The city of Aragon sprawled across the emerald green hills, the white stone walls and buildings bathed in the golden rays of the midday sun.  The occasional wisp of cloud was strewn across the blue sky, seemingly added as final touches by the Almighty to this most splendid canvas of firmament.

     Letitia listened to the churning roar of the city, and watched from her balcony as the people flowed along the streets.  It was a wonderful day to be alive, no more so than because of its significance.  Her stomach was still unsettled with apprehension, for today she was to visit the Countess Attaras.

     Leaving her elevated perch, she returned to her dresser and continued to arrange her hair, scrutinising every detail, intent on making as good an impression as she could.

     Their chance meeting at the theatre had allowed the two women to talk, followed by an invitation to tea.  If she could behave flawlessly, there existed the pleasing possibility of gaining entrance to the elite social circles.  Her meagre funds would not serve her long under such taxing demands, but if she could find a husband from the noble caste, a marriage would ensure her secure welfare for life.

     Letitia assessed her reflection in the mirror.  She was attractive, her long sable hair shone with radiant health and wreathed her elegant features like a midnight halo.  Her form was fairly small, but curvaceous and well proportioned.  At seventeen she was desirable enough to attract affluent suitors, and should she succeed in merging with the noble echelons of Spanish society, her virginal status would surely gain her the husband she sought.

     Straightening the folds of her white dress, she left her apartment and made for the villa of the Countess.

     The villa was a true reflection of the aristocratic stature, bedecked in finery and sumptuous works of art.  Even the furniture was of the most luxurious design, each piece a magnificent aesthetic sight.

     A valet escorted her up to the veranda, where the Countess sat beside a low table.  The woman was not alone either.  Opposite her sat a rigid form, a complete contrast to the hedonistic ambience.  He was approaching thirty, with handsome features which made him an alluring sight save for the black hair and dark robes that marked him as a holy man.

     “Ah, Letitia, how nice of you to come.  Please, sit down and join us for chocolate.  This is Don Francisco Tirregon, my confessor, and second Inquisitor of the Holy Office.  Don Francisco, this is a new acquaintance of mine, Letitia Rochus.”

     She knelt and kissed the signet ring he extended.  The man regarded her with a stern eye, his very presence intimidating.  Was it merely a sub-conscious reaction to his standing, or was it an actual aura that he himself generated.  She had heard the dark rumours concerning the Inquisition, but she paid such lies little heed, for it was God’s work they performed in their eradication of heretics and witches.  Several times she had attended the Auto da Fe, the mass burnings where the Inquisition paraded those who had been found dabbling in the dark arts, before expiating them for their blasphemous crimes, and never had she felt cause to fear the righteous officers, or feel pity for the condemned.

     Mundane pleasantries were exchanged between the Countess and herself, but all the while she could feel Don Francisco’s rigorous stare boring into her.  It was disconcerting, and several times she lost track of the conversation as her thoughts strayed to the foreboding spectre.

     When he joined in the conversation, his deep voice brought both women to silence.  He asked Letitia her age, her confessor’s name, and many intricate questions about religion.  Such was the intense nature of his quizzing, Letitia soon began to feel uneasy, the severity of his look making her thoughts whirl in panic.

     Having noticed this angst, he told the Countess to inform her that he was not as fierce as he seemed, and leaned forth to caress her in an obliging manner, to reassure her that his banter was nothing save benign.  With a stifled sigh of profound relief, she kissed his presented hand with great reverence and modesty, and watched with no small measure of mental turmoil as he left.  The confusion in her head was further kindled by his last words, “My dear child, I shall remember you till the next time.”

     It was a remarkable expression: however, she was inexperienced in matters of gallantry, and could see no significance or menace in the words.

     The rest of the audience with the Countess went well; she avoided talk of the Inquisitor with almost fanatic verve.  The noble lady was much taken with the youthful girl, so much so that she was invited to shop with her the following day in preparation for a dinner party, which she could also attend as the Countess’ guest.

     Letitia was in high spirits as she returned home, and it seemed that the sun celebrated with her, filling the horizon with a crimson hue.  The blazing sunset had her enthralled, and with a glass of wine, she watched the sight from her balcony.  The sun slipped behind the horizon, the streets began to clear of people, and dusk settled into a star speckled night.

     With darkness approaching, and a chill breeze lifting to strip away the warmth of the day, she went to bed after giving thanks in her prayers.  She was exhausted by the day’s events, and most eager to be fresh and vibrant for those that awaited her tomorrow.  But, because of her excitement, it took all her efforts to calm her raging thoughts and fall asleep.

     A resounding volley of thuds had her jerk upright in bed with a start.  She swept her hair from her eyes and listened to make sure that it was not a noise in her dream responsible for stirring her so sharply.

     The metallic clatter and booming thump of an impatient knock upon her door echoed up from the street.  With a vexed murmur, she slipped from her soft bed and took a gown from her door.  She hurried down the stairs, pulling the garment on and fastening it.  She paused before opening the locks, for brigands in the city were not unheard of.  She opted for caution and asked who it was paying a visit at such a late hour.

     “The Holy Inquisition!” came the terse reply.

     “What is it you wish of me?” she stuttered, scarcely able to believe her ears.  She was pious and God fearing, she attended church and gave as generously as she could, surely they were in error.

     “Open the door in the name of the Holy Office,” demanded a strident voice.

     “Again Sir, I ask, who is it you seek?” she responded, her heart pounding in her chest.

     The brittle crunch of wood being punished by a blow, reverberated in her ears, and the door bucked in its frame.  Letitia gave a shriek of shock, put her hands to her face in horror, and began to back away.  The door jolted under another impact, and the next blow was joined by the splintering of timber around the hinges.

     Her resolve crumbled and she turned and fled, every nightmarish whisper she had overheard about the Inquisition suddenly polluting her thoughts.

     She had barely reached the top of the stairs when the door burst inward, smashing onto the floor, fully torn from its mounts by the assault of the guards.

     Charging for her balcony, she hoped to shout pleas for help onto the night, but even her gown was against her in this matter, and snagged her legs with its length, sending her tumbling to the floor.

     The cold grip of gauntlets snapped onto her body like metal teeth, and a trio of armoured soldiers hoisted her into the air.  She squirmed in their grasp, seeking to break free while screaming with all the volume she could muster.  She demanded to know her crime, what it was they sought, but they ignored her every word, seemingly engrossed with their duty of carrying her out into the street, where she was manacled and hurled into the rear of a caged wagon.  Undaunted, she continued her cries as the vehicle took off, the two steeds thundering down the street under the eager whip of the driver.

     Clutching the bars of her prison for stability against the lurching cage, she wept for her soul.

     “What is to become of me?  I am ruined,” she whispered, wiping away her tears with the torn and dirty hem of her only sparse garment.

     She was expecting to die this very night, so numbing was her fright. Her surprise was all the greater when instead of the stake or executioner’s block, she was delivered to an apartment near the grim fortress of faith which served as the Inquisition’s bastion.  The home lay in the castle’s shadow, swallowed up within the sheet of darkness cast down by the towering structure, its battlements manned by armoured forms, bright banners fluttering in the breeze.  From this fortress the Inquisition spread out into the surrounding area, making it the centre of a web of zealous persecution, and perhaps the most feared structure in all Aragon.

     The armoured driver descended from his post and pulled her from the cage, his metal form towering over her as he drew her to the door.  She resisted as best she could, pulling away because she feared what unspeakable hell might lay beyond.

     “Where am I being taken!  I am innocent of any crime!” she exclaimed, and gave a yelp as the driver tugged up her arm and then lashed his whip across the backs of her thighs.