The days left until the full moon, Katerina devoted to unraveling the messages of witchcraft, messages that she could not read. Cards, chickens, goats, magic potions - nothing told her what exactly awaited her. As if teasingly, any of her witchcraft only counted the days. At night, she quietly tried to observe the planets. But as soon as she tried to set up her device, which the sailors called a spyglass, clouds ran over her star or planet, behind which she wanted to look. She had not thought of buying a telescope before, because she did not think that her witchcraft talents might need such help. And now it was risky: latent mass hysteria and suspicion secretly took possession of the minds of people as in the recent gloomy Middle Ages. Only then no one hid their fears. Now, thanks to the gradual development of science, the open manifestation of witch-hunting was considered ignorance, which, however, did not mean that superstition in people had died. Ordinary people confused the conc

Why is this woman bound?Your Grace, - The official, who was recording the testimony of a bound black-haired woman in a rough robe, jumped up, knocking over a rough stool. No one warned us of your arrival. He looked angrily at the commandant, who was fiddling with the keys in embarrassment next to an elderly plump man with thinning blond hair. The commandant began to fuss, offering his companion a wretched chair. The man held the wig in his hand and occasionally fanned himself with it.Otherwise, you would be conducting interrogations in the boudoir? he asked the official with a wry smile. “I asked why this woman has her hands tied?” The dark-haired woman raised her head, and Catherine de Goe's eyes blazed at the blond-haired man. Smiling tartly, she shrugged her shoulders.Your Grace, - the official hurried, needlessly fiddling with quills on the table in front of him. This woman is dangerous. She is a witch,” he said in a whisper, leaning towards the visitor.What

Hearing a thump in the corridor, a man in a wig, sitting in a spacious burgundy armchair, leisurely folded the letter he had read before and hid it in the folds of a spacious dressing gown. He waved reassuringly at a man in a frayed cassock, huddled in another armchair near the fireplace, and clasped his hands on the knee of his leg, which was wrapped in a snow-white stocking and laid on the other. The man in the cassock emerged anxiously from his massive and fat body, but a new wave of the graceful man's hand made him again draw his head into his fat shoulders. Meanwhile, the footsteps were getting closer. And soon the door to the hotly heated room swung open without knocking, and on the threshold appeared a disheveled nun in a black cassock, girded with an ordinary rope.- Did you hear what happened in Zhevodan? he shouted excitedly, shaking the scribbled paper. “Have you heard of the beast from Gévaudan?” No? Well, then soon all of France will hear about it! What the hell is thi

Dawn caught Bertrand de Gault and Father Justine, the abbot of the monastery in Beze, accompanying him, on a country road past rare trees, still bare from winter, vast fields with ravens circling above them with a loud cawing, and rare fetid streams that suddenly appeared in front of them as if from nowhere. The fat monk, woken up in the middle of the night, sat uncertainly in the saddle, falling over first on one side, then on the other, from which his sleepy slumber stopped for a moment. Bertrand, looking cheerful and fresh, impatiently urged on his horse, occasionally throwing mocking glances at his companion. At noon, they passed a small town, in which there was tension and hidden anger. While the abbot quenched his insatiable appetite at one of the inns, Bertrand, who had a quick bite to eat, walked around the city, listening and looking closely at the excitement surrounding him. There was talk of the king, who was almost openly vilified for having an affair wit

Passing along a narrow and low corridor, Guillaume stopped at another iron door. Without looking at Bertrand, he muttered:He is there. Bertrand nodded. Guillaume hesitated, but unlocked the door. Bertrand's eyes met a huge stone hall, in which torches smoked. Water was running down the damp walls in some places. The darkness, which the torches could not illuminate, went forward and upward. The echo of footsteps echoed around, voicing the chilling atmosphere of hopelessness and grave peace that reigned.Strange," Guillaume muttered. “I thought I was putting out the torches here. He stepped forward, lighting his way with a torch taken from the wall. Shrugging his shoulders, Bertrand followed him. Ahead was clearly heard someone muttering and moaning, screaming and howling. Bertrand instinctively put his hand on the hilt, but then he laughed softly. Against the Zhevodan beast, not a sword, but a good club or mortar is needed. Captain Diomele with h