chandor864
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The Heresy of Laughter: Isabeau's Confession
It had all begun with an act of mercy, the kind that the Church seldom forgives when performed in the shadows of the woods. Isabeau knew the Forest of Brocéliande better than her own prayers; she knew which moss soothed burns and which mandrake root, gathered under a russet moon, could calm the fevers that snatched away infants.
That evening, she was not alone. A man, draped in a traveler’s cloak but whose boots betrayed a fallen nobility, had begged her to treat his hunting wound. In the gloom of the ancient oaks, Isabeau had prepared an ointment of comfrey and badger fat, murmuring old peasant rhymes to give herself heart for the task. She had not seen the sexton’s eye, hidden behind a holly thicket. To this zealous witness, the remedies became potions, the rhymes became incantations, and the wounded man a demon. Three days later, the abbey guards broke down her door.
The interrogation cell of Saint-Cénéré Abbey breathed nothing but the dampness of stone and the rancid smell of tallow. At the center of the room, Isabeau was bound to a dark wooden bench, her ankles imprisoned in iron stocks that exposed the nakedness of her feet to the flickering torchlight.
Inquisitor Barthélémy, an ink-like silhouette against the limestone wall, approached slowly. In his hand, he twirled a vulture quill, its rigid spine seeming to catch the light.
— Silence is the garment of the Adversary, he whispered in a voice devoid of hatred, almost fatherly. But the flesh, it possesses its own language. A language that the holy quill knows how to untie.
At a nod of the head, Master Henri, the executioner with calloused hands, took his place at the foot of the bench. Without a word, he began. The first pass was a fleeting caress, almost hesitant—a touch so light it made every pore of Isabeau’s skin shiver. She flinched violently, her toes curling abruptly in a desperate attempt to close in on themselves against the cold iron of the stocks.
Then, the movement became more confident, more rhythmic. Master Henri swept the sole of the foot with surgical precision, tracing invisible figure-eights from the heel up to the sensitive hollow of the plant. The down insinuated itself between her toes, triggering waves of unbearable electrical sensations. A guttural sound, a strangled rattle, rose from Isabeau's throat; it was a hiccup of surprise that instantly transformed into a convulsive laughter, shrill and disordered.
It was not the mirth of a child, but a purely animal reaction, a sensory hysteria that shook her entire being like a seismic jolt. Her body arched with such force that the wood of the bench groaned beneath her. Her ankles struck the iron of the stocks and her wrists struggled frantically against the leather straps, every muscle strained to the extreme in a desperate effort to escape the elusive grasp of the feather. She laughed until her ribs felt ready to break, her breath cut short by this forced joy that resembled an agony.
— Look at yourself, Isabeau, Barthélémy resumed. This laughter that tears your lungs is the confession of your flesh, which no longer knows how to lie.
The Inquisitor raised his hand. Barthélémy signaled the guards to release Isabeau's arms and raise them above her head, fixing them firmly to an upper crossbar. Her torso was now taut, her flanks vulnerable, and her underarms exposed.
— You have delivered only fragments, Isabeau. The Evil One still resists within the folds of your body.
Master Henri seized two softer quills—long swan feathers whose down seemed almost vaporous. He began by brushing her ribs, following the contour of each bone with a calculated, almost hypnotic slowness. The laughter that burst forth was immediate, shriller and more disordered than before. The muscles of her sides contracted in uncontrollable waves, ducking beneath the skin like trapped animals. Each contact of the feather triggered an electric shock that raced through her chest, forcing her to writhe desperately against the wood, her lower back arched in a continuous spasm.
Then, with quiet cruelty, the executioner slid the quills higher, thrusting them delicately into the dark, damp hollow of the underarms. This time, the hysteria was total, absolute. It was no longer laughter; it was a cry of agony transformed by the forced and savage contraction of the vocal cords. Air could no longer enter her lungs; her ribs seemed ready to shatter under the pressure of her diaphragm, locked by the jolts. Isabeau was the prey of a frenzied agitation, a macabre dance where every twisting movement to escape the torture only brought her raw flesh back against the insidious tips of the down. She suffocated, her face flooded with tears, her eyes rolled back toward the dark vaults, prisoner of a nervous storm so violent it threatened to burst her heart.
— Confess! thundered Barthélémy amidst this din of strangled laughter. Confess that this laughter is the sign of your unholy pact!
Isabeau, out of breath, could only stammer words broken by hiccups. Her confession was nothing but a long delirium provoked by nervous exhaustion. With every brush of the feather, she confirmed the worst inventions of her tormentors just to make the contact stop. Yes, she had danced under the moon. Yes, the ointment was a poison. Yes, the stranger was the Prince of Darkness. Her voice, broken by the forced laughter, was now only a desperate whisper that conceded everything the Inquisitor wanted to hear. She confessed to crimes she had never imagined, each admission greeted by a satisfied nod from Barthélémy, while the executioner continued to torture her sides to "purge the last secrets."
Barthélémy straightened up, smoothing the folds of his coarse habit with icy satisfaction. On his order, Master Henri detached the bonds. Isabeau collapsed onto the bench, unable to support her own weight, her limbs still twitching with nervous tremors, as if the quill still haunted her.
— Brother Clément, write: "The evil spirit has been expelled by the forced joy of the Lord." The accused is ready for her penance.
A yellowed parchment and an inkstand were placed before her. Isabeau, her hand trembling and her mind clouded by exhaustion, signed her name at the bottom of a text she could no longer read. She had admitted the unspeakable, not because it was true, but because laughter had stolen her reason.
In the gloom of the cell, Master Henri carefully tucked the quill back into its leather case. The truth had come out, wrenched away by laughter, and with it, Isabeau’s fate had just been sealed. As she was led toward the dungeon, she wondered if the man from the forest would ever know that his salvation had cost the damnation of an innocent.
It had all begun with an act of mercy, the kind that the Church seldom forgives when performed in the shadows of the woods. Isabeau knew the Forest of Brocéliande better than her own prayers; she knew which moss soothed burns and which mandrake root, gathered under a russet moon, could calm the fevers that snatched away infants.
That evening, she was not alone. A man, draped in a traveler’s cloak but whose boots betrayed a fallen nobility, had begged her to treat his hunting wound. In the gloom of the ancient oaks, Isabeau had prepared an ointment of comfrey and badger fat, murmuring old peasant rhymes to give herself heart for the task. She had not seen the sexton’s eye, hidden behind a holly thicket. To this zealous witness, the remedies became potions, the rhymes became incantations, and the wounded man a demon. Three days later, the abbey guards broke down her door.
The interrogation cell of Saint-Cénéré Abbey breathed nothing but the dampness of stone and the rancid smell of tallow. At the center of the room, Isabeau was bound to a dark wooden bench, her ankles imprisoned in iron stocks that exposed the nakedness of her feet to the flickering torchlight.
Inquisitor Barthélémy, an ink-like silhouette against the limestone wall, approached slowly. In his hand, he twirled a vulture quill, its rigid spine seeming to catch the light.
— Silence is the garment of the Adversary, he whispered in a voice devoid of hatred, almost fatherly. But the flesh, it possesses its own language. A language that the holy quill knows how to untie.
At a nod of the head, Master Henri, the executioner with calloused hands, took his place at the foot of the bench. Without a word, he began. The first pass was a fleeting caress, almost hesitant—a touch so light it made every pore of Isabeau’s skin shiver. She flinched violently, her toes curling abruptly in a desperate attempt to close in on themselves against the cold iron of the stocks.
Then, the movement became more confident, more rhythmic. Master Henri swept the sole of the foot with surgical precision, tracing invisible figure-eights from the heel up to the sensitive hollow of the plant. The down insinuated itself between her toes, triggering waves of unbearable electrical sensations. A guttural sound, a strangled rattle, rose from Isabeau's throat; it was a hiccup of surprise that instantly transformed into a convulsive laughter, shrill and disordered.
It was not the mirth of a child, but a purely animal reaction, a sensory hysteria that shook her entire being like a seismic jolt. Her body arched with such force that the wood of the bench groaned beneath her. Her ankles struck the iron of the stocks and her wrists struggled frantically against the leather straps, every muscle strained to the extreme in a desperate effort to escape the elusive grasp of the feather. She laughed until her ribs felt ready to break, her breath cut short by this forced joy that resembled an agony.
— Look at yourself, Isabeau, Barthélémy resumed. This laughter that tears your lungs is the confession of your flesh, which no longer knows how to lie.
The Inquisitor raised his hand. Barthélémy signaled the guards to release Isabeau's arms and raise them above her head, fixing them firmly to an upper crossbar. Her torso was now taut, her flanks vulnerable, and her underarms exposed.
— You have delivered only fragments, Isabeau. The Evil One still resists within the folds of your body.
Master Henri seized two softer quills—long swan feathers whose down seemed almost vaporous. He began by brushing her ribs, following the contour of each bone with a calculated, almost hypnotic slowness. The laughter that burst forth was immediate, shriller and more disordered than before. The muscles of her sides contracted in uncontrollable waves, ducking beneath the skin like trapped animals. Each contact of the feather triggered an electric shock that raced through her chest, forcing her to writhe desperately against the wood, her lower back arched in a continuous spasm.
Then, with quiet cruelty, the executioner slid the quills higher, thrusting them delicately into the dark, damp hollow of the underarms. This time, the hysteria was total, absolute. It was no longer laughter; it was a cry of agony transformed by the forced and savage contraction of the vocal cords. Air could no longer enter her lungs; her ribs seemed ready to shatter under the pressure of her diaphragm, locked by the jolts. Isabeau was the prey of a frenzied agitation, a macabre dance where every twisting movement to escape the torture only brought her raw flesh back against the insidious tips of the down. She suffocated, her face flooded with tears, her eyes rolled back toward the dark vaults, prisoner of a nervous storm so violent it threatened to burst her heart.
— Confess! thundered Barthélémy amidst this din of strangled laughter. Confess that this laughter is the sign of your unholy pact!
Isabeau, out of breath, could only stammer words broken by hiccups. Her confession was nothing but a long delirium provoked by nervous exhaustion. With every brush of the feather, she confirmed the worst inventions of her tormentors just to make the contact stop. Yes, she had danced under the moon. Yes, the ointment was a poison. Yes, the stranger was the Prince of Darkness. Her voice, broken by the forced laughter, was now only a desperate whisper that conceded everything the Inquisitor wanted to hear. She confessed to crimes she had never imagined, each admission greeted by a satisfied nod from Barthélémy, while the executioner continued to torture her sides to "purge the last secrets."
Barthélémy straightened up, smoothing the folds of his coarse habit with icy satisfaction. On his order, Master Henri detached the bonds. Isabeau collapsed onto the bench, unable to support her own weight, her limbs still twitching with nervous tremors, as if the quill still haunted her.
— Brother Clément, write: "The evil spirit has been expelled by the forced joy of the Lord." The accused is ready for her penance.
A yellowed parchment and an inkstand were placed before her. Isabeau, her hand trembling and her mind clouded by exhaustion, signed her name at the bottom of a text she could no longer read. She had admitted the unspeakable, not because it was true, but because laughter had stolen her reason.
In the gloom of the cell, Master Henri carefully tucked the quill back into its leather case. The truth had come out, wrenched away by laughter, and with it, Isabeau’s fate had just been sealed. As she was led toward the dungeon, she wondered if the man from the forest would ever know that his salvation had cost the damnation of an innocent.
