The Wise Woman

Thirty-two

They dressed Catherine's cold, water-logged body and they laid her in the little chapel which stood by the gatehouse in the outer manse, a branch of candles at her head and at her feet. Father Stephen, rushed off his horse from hunting and into his black archdeacon's gown, ordered prayers to be said for her soul, but there were no nuns and no monks to keep a vigil for Lady Catherine. All that had gone and no one knew how to mourn for the lady of the castle any more.

Father Stephen told four soldiers the prayers which should be said and they kept a vigil like a guard duty. But it was not done well. Everyone knew that it was not done well now there were neither monks nor nuns to pray for the soul of a woman drowned while deep in sin. Ruth stayed by the makeshift coffin, one hand on the side, her head bowed, fingering her rosary and saying the prayers she had learned as a child. She would not be moved away.

The other women tried to pull her away to the gallery and Eliza stood before her, trying to hide her, when Father Stephen came into the chapel. He raised his eyebrows at the murmur of Latin prayers and the click of the rosary beads but one glance at Ruth's agonized white face prevented him from interrupting her.

'What is this?' he demanded of Alys in his sharp, accusing voice. 'Is this woman a papist? I knew she was devout but I never knew she used the rosary and prayed with the old prayers. She has taken the Oath, has she not? She knows the King is head of the English Church?'

Alys nodded. 'It's the shock. She loved Lady Catherine. When she is recovered from the shock she will behave as she should.'

'And the other women?' he demanded. Alys could hear his excitement rising. 'Are the other women also steeped in Roman heresy? Do they not understand the nature of the true Church?'

'No, no,' Alys said quickly. 'We are all good Christians now. Ruth is sick with shock.' 'Take the rosary from her,' Father Stephen said. 'Is it a sin?' Alys asked in confusion. 'I thought it was allowed.'

'Some say it does no harm but I believe, and my bishop believes, that it is a graven image as bad as any other false god,' Stephen said passionately. 'It is a doorway to sin, if it is not a sin itself. Take it from her.'

Alys hesitated. 'It is her own,' she said. 'She is using it only to keep count of her prayers.'

'Take it,' Stephen said firmly. 'I cannot permit it -not even to mourn Lady Catherine. It is a doorway for sin and confusion.'

Alys waited until he had left the chapel and then tapped Ruth on the shoulder. 'Give me them,' she said abruptly, pointing to the rosary beads. 'You will have us all questioned for our beliefs by Father Stephen. You are a fool to be so open. Give me them or hide them where they cannot be found.'

Ruth's white face was twisted with grief. 'It is all I can do for her now!' she said wildly. 'All there is for me to do. She disgusted me with her talk and I left her to drown. She died in sin, I must pray for her soul. I must light candles for her and have masses sung for her. She died in deep sin, I must save her soul if I can.' 'No one believes that stuff any more,' Alys said lightly. There was something about Ruth's outstretched hand on the coffin with the rosary clasped so tightly which was inescapably moving. 'Father Stephen says none of it is true.' Alys remembered the darkness of the chapel and the long nights of vigil which followed a nun's death. The long, sweet cadences of a Requiem Mass and the spellbinding holiness of the incense. The candlelight and Mother Hildebrande's face smiling and serene in the certainty of eternal life.

Alys snatched at the rosary and pulled it from Ruth's hand. 'No one believes that now,' she said brutally. 'Pray in silence or you will endanger us all!'

Ruth tugged back. 'I will pray for my lady as it should be done! I will keep my loyalty to her. I will give her her dues,' she cried.

Alys pulled, the string biting into the palm of her hand. Then with a sudden snap, the string of the rosary broke and the beads spilled on to the stone-flagged floor of the chapel, bouncing and dancing in every direction, scattering and rolling out of sight, under the pews, into the gratings, in a great explosion of destruction. There was a gasp from the other women and a loud cry from Ruth, who dropped to her hands and knees and scrabbled frantically, trying to gather them up as they rolled away from her. 'Oh God!' Alys said desperately. She marched from the chapel, clutching the string and the remaining beads and the dangling cross, before Ruth could protest. Her footsteps echoed on the little stones of the aisle and her gown swished from side to side as she strode away. Alys walked with her head up, her fingers gripping the broken rosary so tight that the mark of the string was as red as a weal around her fingers when she stopped in the porch of the chapel and looked at the little wooden cross. It seemed a lifetime since she had counted beads through her fingers and said her prayers and kissed the cross. Now she snatched them from a praying woman to hand to a man who was an enemy of the faith of her childhood and the inquisitor of her mother. Alys' face was bleak as she held out the rosary to one of the soldiers at the gate.

'Take this to Father Stephen,' she said. 'Tell him there is no heresy here! I have taken the rosary away from the praying woman.' He nodded and turned away. 'He will be with the old lord,' Alys said. The man shook his head. 'He has gone to the prison tower,' he said. 'He told me I could find him there. There is an old woman coming for trial this afternoon and he has gone to question her and persuade her to repent of her error.'

Alys went whiter still and swayed a little where she stood. 'Yes,' she said. 'In this shock of my lady's death I had forgotten. Is the old woman still to be tried? Will they not delay the trials to mourn Lady Catherine?'

The man shook his head. 'There are too many people come into town for the trials to be delayed,' he said. 'The old lord said they would go ahead. Father Stephen thinks he can bring the old woman to repentance, please God.'

Alys nodded and turned away. 'Please God,' she said under her breath. The words were meaningless. She had robbed them of meaning every day since the night when the flickering light of the burning abbey had woken her. 'Please God,' Alys said, knowing that she no longer had a god to trust. Knowing that the gods she now served were fearfully swift and reliable in their responses – but that nothing could please them.

In the ladies' gallery they had to share their clothes to find dark gowns with dark sleeves, dark petticoats and dark hoods. Alys' navy blue gown had gone to Mother Hildebrande in the kitchen lad's bundle; it seemed like years ago. She went to Catherine's chest of clothes and found a gown of deep pine green, so dark that it was almost a black. She wore it with a black underskirt, and a high old-fashioned gable hood. As she closed the chest she saw Catherine's rose and cream gown which Catherine thought would regain Hugo's weathercock desire; the gown Alys had dreamed she would wear in a garden, walking on the arm of the young lord. Alys dropped the lid of the chest with a bang.

Father Stephen led a prayer for Catherine's soul before he said grace at dinner. He spoke in English. Alys listened to the strange, informal chatter between Father Stephen and his God. It did not sound holy. It did not sound as if it would save Catherine's soul from hell. Alys kept her head down and said 'Amen' with the rest.

She had chosen to sit at the women's table, behind the lords, for dinner. She did not want to sit at the high table, between the old lord and Father Stephen, she did not want to take Catherine's place at table while Catherine lay, blue and icy, in the little chapel, inadequately watched by four soldiers and Ruth in awkward silence. She did not want to look at the old lord and see his shielded, smiling face while he calculated how to make this new turn of events serve him. She did not want to see Hugo's careless joy at his freedom.

The women were silent at dinner. They were served with broth and half a dozen meat dishes and salads. None of them ate well. Alys, watching the back of Hugo's head and shoulders from her old place, saw that he ate heartily after his morning's ride. He had not seen Catherine, half in, half out of her bath, with her blue lips open underwater. He had not yet gone to the chapel to pray for her soul. He had not even changed his clothes, so that he was still wearing a red doublet, slashed, with white shirt showing at the slashes, a heavy red cape at his shoulders, and red breeches with black leather riding boots. When one of the serving-lads dropped a plate in the centre of the hall Hugo laughed, unaffected by gloom.

The old lord, sitting in his seat, smiled quietly. Hugo was a widower, the dowry lands were his without contest. The manor farm he would have given Catherine was his still. The marriage with the nine-year-old girl was well in hand but with Catherine's wealth and Hugo's improved status as a widower the terms could undoubtedly be improved.

The pages set hippocras and fruit and wafers on the tables. Alys took a small glass of hippocras and felt the sweet wine warm her through.

'It doesn't seem right, eating and drinking with my lady dead this hour,' Eliza said.

Alys shrugged. 'You can join Ruth in her vigil if you wish,' she said. 'But the castle will run as my lord commands. It seems right to him -I shall not argue.'

Eliza nodded. 'As you say,' she said, dropping her eyes away from Alys' cold face.

Lord Hugh looked behind him. 'Alys!' he said peremptorily.

Alys rose up from the table and stood behind his chair, leaning forward.

'Father Stephen is engaged in the arrangements for Catherine's funeral and questioning the old woman, so you shall be my clerk for the trials. Come to my room within an hour and we can prepare the papers. The trials start here at two.'

'I shall not know what to write,' Alys said unhelpfully. 'Could not David serve you better? Or even my Lord Hugo?'

‘I’ll tell you what to write,' Lord Hugh said firmly. 'It is all done by rote. We have a book to enter the charge and the sentence. Any fool could do it. Come to my room before two and you shall see.'

'Yes, my lord,' Alys said unenthusiastically. 'You can leave now,' he said. He shot a quick glance at her pale face. 'Not sick are you?' he asked. 'The baby is well? Catherine's death did not shock you, damage the child?'

'No,' Alys said coldly. She thought of claiming illness and avoiding the trials but she knew she could not again wait in her room knowing nothing. Mary's account of Mother Hildebrande's trial for witchcraft had been so sparse as to be worse than hearing nothing. Alys thought she would sit at the women's table at the rear of the dais with her head down, writing what Lord Hugh commanded, and then at least she would hear all that was said.

‘I am well enough to be there,' Alys said. 'It is my wish to serve you.'

Lord Hugh nodded, noting the whiteness of Alys' face, the strain which showed in dark shadows around her eyes and the hard set of her mouth. 'Rest afterwards,' he said gruffly. 'You look dreadful.'

'Thank you, my lord,' Alys said steadily. 'I will.'

The great hall was packed with people. They had been waiting outside the castle gates from noon while the lords finished their dinner and sat over their wine. The trestle-tables had been dragged back against the wall as soon as dinner was finished, the fire which had burned since Alys had first come to the castle was doused and the ashes swept away so that people could sit side by side in the whole body of the room. The benches and stools were arranged in concentric rings around the high table and crowded with people sitting too close. Behind them, and pressing continually forward, was a mob of people – some of them servants in the castle, many of them from Castleton. At the rear of the hall were more benches and people standing on them in unsteady lines, leaning forward to overlook the others.

Alys sat with the women, behind the high table at the rear of the dais, shrinking back against the wall. The fine weather of yesterday and the morning had gone, the sun turned grey, shrouded in mists. The hall was dark though it was only two in the afternoon. Alys leaned back into the shadows. She had the book which recorded Lord Hugh's quarterly sessions of justice, and two pens and a pot of ink spread on the table before her. The other women sat facing the high table leaving Alys room to write.

The door behind the tapestry opened and Lord Hugh's trumpeter, stationed high in the minstrel gallery over the hall at the far end, played a flat blast on the horn. Everyone in the hall rose to their feet and a bench overturned and crashed backwards on to someone's toes, making them cry out and swear. Lord Hugh walked into the hall, wearing his best gown with the fur-lined collar, and took his seat at the high table. Hugo followed him, and sat on his right, in his usual dinnertime seat. 'Bring in the accused,' Lord Hugh said quietly. The man was already waiting. He stepped forward: 'John Timms, my lord,' he said respectfully.

Lord Hugh looked around. 'Alys!' he said irritably. 'I can't see what you are doing back there in the shadows. Bring your book up here so I can see the entries.' Alys hesitated. 'I prefer…' she started. 'Come on,' Lord Hugh said abruptly. 'We don't have all day. The sooner this is done the sooner we can have this rabble out of the castle and back to their work.'

Alys picked up her book and went to Catherine's seat on the left hand of the old lord. Eliza followed her with the ink-pot and pens. Alys seated herself and bent her head low over the page. In her dark gown and the large black gable hood she thought that she might pass unnoticed, melting into the background as a lowly, unimportant clerk.

'Write John Timms,' Lord Hugh said, pointing one finger to a column.

Alys obediently wrote. There was a long column of names, then the occupation and age, then the charge, then the verdict and then the sentence. Most of the verdicts read guilty. Lord Hugh was not a man to offer anyone the benefit of the doubt.

'Failure to practise archery,' Lord Hugh read from a crumpled piece of paper in a pile before him.

John Timms nodded. 'Guilty,' he said. 'I am sorry. The business was doing badly and I had no time and my son and the apprentices had no time either.'

Lord Hugh glared at him. 'And if I have no time to keep a pack of soldiers and the Scots come down on us, or the French make war on us, or the damned Spanish choose to call on us – what then?' he demanded. 'Fine three shillings. And don't neglect it again.' Alys scribbled quickly.

The next case was a stolen pig, as the old lord had predicted. The accused, Elizabeth Shore, alleged that the pig had strayed into her yard and eaten the hens' feed and had thus been fed by her for free all the summer. Her accuser claimed she had tempted it away. Lord Hugh gave them some moments to squabble before slapping his hand on the table and ordering them to jointly feed the pig up, kill it and share it: three-quarters of the pig to the owner and one leg and some lights to the accused.

Next was a man accused of failing to maintain roads, then a man accused of theft, a woman accused of slander, a merchant accused of shoddy goods, a man charged with assault. Alys wrote the names and the charges and the people came and went, dispatched with speed and sometimes justice by Lord Hugh.

'Is that it?' he asked, when there was a lull in the proceedings.

An officer stepped up to the table. 'That is all the common cases, my lord,' he said. 'I have not heard if Father Stephen wished to charge the old woman from Bowes Moor.' Alys looked up from her page.

'Send to him and ask him,' Lord Hugh said irritably. 'If he is unsure, the old woman can be released. I don't want her persecuted over some bookish detail.'

Alys bent her head down to the page again. The paper seemed very white, the letters on the page very black and spiky. She swallowed on her hope and pressed her lips together so that they would not move in a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen.

Hildebrande might be set free. If she were turned out of the castle into Castleton it would be easy to send her money and clothes and set her on her way. Southwards perhaps, or even east to the coast and to France. She would have learned now what danger she was running with her plans to work and pray in the rules of the Order. She would have been frightened, Alys told herself, and perhaps treated a little roughly. That would have warned her that the world had changed, that there was now no room for piety and devotion to the old religion. Alys pulled at the feather of the quill. Hildebrande would have learned that the old ways were truly gone. She might now be prepared to live out her days quietly, in a little farm somewhere. Alys might find her some people who would house her and treat her kindly. She might be content to be an old lady sitting at the back door in the sunshine. Now she might have learned the wisdom to take the easy way.

Alys raised her head, she could hear the guards shouting outside the double doors of the great hall. Father Stephen came in, walking slowly, his face grave, a ledger tucked under his arm.

Alys felt her heart speed. She scanned Stephen's face. Surely he was slow and thoughtful because he had to report that there was no case to answer. He had failed to incriminate Mother Hildebrande. Her learning and her old skilful wit had been too much for him. Perhaps she had even shaken his reforming zeal. Alys hid a little smile.

'Please call the old woman to account for herself,' Stephen said. He slid the ledger across the table towards Alys and motioned her to open it. 'There is the charge.'

Dumbly Alys opened the book where a dark ribbon marked the place. The old lord leaned forward to see. Father Stephen went around to the back of the dais, mounted the steps, and took a stool beside Alys at the foot of the table.

Alys looked at the Bishop's Court records in the heavy black ledger. There was a column for the date, and for the name, and for the occupation. There was a space for the charge. There was a space for the verdict. There was a space for the punishment. Alys looked along the page. There were rows after rows of names arraigned for all sorts of crimes, from adultery to heresy. Wherever it said 'Heresy', along the line it said 'Guilty', and then further on it said 'Burned'. 'Burned,' Alys whispered incredulously. 'Do you see how to write it?' Stephen whispered encouragingly. 'And this other paper, the roll, is a record of what is said here this afternoon. I will nod to you when you need to make a note of something. You can write in English, we can copy it fair into Latin later.' 'Make way for the old woman of Bowes Moor,' Lord Hugh said impatiently. He waved at the people in the centre of the hall. 'Let her through, for God's sake,' he said irritably. 'We don't have all day to spend on this.'

Alys leaned towards Lord Hugh. ‘I don't want to do this,' she said urgently. 'I must ask to be excused.'

He glanced down at her white face. 'Not now, not now,' he said. 'Let's get this over and done with. It's a messy business. I like it not.' ''Please,'' Alys hissed.

Lord Hugh shook his head, he was not listening. 'Do your work, Alys,' he said roughly. This is the last case. I am weary myself.'

Alys bowed her head over the ledger, writing the date with exquisite care. She was aware of the commotion in the hall, of the sound of the soldiers coming in slowly, out of step, not marching as they usually did, but delayed by a limping pace.

'Give her a stool,' Lord Hugh said impatiently. 'Give her a seat, the old woman can't stand. And give her some wine.'

Alys kept her head down. She had an insane thought that if she never looked up, if she never raised her eyes, then she would never see Mother Hildebrande sitting on a stool in the centre of the great hall surrounded by staring people. If she kept her head down and never looked, then it would not be Mother Hildebrande. It would be someone else entirely. On a different charge. A different charge entirely. Another person.

'Your name?' Stephen rose to his feet. Alys did not look up.

'Hildebrande of the Priory of Egglestone.' The voice was different, it rasped as if the speaker's throat was scraped. It was deeper, hoarser. And the speech was different too. This old woman could not speak clearly, could not form her words, lisped on her 's' and gargled the other words in her throat. Alys copied 'Hildebrande' in the space in the book for the name of the accused; and told herself that since it was not Mother Hildebrande's clear voice, not Mother Hildebrande's pure speech – it could not be her.

'Not your popish pretence of a name, but your real name,' Stephen said. He sounded angry, Alys thought, keeping her head bowed over the book. He should not be angry with this old lady with the sore throat, whatever she had done.

'My real name is Hildebrande,' the rasping voice said and stopped for breath. 'Of the Abbey of Egglestone.'

'Write: "Refuses to give true name,"' Stephen said in an aside to Alys. Laboriously she opened a bracket beneath the name she had already written, then she copied – 'Refuses to give true name'. She nodded with satisfaction. It was not her mother's voice, Hildebrande was not her name. It was someone else altogether. Above her head the questions went on.

'You were a nun at the abbey?' Stephen asked. 'I was.'

'You were there on the night that the abbey was inspected for heresy, popish practices, gross impropriety and blasphemy, and closed?'

There was a murmur from the audience. Alys could not tell whether it was moral outrage at the nuns, or resentment towards Stephen. She did not look up to see. There was no answer for long minutes. ‘I was there when the abbey was burned,' the voice said wearily. 'There was no inspection, there was no impropriety. It was an attack of arson. It was a criminal attack.'

There was a surge of speech from the crowd. The old lord banged the handle of his ebony stick on his board and shouted, 'Quiet!’

'That is a lie,' Stephen said. 'It was a legal inspection of a corrupt and dangerous nest of abuse. You were smoked out like the vipers you were.' There was a silence.

'And where did you go, when you fled from justice and mercy?' Stephen demanded. 'Where have you been these eleven months?'

'I will not answer that question,' the hoarse voice said steadily.

'You have been asked it before with torture,' Stephen said warningly. You can be put to question again.' Alys did not look up. The hall was very quiet. 'I know,' the voice said in a ghost of a sigh. 'I am prepared to die down there.'

There was a low angry mutter from the crowd. Alys, hidden behind her arm as she bent over the book, peeped up. She could see the first couple of rows of men. They were Hugo's own soldiers, but they were shifting uneasily on their seats.

'Write down: "Is shielding fellow-conspirators,"' Stephen said to Alys. Alys copied the words into the roll of paper.

Stephen changed tack. 'Were there any others who also fled from justice on that night?' Stephen asked. 'Others who have been hiding, as you have been hiding? Who have perhaps plotted to meet with you? Who planned to be with you?' There was a silence. 'Who is "Ann"?' Stephen asked softly. Shocked, Alys' head jerked up before she could stop herself- and then she saw her.

Hildebrande sat slumped on her stool. Her fingers were spread out over her knees, as if she were holding sinew and bone together. The old blue gown Alys had given her was bloodstained and spattered. There was a large dark stain at the hem – she had soiled herself in her agony. Her shoulders were hunched awkwardly, one side irregular where the shoulder had been dislocated and not thrust back into the socket. Her feet were bare. On the pale old skin of her feet were deep purple and red blood-bruises, perfect copies of the knots which had tied her to the rack. Her wrists were black with bruising, where the rope had tied her arms above her head. Her thin toes were stained with blood. They had ripped out the toenails. The fingernails, too, were gone. The hands spread like old bloody talons, clinging to her own body, as if to hold it together, clinging to her faith.

At Alys' sudden movement Hildebrande looked in her direction. Their eyes met. She recognized Alys at once. Her bloodstained mouth opened in a dreadful smile. Alys saw the deep, dark bruises on her cheeks from the metal gag and then, as her ghastly smile widened, saw that her teeth had been pulled out from the gums, some broken and left as stumps, others leaving dark, blood-filled holes. Alys saw the smile and knew Hildebrande's revenge had come easily to her hand. Hildebrande would not suffer alone. She would not burn alone.

Mutely, Alys watched her. She said nothing. She did not plead with her eyes, she did not put her soft hands together in a secret sign for forgiveness. She waited for the horror of Hildebrande naming her as her accomplice and a runaway nun. The evidence was there. She was wearing Alys' gown, there was food from the castle at the cottage. Alys waited to be named and Hildebrande to be revenged on her for her pain of disappointment, and for the pain of the rack and the tortures.

Hildebrande's pale blue eyes in the blackened strained sockets never wavered. 'There was no one conspiring with me,' she said, her voice clearer. 'I was alone. Always. All alone.'

'Who is Ann?' Stephen said again. Mother Hildebrande smiled directly at Alys, her old face a ghastly, toothless mask.

'Saint Ann,' she lied without hesitation. 'I was calling on Saint Ann.'

Alys dropped her head and wrote blindly, one word after another.

The old lord leaned forward and tweaked Stephen's gown. 'Finish it,' he said. 'I mislike this crowd.'

Stephen nodded, straightened up, raised his voice to a shout. 'I demand that before this court you deny your mistaken loyalty to the Pope and affirm your loyalty to the King, His Majesty Henry the Eighth, and your faith in his Holy Church of England.'

'I cannot do that,' the weary voice replied. 'I caution you that if you fail to repent now you will be found guilty of heresy to the Holy Church of England and you will be burned at the stake for your sins and burn hereafter in the everlasting torments of hell,' Stephen said in a shower of words like hailstones.

'I keep my faith,' Hildebrande said quietly. 'I await my cross.'

Father Stephen looked uncertainly towards Lord Hugh. 'Shall I wrestle with her for her soul?' he asked.

'She looks as if she has done enough wrestling,' the old lord said acidly. 'I'll sentence her, shall I?' Father Stephen nodded and sat down. Lord Hugh banged on the table with his stick. 'It is the judgement of this court that you are guilty of treason to His Supreme Majesty Henry the Eighth, and guilty of heresy to the Holy Church of England,' he said rapidly. 'Tomorrow morning at dawn you shall be taken from here to a place of execution where you will be burned at the stake for your crimes.'

Alys was writing blindly, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, watching the quill move up and down the paper. She felt Hildebrande's eyes on her, she felt the old woman willing her to look up, to exchange one look. She felt the weight of Hildebrande's need for the two of them to look into each other's faces once more, without deceit, without pretence, knowing what the other one truly was – as clear and as open as when Alys had been the little child in the garden and Hildebrande had seen the daughter she would never have. Alys knew that Hildebrande was waiting for one glance from her. One honest exchange of penitence, of forgiveness, of release.

Of farewell.

Alys kept her head down until she heard them carry the old woman out. She would not look at her. She never said goodbye.

In my dream I smelled the dark sulphurous stink of a passing witch and I pulled the smooth embroidered sheets up over my head and whispered 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us', to shield me from my dream, from a nightmare of terror. Then I heard shouting and the terrifying crackle of hungry flames and I came awake in a rush with a thudding heart and sat up in my bed and looked fearfully around the white-washed walls of my room.

The walls were orange, scarlet, with the bobbing light of reflected flames, and I could hear the deep excited murmur of a waiting crowd. I had slept too long, in my grief and confusion -I had slept too long and they had the faggots piled around her feet and they had already set them alight. I snatched for my cape and I ran barefoot through the open door of my chamber and out into the ladies' gallery, where the light was shining brightly through the coloured glass of the oriel window and the smoke was pouring in through the open casement where the women were gathered. Eliza Herring turned to me, one side of her face glowing with the brightness of the fire outside, and she said: 'We called you, but you were fast asleep. Come quick, Lady Alys, the flames have caught.'

I said nothing to her, but ran for the door, down the winding stairs and out into the courtyard.

They had set up a stake for her in the square stone-filled pit before the prison tower, and heaped small pieces of dry kindling at the base of the pile and faggots of wood, to burn brightly and strongly, at the top.

Before the fire were the soldiers and servants and Lord Hugh, Stephen the priest and my Hugo. But they had kept the townspeople away, afraid of their anger. Hugo turned and saw me in the doorway, my hair flying loose, my eyes glazed with fear. He put a handout to beckon me, turned to come towards me, but I was too quick for him.

I raced across the courtyard towards the fire, towards the flames, and I saw through the heat haze the white tortured face of Hildebrande. The wind was blowing from the west, a clean wind with the smell of rain behind it, and it kept the flames away from me. I scrambled, like a child rock-climbing, over the wide spread of kindling and then up the faggots to the central pole, and grabbed her thin, racked body around the knees, and then found my feet and pulled my self up, and held her around the waist. Her hands were bound behind her, she could not hold me. But she turned her face towards me and her bruised eyes were full of love. She said nothing, she was silent, as if she were at peace, like the quiet centre of a storm, as the flames came licking closer, all around us like the tongues of hungry serpents and I was choking in the swirl of smoke and dizzy with the heat and the terror.

Deep in my belly my baby churned and struggled as if he too could feel the heat, as if he too wanted, more than anything in the world, to live. I looked through the shifting heat haze of the smoke and saw Hugo's white, panic-stricken face turned towards me, and I tried to make my lips say 'Goodbye' but I knew he could not see me properly. His sight was too blurred, it is fading fast. He could not see me when I said to him 'Goodbye'.

I held firmly around her waist and tried to force myself to stand still like a woman with holy courage. It was no use. The bundles of dry wood beneath my feet were shifting, the flames were licking up from underneath. I stepped from one foot to the other in a foolish dance, vainly trying to spare my bare feet from the pain of burning.

'Alys! Jump!' Hugo yelled. He was beating at the flames with his cloak. Stephen was behind him, screaming for water to douse the fire. 'Jump off!' Hugo shrieked

The old lord was close behind him, his arms held out to me. 'Come down, Alys!' he shouted at me. 'Come away!'

Then Hugo flung himself past his father towards the flames and Stephen and some other men dragged him back. I saw them struggle with him, as I fretted from one frightened foot to the other and the heat fanned around me like the breath of a dragon. Through the heat haze I could see Hugo's face looking towards me, his mouth calling my name, and I saw in his eyes his terror of losing me and I knew then -for the first time perhaps – that he had loved me. And that for a little while – God knows only a little, little while – that I had loved him.

I turned my face away from him, away from the castle, away from them all. I leaned my head on her thin shoulder and tightened my arms around her waist. The flames had flickered up the back of the stake and the singed rope binding her hands behind her suddenly parted. Her broken, racked hand stroked my hair, I clasped the top of my head in her blessing. And even with the pain from my scalding feet and the heat of the smoke in my throat and the ceaseless, senseless thudding of fear all through me, I felt at peace at last. Because I knew at last where I belonged, and because I had found, at the very last, a love I would not betray.

The last thing I knew, even more powerful than my old constant terror of fire, was her arms coming around me and her voice. She said:

'My daughter.