Free The Lafayette Sword by Eric Giacometti

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29
    ÃŽle de la Cité
    March 14, 1355
    T he torture room was cast in shadows. The only lighting was the candle on the writing table. Flamel had begun to record the session. He knew the ritual formulas used to open interrogations. He had copied them many times in his shop. Nobody ever tortured in his own name. The torturer acted at the behest of God or the king. The hand that caused the suffering was always obeying a hig her order.
    The torturer tossed the gag on the floor.
    There were no screams. The young woman apparently didn’t understand the henchman’s i ntentions.
    â€œHer name is Flore.”
    â€œ...de Cenevières,” came a voice that suffering had not total ly broken.
    Flamel turned in surprise.
    â€œAnd I know what you want.”
    The torturer stood still, his breast rippe r in hand.
    â€œWhat do you know about our interest s, woman?”
    â€œWhat they’re all interested in—the men of the Church and the ki ng alike.”
    The torturer snickered. “And who are you, poor wench, to know the desires of t he great?”
    â€œMen want only one thin g: power.”
    Now the torturer was laughing. “Power. What news! And you think you can teach us something? My poor girl, we have known that since God chased Adam out of paradise.”
    He brought the breast-ripper points down on Flore’s heaving chest. “You will have to teach me something else if you want to feed your children one day.”
    â€œProcreation just adds misfortune to the lot of human beings. It’s the Devi l’s work.”
    â€œSo you don’t need your nipples, whore?” he shouted. “Who put such ideas in your head? Your evil Jew?”
    Her voice, filled with disdain, grew louder. “Isaac was good. He saved m y mother.”
    â€œHe bewitched her. She sold your body to th e damned.”
    â€œNever. He never to uched me.”
    â€œIn any case, he will never touch y ou again.”
    For a few moments, all that could be heard was the scratch of pen on parchment. Flamel had slowed his hand, because he knew the words he was transcribing could lead to the woman’s death, despite what the torturer had told him. Her words were those of a heretic. Not wanting to have children, claiming that procreation was the work of the Devil—that was enough to send her to the stake.
    â€œYou do know the treatment reserved for those excluded from God? Those who refuse his law and dare to challenge his will?”
    The torturer opened and closed the rusty claws of the breast ripper, waking them from the sleep of death.
    â€œThey’re purified by fire. But that’s nothing compared to what awaits you. Sp eak, dog.”
    â€œMen want gold,” Flore cried out.
    It was as if the woman’s body had caught fire. The torturer leaped back. “Why are you talking about gold, trollop? Do you think I torture for that vile metal that makes peop le crazy?”
    â€œAre you naïve, torturer? Do you think I was handed over to you to save my soul? They brought Isaac here because he knew the secret of gold.”
    Flamel stopped writing. He remembered Master Maillard’s words from the night of the pyre. “The coffers are empty.” So, this Isaac was an alchemist.
    â€œThe truth is, he thought he knew the secret,” Flore said. He thought he could finish his quest in Paris. But he didn’t h ave time.”
    Flamel glanced at the torturer. He was immobile, his face dark. The torturer put the breast ri pper down.
    â€œI have orders not to kill you, woman, and to send you back to your province. But I was given a mission, and I will fulfill it. You have a choice. Speak, or your body will speak for you.”
    The woman didn’t hesitate. “I wi ll speak.”

30
    Rue Muller, eighteenth arrondissement, Paris
    Present day
    T he last rays of the sun struck the Declaration of Rights of Man and the Citizen under its protective glass. At the