He grabbed my right nipple and twisted it.
“Please . . .” He twisted harder. “Dutch,” I cried. “It’s written in Dutch.”
He slammed the book against my temple and clambered to his feet. “Of course it is.” He began to laugh, the sound making my skin crawl. “And to think I killed her when she could have been of use after all.”
“Killed?” My heart almost sprang out of my chest. Will. Westel killed Will. “Who else, Westel? Who have you harmed?”
He was beside me again, his face and mouth so very, very close. His hot breath lathed my flesh, fingers cupped my cheek ever so gently. They were wet, sticky. Blood. His fingers were covered in blood.
“Saskia,” he purred. “I killed Saskia. She saw what I did to Karel.”
Karel?
The sound I made was not human.
“He found me in your room fetching this.” He thrust the ale bible in my face. “I had to silence the devil’s spawn lest he rouse the lot. But I was too late. That cow, Saskia, saw me. Doesn’t anyone in this Godforsaken house ever sleep? She’ll not tell a soul what she witnessed, not anymore.”
Saskia, my loyal, loving Saskia . . . My heart was beating so fast. Think. Think. “What did you do to Karel?”
“Karel? Just a little shove. He fell, struck his head. I placed him in the chest in your room. God was with me for that’s where I finally found this.” He held the ale bible aloft. “Do you know how long I’ve been searching for it? I thought you kept it in the office. But it wasn’t there, was it? You’d tease me with it, though, bring it to the brewhouse, talk about your secret little recipes. Then you’d hide it and I couldn’t find it. There was only one place left it could be. When I saw you creeping out tonight, I knew my luck had changed.” He pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead, chuckling.
I wiped the blood out of my eyes. Karel. Saskia. I had to get to Karel. I groaned and retched, the noise loud in the quietness of the brewhouse. “You bastard.” I tried to rise. “You’ll hang for this—”
His foot shot out, connecting with my ribs, and I fell, panting. I tried to scream, the sound was ragged, pathetic; all the wind had been knocked from my lungs, all the courage, my faith, was leaching from my body.
“Scream all you like; it doesn’t matter anymore.” He shoved the ale bible down the front of his pants. “They’ll not heed you, there’s too much else to occupy them.”
Pressing my hands against my ribs, I panted. “What do you mean?”
Westel stared out the window above me, and I swear I could see the fires of purgatory dancing in his eyes. “You’ll see.”
Reaching for his coat, which had been flung across the table, Westel shrugged it on. With all my remaining might, I wished him dead. But death was not something you could will; it came of its own or another’s volition. I would be that other. I searched for a weapon, something to wield against him. Around me was a litter of broken tools, an upturned mash tun, bent trays. My hand scrabbled across the floor.
“Why?” I asked him, shuffling forward slightly, trying not to make my actions obvious. “Why, Westel? Why Karel? Why Saskia? Why Will?” I gestured to the remnants of my gown, to my dignity that was spilled on the floor, pressed into the bruises, blood and his seed on my thighs. “Why me?” My voice was tiny.
“Why, why, why?” he mocked me in a mewling tone. “Why not? You deliberately flaunt God’s laws and man’s and believe there won’t be a price to pay? You set out to steal business away from us, from God, and think a cost won’t be extracted? Oh, the vanity and evil of women knows no bounds.” He crossed himself. “Even now, you don’t understand justice when it’s been served.”
“This is about the ale?” Nothing would come into focus, not properly. Breathing deeply, there was a familiar tang in the air; I couldn’t quite identify it, my nose was slightly blocked, the smell of blood and my own fear dominated but they also gave me a sudden clarity. “You’re from St. Jude’s.”
“Aye. I am.”
It all made sense now. What I’d always believed to be his growing baldness was actually a tonsure growing out. The constant praying, his ability to read and write, the cap that never came off . . . his endless curiosity and willingness to help with the ale.
“Everything you told me was a lie.”
“Not everything. I was raised by monks—that part was true. It’s just that, as the son of Abbot Hubbard, I could never be denied a calling. After all, I was born to heed my Lord.”
Abbot Hubbard’s son? Oh dear God, help me.
“I don’t understand.” I tried to distract him with questions, all the while searching for a weapon, something with which to protect myself. “The alehouse was your idea.”
“Aye, it was and you adopted it, just as I hoped.”
“You intended me to fail all along.”
“Such is your pride and vanity you assumed you were going to succeed.”
“I was.”
Westel shook his head in disbelief. The light from outside was growing, the smell getting stronger. A steady roar, like the ocean in a storm, grew louder, forcing Westel to raise his voice to be heard.
“You were warned, Anneke Sheldrake; we gave you notice time and time again, but you chose to ignore us. Instead, you sounded the clarion, recruited more soldiers, and marched to meet your destiny. Tonight you face it.”
Before I could anticipate him, he lifted the ale-stick away from the wall and in one swift action, raised it above his head. In the undulating light pouring in from outside, Westel was an avenging angel come to wreak a terrible justice.
With all my remaining strength, I screamed, raising my arms above my head. At the same time, I levered myself partly under the trough. The ale-stick swung. It hit the edge of the wood and my shoulder at the same time as my head struck the metal leg. I fell back into blessed shadows and lay completely still.
With a grunt, Westel cast the ale-stick aside and prodded my body with his boot. I fought the blackness creeping into my mind, the agony that roared through my shoulder, head, and heart. Nay, nay. Karel . . . Betje. Oh sweet Jesù, please don’t forsake me . . .
Conscious of a commotion swelling beyond, of the door to the brewhouse opening, a blast of smoke-filled air entering, I tried not to let murky relief claim me, but my injuries were too great, my soul and body too sore. I shut my eyes, intending to rise, to run to the house, find Karel, see what caused such smoke and raging light, but before I could, I lost this battle as well.
Thirty-Four
Holcroft House
Midsummer’s Day
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Eventually the blackness receded and, holding what remained of my dress together, I staggered out of the brewhouse, fell onto my hands and knees, and retched. Over and over, I spewed forth nothing but noise, nothing but the empty horror of what Westel had done, had said. Pain cleaved my head, traveled across my breasts, shoulder, arms, and thighs. Doubled over, vile images leaped into my mind, paraded before my eyes until they faded enough to allow me to raise my chin.