"It is good advice," said Andre. "If Bois-Guilbert appears in the lists as her champion, the matter will be decided by the will of God. Should Bois-Guilbert win, and there are few who could defeat him, then he could not have been ensorcelled, since God would have granted him the victory. Rebecca will be cleared of the charge of witchcraft and Sir Brian will be free to find another way to keep her. A sound plan."
"Only the plan has a hitch," said Hunter. "It seems that the Grand Master has selected Bois-Guilbert to champion the Temple. I guess they don't mind if an ensorcelled knight represents them."
Andre smiled. "Sir Brian has been neatly outflanked. If he loses, he forfeits his life and the charge is proven true. If he wins, as he must strive to do, since he will not want to give up life and breath for a lowly Jewess, then God will have overpowered the enchantment. Rebecca will die and Bois-Guilbert will have to go into retreat for purification. If he chooses not to enter the lists, then he is disgraced. He will lose his rank and armor and his dreams of leading the Knights Templars will come to nought. And if no champion appears to defend Rebecca, she dies at the stake."
"Isaac of York is desperately trying to find a champion to represent his daughter," Hunter said.
"There are few who would undertake such a cause, even for money," Andre said. "Brian's prowess is well known. Yet she will have a champion. I will appear for her."
"I was expecting you to say that," Hunter said. "But I just want you to be aware of the risk involved."
"There is no risk," said Andre. "With this armor made by those master artisans you spoke of, Brian will stand no chance against me. It will all go as before, when he should have died beneath my blade."
"Yes, well, that's precisely why it's risky," Hunter said. "The nysteel will protect you, but it won't make you completely invulnerable. You'll have to get it over with quickly. If you and Bois-Guilbert spend any time slamming away at each other, they're bound to notice that the combat is affecting his armor and not yours. Remember, they'll be primed for a witch burning. If you are seen to take his strongest blows with barely any visible damage to your armor, they just might decide that one witch has summoned another to defend her. And you can be brought down if they attack you in sufficient numbers."
"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 we
lcome 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—"