There Will Be Wolves (7 page)

At this the monk stood up. He held Ursula’s book of healing.

“Yes,” he said. “The book. This book.” He held it up. “A book that belongs to the church of Great St. Martin’s. Tell us, girl, how you came by it.”

“Brother Bernhard gave it to me.” Ursula’s voice wavered in spite of herself.

The monk turned toward the archbishop. “This book, Your Worship, disappeared shortly before our poor brother’s death. Brother Bernhard had been in failing health—both of body and of mind—before he died, and we were desperately worried about whose hands it might have fallen into.” He turned back to Ursula. His voice rose. “We see now that a thieving, sneaking girl—a willing servant of the devil—took possession of it.”

“He gave it to me! He recognized that I was a healer!”

A murmur broke out among the crowd.

“She admits it!”

“See—she does claim to be a healer!”

The monk silenced them with a wave of his hand. “What she says is impossible,” he said. “Brother Bernhard would never willingly have given this book away. He was a devoted monk, a loyal member of our community. He knew that this book could be used for evil by the wrong persons.”

“How could it be used for evil? It is a book of healing! A book that could only bring good … bring relief of suffering.” Desperately, Ursula pleaded. “I even cured a dog with it. I mended a dog’s broken leg. Who else has done that?” The words poured out in a torrent before she realized the
danger.

“She used a holy book to cure a dog!” The murmurs became cries of shock.

“Blasphemy!”

“A witch indeed!”

The monk turned toward Ursula with a terrible look. “Even true and holy things,” he thundered, “even true and holy things such as this book can become evil if they are obtained by evil means, and if they are used for evil purposes.”

The murmurs and shocked outbursts had now become a roar. The archbishop was forced to hold up his hands for silence.

Ursula heard the rest of the trial as if through a thick, smothering blanket. Every time she tried to speak she was silenced, sometimes with physical force. She gave up. She stood, head high, staring unseeing at the hard, implacable blue of the heavens above.

This has nothing to do with me, she thought defiantly. These are the ravings of a horde of insane people. It’s not happening.

She ceased to listen. In her own mind, she even ceased to be there. The impossible words, when they came, struck her with a force that was stronger than any physical blow.

“Unfortunately, the evidence is not to be denied,” the archbishop said. He stood and stretched his hands out to Ursula as if to bless her, but his next words were not a benediction. “The
accused stands convicted. She is a witch. For the remission of her sins—for the salvation of her soul—she will be burned. Confess, my child, and be forgiven in Heaven. Praise be to God.”

Only then did Ursula see her father in the crowd. He was standing in the church doorway, half supported by Bruno. His face was ashen. He looked like one already dead.

T
hey took Ursula back to her cell at St. Maria Lyskirchen. She was not allowed to speak to her father or Bruno. The door closed behind her, the bar thudded down. Ursula stood for a moment, staring at the wall in front of her. It was noon and she had not yet eaten, but she wasn’t aware of hunger. She wasn’t aware of anything except the archbishop’s words: “She is a witch. She will be burned.” The words repeated themselves over and over in her mind. They branded and consumed her thoughts, just as the fire that was to come would brand and consume her body.

For days no one came near the cell except for the nuns and the monk who visited her each morning to urge her to repent and confess her theft and witchcraft. Ursula would not speak to him. She lost track of the days. She lay on her pallet in the corner, turning her face to the wall
whenever a nun came in, and barely touched the food they left for her. She had never seen a burning, but she could imagine it. Whenever she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, she would suddenly awaken, screaming with the pain of the flames. Everything in her small cell became permeated with the smell of smoke, even with the taste of smoke, until finally she couldn’t eat at all.

Then, one morning, the monk came accompanied by two others. Ursula braced herself for the usual ordeal, but this time it was not forthcoming. The monk seemed angry and all he would say was a curt order: “Follow us.”

Ursula rose, but she was too weak to stand unaided. She would have fallen if one of the nuns had not held her. It was the young nun who usually came in the morning. When Ursula leaned on her for support, she saw pity in the girl’s eyes. In a flash, all of her pride returned. She tore herself away from the nun and, summoning strength that wasn’t really there, she stood alone. When the monk led the way out of the cell, she brushed away the nun’s hand and followed him. This time she didn’t ask where they were going. She knew.

By the time they had traversed the long passageway of the cloisters and crossed the garden that lay beyond it, Ursula was staggering. She realized, with a sense of desperation, that she could not possibly walk all the way to the courtyard at Great St. Martin’s, to where the stake was
waiting for her—and the torch. But she would
not
be carried. She forced herself forward.

“Ursula!”

The cry startled her. She felt herself seized from behind, but before she could pull away she recognized her father. Then another, stronger arm lent support to them both. Unbelievably, it was Bruno.

“What …? What is happening?” Ursula whispered. “Are you come to take me … to take me to …” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“We are taking you away. By the grace of God, you have been pardoned.” Master William’s voice was weak and there were tears running down his cheeks, but he grasped her even more tightly.

“I don’t understand.” Ursula’s brain was whirling. She had been preparing, with every shred of will remaining to her, to die.

“You have been pardoned,” Bruno repeated. “It’s true. Your father has arranged for your release.”

“But how?”

“Don’t talk now. You are too weak,” Bruno said. “Just come with us, and after you have rested we’ll explain.”

For once in her life, Ursula was only too glad to obey.

  *  *  *  

She had expected them to take her back to her own house, half forgetting that it had burned down. Instead, they were directing their footsteps toward the Bishop’s Church—the wealthiest sector of town, where the archbishop and the nobles lived in splendor. Ursula’s mind took note of this, but she couldn’t yet think clearly enough to question it. It was only when they turned in at the gate of the house of Count Emil himself that she finally balked.

“What are you doing? Why are we here?” she asked, stopping and forcing them to stop with her. She stared at the massive stone building rising up in front of her—taller than any other house in all of Cologne. Like all the houses of the nobles, and even the Bishop’s Church itself, this house had been built with stones taken from the ruins of the Romans’ villas. It seemed to shimmer in the sunlight—white, with a dusky rose tinge to it. Ursula couldn’t make sense of it. Was it just an apparition? Was this just a dream?

“Come, Daughter. It’s all right,” her father said.

They led her through the gate, past the courtyard, and into the stables beyond. At the very end was a small hut. They took her into that. In the corner of it were two straw pallets, and Ursula sank onto one of them gratefully. A fire was burning against one wall. The smell of a rich broth steamed out from a pot hung on a hook over it. The odor was so thick and so
strong that for a moment Ursula’s stomach turned, unable to cope with it. Then, as she lay back and closed her eyes, a familiar wet nose thrust itself into the palm of her hand.

“Samson!”

The dog burst into a frenzy of tail-wagging.

“Is he well, Father?” For a moment Ursula’s senses rushed back to her. “How does he?” Her hands searched for the wounded leg.

“He does marvelously well, Daughter, but needs your ministering, I’m afraid. He wouldn’t let me touch the bindings you put on him, much less change the poultice.”

“I must—” Ursula began, trying to sit up.

“Not now. The leg is thriving; all swelling has gone. He has waited for you these past days; he can wait a little longer. And when you have slept and eaten, then I can tell you of the wondrous good thing that has befallen us, daughter. God has indeed been good to us. We have indeed been blessed.” His tired old face was creased into a smile and his eyes had a shine to them that Ursula had not seen for a long time.

Something wonderful must certainly have happened, Ursula thought. Then she caught sight of Bruno standing in the doorway. His face was set—worried and angry.

If what has happened is so wonderful, why looks he so troubled, Ursula thought, but she could reason no more. Her head dropped back
onto the straw, and for the first time in days she slept soundly.

  *  *  *  

Ursula slept until it was dark. When she awoke the smell of food no longer revolted her—in fact she found she was almost starving. She ate all that her father gave her, and then slept again.

When she next awoke it was early morning and the cocks were crowing as usual. Her father brought her porridge, and again she ate eagerly. He had heated water, too, and she cleansed herself and washed her hair gratefully. She knew that her father and she were considered odd because of their obsession with cleanliness—many people thought them mad to expose themselves to the risks involved in wetting themselves so often. Nevertheless, once the filth and dirt had been removed, and her long, thick blond hair combed and tied neatly back, she felt as if she was coming back to life again. Her father had even managed to find her a clean shift from somewhere. Samson watched her curiously. He obviously shared the others’ opinion of baths and took care not to get too close. As soon as she was finished, Ursula tended to him.
That
he didn’t mind.

His leg was healing well. “Evil to cure a dog,” she muttered as she worked. “Witchcraft. Work of the devil! Are not the poor simple beasts also living
creatures?” With the return of her spirits, her pride and her anger had come back tenfold. As she finished with the dog her father, who had gone out to buy food for their noon meal, returned. She turned to him eagerly, anxious now to have her questions answered. How had he saved her? What were they doing here under the auspices of Count Emil?

“Father—” she began, but he forestalled her.

“I know. I know. You have a thousand questions. Sit quietly now, and I shall tell you what has happened.”

Ursula tied the last of the bindings into place and curled herself up beside the dog on a mat in front of the hearth.

“When they took you away,” her father began, “I was so overcome with fear—with the shock of it all—that I swooned. I failed you there, Daughter.”

“No, Father,” Ursula interrupted quickly, “you didn’t fail me!”

“I did,” he repeated quietly. “When I came to my senses, I found myself in Mistress Ingrid’s house, and that kindly woman was tending to me.”

Ursula’s eyebrows shot up at the word “kindly.” Her father seemed to have forgotten Mistress Ingrid’s part in her trial, but she would not bring that up now. It was probably better that her father forget as much as possible of that horror.

“Bruno was there as well and eager to do all in his power to help. At first we couldn’t find out where they had taken you, but then Bruno
managed to learn that you were at St. Maria’s. We asked permission to see you but were denied. All we were told was that you were to be tried as a witch. We attended the trial…. By then I was very ill. Without good Bruno I fear I would have collapsed entirely. And then … when the archbishop announced that you were to burn …” The old man stopped, his voice choked. He dropped his head and passed a hand over his eyes. “The trial itself is only a haze in my mind—I was so ill—but the archbishop’s words…. Those words I remember. Those words I will never forget.”

“I saw you there, Father, and I feared so for you. But how, then…. How did you secure my release?”

Her father shook his head to clear it and looked back at her. He continued. “I couldn’t move from the spot where I heard the sentence passed. All the folk went away about their own business. No one was left but Bruno. He tried to get me to leave, to go with him, but I was incapable of it. And then, suddenly, a man stood before me. He was dressed in the livery of one of Count Emil’s servants. He addressed me very respectfully and told me the count wished to speak with me. He bade me follow him. I didn’t think I would be able to, but again, with Bruno’s help, I did. When we arrived here, I was ushered into the house, and the count himself received me in a large, magnificent hall. It
was so splendid, Ursula, my child. So splendid …” His voice trailed off with the memory of it.

“Go
on,
Father,” Ursula urged impatiently.

Master William came back to his story. “Well, what had happened, daughter, was that the count’s good doctor had been taken with the pestilence and died, God rest his soul. But the count is making plans to go on the Crusade with the godly Peter, the Hermit, who has been preaching here these last weeks. He has need of someone who has knowledge of herbs and healing to accompany him and he has asked me. He has asked
me,
daughter, to accompany him on the Crusade!” He stopped once more, and his eyes were shining again. “Is it not a miracle?”

Ursula stared at her father, too stricken to speak. An icy coldness was working its way up her spine.

“And this is the truly wonderful part, Ursula,” Master William went on, unaware of her reaction. “Do you remember the Hermit saying the pope has. promised absolution of sins to all who go on the Crusade? Well then, the count went to the archbishop, and the archbishop will give you a pardon if you go with us, under my care, and take part in the holy quest to free Jerusalem from the infidels. My beloved child, we are to go together to the Holy Land! We are to go together on the Crusade, and you will be pardoned all your sins!”