Chapter 2 — Whispers of the Witch

Hugo

The village of Saint-Lys lay shrouded in a veil of damp mist, the kind that clung to skin and muffled sound. Hugo de Montclair rode at a measured pace, his black cassock fluttering faintly against the flanks of his horse. Beside him, Gregor loomed on his mount, his scarred face set in an expression of grim purpose. The rhythmic clinking of the heavy chain bearing the Church's seal around his neck was a constant reminder of their mission. The dirt path beneath their horses' hooves was slick with mud, and the occasional gnarled root jutted out like a skeletal hand, clawing at their progress.

Ahead, the village emerged through the mist, a cluster of thatched roofs and timber-framed homes huddled close together, as if seeking protection from an unseen threat. Smoke curled upward from chimneys, its scent tinged with burning peat. The stone church at the heart of the village rose above the rest, its weathered steeple pointing accusingly toward the heavens. Hugo’s piercing blue eyes scanned the scene, noting the wary glances of villagers peering out from behind shutters. Whispers followed their arrival, low and urgent, like the rustling of leaves before a storm.

“They know why we’ve come,” Gregor said, his voice a grating rasp that carried an undercurrent of satisfaction. He adjusted the chain across his broad chest, the links clinking like a jailer’s keys. “Fear is a language they understand, Brother Hugo. These people need a firm hand. We should not waste time speaking softly.”

Hugo’s fingers brushed the Inquisitor’s Rosary hanging from his belt, the familiar texture of the worn beads grounding him. He resisted replying, his jaw tightening. Gregor’s methods were blunt, effective in their brutality but often devoid of discernment. The Church had entrusted Hugo with this investigation, but Gregor’s presence was both a reminder and a warning.

As they neared the village square, Hugo let his gaze linger on the villagers’ faces. The lines of worry etched into their expressions, the way they clutched at their children or turned away as if hoping to be overlooked—it was all painfully familiar. He thought briefly of the woman whose execution he had overseen just weeks ago, her cries of innocence echoing in his mind. Was her sin truly deserving of fire, or had fear twisted justice into something unrecognizable? He banished the thought with a hard blink, focusing instead on the task at hand.

The square was eerily quiet, save for the faint bleating of sheep in the distance and the creak of a weathered sign swaying in the wind. Hugo dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the sodden earth, and stepped forward. His voice, measured and deliberate, carried over the uneasy murmurs of the crowd.

“We come in the name of the Holy Church, seeking truth and justice,” he began, his tone calm but firm. “Rumors have reached us of heretical practices, of witchcraft taking root in this village. I urge you—if any among you hold knowledge of these matters, speak now.”

For a moment, no one moved. The villagers exchanged hesitant glances, their unease palpable. The distant tolling of the church bell marked the hour, a hollow sound that seemed to press down on the gathered crowd. Then, a man stepped forward, his face lined with age and worry. His cap was clutched tightly in his hands, and his shoulders were hunched as if to shield himself from unseen judgment.

“It’s her, my lord,” the man said, his voice trembling. “Eliza Moreau. The healer. She’s the one you want.”

A ripple of agreement swept through the crowd, tentative at first but growing in conviction. Others began to chime in, their words tumbling over one another in a rising tide of accusation. “She speaks to the forest spirits!” “A child fell ill after she touched him!” “I saw her mixing potions under the full moon!”

Hugo raised a hand, and the cacophony subsided. His gaze settled on the man who had first spoken. “You accuse this woman of witchcraft. What evidence do you present to support such a grave claim?” he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut through the man’s uncertainty.

The man faltered, his fingers twisting the fabric of his cap. “She… she knows things no one else does. Cures illnesses no one else can. It’s not natural.”

“Knowledge is not a crime,” Hugo replied, his voice steady but edged with authority. “What else?”

“She was seen in the forest,” another voice interjected, this time a woman’s. Her tone was edged with fear, but there was an eagerness in her words, as if speaking them aloud might rid her of their weight. “Near the old stones. My husband said he saw her there, whispering to the shadows.”

“The forest has always been cursed,” another villager added, his voice tight with tension. “Strange things happen there. She’s drawn to that place like a moth to a flame.”

The crowd stirred uneasily, their collective fear thickening the air. Hugo studied their faces, noting the alchemy of dread and fervor that had taken hold. It was the same expression he had seen countless times before—an insidious blend of desperation and guilt, seeking an outlet for its poison. He felt a flicker of unease stir within him but suppressed it, his hand tightening briefly on the rosary at his side.

“Bring her to me,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

Two villagers hesitated before scurrying off. The crowd shifted, their whispers rising like smoke from a dying fire. Gregor folded his arms, his scarred face twisting into a grim smile.

“They’ll hand her over gladly,” he muttered. “She’s already condemned in their eyes.”

Hugo glanced at him, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. “Condemnation without proof serves no one,” he said quietly, though his words carried a warning edge. Gregor’s smile deepened, but he said nothing.

Moments later, the villagers returned, dragging a young woman between them. Eliza Moreau was slight of build but held herself with surprising composure despite their rough treatment. Her auburn hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders in waves, and her striking green eyes flicked between Hugo and Gregor with a mixture of defiance and fear. Her hands were bound, and though her jaw was set in determination, Hugo noticed the faint trembling of her fingers.

One of the villagers thrust a small leather satchel into Hugo’s hands. “This is hers,” he said, his words laden with accusation. “Filled with herbs and strange powders.”

Hugo opened the satchel, the scent of dried herbs and earth rising faintly from its contents. Inside were bundles of plants, small vials of tinctures, and a bone-handled knife. Nothing inherently damning, though he knew how easily such items could be twisted into evidence. He closed the satchel and handed it to a waiting guard.

“You are Eliza Moreau?” he asked, his voice steady.

“I am,” she replied, her tone calm but edged with tension. “And you are the Church’s hounds, come to sniff out another scapegoat.”

A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd, but Hugo raised a hand to silence them. “You stand accused of witchcraft, of consorting with dark forces. What say you in your defense?”

Eliza’s gaze did not waver. “I am a healer. The knowledge I possess was taught to me by my foster mother. It is no more witchcraft than the bread a baker pulls from his oven or the wine a vintner draws from his cask.”

Gregor stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “And the forest? What of the rituals you perform there?”

“I visit my mother’s grave,” she replied, her voice softening. “If you find that suspicious, then I suppose even grief is a crime in your eyes.”

Gregor’s scowl deepened, and he took another step toward her, but Hugo raised an arm, barring his path. “Enough,” he said firmly. He turned back to Eliza. “You will be taken to the Inquisition Fortress for questioning. If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

Her green eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, Hugo felt as if he were the one under scrutiny. “Innocence,” she said quietly, “has never protected anyone from men like you.”

The words lingered in the air as Hugo signaled for the guards to take her away. The crowd began to disperse, their murmurs fading into the mist. Hugo mounted his horse, his hand brushing the rosary at his belt. Its warmth unsettled him, a faint echo of the strange tension in the air. As the cart carrying Eliza disappeared into the mist, he followed, the distant tolling of the church bell ringing in his ears like a question he could not yet answer.