The hall of the archbishop’s cameral residence was packed that Wednesday, but it was only to be expected. Everyone in the diocese knew that the usual riffraff (rustics overheard to have given blasphemous oaths, shrewish wives lacking obedience toward their husbands, sotted fools who’d disrupted the peace on the Sabbath, etc.) had all been pushed off the docket, leaving room for business of a far more succulent nature.

It appeared that most of the diocese had come to witness the event, in fact, jostling and elbowing in spirited fashion for a view of the proceedings. The host was so vast that it spilled out down the hall, and far into the courtyard. And in spite of much grumbling and frustration, this surplus of humanity would continue hanging on to the bitter end, keen to receive even third-hand reports from the lucky vanguard who’d breached the building.

Being the court notary, I naturally enjoyed a prime vantage point. And since I bear no allegiance to the idea of celibacy, not to mention harboring appetites of a somewhat rapacious bent, I never savored my appointment better than on that fateful day.

When the judges at last made their grand entrance, the bailiffs were compelled to threaten menace before the carnival din would subside to a low, frenetic buzz. Then, after the sages had been seated, the session lurched ahead into its predictable patterns of motion—running through a semblance of the usual prayers and pageantry, before coming time at last for me to wet tip of quill in inkpot.

The Commissarius coughed. “Who brings action before this sanctified tribunal of the one true Church?”

Comte Vaintier stepped forward, to the surprise of no one. The identity of today’s litigants, as well as the nature of the accusation, had been common knowledge for days now. Even so, the formalities must be observed. “I do, if it please your reverend fathers.”

“And the charge?”

Vaintier leveled a denunciatory finger at a tall, distinguished figure on the other side of the hall. “I hold that the Duc d’Troilles is no man at all, but a flaccid impotent, incapable of fulfilling his paternal duty to God, prince, and wife!”

This drew an inevitable cacophony from the gallery, entailing much delay.

“And you, monsieur Duc,” the Commissarius turned to the defendant once the clamor had subsided, “do you raise objection to the jurisdiction of the court?”

I supposed the rabble were destined for great disappointment now. I’m privy to the judges’ councils, you see, and this particular case had already been the subject of much badinage. After all, it was most irregular for a third-party to bring allegations of impotence to court. Normally, such was the province of disenchanted wives, seeking an otherwise-unobtainable divorce. In consequence, several panel members had expressed grave doubts whether the charge could possibly be sustained. Upon the faintest disputation from d’Troilles, I expected the matter to be dropped, like the hot coal it was.

But old man d’Troilles surprised me, for he stood forth, graying head held high, and barked out in a clear voice “No objection whatsoever. I may hold the dog who accuses me in the utmost of contempt—but with respect to the wisdom and authority of this holy tribunal, I grant faith without reservation.”

I whistled soundlessly. The trial would proceed.

Who would have guessed that the long-running feud between Duc d’Troilles and Comte Vaintier, the two chief dignitaries of our provincial backwater, would spill into the halls of ecclesiastical court?

Of course, it was circumstance that brought the matter to a head when it did. The Comte, while only a distant cousin, had for decades persisted as d’Troilles’ closest living heir. The Duc’s union to his first wife was affectionate by all appearances, yet year after year it remained barren, producing no issue to supersede Vaintier’s tenuous claim.

Rumor among the fishwives was that blame for this failure to procreate lay chiefly with the Duc. After all, if the man ever dallied with his kitchen wenches, he was preternaturally discreet—so that though they esteemed him as an admirable and upright seigneur, they also gabbled openly that he was cursed with a cock as limp as they came.

As for Vaintier, he bided his time, full of smug assurance that in the end, he would have the last laugh over his bitter rival. Sooner or later the old man would die. When he did, the Comte would inherit the Duc’s title, uniting their two estates into a vast landholding the likes few had ever possessed.

What a shock, then, when the Duchesse passed away with the grippe. And, after a suitable interval, d’Troilles—now more than seven decades into a rich and full life—had married again. And, this new wife had promptly fulfilled her purpose, growing large to deliver a fat, healthy son!

Belatedly, only in the past week, Vaintier himself had wed. But if the Duc’s progeny could not in some manner be discredited, then whatever issue the Comte should have by his own wife was beside the point. At one time, the solution might have been found in provoking a duel, but that door was now firmly shut. Even supposing Vaintier did stoop to murdering an elder decades his senior, it would do nothing to erase the existence of that execrable babe.

Hence the desperate gambit playing out before us that day. If the Duc could once be convicted of impotency, then his marriage would be annulled, his son made a bastard, and the Comte’s claim as heir restored. What could be neater?

Now—did Vaintier give weight to the charge as he leveled it? I shouldn’t be surprised. There were reasons to think thus; albeit those reasons were conjectural and puffed by gossip. Still, the real beauty was that even if reports of d’Troilles’ incapacity turned out overblown, the stratagem remained sound. Many was the virile stag who had gone flaccid under the pressure of trying to prove his manhood midst public scrutiny. At that time, for example, the name de Langey remained a subject of talk even in our remote corner of Europe: reviled mercilessly for his inability to copulate when it mattered most, though he was said capable enough to father a whole brood out of wedlock in subsequent years.

That was why I expected d’Troilles to contest the very premise of this absurd trial. To what end risk such danger, such ridicule, when the matter might so easily be dispelled?

Instead ... he had agreed most readily. And this introduced a sneaking suspicion into my mind, that in the jeu de carte between these two great landowners, the Duc had a full suite of aces up his sleeve. Far from being at the mercy of Vaintier’s accusations, I suddenly lay convinced that the old man had engineered some cruel and cunning trap—and that his rival had walked right into it.

D’Troilles’ young wife now bustled forward to the rail. A buxom, headstrong thing, the daughter of a rustic chevalier of no great distinction, she’d obviously had inadequate training on etiquette and decorum. Yet even fresh off the tribulations of childbirth, the woman appeared full of life, with her sturdy, florid frame, and handsome, round face—and the Duc tolerated her outburst with affectionate bemusement.

“That knavish Comte makes a fool of both himself, and this court!” She thrust a tiny, swaddled-up infant out before her, voice ringing with the assurance of cathedral bells. “Every proof needed to establish the lie of these scurrilous claims I bear right here in my hands. Behold, the natural-born son of my husband, and future heir to his estates!”

Vaintier’s laugh cut through the hall, a mocking scythe through a field of wheat. The substance of the lady’s objection (if, perhaps, not the droll manner in which she conveyed it) was most predictable, and he was fully prepared to respond. Moreover, in delivering that response, the Comte appeared bent on pitching his testimony as much to the mob as the tribunal.

“Tut, are you going to allow this slattern to address me in such a way? For slattern she most certainly is. How else might I describe a woman who weds an esteemed noble in his feeble dotage, then cavorts behind his back with the basest of gutter trash to conceive a bastard and false heir? Let us cut to the heart of the matter. Every person here present knows that the esteemed Duc’s genital organ is destitute of motion. For years, I have been content to keep the matter quiet, in deference to his age. But I can no longer sit by and watch the interests of monarch, state, and Church be abused in such monstrous fashion!”

A roar of derision and amusement swelled behind the Comte as he preened. Meanwhile Duchesse d’Troilles’ ruddy face grew a deeper and deeper shade of plum. I half feared she might dash the child to the ground in her agitation. Instead, she screamed her injury aloud, till spittle flew from her mouth. “Fie! I cannot endure such slander! Lies and calumnies from start to finish. The motions of the Duc’s organ are, I assure you, quite satisfactory indeed!”

The Commissarius spent long minutes banging and shouting to restore some semblance of order. When at last the crowd would allow him speak, his eminence seemed inclined toward the Duc’s position. “The import of this testimony appears straightforward enough.”

Vaintier intervened quickly. “Yet, surely your grace must admit that every other particular of the case cuts against this testimony. It is true all things are possible with the Lord’s aid. We know He gave Abraham a son at the age of a hundred. Nevertheless, such miracles are exceeding rare. How often does a man sire his first child when he is little shy of four-score years? I do not call the Duc a liar. This trollop doubtless schemes to convince him that he has remnants of efficacy still. Women of her sort will do what is needed to secure false parentage for their bastards. But—when one of the largest domains of the realm lies in the balance, greater proofs are needed. I demand Trial by Congress!”

Duc d’Troilles had remained notably placid throughout, despite how his wife’s honor and his own virility were trodden through the mire. Even now, when irritation and affront were visible in his face, he retained his composure—resorting to neither the timid protestations, nor infuriated ripostes, that one might have expected from a man so vilely used.

And when he drew himself up to respond, I couldn’t but remark that d’Troilles still cut a fine figure of a man. His frame was lofty and straight, his visage severe with a long face and predatory hawk nose, the whole of it crowned by an unruly shock of thick, gray hair. Furthermore, if the allegations gave him any pause at all, he certainly made no sign of it. On the contrary, his manner suggested that the Comte was a callow lout whose prattlings had finally begun to grow tiresome.

“As my good wife has said, these falsehoods mount one upon another until they touch the sky, threatening to topple over and bury us all. Yet—if the court deems it fit—then I will submit myself even to this most unseemly inquisition which the miscreant proposes.”

In place of the avalanche of chaos that may have been expected, this declaration brought an uncanny stillness to the room. The freighted notion that such a public spectacle could be staged had titillated the crowd no end. But the prospect of it actually becoming reality was jarring, and shocked the peasants into momentary passivity.

Only now, I think, did Vaintier grasp that the undercurrents might be flowing against him. Still, he remained undismayed. Aiming to stir the folk back into a frenzy, while also putting d’Troilles off balance, he took up again with his licentious taunting. “Fine words from the old man. Would that his aged member was capable of living up to them. By all means, however, let us have that harlot of his stripped bare, here and now, just like the Bathsheba she is. Then we shall witness whether or not his phallus can rise to the occasion!”

The Duc raised a princely hand, stifling a stillborn response from the Commissarius. “Has this gentleman no decency? Whatever faults he may imagine the Duchesse to bear, surely this exceeds all limits. I give no thought to myself—but my wife? She is one I am sworn before God to protect. And when we speak of my wife, we speak of a matron with a ten-day newborn at the teat! A goodly young mother who, but for this sham, should still be lying-in! So be her quality high, or even be it low, what court dares sentence her to endure the vile outrage this man suggests?”

Vaintier grinned triumphantly. “Aha! The eleventh-hour strikes, and see how this snake suddenly vies to slither from the grip of justice.”

The Duc looked down his nose at the younger man, dripping disdain. “Lad, I shirk no hazard. I merely suggest that common decency demands a substitute to fill the woman’s part in the trial.”

By this point, matters were moving much faster than the Commissarius found prudent. He dithered miserably, courting delay while the vexation of the masses steadily grew. “The irregularities one encounters here, um ... hmmf ... You see, taking into account the Papal encyclicals ... Yet, it is true that an argument can be made...”

The Comte, on the other hand, was growing restless. Haste was all in such a venture, and this new wrinkle had sapped his momentum. If the suit was referred to Rome on appeal, it would drag for years; and at the end, he was hardly likely to gain satisfaction. “Enough, monsieurs, enough! I dare stipulate a stand-in may take the place of the bitch. I even offer furnish her replacement. Grant me but an hour to summon a wench from among my crofters, and I shall compel her to the female part tolerable quick.”

“Once again,” the Duc rejoined, “this conniver strains the bounds of credulity. Doubtless he plans to put forward the most withered, curdled, pox-ridden crone in all his domains.” Here he flashed a cold grin at the onlookers. “And what sire among us could hope to succeed in mounting a creature such as that, eh? ... No! As he bears the burden of proof, therefore must I be granted the pick of his chattels for the trial. That is only just.”

Vaintier was like an overmatched brawler at the county fair, retreating step by step under a rain of blows. “Oh very well. I warn you not to try the court’s patience with this foolishness. But, if you name one in all my demesne who may be produced in fair time, then I swear to man and God, you shall have her.”

“Ah, that is easily accomplished.” The Duc’s smile broadened in a terrifying way. “I choose that shy beauty over there. The Lady Vaintier.”

Gasps resounded through the gallery. A slightly-built young woman in the train of Vaintier’s suite grew pale and reeled with shock—keeping her feet only with the help of a chambermaid. This (one presumed) must be the Comte’s new wife. I’d not laid eyes on the bride before today; but now that I had, I must confess her a most beguiling creature.

A dark cloud had settled heavy on her husband’s scowling brows, and as the commotion abated he barked a harsh retort. “That is ludicrous! You are mad, monsieur!”

D’Troilles’ return came ominously hushed, so that every ear must strain to hear it. “Mad? Not in the least. Any halfwit child could follow the logic. You pledged me free selection of your chattels, did you not? And the Comtesse must surely be numbered among them, as one who falls under your coverture. Or do you renounce her? If that is the case, then it would appear she is the harlot here, rather than my wife.”

The brazenness of his argument was such as to render Vaintier momentarily speechless. Once again, the Commissarius sought to fill the breach, temporizing with his craven and empty words. And once again, he found himself interrupted—but this time, by the Dean. It was an unexpected development; the Dean being one who rarely spoke during such proceedings.

“Come, brothers, let us confer before ruling on this extraordinary set of circumstances.”

For a brief spell, the panel clustered together at the rear of the dais, whispering in heated fashion. Afterward, when they returned to their high-backed chairs, their faces were troubled. It was the Dean who made the pronouncement. “This tribunal forces us to defer to the lesser of evils. The fleeting sin of fornication, should we proceed with the trial as proposed, must be weighed against the recurring sin of allowing a fruitless marriage to persist if we adjourn. The duties Lady d’Troilles owes as a wife, must be balanced against her prerogatives as a new mother. And, the respect we owe to the noble birth of young matron Vaintier, measured against the sacred oath her husband rendered mere moments ago.”

“Acknowledging the gravity of these contending factors, we order in favor of Count Vaintier, that the Duc d’Troilles must undergo Trial by Congress ... Likewise, we order in favor of the Duc, that he shall have entire pick of the accuser’s chattels.”

The Duc’s blue eyes glittered ice-hard, but his face betrayed not an ounce of surprise at these words. The Comte, by contrast, promptly vaulted the rail, ranting and screaming, and would have assailed the judges bodily had he not been restrained by the bailiffs. It was a fortunate policy, indeed, which banned weapons from the court. If Vaintier had recourse to his rapier, rivers of blood would have flowed.

While scratching the ruling down onto parchment, I wondered what bauble d’Troilles must have dangled before the Dean to earn the man’s connivance. Promised construction of a new chapterhouse? Signed a village over to one of the monasteries? Or, perhaps he’d pledged a relic of the True Cross for the cathedral. Such treasure would draw the pilgrims in droves.

All one could say for certain is that the Duc had played the game masterfully, outmaneuvering the Comte at every turn. To appearances, d’Troilles had been fighting to stave off a dire threat from his rival—whereas in fact, he had duped Vaintier into arranging for his own public cuckolding, by official sanction no less.

Even so, everything that had transpired thus far merely served to set the stage. Before the Duc’s victory could be secured, the man would still have to get it up.

Another long interval went by before it was possible to proceed—the atmosphere buffeted and rafters reverberated by the raucous tumult of the throng. Meanwhile, three strapping wardens proved hardly sufficient to hold Vaintier in check. In the end, they had no alternative but to bind and gag him.

When relative peace was restored at last, the Commissarius resumed herding the affair along, eager for a show of method. “Comtesse, step forward.”

Shuffling on reluctant feet, gaze downcast, the young woman presented herself at the bar. Briefly her glance flickered to take in her aristocratic lout of a husband, lying on the cold stones now, bodily subdued. Her expression was blank, inscrutable.

Tangibly, she was a wisp of a thing, but enchanting to look at—fey of appearance, with wide hazel eyes, soft round face, ivory skin, and dense mahogany ringlets. The Comte had spared no expense for her raiment either. The flowing, off-shoulder dress she wore, with its lustrous autumn-gold silk and translucent gauze trim, would not have been out of place at Versailles. Well, and it was only fitting. Though the runt daughter of a large brood, her lineage was most distinguished. They did say the family was well known in the capital, and her sire numbered even royals among his connaissance.

“Lady,” the officiant intoned, “do you comprehend your situation?”

The girl’s quick expression and shining eyes gave one to think she was intelligent. Still, in such a short time, this young and sheltered lass could hardly have mastered the swirling political eddies and degenerate circumstances into which she’d been plunged. Her face screwed up in bewilderment. “I know only little of this Trial by Congress. Yet, it seems a most base affair for the holy tribunal to entangle me in.”

The Commissarius sighed, vexed to have to spell matters bluntly. “I regret that it is your husband who entangles all of us in this. He has levied grave charges against Duc d’Troilles, demanding we test their merit in open court. Also, he has sworn to join one of his own chattels to the exercise. You, being his wife, count among those properties he vouchsafed—and as happens, you are the very one called to aid this inquisition. So although your place in the trial may appear, mm ... infelicitous, rest assured you serve in a righteous cause, and in obedience to your husband.”

That last assertion provoked the Comte to a new bout of rebellion. Thundering muffled, unintelligible curses around the kerchief stuffed in his mouth, he rocked and twisted violently, as if to burst his bonds. The Marschal was obliged to kick him in the ribs several times before order could be restored.

Though Lady Vaintier blanched at this ugly scene, the purse of her lips told that she remained undaunted. “You speak many words, your grace, yet still I know not what role I am to play. Nevertheless, rest assured that I will be most gratified to assist—insofar as propriety allows, naturally.”

“Ahh yes, hm, propriety ... You see, my dear, we must all accept the Trial by Congress as a necessary evil. By such means, we may observe the Duc’s prowess in discharging the... ahem, conjugal act.” The Comtesse’s lower lip trembled and cheeks flared to hear the learned man speak such obscenities aloud. “However, as the Duchesse is unfit to receive such attentions at present, we require an alternate receptacle. And that receptacle, er, is you.”

The lady’s eyes widened, her face darkened, and she crossed her arms in stung disbelief. “I hardly imagine to have heard you properly, monsieur. Surely you must understand that I would never be unfaithful to my spouse.”

“Are you simple girl? As I have already explained, it is your husband who orders this. Not in so many words, I grant, but by his actions, and his oath. You have no choice but to obey.”

“Nay, I will not. You rural dunderheads are barbaric! I have no intention of letting myself be dishonored in the manner you suggest—to say nothing of being made an adulteress. Heavens, you ask me to dabble in mortal sin!”

The Commissarius was growing exasperated. He did not relish this duty at all, but it had to be done. The last thing he needed was for the Comtesse to resist, and make the whole thing worse. And nor, more generally, was he accustomed to facing open defiance at tribunal. Certainly not from a mere female, no matter her rank or family. Increasingly, he feared he was being made ridiculous before the mocking gaze of the entire community. So when he spoke, his voice came harsh.

“You will do as I say. The thing is no mortal sin. Not when done at the behest of the holy magistrates, and in furtherance of your husband’s solemn undertaking. It is a mere venal sin, such as may easily be expatiated through confession and sincere contrition. Now—strip off your clothes.”

Lady Vaintier grabbed the rail with both hands in a white-knuckle clench. “I will NOT!”

The official sighed again, more deeply still, glancing up at the stained-glass window of St. Michael for strength. “Guards, bring her before us.”

A couple of sturdy bailiffs seized the woman by her upper arms and hauled her over the bar. She struggled, screamed, kicked out, but they lifted her flailing legs clean off the ground and presented her bodily to the judges.

With the Commissarius appearing near wit’s end, the Dean once more stepped in to fill the breach—grimacing as he leaned down over the nymph who vexed them. “Are you prepared to obey, child?”

“NO!”

He shook his head regretfully. “Enough of that. Marschal, ready the lady for trial. The flogging bench may prove expedient.”

The device in question was dragged into the middle of the floor, amid much fanfare. No more than a rude sort of sawhorse, really, over which a bare human back might be bent to receive stripes. And in truth, the contraption was misnamed. Corporal punishment was rare in our ecclesial precincts—and to my certain knowledge, nothing as violent as a flogging had ever taken place. Among other reasons, the Steward would not have abided such blood on the flagstones!

Occasionally, however, the good justices might sentence an unrepentant parishioner to a few strokes of the cane, or a light scourging of nettles, in furtherance of their soul’s eternal salvation. The bench stood in the corner to serve on such occasions; while at other times providing an instructive reminder of the cleansing fury of our Lord.

The Comtesse remained where she was, perched on her own two feet again, yet held fast by the burly wardens. More than once, she made as if to evade their grasp—gathering her strength, coiling to strike, and then letting loose in a flurry of energy, a thrashing of limbs, a hellfire torrent of invectives. Entirely bootless. Sooner or later the muscular hands that constrained her would exhaust her vigor, and she would sink down into the men’s grip, red-faced, panting, only to begin the cycle anew.

Indifferent to the commotion, the Marschal paced over to the rostrum for a spell, engaging the Dean in private conclave. Then, having received his instructions, he wheeled and pulled a small dirk from his boot, fixing his attentions on the Comtesse and approaching her with an air of decision.

“This is intolerable!” The poor thing was beside herself, unrecognizable as the demure young bride who had entered the hall. That woman was gone, replaced by an animal with hunted expression and flashing eyes—a cornered doe, who felt its back driven hard against the wall. “You shall acknowledge my rank, you dogs! Do you truly believe you can use your better thus?!”

But the Marschal knew where his bread was buttered; and he approached the appointed task with cold efficiency. Indeed, as he set to work denying the lady her garments, his face bore much the same expression it might have worn while skinning a beaver, and his hands operated with similar deftness. That stoic visage of his was a marvel; and I could not help but ponder whether beneath it, his loins must not be fully as galvanized as mine.

Naturally the crowd had no such restraint. By and large, the populace held little love for the Comte, judging d’Troilles far the superior avatar of nobility. But in truth, seeing any comely lass getting stripped naked, much less one of exalted birth, had fed their vulgar proclivities well enough. Their taunts and japes rained down freely, scurrilous in every particular, verging on the blasphemous. But the panel made no move to curb the mob’s speech, having concluded it was futile.

As the captain put his dagger to work, his bailiffs redoubled their grip on the girl. But it was hardly necessary—when that sharp blade converged on her frame, she froze up, rigid as stone. Whether owing to instinctual fear or conscious self-control, I cannot say, but either way it was plainly the wisest course.

Moving with great care so as not to mar her perfection, the Marschal sawed down past the tough boned corset of her gown, before slicing easily through the full skirt below. And when he had sundered the garment completely, top to bottom, the matched halves parted neatly away from her front, like peeling a Valencia orange.

I had no objection to the way the court conducted its business. Far from it. Yet even amidst the bliss of witnessing the woman reduced to just her white linen smock, I did suffer a slight twinge at the rending of that sumptuous goldenrod. Ah, if only the toothless biddies laughing at the Comtesse’s embarrassment realized—that outer raiment cost more than their husbands had earned the last score of years and more. A tragic waste.

Lady Vaintier’s chemise valued but a pittance by comparison, but remained fetching with its trimmings of lace and embroidery. It, too, must go, of course; and removing it would require surgery of even greater delicacy. From across the room, one could sense how the vixen caught her breath—how her sinews trembled with suppressed tension, how her goosebump flesh shrank from the tickle of that chill steel edge—as the Marschal painstakingly slit down the garment’s length. In the end, her agitation was such that she had to look away.

And then, oh rapture, those shredded tatters were roughly tugged aside ... and the noblewoman was displayed in all her bestial glory, naked as the day she was born.

The unveiling of such a bewitching nude briefly stilled the room—every crone and clodhopper feasting their eyes with satisfaction. Many among the seigneurial retinues and ecclesiastical servitors were equally charmed (your humble scribe among them). Yet, the judges declaimed by sour and crabbed expressions that they, at least, regretted the legal necessity of such a spectacle.