"It is a risk that I will have to take," said Andre.
"I figured that you'd say that, too. So here, take this, then."
He handed her a PRU.
"The wizard's charm?"
"Call it a charm, if you like," said Hunter. "I control it now. Keep it as my favor when you fight with Bois-Guilbert."
"I will keep it."
"Just don't lose it."
"I do not accept a favor lightly," Andre said stiffly. "I will not lose it and I will try to do it honor."
Hunter smiled. "That's all I ask."
A great crowd had gathered at Templestowe to witness the witchburning and, with any luck, a lethal passage at arms, as well. A little sport before the roasting would be a welcome diversion, but no one truly expected it. All they had to do was look at Isaac to see that the man held out no hope at all for the deliverance of his daughter.
Isaac had offered up everything he owned in an effort to recruit a champion to represent his daughter, but there had been no takers. A fortune would be of little use if one did not live to spend it, and Bois-Guilbert was held in high esteem by those who had tilted at him in the lists and lived to tell the tale.
Only two knights were known to have bested him, Ivanhoe and Coeur de Lion, himself. Perhaps it was a lot of money, but to die fighting for a Jewess? Surely, it would be best to offer up one's life in a more fitting cause and one whose outcome was in some greater doubt.
Isaac wandered among the rapidly filling galleries, shredding his clothes and wailing. He called on God to visit whatever sins he had committed upon himself, rather than on his innocent daughter. There was absolutely nothing he could do except pray and he did not honestly expect his prayers to be answered.
A fanfare sounded and the gates of the preceptory were thrown open to the procession, which came forth beneath Le Beau-seant, the black and white standard of the Knights Templars. Bois-Guilbert rode just behind the standard bearers, looking proud and defiant in his brightly polished armor. Behind him, two squires carried his helmet and weapons, along with his shield.
His old shield had been rendered useless in his fight with de la Croix and there had not been time to obtain another from an armorer, made to his specification. In his flight from Torquilstone, he had grabbed the first shield that came to hand. It seemed unusually light, but he had tested it somewhat and was satisfied that it was well made and very strong. The only modification he had made was to have his skull-bearing raven painted over the uprooted oak.
Rebecca was brought out on foot. She wore a simple white dress, a stark contrast to the attire and livery of the Templars. Placed in the center of the procession, she was paraded past the galleries and the place of honor occupied by Beaumanoir, then brought to a black chair placed near the stake which would be her funeral pyre.
She watched silently as the members of the court took their places. The words of the heralds and the ceremonial accepting of the glove by the Grand Master, the charging of Bois-Guilbert with his pledge and vows, all were lost on her as her attention became focused inward. She was aware of the breeze upon her skin and she was acutely sensitive to the firmness of the chair upon which she sat. She felt the sun warming her face and wondered how much warmer the fire would feel when it began to eat away her flesh. She registered, to those who watched her, a calm, stoic acceptance of her fate. Yet, in fact, she had not accepted it, could not accept it. Intellectually, she realized that she was going to die an agonizing death. Emotionally, she was unable to deal with it. She knew only that she did not deserve to die and she could not understand why the court had thought she should. They had brought witnesses against her, people she did not even know, had never seen before. They had lied, perjuring themselves before God, ascribing to her all sorts of powers and evil deeds. Why? What purpose would her death serve?
She entertained, briefly, the thought that it was all the will of God, that the Lord was testing her and making her a martyr, but she could not accept that, either. She did not want to be a martyr, and martyrs were made of sterner stuff than she. To think that God intended a purging flame for her in order for her to become a martyr was an incredible conceit and, whatever other sins she might have committed, she would not go to her death having been guilty of the sin of pride. So she was left with nothing. She could see no rhyme or reason to their actions, she could take no comfort in knowing they were wrong. Silently, she began to weep. They called for her champion. There was total silence. They waited. No champion appeared. They summoned her champion once more. Again, the silence, longer this time. Broken by the voice of Bois-Guilbert, who had ridden up beside her.
"Rebecca," he said softly, "know that I did not intend this. I would have fought as your champion, had not Beaumanoir appointed me to defend the Temple. I have no wish to see you die. To perish by the flame is not a pleasant death. Before your last breath leaves you, you will suffer the agonies of the damned. And your death would serve no purpose. I desired you more than I ever wanted any woman. I still desire you. I have no wish to be a party to your death."
"I do not see how you can absolve yourself of it," Rebecca said. "I take no comfort in knowing the strength of your desire. It was that which brought me to my ruin." "Rebecca-"
"A champion!" someone cried, and the cry was taken up by others. "A champion appears!" Bois-Guilbert glanced up and saw a mounted knight approaching at the gallop. He frowned. "I can't see… de la Croix!"
The assembled crowd began to cheer. There would be combat, after all! Isaac sank to his knees and offered up a prayer of thanks to God.
"Rebecca," Bois-Guilbert said quickly, "listen to me. There is still a way for you to avoid the grisly fate awaiting you. If I fail to appear in the lists, I forfeit my rank and honor. I will be disgraced and all that I have worked for will have come to nought. All this would I bear for you if you were to say to me, 'Bois-Guilbert, I accept you as my lover.' Climb up behind me and we will quit this place. My horse will easily outdistance all pursuit. We can go to Palestine, where my friend, the Marquis of Montserrat, will give us shelter. I could ally myself with Saladin and form new paths to greatness. Let Beaumanoir speak the doom which I despise, let them erase the name of Bois-Guilbert from their list of monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood whatever blot they may dare cast upon my scutcheon!"
"Foul tempter!" said Rebecca. "I would rather die than betray my faith and become the concubine of a bloody warlord! I will look to God for my salvation."
"Then look your last upon the sun and burn," said Bois-Guilbert. "I will not lay down my life and all that I hold dear for an ungrateful wench!"
He spurred his horse and rode away from her.
Andre de la Croix rode up to the Grand Master and, to the herald who had summoned her, she replied, "My name is Andre de la Croix, and I am a knight errant come to sustain with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, and to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert as a traitor, a murderer, and liar, as I will prove in the field with my body against his by the aid of God."
"The words traitor and murderer coming from your lips are, indeed, an irony," said Bois-Guilbert. "You, who have slain Maurice De Bracy in a manner most foul and reprehensible, dare to impute my honor!"
"Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?" said de la Croix.
"I may not deny the challenge, provided the maiden accepts you as her champion, Sir Knight," said Beaumanoir. "If she does, then let whatever quarrel be between you and Bois-Guilbert be settled on this day, as well."