctively, we put our backs together, my fists clenched, Margot's stiletto flashing in the firelight. We were ready to sell our lives dearly, even though we knew it was a fight we couldn't win.
"Stop!"
Father Michel's voice thundered again, and this time it was a command, not an incitement. The crowd hesitated, confused.
"Don't take justice into your own hands!" he continued, advancing through them like a shepherd among his enraged flock. "The Lord's laws and earthly ones will deal with them. Don't stain your hands with the blood of heretics. Let justice purify this evil!"
It was a calculated move—I understood instantly. The priest wanted two prisoners right now, not two corpses. Maybe he wanted answers.
The gnarled hands of the villagers grabbed us, tied our wrists behind our backs with rough rope. I was yanked, almost lifted bodily. As they dragged us away, my gaze met the innkeeper's. There wasn't only rage in his eyes. There was a strange, cold satisfaction—the triumphant glitter of someone who'd just settled a score.
There was no kindness. Rough hands seized our arms, shoving us brutally through the crowd that parted before us like a malevolent wave. A man spat on me, another tried to trip me.
"Heretics!" screamed an old woman, her face a mask of fanaticism. "Fire is too good for you! The Crow will take your souls!"
They pushed us into the old gendarmerie, a cold and austere stone building, then down a narrow flight of stone stairs, damp and slippery. Every step was a blow to the knees. At the bottom of the stairs, a single door of rusted iron awaited us. The guard opened it with a protesting squeak, threw us inside without ceremony like two sacks of potatoes, and slammed it shut behind us. The clang of the bolt sliding home was a tombstone sound—the final period on our freedom.
We struggled to our feet in almost total darkness. The air was freezing and heavy, thick with the smell of wet stone, rotting straw, mold, and decades of human despair.
"Fantastic," I hissed, trying to get back on my feet. "At least it's not raining in here."
"Stop it, Victor," Margot snarled from the other side of the cell. She was already testing the ropes, her body tense like a caged animal. "We can get out of here in less than an hour. The lock is old, and these ropes..."
"No!"
She whirled toward me, her eyes flashing in the darkness. "No? What do you mean 'no'? You want to stay here and wait for them to come hang us?"
"If we escape, we'll be guilty forever!" I shot back, my own voice sounding steadier than I felt. "In the whole village, in all of Alsace. We'll become 'Mathis's murderers.' We can't run, Margot. We have to figure out who did it. And why."
"The boy's right. Running now is a death sentence."
The voice, hoarse and charged with ancient cynicism, came from a dark corner of the cell. A figure slowly emerged from the shadows. An old man, thin as a rail, with an unkempt white beard and two small, shrewd eyes that stared at us as if we were the most interesting entertainment he'd seen in months.
"And who would you be?" Margot asked, defensive.
"Bastien," the old man said. "Poacher, according to our pious curate." He gave a toothless smile. "Or, as I prefer to say, the only free man left in this village. One who believes the woods don't belong to any priest!"
His statement left me puzzled. "But... didn't the woods belong to Count Laurent?" I asked, remembering Anje's stories. "The forest around the manor..."
Bastien made a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. "They did. And the Count was a man who understood hunger. He'd turn a blind eye, sometimes even two, if a man hunted a rabbit to feed his family." The old man's gaze hardened. "But the Count is dead, and apparently in his will he left most of his lands to the parish, in case of no heirs, so they'd take care of them 'for the people's good'!"
He paused, turned his head to the side, and spat on the ground with contempt.
"Our Father Michel," he concluded, "has decided that the 'people's good' consists of forbidding anyone to set foot there. Says it's consecrated land, cursed by the massacre. But I say it's just another way to get his greedy hands on everything!"
The sound of several heavy footsteps on the stairs interrupted us. The cell door opened again. It was the innkeeper, accompanied by two burly men I'd never seen. They weren't wearing uniforms, but they wore the same brutal expression as their boss.
"So, murderers," the innkeeper growled, advancing toward me. In his hand he gripped a blacksmith's pliers, blackened by fire. "The good Father is busy. But we have time. And we want answers. Why did you kill Mathis?"
"We didn't kill him!" I shouted, backing up until I hit the cold wall.
The innkeeper laughed. An unpleasant laugh, devoid of mirth. "Of course not. And I'm the King of France."
The innkeeper advanced toward me, the pliers dangling from his hand like a metal appendage. His two thugs, two brutes with faces marked by old brawls, moved toward the other corners of the cell.
One of the thugs turned to the innkeeper, jerking his head roughly toward the shadow in the corner. "Thomas, what do we do with the old man?"
The innkeeper just shrugged.
"Stay back, old man," one of them snarled at Bastien, who'd taken an uncertain step forward. "Or join the party and get your daily dose of pain early."
I saw the old poacher hesitate, helpless rage struggling with fear in his eyes. Finally, he slowly backed away, fading into the shadows again. We were alone once more.
"So, murderers," the innkeeper growled, grabbing me by the shirt and slamming me hard against the damp wall. I felt the cold metal of the pliers press against my cheek, crushing it against the stone. "Talk, boy! Who sent you? Why did you kill Mathis?"
"We didn't kill him!" I screamed, the taste of panic and stone in my mouth.
The innkeeper laughed, an unpleasant laugh. "Of course not." He tightened his grip. I felt the pressure of the metal jaws, the dull pain radiating along my jaw. "Then who was it? Your ghost friends?"
"Leave him alone, you pig!"
Margot's voice was a hiss loaded with venom. Before I could understand what was happening, she spat. A projectile of contempt that hit the innkeeper right in the eye.
He screamed, more from the outrage than the pain, and let me go. I staggered, bringing a hand to my aching cheek. But the relief lasted an instant. The innkeeper turned toward Margot with murderous fury. The two thugs grabbed her, pinning her against the wall, her arms twisted behind her back.
"Nasty little viper," the innkeeper hissed, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. And then he hit her. An open-handed slap so violent that Margot's head slammed against the stone. She let out a muffled groan before falling to the ground.
"Now let's try again," he said, turning back to me, his face red with rage. He grabbed me again. "Confess."
"I'll never confess to a lie," I gasped.
His answer was a punch to the stomach. The air left my lungs all at once. I fell to my knees, coughing and trying to breathe. It wasn't an interrogation but a savage, pointless punishment. They just wanted a confession—didn't matter if it was true—to serve their priest on a silver platter.
Just as the innkeeper raised the pliers again, the cell door opened with a creak.
On the threshold stood Father Michel.
"That's enough, Thomas!" he said, his calm voice freezing the air.
The innkeeper recoiled as if he'd been scalded. "Father... we were just..."
"You were exceeding your zeal, my son," the curate interrupted without raising his voice. "Leave us alone."
The three men left with bowed heads, casting us one last hate-filled glance. Father Michel approached us, an expression of pity on his sharp face. He bent over Margot, who had struggled to her feet.
"Children..." he said, his tone an oily caress. "I see fear has made my parishioners a bit too... zealous. Forgive them."
He straightened, looking first at me, then at Margot, wounded and bleeding. He seemed like our savior. Our angel in that hellhole.
"Now, though, we're alone. And we can talk. Tell me who you really are." He paused, and his eyes gleamed with a cold light. "And perhaps... perhaps I can still save you from tomorrow's public trial."