‘Handsome fellow,’ said Mace. ‘Lacks colour, though. The shirt should have been cream, with puff sleeves, shot with grey silk. Now that would have been stylish.’The jousting that followed lasted for several hours, but none of us was interested and we strolled through the crowds, playing occasional games of chance at the gambling stalls.
But just before dusk the stallholder refused another wager.
‘There’s time for one more game, surely?’ said Mace, who had lost several pennies.
‘No, it’ll be the Burning soon,’ answered the man, ‘and I want to get a good position.’Who is for burning?’ asked Wulf.
They caught a witch; they say she’s a friend of the Morning-star.’Her name?’ whispered Jarek Mace.
‘Name? Hold on, I did hear it … Margan, Macan . . . something like, anyway. You know the name?’I was about to speak but Mace’s elbow struck me painfully in the side.
‘No,’ he said. And turned away.
I moved swiftly after him, grabbing his arm. ‘That’s Megan! They’re going to burn Megan!’I know,’ he answered.
‘What are we going to do?’Well, we have two choices,’ he said grimly. ‘Firstly we can fight our way through the fifty soldiers and the crowd, cut her free, kill all the knights and make our escape on stolen stallions. Or else we can forget it, buy some food and have a quiet evening remembering past friends. What would you choose?’I swung to Wulf. ‘What about you?’What about me?’Is she not a friend of yours?’Aye,she is. But Jarek is right. There’s nothing we can do-save die with her. You think she’d want that?’Their reaction to Megan’s plight stunned me. What kind of men were these, I wondered? The answer was not long in coming. Jarek Mace was a wolfshead who cared for nothing and no one,
save himself, and the hunchback was a man whom I had first seen cutting the fingers from one of his victims in order to steal the dead man’s rings. What more could I have expected?
And yet I was still surprised, and deeply saddened, by their easy acceptance of the cruel fate awaiting the iron-haired witch woman. I stood, my legs trembling, and walked back into the throng, wishing I had never ventured into this dark forest.
On the far side of the meadow, before the Knights’ Platform, a large crowd had assembled to watch the Burning. There was blood upon the grass and a man in the crowd informed me that, moments before, a lance had pierced the helm of a young jouster, putting out both his eyes. I arrived in time to see the corpse being carried away by stretcher-bearers. A sudden trumpet blast rent the air and two soldiers marched into sight. Behind them, being led by a rope around her neck, came Megan, her hands bound behind her.
She moved like a queen, stately and slow. There was no sign of panic in her, nor did she look at the crowd. Upon her tall, thin body she wore only the single white robe of the condemned. The crowd were hushed, awed I think by her dignity. My eyes strayed to the waiting stake, atop a mass of dry wood some six feet high. My mouth was dry, my heart heavy.
The soldiers and their prisoner halted before the Lord of Lualis and the black-garbed figure of Count Azrek. The Lord of Lualis, a round-faced, balding Angostin, rose ponderously to his feet. ‘Do you have anything to say to your judges, witch?’ he said, his voice booming like a drum.
If Megan answered I did not hear her. She stood, straight of back, her head held high. The Lualis Lord cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. This woman has been found guilty of witchcraft and treason,’ he shouted. ‘She practised black arts and, in communion with the murderous outlaw known as Morningstar, has overseen the butchery of the honest men and women of her own village and others who travelled the forest roads. The sentence is just. Is there any man here who would cast doubt upon the verdict?’I would!’ I called. The Lualis Lord looked surprised, but in truth he was less surprised than I. The crowd parted before me as if I had the plague and I walked forward, stepping over the rope that held back the spectators.