A Season of Miracles

Her arms ached from the ties. She had not felt them so much at first. Now, they ached with a vengeance.

“You have not as yet begun to know pain.”

Her enemy stood before her again, watching her eyes, seeking her panic, her pleading. How he longed for it. And God knew, if it would bring her release, she would promise him anything, swear to anything. God help her, indeed, she would do anything.

But she knew, meeting his eyes, that no plea, no “confession,” nothing whatsoever on her part, would change things.

“You know I won’t beg,” she said simply.

“Aye, you’re too stupid.”

“You’d accuse me now of stupidity? I thought you considered me far too clever for my own good.”

“Not so clever. You are about to die hideously. Or do you believe in miracles?”

Her eyes fell from his. God, how she wanted to believe in miracles!

“I would never beg you, because I know that it would change nothing, that you’ve no intention of sparing me, that any plea on my part would be nothing but sheer entertainment to you.”

“So you stand calmly, thinking aye, there might be a miracle. Salvation might come.”

“It’s the Christmas season, is it not?”

“For some, dear lass. For you…I think not.”

He wanted her to break. To burst into tears. To confess, to plead, to throw herself in abject humility at his feet. Well, she couldn’t quite do that. Not bound as she was.

But she would not cry or break or give a confession.

Her tormentor leaned against the stake. “He will not come, you know.”

“If he can, he will.”

“There are no miracles. Ask me, and God, for forgiveness.”

“God knows my soul. And you should be asking my forgiveness.”

“I do what I must to preserve what is right.”

“What is right? You betrayed me.”

“You betrayed us all. As he betrays you now. You turned your back on your heritage. Now…ah, well, you had your chances. Wait until you smell the fire,” he said, and he came close to her, fingers entwining in her hair as he forced her to look down at the dry tinder and faggots at her feet. “The scent. Oh, God, you cannot begin to imagine the scent of burning human flesh. It’s a sickening smell. Enough to make the staunchest man vomit.”

“Then, you must move on quickly from here. I wouldn’t have the scent of my burning flesh ruin your Christmas Eve repast, good sir.”

She saw his face change, saw the fury, but there was nothing she could have done to prevent the blow he leveled against her face. Her head rocked against the stake that held her. Pain shot behind her eyes.

And still, she knew, she had not as yet begun to know pain….

He stiffened then, knowing he should not have allowed the others to witness his show of emotion, his lack of control. He was a man of right; God knew, he followed the law. To execute her was his duty.

He came very close to her face. His breath touched her cheeks, replacing the warmth of the sun. “You do not begin to understand. I will smell you roast, and I will savor the scent. Indeed, I will take pleasure. And tonight I will enjoy my meal with a gusto you cannot begin to imagine. The taste will remain on my tongue forever.”

“Forever may not be long,” she noted, amazed that she could offer him a smile.

He shook his head. “Poor, naive beauty that you be. But are you so beautiful now? Hair tangled, cheeks windburned, clothes in tatters, your body but bones for the flames to ravage. Would he be so enamored now? What fools you were. What fools.”

He had said that he would come for her. He had sworn. Sworn…

Had he, like God, forsaken her? Had her sins been so great?

No, he would come…might still come…

“I cannot help but believe you will one day find yourself the fool,” she whispered.

“That day will not be today,” he said grimly, his features, once striking, marred with cruelty and taut with fury. “I could have had you strangled. I might have saved you the agony. But you are a little fool, with your dreams of love and the pleasures of the flesh. Even now, you dream of his touch. But what you will feel is the kiss of the flame, the lick of the blaze, the warmth of hell’s damnation.”

He watched her eyes.

“Not even my death, my agony, will free you, will it? You are the one who will suffer. You will spend your life in bitterness. Eaten by flames from the inside out, burning in the hell of your own hatred.”

He looked as if he would strike at her again, but he managed to turn away.

He stepped toward the crowd, raised a hand. The murmuring grew silent.

“I have tried, pleaded, begged…but she has no words of remorse, she offers no prayer for redemption. God help her, forgive her her transgressions against her country. Pray for her, though it seems her tormented soul must return to the Devil, her maker. Let the fires cleanse her, and ourselves, and let us then pray from our hearts in the joy of the season we now enter, a time of God.”

The faggots were lit.

Flame quickly blazed before her. Around her.

She longed to cry out, to curse him. To tell the world that the real monster was there before them, clad in a cloak of law and respectability. She wanted to say that no one was safe, no one who stood in his way, no one who coveted anything he wanted…

Instead she found voice and strength to say, “God forgive you, sir. God grant you ease from the torture and agony you will suffer again and again—”

She broke off, choking. How quickly the flames had risen. Gone was the warmth of the sun, in its place the growing heat of the fire. She could speak no more. Her skirt was aflame. She tried to twist away, but it was no use. She burned! Dear God, she burned, the agony entering her lungs, her flesh.

She began to scream….

They rode over the rise and looked down into the valley. And saw.

He closed his eyes, damning himself, raging within, without.

He had imagined her scent.

He could smell it now.

On the air.