'Apothecary Ramus has given me a potion,' he said, dipping his hand into his pocket. 'If you take it an hour before the . . . the allotted time it will remove all pain. He says you will feel nothing.'
'I want no potions,' she told him. 'I want nothing to dull my eyes or my heart, or leaden my limbs. I will walk from here as a Rigante should, head high.'
A guard had opened the door then, telling Alterith his time was at an end. Maev had risen from her chair and taken hold of his hands. 'You take care, Alterith,' she said. Then she leaned in and kissed his cheek. The last person to kiss him thus had been his mother, twenty years before, and tears fell from his eyes.
The guard took his arm and led him from the cell. As the door closed Alterith saw it was the same guard who had administered his lashing.
'How is the back, sir?' he asked.
'It is healing, thank you.'
'The bishop has not yet ordered the remainder of the sentence to be carried out. That's good. Gives the scars time to form.'
'Yes,' said Alterith.
'She's not going to suffer, sir. The lads have doused the lower pyre with black oil. The smoke will - you know - make her pass out before the flames reach her.' Alterith looked into the guard's open and honest face.
'She is an innocent woman,' he said. 'This should not be happening.'
'I know that, sir. We all know that. It's a terrible thing, and no mistake. You did your best, though. A man can do no more. Now you better be going. There's a dozen highlanders outside waiting to walk you to your lodgings.'
Now, with the dread day upon him, Alterith had no wish to witness the outcome of the evil. He could not bear the thought of watching Maev Ring burn.
On the tiny table beside the bed were all his notes from the trial. He sat quietly, arranging them, then he rolled them into little bundles, tied with string. These he pushed into an old leather shoulder satchel. What will it be worth, he wondered, when they are read in Varingas? Last night he had gone to the house of his clerics. Both men had been visited by the knights, who had removed their records of the trial and warned them not to appear for the final day. Without those records would anyone be impeached? Would the bishop face censure? And what were the chances of his own notes reaching Varingas - or indeed his being alive to give evidence should he be so called?
Alterith had always believed that evil should be faced, and that good would ultimately triumph if men stood their ground. Yet, in this place, the evil had been institutional, pervading all areas. Good men had been coerced into silence, or murdered, and the power of the Church had been behind the killers. Throughout the centuries fine, brave people had suffered and died to establish a religion based on love and tolerance; to build a society whose laws protected the poorest. Yet within a generation vile men had corrupted the purity of the law, and the spirit of the faith. It was enough to make a man doubt the existence of any higher celestial Power. What kind of a god would allow such iniquities? Where, in all this sea of corruption, greed and vengeful malice, was there a single indication that the cause of good had any strength?
Alterith washed his face, then dressed. Both his shirts were now blood-stained, and his threadbare coat would not keep out the cold. With a heavy heart he threw the satchel over his shoulder and walked downstairs.
Just after mid-morning Galliott the Borderer was summoned to the offices of the Moidart. As he climbed the stairs he saw Huntsekker coming down. The big man nodded to him as they passed, but did not speak. Galliott tapped on the Moidart's door, heard the command to enter, and walked inside.
The Moidart, dressed all in grey, was sitting at his desk. 'I see the hills are emptying,' he said. 'Clansmen are everywhere.'
'Yes, my lord.'
'I want no riot, Galliott. Our forces are stretched thin.'
'I have doubled the guard at the execution, lord. One hundred to control the crowd, and twenty musketeers.'
The Moidart rose from his chair, and winced as the unhealed burns upon his body drew tight. 'There was a despatch last night from Baracum,' he said, pointing to an opened letter on the desk. 'Read it.'
Galliott leaned over the table and lifted the document. The writing was small, but beautifully crafted. Holding it at arm's length Galliott squinted to read it. When he had finished he carefully laid it on the desk. 'It cannot be,' he said. 'It is madness.'
'Madness or not it is true,' said the Moidart. 'The king has fled the capital and is raising an army against Luden Macks and the Covenanters. It is civil war, Galliott. Heaven knows where it will end.'
'Surely the king will crush them, my lord?'
'Perhaps - though I doubt it. However, that is not our concern now. Insurrection in the highlands will not - for the foreseeable future - allow us to summon reinforcements from the king. All we have are our own troops. I have sent a rider to order the King's Regiment to return south. These are dangerous days, Galliott.'
'Yes, my lord. Might it not be best if the bishop could be prevailed upon to pardon Maev Ring?'
The Moidart's face darkened. That is a course I urged upon him last night. He is worse than an idiot. He lectured me about the majesty of the Church. Fresh from the bed of his strumpet, and with Jorain Feld's bribe jangling in his purse, he talks to me of Holy Law. But enough of that. Tell me of your plans for the execution.'
An hour before the execution the crowds were already gathering in force. Galliott stood just in front of the scaffold surrounding the twelve foot high pyre. Maev Ring would be brought out through the cathedral doors and walked to the steps of the scaffold, then up to the narrow platform and tied to the stake. The walk from the cathedral would take less than a minute. Galliott placed twenty-five men to the right of the cathedral doors, some fifty paces from the entrance. 'Hold the line there,' he told them.
The stone-flagged cathedral 'square' was in fact rectangular, three hundred feet long, two hundred and ten feet wide. There were four entrance points, three from the town of Eldacre itself, and one across a bridge leading out to the Five Fields. Already there were some six hundred people congregating close to the bridge. Forty of Galliott's men, their six-foot quarterstaffs held across their bodies, were maintaining a line some eighty feet from the scaffold. Twenty-five more beetlebacks were struggling to control the highland crowds emerging from the entrance on the left. More and more were arriving, creating pressure on those in front, inexorably moving them forward against the officers. There was no ill intent, as far as Galliott could see, but the press of the crowd was so great that the beetlebacks were forced back, a step at a time. Galliott issued orders to pull back the line, allowing more room for the newcomers. This eased the pressure for a while.
Sergeant Packard approached him. 'They just keep coming, sir,' he said. 'Reckon there'll be a damn sight more than two thousand.'
Hundreds more people began to arrive from the Varlish areas. Originally Galliott had planned to keep the crowd at least one hundred feet from the pyre. He had revised it to sixty, and now revised again. Once the fire was lit the heat would drive people back, but until then Galliott was forced to allow the crowd to move closer. Even then his men were struggling to hold the lines. And there was no sign yet of the twenty musketeers. Their presence would certainly help maintain order.
Galliott climbed the scaffold steps, gazing out over the crowd, seeking sign of Jaim Grymauch.
Suddenly booing and hissing began. Galliott glanced towards the cathedral and saw the four Knights of the Sacrifice walking out into the sunshine. They were wearing their ceremonial armour of silver plate and handsome white-plumed helms. White cloaks hung from their shoulders, the emblem of the Tree embroidered in silver upon them. By their sides hung old-fashioned broadswords, with flaring quillons. Galliott stared at them. In bygone days the Knights of the Sacrifice had been heroes, men of courage and compassion whose deeds were legendary. Now the beautiful silver armour was worn by men like Gayan Kay; malevolent, spiteful, bigoted and merciless. Their presence had enraged the crowd, but Galliott had no
power to order the knights to withdraw.
They walked to the foot of the scaffold. Galliott descended to meet them. Gayan Kay lifted the ornate face guard of his helm. 'No sign of this Grymauch?' he asked.
'Not yet, sir knight. Is your presence here necessary? It is difficult enough to control the crowd.'
'Controlling crowds is your job, captain. We are here to witness justice being done.'
Galliott bit back his anger and moved away from them.
As the time for the execution drew close more than two thousand people were now crammed into the square. The booing at the knights had faded now, and most people were staring at the great arched doors of the cathedral. Galliott was sweating. The musketeers were still missing, as were ten of the men charged with patrolling the entrances. He strolled around the inner perimeter, watching the crowd, gauging their mood. He sensed that they were becoming more passive now. There was no immediate threat to his men.
Ten more soldiers eased their way through the front ranks of the crowd and made their way to where Galliott was standing. The first of them saluted. 'Travellers are thinning now, sir,' he said.
'Any sign of the musketeers?'
'No, sir.'
Suddenly the crowd went very still, and silence fell on the great square. Galliott turned to see two priests bringing out Maev Ring. The sunlight glinted on her silver-streaked red hair, and she walked with great dignity towards the scaffold. Two red-garbed cathedral guards had positioned themselves below the pyre, lighted torches in their hands. Galliott strode to the foot of the scaffold. Maev Ring paused before him.
'I am sorry, Maev,' he said.
She did not reply and moved past him, lifting her heavy skirt and climbing the steps. The priests followed her. On the narrow platform above they tied her hands to the stake then withdrew. Galliott glanced towards the cathedral. There was no sign of the bishop. Galliott climbed the first five steps of the scaffold and gazed out once more over the crowd.
There was movement in the centre, the highland crowd parting to create a pathway. Walking slowly along it was a huge figure in a hooded black cloak. He was carrying a quarterstaff.
Galliott ran to where the fifteen new arrivals were still standing. 'Stop that man,' he told them.
Jaim Grymauch emerged from the crowd, and began to walk towards the scaffold.
From high on the scaffold Maev Ring saw him coming, and her heart was close to breaking. 'No, Jaim,' she whispered.
The ten soldiers ran at him, forming a half circle. Jaim kept moving. Two of the beetlebacks darted in. Jaim's quarterstaff, tipped with lead, flashed out, striking the first on the temple and catapulting him from his feet. Jaim blocked the second soldier's staff, cracking his own against the man's leg. The soldier stumbled. Jaim's staff rapped against his skull and he fell face first to the flagstones.
The other soldiers rushed in. Some blows cracked against the giant hooded highlander, but his own staff whirled and thudded against skulls, arms and legs. One by one the beetlebacks fell. The crowd were cheering now. Other soldiers tried to aid their comrades, but people in the crowd grabbed their staffs, or took hold of their cloaks. And not only highlanders. On the Varlish side soldiers were also held back.
Galliott drew his sabre and ran in to help his men. Jaim downed the last of them and stepped across the sprawling, half-stunned bodies. Galliott lunged at him. Jaim parried the blow with his staff, bringing it up and over the captain's blade and rapping him hard against the temple. Galliott fell to his knees, dropping his sword. Jaim Grymauch walked by him.
Sir Gayan Kay and the Knights of the Sacrifice drew their broadswords as Jaim Grymauch bore down upon them. Gayan swung towards the cathedral guards. 'Light the pyre!' he bellowed. Neither of the men moved. Gayan ran towards them, wrenching a torch from the first guard and tossing it to the wood. Flames flickered immediately.
That you should not have done,' said Jaim Grymauch, tossing aside his quarterstaff and ripping away his hooded cloak. Reaching up he curled his hand around the massive hilt of the glave hanging between his shoulders. With one wrench he swept the fifty-two-inch blade from its scabbard. Two of the armoured knights rushed him.
The glave swept up. Then slashed down, striking the metal neck guard of the first knight. The plates parted. One snapped off and flew into the air. Beneath the plates the knight was wearing chain mail. It prevented the glave from cutting into his skin - but not the terrible force of the blow smashing his neck into shards. Even as the knight's dead body was toppling towards the flagstones Jaim's giant sword hammered into the breastplate of the second knight. The man grunted as the metal clove inwards, snapping three of his ribs. He fell to his knees, and did not see the next terrible stroke that burst through his helm, splitting his skull. The third of the knights advanced more cautiously, followed in by Sir Gayan Kay.
Grymauch, in no mood for caution, charged them both. Blocking Gayan Kay's sword Grymauch spun and shoulder-charged the other knight. The man fell heavily, then struggled to rise. Jaim's sword hammered into his helm, ripping away his visor. The force of the blow hurled the knight to the ground unconscious. Gayan Kay hefted his broadsword and launched a murderous cut towards Grymauch's head.
Grymauch ducked, then thrust his sword like a lance into Gayan Kay's belly. Chain mail once more prevented the blade from piercing flesh, but the pain of the blow was indescribable. Gayan Kay screamed and dropped his sword. Grymauch let go of the glave and stepped in, grabbing the knight by his throat. 'Burn my Maev would you?' he said. Then he dragged the terrified knight towards the burning pyre, lifted him from his feet, and hurled him head first into the blaze. The force of the throw scattered burning kindling around the base, and plunged Gayan Kay deep into the pyre.
Gathering his sword Grymauch ran to the scaffold steps and climbed through the swirling smoke. Maev was almost unconscious as Jaim cut her free. Sheathing his sword he lifted her into his arms and, flames licking at his boots, ran along the narrow platform and back to the steps. The crowd were cheering at the top of their voices now.
Maev's eyes opened and she stared up into Grymauch's ugly face. He grinned down at her. 'You think I'd let them kill my woman?' he asked.
'I'm not your woman, you lummox!' she said.
The flames had really caught now, and the heat was intense. Jaim carried Maev to the cathedral steps, then faltered, looking around. 'Well?' asked Maev. 'What is your plan?'
He shrugged. 'Don't know. Never expected to get this far.'
'Put me down, you idiot. I can walk. We should go through the cathedral. There are stables at the rear of the Holy Court.' Jaim lowered her to the ground.
Galliott had regained his senses, and rose unsteadily. He saw the giant highlander holding Maev Ring, and deep down he was glad. His ten men were still on the ground, some holding their heads, others groggy from the beating. Jaim and Maev began to walk towards the cathedral doors.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the crowd, and some of his musketeers pushed through. Seeing the sprawled bodies, and the highlander with the sword, they raised their weapons. Time slowed in that instant. Galliott saw Jaim Grymauch turn his back on the musketeers, hauling Maev Ring into a protective embrace and shielding her with his body.
Taybard Jaekel ran from the crowd, throwing himself at the musketeers, knocking aside one of the weapons, and cannoning into several of the other men. In the same moment Galliott shouted at the top of his voice: 'Don't shoot!' But it came too late. Five of the guns boomed, the sound crashing like thunder. Galliott ran at the musketeers. 'No firing!' he bellowed. 'Cease fire!' The men lowered the weapons. Taybard Jaekel struggled to his feet and swung to look at Jaim Grymauch.
At the top of the steps Maev Ring hugged Grymauch. His body had jerked when the muskets fired, but he was still standing. She felt the strength of his arms around her, and the warmth of his chest against her face. She wanted the moment to last for ever. The smell of woodsmoke and sweat was on his clothes. 'You think I'd let them kill my woman?' he
had said. Deep down she had always known he would come for her. If only to die trying to save her. 'We must go now, you foolish, wonderful man,' she said. He did not answer. Nor did he move. She pulled back gently and looked up into his face. 'We must go, Jaim,' she said again.
There was blood upon his lips, and she felt the desperation in his embrace. He was clinging to her now. 'Oh, no, Jaim,' she cried. He sagged against her, and she could scarcely hold the weight. A huge man appeared alongside them. Huntsekker grabbed Jaim and lowered him to his knees. Blood gushed to Grymauch's beard, and he held to Maev's gaze. Maev took hold of his hand, squeezing his fingers. 'Don't go, Jaim,' she pleaded. 'I love you. Don't leave me. Not now!'
'Never . . . will,' he said, his voice breaking. He fell against Huntsekker, who threw his arm around Jaim's shoulder, holding him.
‘I’ll get her safe from here, big man,' said Huntsekker. 'You have my pledge on it. No harm will come to her while I live.'
'Go . . . now,' whispered Jaim, his body convulsing.
'No,' cried Maev. ‘I’ll not leave you!'
But Grymauch could not hear her. Huntsekker laid his body on the steps then took Maev by the arm. She clung to Jaim's hand, staring at his still face. 'His death will be for nothing if they take you now,' said Huntsekker. 'Let him go.' Huntsekker gently laid his own hand over hers, loosening her fingers. Then he drew her up and led her into the cathedral, pausing only to push shut the great arched doors.
Maev Ring stood silently. Brilliant sunlight was spearing through the smoke outside, and Jaim Grymauch was bathed in gold.
Then the doors swung shut, the light disappearing from view.
Galliott walked slowly up the steps and knelt beside Grymauch's body. Placing his hand on the dead man's chest he said: 'I knew you'd come.' He looked out over the crowd. They were standing quietly now, not a ripple of movement to be seen. His own sadness was mirrored on every face, and yet there was something more.
They had witnessed something majestic, and it had touched all their hearts. No-one wanted to move. In all of them was a desire to hold to this moment, let it soak into their souls. Even the musketeers made no move to arrest Taybard Jaekel. He stood alongside them, tears in his eyes.