“Why?” she begged. “Why did you kill Otto?”
“Me? Kill your husband?” The magistrate shook his head. “I did no such thing.” He actually appeared hurt at her accusation, and for a moment her resolve wavered. Washe truly innocent? Had he given false testimony to the priest simply to ensure that her trial was swift and decisive? The inquisitor had remanded her to the magistrate’s custody for punishment. Maybe he was trying to help?
The magistrate stood and undid his belt. “Lie on your back,” he said, lightly slapping the leather against the palm of his hand.
As soon as he touched her, she fought back.
“Look!” Andreas pointed. “A crowd is gathering.” He sprinted toward the green, leaving Raphael behind. They had been walking swiftly back toward the inn, both men considering what they had seen, and they had failed to notice the mob gathering outside the inn until they had nearly reached their destination. While Andreas sprinted ahead, Raphael paused to catch his breath. The younger man was not wearing mail as he was, and while he was accustomed to the weight, running in armor always sapped one’s strength quickly.
Raphael caught his breath and hurried after Andreas. He loosened his sword in his scabbard, preparing for the worst.
The panorama that greeted him was much the same as it had been earlier in the day, though the villagers as a whole were more agitated. A number of torches had already been lit, both to ward off the coming night and to fire the pyre. Andreas had positioned himself between the inn and the pyre, sword drawn. Opposing him were a half dozen of the inquisitor’s men, armed with both short spears and swords, and behind them were the magistrate and the forlorn shape of the accused, Gerda.
There was no sign of the inquisitor.
Raphael paused at the edge of the crowd, adjusted his clothing for a moment or two while he calmed his breathing, and then, in his loudest and most commanding voice, he shouted, “Hold fast.”
His words cut through the noise of the crowd, and the attention of the mob swarmed toward him. He drew his sword and strode forward, his chest thrust out, his sword held tightly in his hand. He glared at the people at the nearest edge of the crowd, daring them to stand in his way, and they melted before him. Radiating an icy rage, he stalked through the crowd toward the pyre.
“What action is this?” he demanded as he reached the group clustered around the pyre. “Did the inquisitor not set her punishment for the morrow? Are you denying this woman an opportunity to repent and recant her heresy?”
“She is unrepentant,” the magistrate said. The flickering light from the torches made several narrow scratches on the man’s left cheek glisten. They had not been there earlier in the day, Raphael noted.
“As would I be if you tried to force yourself on me,” Raphael said, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, an angry murmur ran through the crowd.
The woman raised her head and stared at him. For all the pain in her face, her gaze was strong and willful. He felt his breath hitch in his chest slightly. Whatever ordeal she had suffered through had hardened her resolve. So like Elisabeth, he thought.
“The inquisitor placed her in our care,” he heard himself say.
“You refused,” came another voice.
At the edge of the crowd, the inquisitor sat on his big black horse, the remaining pair of his men behind him, also mounted. “You refused to accept the responsibility I asked of you,” the inquisitor reminded Raphael.
“I accept it now,” Raphael said.
“To what end?” the inquisitor inquired, both annoyed and curious.
“Who accused her of her crimes?” Raphael demanded. “What witnesses came forth to testify of her culpability?”
“I have no need to elucidate the tribunal to you, sir,” the inquisitor said. “You have no authority to make such demands of me.”
“No?” Raphael raised his sword and rested it on his shoulder so that it was plainly visible, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andreas move to his right, positioning himself farther away. “Good woman Gerda,” Raphael called, “I am Raphael, a Knight Initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. That is Andreas, a Knight Initiate of the same. We inquire if you are in need of assistance.”
The magistrate struggled to clap his hand over Gerda’s mouth, but she pulled herself free of his grip. “Yes,” she said. “I am-”
The magistrate drew his sword. He grabbed Gerda by the hair and pulled her back to him, laying his sword across her breast and throat. “Shut up, witch,” he snarled.
Raphael turned his gaze toward the inquisitor. “She is under our protection now, Konrad von Marburg,” he said, very clearly failing to offer any honorifics in his address. “And we say you failed in your ecclesiastic duties as an inquisitor of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. You accused the wrong person.”
“You think too highly of yourself and your order, Raphael,” the inquisitor snarled. “My will is absolute. I am the Church. These people’s lives belong to me.”
“No,” Andreas corrected. “They belong to God.”
“Good people,” Raphael shouted before the inquisitor could respond, “this priest claims he watches over you, but has he protected you? This morning you woke to find one of yours cruelly murdered. Since then, have you not noticed others missing? A woman and two men. Look around you. Is someone else not missing their loved ones? Has the Church kept you safe?”
The inquisitor stared at the crowd as they reacted to Raphael’s words. Their voices rose in a cacophony of confusion and questions, until a consensus was reached. The noise died as quickly as it had begun, and in that silence, Raphael heard three names called out.
“Magistrate,” he said, directing the crowd’s attention. “Do you know where these townsfolk might be?” The magistrate laughed at him, a note of panic in his voice. He tugged Gerda closer to him, his sword blade rising dangerously close to her throat.
Raphael eyed the distance between them and judged it too far. He glanced at Andreas and saw that the young knight had made the same determination. He looked back at the magistrate, attempting to determine the man’s temperament and panic.
“You know the old ways,” the magistrate shouted, more at the crowd than at Raphael. “Our harvests are failing.” He yanked at Gerda’s hair, pulling her head back and exposing her throat. “Our women are becoming barren. What else could we do?” His voice became more and more shrill, struggling to rise above the swelling noise of the crowd. From the hubbub, Raphael heard as many people agreeing with the magistrate as arguing against him.
And then the sound of a woman’s laugh cut through all the confusion, silencing all dissent. “You killed Otto because you wanted me,” Gerda said. “It had nothing to do with the old ways or the harvest or the fact that I am unable to bear children. You saw me and you wanted me.” She stood up straight, tilting her head back so she could look the magistrate in the face. “And you will never have me.”
“No!” Raphael shouted, trying to stop what he knew was going to happen.
Looking straight at Raphael, Gerda collapsed. Her throat came down on the magistrate’s blade.
When the magistrate realized what Gerda was attempting to do, he shoved her away as if to distance himself from any responsibility of her actions. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Raphael dropped his sword and rushed to her, fumbling with his cloak as he tried to press the coarse fabric against her throat. Everyone was transfixed by the knight’s efforts.