Heretic. Bernard Cornwell

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 looked concerned. ‘Water?’

      ‘With a stick!’ Galat Lorret interjected. ‘It is the devil’s magic.’

      Thomas looked thoughtful. He glanced at Genevieve who was trembling slightly, then he looked back to Father Medous. ‘Tell me, father,’ he said, ‘am I not right in thinking that Moses struck a rock with his brother’s staff and brought water from the stone?’

      It had been a long time since Father Medous had studied the scriptures, but the story seemed familiar. ‘I remember something like it,’ he admitted.

      ‘Father!’ Galat Lorret said warningly.

      ‘Quiet!’ Thomas snarled at the consul. He raised his voice. ‘“Cumque elevasset Moses manum”,’ he was quoting from memory, but thought he had the words right, ‘“percutiens virga bis silicem egressae sunt aquae largissimae.”’ There were not many advantages to being the bastard son of a priest or to having spent some weeks at Oxford, but he had picked up enough learning to confound most churchmen. ‘You have not interpreted my words, father,’ he told the priest, ‘so tell the crowd how Moses struck the rock and brought forth a gush of water. And then tell me that if it pleases God to find water with a staff, how can it be wrong for this girl to do the same with a twig?’

      The crowd did not like it. Some shouted and it was only the sight of two archers appearing on the rampart above the two dangling corpses that quietened them. The priest hurried to translate their protests. ‘She cursed a woman,’ he said, ‘and prophesied the future.’

      ‘What future did she see?’ Thomas asked.

      ‘Death.’ It was Lorret who answered. ‘She said the town would fill with corpses and we would lie in the streets unburied.’

      Thomas looked impressed. ‘Did she foretell that the town would return to its proper allegiance? Did she say that the Earl of Northampton would send us here?’

      There was a pause and then Medous shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

      ‘Then she does not see the future very clearly,’ Thomas said, ‘so the devil cannot have inspired her.’

      ‘The bishop’s court decided otherwise,’ Lorret insisted, ‘and it is not up to you to question the proper authorities.’

      The sword came from Thomas’s scabbard with surprising speed. The blade was oiled to keep it from rusting and it gleamed wetly as he prodded the fur-trimmed robe at Galat Lorret’s chest. ‘I am the proper authorities,’ Thomas said, pushing the consul backwards, ‘and you had best remember it. And I have never met your bishop, and if he thinks a girl is a heretic because cattle die then he is a fool, and if he condemns her because she does what God commanded Moses to do then he is a blasphemer.’ He thrust the sword a last time, making Lorret step hurriedly back. ‘What woman did she curse?’

      ‘My wife,’ Lorret said indignantly.

      ‘She died?’ Thomas asked.

      ‘No,’ Lorret admitted.

      ‘Then the curse did not work,’ Thomas said, returning the sword to its scabbard.

      ‘She is a beghard!’ Father Medous insisted.

      ‘What is a beghard?’ Thomas asked.

      ‘A heretic,’ Father Medous said rather helplessly.

      ‘You don’t know, do you?’ Thomas said. ‘It’s just a word for you, and for that one word you would burn her?’ He took the knife from his belt, then seemed to remember something. ‘I assume,’ he said, turning back to the consul, ‘that you are sending a message to the Count of Berat?’

      Lorret looked startled, then tried to appear ignorant of any such thing.

      ‘Don’t take me for a fool,’ Thomas said. ‘You are doubtless concocting such a message now. So write to your Count and write to your bishop as well, and tell them that I have captured Castillon d’Arbizon and tell them more …’ He paused. He had agonized in the night.