black breeches, long black boots and had a black leather sword belt from which hung a short knife and a long plain sword. He had a silver chain about his neck, a sign that he held authority. He looked along the line of sergeants and consuls, then nodded to Lorret. ‘We were not properly introduced last night,’ he said, ‘but doubtless you remember my name. Now it is your turn to tell me yours.’
‘You have no business here!’ Lorret blustered.
Thomas looked up at the sky, which was pale, almost washed out, suggesting that more unseasonably cold weather might be coming. ‘Father,’ he spoke to Medous now, ‘you will have the goodness to translate my words so everyone can know what is going on.’ He looked back to Lorret. ‘If you will not talk sense then I shall order my men to kill you and then I shall talk to your companions. What is your name?’
‘You’re the friar,’ Lorret said accusingly.
‘No,’ Thomas said, ‘but you thought I was because I can read. I am the son of a priest and he taught me letters. Now, what is your name?’
‘I am Galat Lorret,’ Lorret said.
‘And from your robes,’ Thomas gestured at Lorret’s fur-trimmed gown, ‘I assume you have some authority here?’
‘We are the consuls,’ Lorret said with what dignity he could muster. The other three consuls, all younger than Lorret, tried to look unworried, but it was difficult when a row of arrow heads glittered beneath the arch.
‘Thank you,’ Thomas said courteously, ‘and now you must tell your people that they have the good fortune to be back under the Earl of Northampton’s rule and it is his lordship’s wish that his people do not stand about the street when there is work to be done.’ He nodded at Father Medous who offered a stammering translation to the crowd. There were some protests, mainly because the shrewder folk in the square understood that a change of lordship would inevitably mean more taxes.
‘The work this morning,’ Lorret said, ‘is burning a heretic.’
‘That is work?’
‘God’s work,’ Lorret insisted. He raised his voice and spoke in the local language. ‘The people were promised time from their labour to watch the evil burned from the town.’
Father Medous translated the words for Thomas. ‘It is the custom,’ the priest added, ‘and the bishop insists that the people see the girl burn.’
‘The custom?’ Thomas asked. ‘You burn girls often enough to have a custom about it?’
Father Medous shook his head in confusion. ‘Father Roubert told us we must let the people see.’
Thomas frowned. ‘Father Roubert,’ he said, ‘that’s the man who told you to burn the girl slowly? To stand the faggots upright?’
‘He is a Dominican,’ Father Medous said, ‘a real one. It was he who discovered the girl’s heresy. He should be here.’ The priest looked about him as if expecting to see the missing friar.
‘He’ll doubtless be sorry to miss the amusement,’ Thomas said, then he gestured to his row of archers who moved aside so that Sir Guillaume, armoured in mail and with a great war sword in his hand, could bring Genevieve out of the castle. The crowd hissed and jeered at the sight of her, but their anger went silent when the archers closed up behind the girl and hefted their tall bows. Robbie Douglas, in a mail haubergeon and with a sword at his side, pushed through the archers and stared at Genevieve who now stood beside Thomas. ‘This is the girl?’ Thomas asked.
‘She is the heretic, yes,’ Lorret said.
Genevieve was staring at Thomas with some disbelief. The last time she had seen him he had been wearing a friar’s robes, yet now he was palpably not a priest. His mail haubergeon, a short coat that came to his thighs, was of good quality and he had polished it during the night, which he had spent guarding the cells so that no one would abuse the prisoners.
Genevieve was no longer ragged. Thomas had sent two of the castle’s kitchen maids to her cell with water, cloths and a bone comb so she could clean herself, and he had provided her with a white gown that had belonged to the castellan’s wife. It was a dress of expensively bleached linen, embroidered at its neck, sleeves and hem with golden thread, and Genevieve looked as though she had been born to wear such finery. Her long fair hair was combed back to a plait secured with a yellow ribbon. She stood beside him, surprisingly tall, with her hands tied before her as she stared defiantly at the townsfolk. Father Medous timidly gestured towards the waiting timbers as if to suggest that there was no time to waste.
Thomas looked again at Genevieve. She was dressed as a bride, a bride come to her death, and Thomas was astonished at her beauty. Was that what had offended the townsfolk? Thomas’s father had always declared that beauty provoked hate as much as love, for beauty was unnatural, an offence against the mud and scars and blood of common life, and Genevieve, so tall and slender and pale and ethereal, was uncommonly lovely. Robbie must have been thinking the same for he was staring at her with an expression of pure awe.
Galat Lorret pointed at the waiting pyre. ‘If you want folk to work,’ he said, ‘then get the burning done.’
‘I’ve never burned a woman,’ Thomas said. ‘You must give me time to decide how best to do it.’
‘The chain goes round her waist,’ Galat Lorret explained, ‘and the blacksmith fastens it.’ He beckoned to the town’s smith who was waiting with a staple and hammer. ‘The fire will come from any hearth.’
‘In England,’ Thomas said, ‘it is not unknown for the executioner to strangle the victim under the cover of smoke. It is an act of mercy and done with a bowstring.’ He took just such a string from a pouch at his belt. ‘Is that the custom here?’
‘Not with heretics,’ Galat Lorret said harshly.
Thomas nodded, put the bowstring back in the pouch, then took Genevieve’s arm to walk her to the stake. Robbie started forward, as if to intervene, but Sir Guillaume checked him. Then Thomas hesitated. ‘There must be a document,’ he said to Lorret, ‘a warrant. Something which authorizes the civil power to carry out the Church’s condemnation.’
‘It was sent to the castellan,’ Lorret said.
‘To him?’ Thomas looked up at the fat corpse. ‘He failed to give it to me and I cannot burn the girl without such a warrant.’ He looked worried, then turned to Robbie. ‘Would you look for it? I saw a chest of parchments in the hall. Perhaps it’s there? Search for a document with a heavy seal.’
Robbie, unable to take his eyes from Genevieve’s face, looked as if he intended to argue, then he abruptly nodded and went into the castle. Thomas stepped back, taking Genevieve with him. ‘While we wait,’ he told Father Medous, ‘perhaps you will remind your townsfolk why she is to burn?’
The priest seemed flummoxed by the courteous invitation, but gathered his wits. ‘Cattle died,’ he said, ‘and she cursed a man’s wife.’
Thomas looked mildly surprised. ‘Cattle die in England,’ he said, ‘and I have cursed a man’s wife. Does that make me a heretic?’
‘She can tell the future!’ Medous protested. ‘She danced naked under the lightning and used magic to discover water.’
‘Ah.’ Thomas
